A Death at Fountains Abbey (7 page)

‘When was this?’

‘Eight years ago.’

1720. So she was twenty-nine. That would match Elizabeth Aislabie’s age, if she survived the fire.

‘At the last moment my mother took to her bed: a nervous attack. I thought my father would abandon the trip, but we set off the next day without her. My aunt would act as chaperone once we reached Lincoln.’

She poured herself a thimbleful of wine. ‘I do not drink.’

‘Evidently.’

Her dark eyes lifted to mine. ‘How dull I must seem to you. My drab little story.’

I did not find her dull. Petulant, yes, and chilly, but not dull. In truth her story had drawn me in: the earnest timbre of her voice; the measured way she chose her words. I had grown accustomed to Kitty, who would speak a half dozen sentences in one breath, who spoke not only with words but with her hands, her eyes, her whole body. Mrs Fairwood moved no more than was needed, spoke no more than was needed, her voice clipped and precise.

She sipped the wine. ‘Is this a good claret?’

‘The best.’

She rolled the stem of the glass between her fingers. ‘This glass, too. These chairs.’

Yes, it was all very fine – and hers to enjoy for ever if she could persuade the world she was Aislabie’s lost child. This story might be nothing more than a fortune hunter’s yarn. I placed my glass on the table. Mrs Fairwood had a closed countenance, but I had made a great deal of money at the gaming tables, reading truth and lies on my opponents’ faces. I leaned forward, watching closely.

‘To my surprise, I enjoyed my stay in Lincoln,’ she said, returning to her story as if by rote. ‘My aunt’s circle was small but scrupulously well selected. I had the opportunity to speak with a number of learned men upon a diverse range of topics. The great matters of our age. Theology, metaphysics, affairs of state, the very systems of the universe . . .’

I made a silent note never to visit Lincoln. ‘And this is what you study here, in Mr Aislabie’s library? That is your copy of Lucretius on the desk?’

She frowned at this fresh interruption. ‘It belongs to Metcalfe. You will meet him at dinner, if he can be roused.’ She leaned back and stared at the clock on the mantelpiece with the blank expression of an automaton.

I must wind her up, then. ‘Pray – continue, madam.’

‘Oh.’ She feigned surprise. ‘Forgive me, sir. I thought you must have grown tired of my story. Would you not rather discuss Lucretius? I take it you have read
De Rerum Natura
.’ Her lips curled into a condescending smile.

‘I think I fell asleep upon a copy once, at Oxford.’ This was not true. I had, in fact, studied the blasted thing at some length as a student. But if Mrs Fairwood wished to cast me as a japing idiot, that suited me perfectly well. Another lesson from the gaming table: better to be thought a fool than a threat. ‘Please.’

She dipped her chin in gracious assent. ‘That summer in Lincoln was a happy time. Home had become oppressive, though I only realised this once I had left. My mother never strayed far from the village, but in her later years she would not even leave the house, save for church. My father too seemed altered by the trip. He laughed more easily. It is a comfort now to think of those last days.’ She looked down. ‘He died. My father died. It came without warning. One moment he was well, and the next . . .’ A tear slid down her perfect cheek. She trapped it beneath her fingers, brushed it away.

‘I’m sorry.’

Eight years had passed, and still the grief lingered. I could see how naturally it fell upon the contours of her face, how familiar and constant a companion it had become. How, in fact, it had shaped her, and turned her beauty into something austere and remote. I had lost my mother when I was a child and understood that ache, that hollow yearning for a beloved parent. This much of her story, at least, was true.

She took another sip of wine. ‘I could not bear to return home without him. There was a gentleman. James Fairwood. I didn’t love him. He was thirty years my senior and . . . well. I did not love him. But he was kind, and asked nothing of me. I accepted his proposal.’ There was a short pause, as she wrapped herself in old, private thoughts of her loveless marriage. ‘Mr Fairwood had come recently into a fortune. We bought a large manor house near Horncastle. Five years later my husband fell ill with a fever and died. I was alone.’

I sensed a rich satisfaction in that final sentence. ‘That is young to be widowed. You must have been desolate.’ I chose the word deliberately – it was too rich an emotion for her, and I wanted to hear her denial.

She gave it at once, with some force. ‘Desolate? No indeed! The marriage had been a convenience for both of us.’ And then she froze, realising her mistake.

‘A convenience? How so?’

She was furious with herself. She had been so careful with her story, reciting her monologue with precision. No wonder she hated my questions. Nothing an actress dislikes more than interruptions from the audience. ‘We kept each other company.’

I put my glass to my lips, hardly able to conceal my amusement. Imagined James Fairwood, recently come into a fortune, searching Lincolnshire for the most cheerful companion he could find – and choosing this elegant block of ice. Hogwash. ‘There were no children?’

‘No!’ she declared, before I had even finished the question. And then, recovering, ‘No. We were not blessed with children. It is a great sadness to me,’ she added, without conviction.

My suspicions were confirmed. Mr Fairwood had been past fifty when he came into his fortune. A man of means must take a wife or else face endless gossip. I would bet every coin in my pocket that Fairwood had no interest in women. A swift marriage to a respectable lady, who wanted nothing from him in return, had been a wise step. It had indeed been a marriage of convenience for both of them. She must have been delighted when he died, poor fellow.

‘I sold the house,’ she said, ‘and set up a new home in Lincoln. Time passed, and I found myself to be . . . content. There were a few suitors, but they were more interested in my fortune than my intellect. Foolish, frivolous boys.’ She offered me a sidelong glance. ‘I preferred my own company. And then my mother grew sick.’

She rose and crossed to the desk by the window, searching through the drawers. ‘I left a letter here,’ she explained. ‘Metcalfe must have taken it to his quarters. He wanted to study it more closely. He believes I am a cuckoo in the nest.’ She closed the final drawer with a smart shove. ‘If only that were true. How I wish I could leave this wretched place and go
home
. Sit and read my own books in my own library, and be
myself
again.’

Another truth amidst the lies.

She returned to her chair, fanning her grey gown around her. ‘My mother was dying – I knew it the moment I stepped into her bedchamber. She had been ill for months, but ordered the servants not to speak of it. She only called me back when there was no hope.

‘She had written a letter, she said – but I must promise not to read it until she was dead, because I would hate her for it. Then she wept, and begged me to pray for her. She was so afraid. She was sure she would burn in hell for what she had done – that she deserved no less than eternal punishment. I couldn’t understand her – she’d lived such a cramped and blameless life. I assured her that God was merciful. This calmed her for a while, and she slept. When she woke, she was confused. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t recognise me. I told her she was at home, that I was her daughter. She said, “No, no – I have no daughter.” And then she died.’

The room fell silent. The air had grown stifling by the fire, and I could feel the sweat upon my back. A father, a husband, a mother – all lost. But only one of them mourned by Mrs Fairwood.

‘What did your mother say in her letter?’

She sighed. ‘It was addressed to Mr Aislabie. She said that I was his daughter. That her real name was Molly Gaining and that she had rescued me from a house fire and smuggled me away.’

I drew back in surprise. ‘She stole
you from the family? Why would she do such a terrible thing?’

‘She started the fire. Mr Sneaton caught her pocketing coins and jewellery in all the confusion. She couldn’t return me without being caught. And I aided her escape. They were hunting for a young maidservant, alone – not a mother and child.’

‘But that is . . .’ Wicked? Monstrous? The words didn’t seem adequate.

‘For months, I told myself it was all a nonsense: the ramblings of a sick and frightened woman. I buried my mother, and I told myself I had buried the whole dreadful story with her. But every day I would put on my black crêpe gown and ask myself: was I grieving for my real mother? Or for the woman who had burned down my home and snatched me from my true family? I would lie awake at night, asking myself the same question over and over again, until I feared for my sanity.

‘So I hired a lawyer to make enquiries. And it transpired that Mr Aislabie did lose his wife and daughter in a fire. The servant responsible was indeed called Molly Gaining, just as it said in the letter. She had disappeared that same night with a fortune in jewels and was never found.

‘Even then, I refused to believe it. I wrote to Mr Aislabie asking for an audience. I placed my mother’s letter in his hands with the firm belief that he would dismiss the entire business. But he wept, Mr Hawkins. He broke down at my feet and wept. And I have been trapped here ever since.’

She lowered her gaze, long lashes hiding her eyes.

Now at last I began to understand the anger simmering within her. What a horrifying discovery, if it were true! That the woman she had called Mother all those years had – in fact – ripped her from her real family, leaving her a stranger to her father, her brother, her two sisters. Worse still – Molly Gaining had caused the death of Mrs Fairwood’s true mother. And had the husband been complicit? At the very least he would have known that Mrs Fairwood was not his child. Counterfeit parents, living on a stolen fortune. Comfort bought with an innocent woman’s life. No wonder she wished it were not true. ‘Is it not possible that Mr Aislabie is mistaken? Perhaps in his rush to believe—’

Mrs Fairwood shook her head. ‘There was proof contained within the letter. Mr Aislabie and Molly Gaining had . . . relations. No one else knew. And there was this.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a diamond brooch, shaped like a flower with a ruby at its heart. It was small and exquisite. ‘Mr Aislabie bought this for his first wife.’ She rocked her palm and the diamonds sparkled, catching the light. ‘It was the only jewel Molly kept. She sold the rest. Bought a house near the sea in Lincolnshire. And lied and lied and lied.’

She tucked the brooch back into her pocket and gazed into the hearth. ‘I have always been afraid of fire,’ she murmured. ‘A memory of that night on Red Lion Square, I suppose – though it is all lost to me now. Except in dreams. Sometimes I dream that I am burning.’ She waved the thought away with her hand. ‘Well, sir, what do you say now? Do you still think me a fraud?’

A hodge-podge of lies and truth, that is what you are, madam.
‘I am not here to judge you, Mrs Fairwood.’

‘But you must have
an opinion, one way or the other.’

I rubbed my jaw. I could see that she would be happier – and safer – if she were not Aislabie’s daughter. This suggested she was not dissembling. Then again: one should never forget the lure of money. Mr Aislabie had, purportedly, been stripped of his wealth after the South Sea disaster. But, looking about me, he seemed to have recovered in a swift and quite spectacular fashion. ‘I should like to see your mother’s letter.’

‘Then you shall. I welcome your doubt, Mr Hawkins – it is to your credit. I am aware that my story must seem quite fantastical.’

‘Has Mr Aislabie formally recognised you as his daughter?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Has he spoken with his children on the matter?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

I drained my glass. Poured another. ‘They might stand to lose a portion of their inheritance, if you are proven to be their sister. Your brother William, at least.’ Both Mary and Jane were long married, and settled with fortunes of their own.

‘My
brother
will not lose a farthing. I have no interest in Mr Aislabie’s wealth.’ She saw my scepticism and laughed, drily. ‘Ask Mr Sneaton. I ordered him to draw up a waiver the day I arrived here. I have renounced all rights to a settlement, or any other gifts, in writing and in front of witnesses. I will not take a single coin from Mr Aislabie. Not an inch of land. I want nothing from him.’ She propped her chin upon her hand. ‘You must know how he came by his fortune.’

‘The South Sea Scheme.’

Her dark eyes flashed. ‘The greatest fraud ever played upon a nation.’

‘Playing with stocks is a gamble. Some won, some lost.’

‘You cannot be so naive! It was corruption at the highest level! The enquiry proved
that Mr Aislabie was bribed with free shares—’

‘—which he denied—’

‘—because he is a
liar
!’ She dropped back in her chair. ‘Well,’ she relented, ‘I suppose he has convinced himself of his innocence. No man can bear to cast himself as the villain. D’you know, I followed the scandal from the beginning. I read all the pamphlets, and his ridiculous defence in the Lords. I came to Studley Hall expecting to loathe him, but I find that I can’t. He has been very kind to me.’ She picked up her grey gloves. ‘Why are you here, sir? Truly?’