Sneaton was dining with us: another sign of his trusted position within the family. He was drinking soup from a silver porringer, his claw-like right hand struggling with the dainty handle. I had never seen so much silver tableware. I was quite tempted to steal a fork.
‘Your boy has been causing trouble,’ he said.
‘You’ve brought a servant with you?’ Lady Judith called down the table. A strong wind had chased off the clouds and the sun was pouring through the windows to her right. A beam of burning white light caught the lid of the soup tureen.
I blinked, dazzled. ‘Master Fleet is a gentleman’s son.’ Now there was a lie of extraordinary depth. I could almost hear James Fleet pissing himself with laughter from here. ‘I’m his guardian.’
‘He’s moved you to the east wing,’ Sneaton said, slurping his soup. ‘Insisted.’
‘The east wing?’ Lady Judith looked irritated. ‘It’s half-abandoned! Metcalfe has taken the only decent apartments on that side of the house.’
Sneaton shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it.
I took a piece of gammon and a spoonful of pickles. I should probably add a scattering of salad. Kitty was convinced it was an aid to the stomach. She was full of such questionable fancies. She served up so many leaves at our table it was a wonder I hadn’t transmogrified into a rabbit. Which reminded me of the fricasseed rabbit by Mr Sneaton’s elbow. He pushed it over, at my request.
‘I’ve spoken with Mrs Fairwood,’ I said to Aislabie, tucking my napkin into my cravat. ‘An extraordinary story.’
Aislabie sawed at his goose. ‘It is no story.’
‘A figure of speech. Is it true that she has refused any gifts or settlement?’
‘Hardly a suitable topic for the table,’ he admonished. ‘But yes – Mrs Fairwood asked Mr Sneaton to draw up a contract. She sought to prove that she has no designs upon that score. She will not take a single farthing from me, no matter how I press her.’
‘Your son will inherit Studley, I presume?’
‘Of course he will. Why, do you think because you are disinherited, that this is the common way of things? Yes, Mr Hawkins – I know your history! And were you not the queen’s man, I should not allow you through the door.’ He jabbed his knife at me. ‘I must say that it is vexing to me that you were left alone in my daughter’s company for so long. Pray do not impose upon her again in such an unseemly fashion.’
‘John,’ Lady Judith admonished. ‘I’m sure Mrs Fairwood was quite safe.’
‘Damn it, Judith – why must you call her that?’ Aislabie snapped. ‘Why not call her Elizabeth? Why not call her Lizzie?’ He looked at his secretary, and then his wife. ‘Why do you not believe me? Do you think I am such a fool that I cannot recognise my own daughter?’
Lady Judith sighed. Sneaton lowered his soup.
‘Can you not see?’ Aislabie pressed them. ‘This is God’s work! She is my gift, for all those years of suffering. All the injustice and cruelty I have faced. My daughter has come home! This house should be filled with joy. Why would you deny me this? Do I not deserve to be happy?’
‘Were we not happy before, John?’ Lady Judith asked, softly.
Aislabie did not hear her. He leaned across the table, pointing his knife at Sneaton. ‘Jack, you examined Elizabeth’s accounts – at her request. Fairwood left her three thousand pounds a year. There are no debts attached to the house in Lincoln. She has no need of my wealth, and no interest in it. You know she has offered many times to leave, rather than cause further discord.’
‘Yet here she remains,’ Lady Judith muttered into her glass.
‘My wife, and my most trusted friend,’ Aislabie marvelled, flinging his hands into the air. ‘What faith. What loyalty. And you, Hawkins – you have heard her story, you have gazed upon her countenance. Can you not see that she is an Aislabie?’
It was true that Mrs Fairwood’s eyes were dark brown, and her complexion a pale cream. But this would describe a goodly portion of the country. ‘She is a handsome woman,’ I said.
Aislabie grunted, as if that settled the matter.
‘I believe you have just recently come into a fortune yourself, Mr Hawkins,’ Sneaton said gruffly, with such an obvious urge to change the subject, it was almost comical. I must have looked perplexed, because he added, ‘from your wife?’
Ah, yes. The imaginary Mrs Hawkins. Kitty had inherited a large sum from Samuel Fleet, Sam’s uncle, and my old cellmate from the Marshalsea, along with his print shop, and an extravagantly broad collection of obscene literature. This fortune was in part the reason we had not yet married. Kitty feared I would gamble it all away which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility. She also feared I would grow bored and abandon her, or – God help us both – turn dull and respectable and never leave. In short, she had very little confidence in my better qualities, and far too much knowledge of my worst.
‘John inherited a fortune from me when we married,’ Lady Judith said, pouring another glass of wine. ‘Fifteen years in April.’ She raised her glass, prompting her husband to return the toast.
‘True.’ He winked at her. ‘Fifteen years of quiet, dutiful obedience. On my part.’
Lady Judith snorted with laughter.
I thought of Mrs Fairwood’s admission, that she had expected to loathe John Aislabie, but found she could not. He may have abused his power and robbed the nation, and yet . . . it was clear that he loved his wife. I worked out the years in my head. Anne had died twenty-seven years ago, leaving him with three young children. It would have been advisable to marry again, and swiftly. Instead he had waited thirteen years, until he met Judith. Which suggested that he had loved his first wife too – very much.
Sneaton had turned the conversation to the building project next to the house. John Simpson, their master stonemason, had submitted a fresh letter of complaint concerning his bill.
Aislabie rolled his eyes. ‘I would have you speak with him again, Sneaton. I will not pay a bill that does not tally. Tell him if he cannot supply us with the proper details, we shall hire Robert Doe to complete the job.’ He snatched at his glass and took a long draught. ‘I’m mightily tired of the whole wretched business. I’m quite tempted to abandon it.’
‘Oh, John – patience!’ Lady Judith scolded. ‘You know you will love the stables when they are done.’
Stables? The conversation continued about me as I puzzled over her meaning. The foundations for the new building suggested it would be twice the size of Studley Hall. But as Sneaton spoke of the stalls, and the grooms’ quarters, I began to realise my mistake. The men labouring outside were not constructing a grand new home for the Aislabies. They were building a grand new home for the Aislabies’ horses.
‘How many do you keep?’ I asked, astonished.
‘Twenty,’ Aislabie replied. ‘Have Simpson send in his bill again, Sneaton. The books must tally before the next quarter—’
‘Twenty horses?’
‘Racehorses,’ Aislabie corrected. ‘The rest will remain in the old stables.’
Twenty racehorses. My God, the cost! ‘I thought it was your new home, sir.’
Aislabie was amused. ‘No, indeed. I shall build a grand palace down by the lake when the gardens are complete. Or else I shall buy Fountains Hall and the abbey, if I can persuade Mr Messenger to part with it.’
‘Mr Messenger is our closest neighbour,’ Lady Judith explained. ‘Ill-tempered, fat little thing. We are not on friendly terms.’
Aislabie muttered something under his breath. I caught the word papist.
The servants were bringing in a fresh course when we heard a commotion at the front of the house, and then a scream – the deep howl of a man in agonising pain. Sneaton rose in alarm, holding on to the table for balance. A moment later Bagby entered the room. There was a distinct lack of concern on his face. ‘An accident, your honour,’ he drawled. ‘One of Simpson’s men.’
‘Another one,’ Aislabie tutted.
‘How bad?’ Snea
ton asked.
‘His leg’s broken,’ Bagby replied, flatly.
Sneaton cursed under his breath. ‘Did you see a wound? Was the bone sticking out?’
Bagby looked disgusted. ‘I did not enquire, sir.’
Aislabie waved at the servants to set down the dishes. ‘Send for Mr Gatteker,’ he told Sneaton. ‘I’ll pay the fee.’
Bagby bowed to me. His features were bland, but counterweighted by a startlingly expressive face. At rest, it settled upon purse-lipped disapproval. Now he had ratcheted it to bulge-eyed indignation. ‘Your boy’s put himself in charge, sir. Ordering us all about.’
He led me through the house to the great hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the injured man. He had been carried inside on a stretch of oilcloth. His face was grey with shock, but he was sitting upright, which I took to be a good sign.
Sam had fixed a splint around the broken leg from the ankle to just above the knee, and was binding it with strips of linen. One of Simpson’s men held the splint in place. The linen was blotched with dried bloodstains, and I realised this was the sheeting used to cover the butchered deer. Better to use ruined sheets than waste fresh ones, I supposed, though it looked somewhat ghoulish.
I knelt down by the injured man’s feet and watched Sam work. He must have moved the bone back into alignment before setting the splint. My stomach clenched at the thought. No wonder we’d heard screaming.
Sam had confessed to me once that he should like to be a surgeon one day – not through any particular desire to help the sick, but because of his fascination with the mechanical properties of the body. He would spend hours poring over books of human anatomy, or sketching the connection of bone and muscle, or dissecting rats with a precise flick of his knife. Why Kitty refused to travel with him was a mystery.
‘Excellent work, Sam. Very neat.’
‘Connie.’
It took me a moment to remember Consuela, the old woman with the cloud of white hair who lived with Sam’s family on Phoenix Street. She had brought me back from the brink of death a few weeks ago, after I’d been forced to jump into the freezing Thames. I took from Sam’s reply – two syllables! inarguable progress! – that he had watched Connie make a splint, doubtless on more than one occasion. Sam’s father was a gang captain and perhaps the most dangerous villain in London. How many times had one of his men stumbled into the den with a black eye, or a broken jaw, or a knife wound? Quite an education for a young boy.
Sally, the young maid I had spoken to earlier, arrived with a blanket. She wrapped it about the man’s shoulders, then handed him a bottle of laudanum. ‘Here you are, Fred. Borrowed this from Mr Robinson. You’ll feel sick at first, but it’ll pass.’
He took a long swig, and grimaced. ‘Hurts like bloody murder.’
‘Lucky,’ Sam said. He ran his finger along the injured leg. ‘Fibula. Clean break.’
‘Fortunate indeed.’ Sneaton limped over, wooden peg putt-putting along the stone floor. ‘If the bone breaks through the skin, your only remedy’s amputation. Most men die from the shock.’
Fred began to heave.
‘Or putrefaction,’ Sam added. ‘Nasty.’
‘Deep breaths, Fred,’ Sally said.
Fred opened his mouth, then vomited on the oilcloth.
‘That was your fault,’ Sally scolded Sam.
Sam blinked, not understanding.
Simpson, the master stonemason, strode across the room to join us, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints in his wake. His face was coated in grey stone dust, streaked with sweat. He was shorter than me by several inches but very solid, with a bull’s neck and strong fists, the knuckles grazed and torn from his work. He reminded me of William Acton, the head keeper of the Marshalsea gaol. Not a pleasant thought. ‘This is what happens when you don’t pay the men, Sneaton,’ he snarled.
Sneaton scowled at him, scars puckering. ‘For heaven’s sake, what possible connection—’
‘My men han’t seen a farthing since Christmas! They’re tired and angry, Jack. Working for nowt – it’s bad for the humours. Dangerous bloody way to work.’
Sneaton huffed in exasperation. ‘And do your men know you handed in your quarter bill two weeks late? And God’s truth, to call it a bill would be a jest. A pile of tattered receipts and a scrawl of unreadable names—’
‘I’m owed sixty pounds! I have to pay my men, my suppliers—’
‘Then show me receipts that tally. A clear list of the men you hired and the hours they worked.’
Simpson’s eyes popped in outrage. ‘Do you call me a liar, Jack? A thief?’
‘What is this damned racket?’ Aislabie shouted, marching across the hall like a general – the effect somewhat ruined by the napkin tucked into his cravat.
Simpson pulled off his hat and bowed low. ‘Your honour, sir.’
Aislabie glanced at Fred, and the pool of vomit. He pulled a face. ‘What happened here?’
‘An accident, Mr Aislabie, sir,’ Simpson answered, still in his bow, clutching his hat in his great fists.
‘I can see that. Have you been drinking?’
‘No, sir!’
Aislabie narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe Simpson, and to be fair I could smell the liquor on the stonemason’s breath from several paces away. The room waited for his honour’s decision. ‘This will be your last warning, Mr Simpson. If you cannot conduct your business in a respectable manner, I shall hire someone who can.’
Simpson dropped into an even deeper bow, head below his arse. ‘Yes, your honour. I’m obliged to you, sir.’
Aislabie gave a sharp nod, concluding business. He leaned towards Sneaton. ‘Clear up this mess. And remove these men from my house. They should never have been brought inside.’
He spun upon his heels and left, footsteps fading down the hall. No one mentioned the napkin.
Simpson rose from his bow and shoved his hat on his head. ‘Tight-fisted bastard. Ten years I’ve slaved for him! D’you remember all the mud we had to cart away just to dig out the lake? Who else could have built his precious cascades? Don’t you dare say Robert Doe, Jack – don’t you dare. What’s that soft-pricked Southerner ever built? Follies. Fucking follies.’
‘His accounts are very neat.’
Simpson opened his mouth to argue, then realised Sneaton was joking. ‘Piss off, Jack.’
Sneaton gestured to Fred, who had sunk heavily against Sally’s shoulder. ‘Bring the cart around and take him to his quarters. Mr Aislabie will pay the doctor’s fees.’
‘Aye. He pays when it suits him,’ Simpson muttered. ‘What’s sixty pounds to him? He earns three thousand a quarter from rents alone, or near as makes no matter.’
‘That’s not true—’
‘Yes it is Jack, you bloody liar. You told me yourself five nights ago.’
Sneaton closed his eyes. ‘Remind me not to drink with you again, John.’
Simpson gave a triumphant smirk. ‘I know all there is to know about you, Jack Sneaton. And Red Lion Square . . . Maybe you should remember that.’
Sneaton stared at him, shocked into silence.
‘Ahh, ignore us, Jack,’ Simpson sighed. ‘I didn’t mean nowt by it.’ He glanced at me, the only one close enough to have heard the threat. ‘How do. Who are you then?’
Now there was a fair, Yorkshire greeting. ‘Thomas Hawkins. I’m here to—’
‘Half-Hanged Hawkins!’ Simpson barked out a laugh. ‘Heard you was coming. Bloody hell. Hanged at Tyburn. How’s your neck, sir. Still stretched?’
I drew back. ‘I’ve no wish to speak of it.’
‘If wishes were fucks, the world would be full o’ bastards,’ he replied with a shrug.
Sneaton had recovered his tongue. ‘Come over to the cottage tonight, John. We’ll work through your receipts together.’
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Simpson grinned. ‘I’m grateful to you.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back outside, whistling.
Sally huffed at the fresh trai
l of muddy footprints.
Fred’s chum, who had helped Sam to bind the splint, rose to his feet and stretched. He was a handsome fellow, about twenty years of age, with a dark complexion from working in the sun. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he addressed Sneaton, ‘is it true that Mr Simpson handed in his bill two weeks late?’
Sneaton considered the younger man. ‘D’you enjoy working at Studley, Master Wattson?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sneaton drew closer. Annunciated slowly. ‘Then remember who you are.’
Wattson nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
Sneaton held Wattson’s gaze for a moment to be sure the message had been received. Then he left, following his master’s path towards the study. My bones ached to watch him, that mangled walk, the twist of a hip to propel him forwards.
Some brief sound made me glance up at the minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the hall like a balcony at the theatre. A gentleman of middling years stood at the balustrade, a pale hand resting upon the rail. Metcalfe Robinson: Mr Aislabie’s nephew. He was dressed in his nightgown, head bare. He was staring directly where I stood, but it was as if I wasn’t there. His grey eyes were dull, his bristled jaw sagging as if he did not have the strength to lift it.
‘Mr Robinson?’ I waved a hand to break him from his trance. ‘May I speak with you? My name is Thomas Hawkins.’
This jolted him so hard he had to snatch at the rail to steady himself. He stared at me in disbelieving horror, as if I were Hamlet’s father come to haunt him. ‘Impossible,’ he said, hoarsely – and backed away, vanishing into the shadows.
Chapter Six
Lady Judith had been too optimistic about the weather. It was raining again, sweeping across the valley as if God were considering a second flood. No tour of the gardens today. A quiet part of me was relieved. There was something unsettling about Mrs Aislabie, something that sent a pulse through me, half attraction and half warning. She was playful, yes – but then cats play with mice sometimes, before they eat them.
I smoked a pipe, and took a solitary stroll about the ground floor. It was something of a maze, especially the connecting rooms directly behind the great hall. These I named the ‘horse rooms’, as the walls were covered in pictures of them, from portraits of individual animals to vast hunting scenes. What other purpose they served, I never discovered. I paused in front of a painting of the Ripon races. The riders were all women, wearing breeches. The plaque upon the frame read: Ladies’ Race, 1723, Ripon. Racing, gambling, and lady jockeys. I would have jumped into the painting if I could.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 6
