‘What should I have done, madam?’ Aislabie snarled, defiant. ‘How easily you judge me, when you understand so little. I promise you, Mrs Fairwood – if indeed that is your name – if I had even hinted of my concerns, there would have been a universal panic. It would have been a catastrophe, a hundred times worse than the one we suffered.’
‘We suffered?’ Mrs Fairwood laughed, incredulous.
‘I had a duty to maintain order, to search for a safer path.’
‘You had a duty to speak the truth.’
‘And who would have listened? The world had turned mad. Do you know what the king said to me, when I advised him not to invest in more shares? He called me a timorous fool. The king! I might as well have shouted into the wind.’
‘What specious logic is this?’ Mrs Fairwood cried. ‘You say you held your tongue to prevent panic – but claim that if you had indeed spoken out, no one would have listened?’
Mr Aislabie began to argue his case again, but I held up my hand to stop him. We might spend the rest of our lives in this room, debating the rights and wrongs of the matter – he would never admit to any fault, and Mrs Fairwood would never grant him any mercy. ‘What happened to your brother, madam?’
‘He was ruined,’ she said, still glowering at Aislabie. ‘He’d bought his shares on speculation. When the price collapsed he was left owing thousands of pounds. Thousands. My father had to sell most of our estate to pay the debts. Land we had owned for generations.’
‘I am sorry,’ Aislabie said, though he didn’t sound it. ‘But how does that give you the right to torment me and my family? Are you insensible to my own trials, madam? Is it not telling that John Aislabie – a commoner – was sacrificed to the fury of public opinion, while my noble colleagues were protected and promoted? I was thrown in the Tower! Stripped of office. Suffered every possible abuse to my reputation—’
‘Oh!??’ Mrs Fairwood groaned, collapsing back into her chair.
I understood her frustration. Aislabie’s insistence on casting himself as the victim in all of this was excessively tedious. Also – unforgivably – he had referred to himself in the third person. I thought it best to nudge the story along. ‘Mrs Fairwood: why was your brother transported?’
She blanched. ‘How . . . how did you know?’
It had been eight years since the South Sea calamity. Long enough for a man to be transported and serve his seven years of enforced labour, before returning to England. Seven years, slaving beneath a burning sun.
Mrs Fairwood’s hand upon the globe, spanning the Atlantic, had offered me the first clue. After all, if Francis Forster sought revenge upon Aislabie, why wait for so long? But it was the puzzle of his broken arm that had convinced me – the bandage wrapped about his wrist and hand. ‘He was branded, was he not?’ I touched my left thumb, between the knuckles. ‘They mark them here, with a letter. T for theft. M for murder.’
‘Dear God,’ Lady Judith breathed.
‘The bandage was ingenious,’ I said. ‘Hid the brand and his strength at the same time.’
‘Is this true?’ Lady Judith snapped. ‘Madam! Did you let a murderer into my home?’
Angry tears sprang beneath Mrs Fairwood’s lashes. ‘You refuse to hear me. I told you, Francis was a gentle, generous boy. That was his undoing. He’d amassed such a great fortune over that summer, but he couldn’t persuade my father or Mr Castleton to invest. He decided to buy some shares in Mr Castleton’s name. He never intended to keep them. He was going to present the profits to his father-in-law as a gift, at the wedding. Then the whole scheme collapsed and he couldn’t sell them. His broker wrote to Mr Castleton, demanding payment.’
‘How much was the debt?’ I asked.
‘Two hundred pounds. He bought them at the height of the summer.’
‘And Mr Castleton had him charged for theft?’ That seemed cruel. It was a huge debt, but the families could have come to an agreement without involving the courts.
‘No . . .’ Aislabie said, clicking his fingers ‘. . . I remember this story. I read about it, or heard it somewhere . . .’
Mrs Fairwood twisted in her chair, so she might seem him the better. ‘You remember? Francis Ellory?’ She glared at him until he lowered his gaze.
‘I don’t recall the name,’ he muttered.
‘Mr Castleton waived the debt, but it made no difference. Francis had bought shares in another man’s name, signed legal documents. He was arrested for forgery and fraud. A hanging offence.’ She paused. Took a deep breath, and continued. ‘My mother collapsed when she heard the news. She was too ill to travel, so I accompanied my father to London. We must not despair, everyone said so. But the law . . . once a thing is set in motion, it can be hard to stop. You know this,’ she said to me. ‘The trial was set for November. My father wrote countless letters, tried every connection. Everyone offered the same advice – we must find someone in the government to support our case. So he wrote to you, Mr Aislabie.’
Aislabie covered his mouth. ‘I don’t recall . . .’ But he did. I’d seen it in his eyes – a flash of guilt, swiftly hidden.
‘You were still in office at that time. Imagine – the man who had ruined the country, still in power. My father begged you to intercede. You could explain to the judge the hectic madness of that summer. There was a good deal of talk about town, blaming the crash upon foolish young investors. But you knew that wasn’t true. You knew who was to blame. Not the investors. Not poor Francis. But men like you, Mr Aislabie. Men like you.’
Aislabie’s lips tightened. Of course he had received the letter, and of course he had not answered. To do so would have been to admit his own culpability.
‘Two dozen men stood up in court to defend my brother’s character, including Mr Castleton. It made no difference. He was found guilty.’ She shook her head, tears in her eyes.
‘But he didn’t hang,’ I said.
‘No. How lucky we were. Seven years and a branding upon his thumb: an F for Felon.’ She drew a deep breath, that turned into a shudder. ‘I was there when they burned it into him. My little brother. I will never forget his screams. The smell of his flesh, burning . . . Then they put him in chains and took him away.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Mrs Fairwood insisted on a walk about the yard, to compose herself. She would not continue her story otherwise.
‘You may accompany me to the stables,’ Lady Judith said, icily polite. ‘I wish to see how Athena fares.’
‘You care of nothing but your precious horses,’ Mrs Fairwood sneered. But she rose and drifted from the room, grey and silent as the shadow that trailed at her feet. Kitty gathered up her skirts and followed at a close distance. If Mrs Fairwood had plans to run, she would find herself stopped with a boot, or a bucket, or whatever else might be lying about the yard.
‘How can I have been so deceived?’ Aislabie said, watching from the terrace door. ‘I never knew a woman could be so wicked.’
I took a sip of brandy. ‘She told me she was afraid, the first time we spoke. Afraid of him.’
‘You think she was coerced?’
‘I believe so. More than her pride allows her to confess.’
‘Hmm.’ He looked at me for a moment, from the corner of his eye. ‘You are not entirely without value.’
I clapped my hand to my chest, accepting the compliment.
He laughed, but it soon faded. ‘Have you ever lost someone you loved, Hawkins?’
‘My mother. A long time ago now.’
‘Do you remember her?’
I turned the brandy glass between my fingers. Nodded.
‘My children can’t remember their mother. They were so young when she died. We never speak of her.’ He sighed. ‘I thought it best in the beginning. Now they have no memory of a time before the fire, not even Mary, my eldest. Sometimes I think I am the only one who remembers Anne, and Lizzie. Those brief days. When you lose a child, Hawkins . . .’ He paused, and swallowed. ‘. . . it leaves a wound that n
ever heals. The world forgot her, but I never did. I think of them both, every day.’
‘Metcalfe remembers Lizzie.’
‘He does?’
‘He said she was a merry little girl.’
Aislabie’s dark eyes lit up. ‘She was. She was.’
Mrs Fairwood left the stables, heading back through the yard.
‘Look at her,’ Aislabie muttered. ‘To think how many hours I wasted, studying the contours of that woman’s face.’ He returned to the desk, taking the bottle of brandy with him.
Mrs Fairwood arrived at the terrace doors, the bottom of her gown flecked with hay from the stables. She glided past me to the fire and brushed her skirts clean with a fastidious hand, dropping the hay into the flames. Her wrist, when not being observed, seemed to work perfectly well.
Kitty and Lady Judith had also stepped back into the library. The air had grown stifling, so Kitty and I swapped places – she stood by the fire while I guarded the door. Lady Judith was talking with her husband. ‘Do you wish to rest for a time?’ she murmured, stroking his back. He leaned into her for a moment, then shook his head.
I nodded to Mrs Fairwood to continue. She had left the fireside, drawn to a study of Byzantine coins left open on a table. She traced her fingers down the page. ‘We could not stay in London after the trial. My father brought me up to Lincoln in the hope of arranging a favourable marriage, as if I were some piece of livestock at a country fair. He wanted to secure my future, but I was terrified. Surely no decent gentleman would marry me, not now.
‘The months passed and we fell deeper into debt. My father was in despair. My mother had not recovered from her nervous collapse: she lay in her bed at home unable to speak. A living ghost.’ She shivered at the memory.
‘And then Mr Fairwood proposed.’
‘Mr Fairwood.’ She turned a page on to a new display of coins. Grimaced. ‘An old friend of my father. I will say this in his favour. He was very rich, and he never once touched me. We married on the third of October, 1721.’ She slammed the book closed. ‘The next day, my father hanged himself.’
Mr Aislabie turned in his seat, and looked at her. She stood with her knuckles pressed into the table, breathing heavily. Then she pushed back upon her fists, standing straight again. ‘My father blamed himself for the family’s ruin. He believed he should have ordered Francis back from London and forced him to sell his shares. He took his life out of shame. I pray for him every day. But I know that he is beyond the reach of mercy.’
‘No one knows that, Mrs Fairwood,’ I said.
She took a deep breath. ‘For seven years I lived for one purpose: to see my brother come home. My mother could not travel, so we mourned and suffered alone. Her great wish was to live long enough to see Francis again, but she died two months before he landed at Portsmouth. Perhaps it was for the best.’ She hesitated. ‘The truth is, my brother never came home. He died the day they branded him. He died on the ship to Virginia. He died in the tobacco fields, when they whipped him like an animal. The man who returned, who wears those fine clothes you admire – he is a stranger to me. The brother I loved is dead, like my parents.’ She lifted her dark eyes to Aislabie. ‘Because of you.’
‘You are afraid of him,’ I said, pulling out my pipe. ‘This stranger.’
She clutched her arms. ‘Yes.’
‘But you agreed to help him.’
She looked down, her black lashes masking her eyes. ‘Yes.’
I fixed my pipe, waiting for her to continue.
‘Do you believe in Fate, sir?’ she asked, at last.
I did not, but said nothing, breathing out a long trail of smoke.
‘My brother sailed home last November. On the second day, he met a lady travelling alone. She wore this at her throat.’ She touched the diamond and ruby brooch pinned to her gown. And then, pulling off her gloves, she unfastened it, and placed it upon the table. ‘They fell into close conversation, the way strangers sometimes do on a long voyage. She told him that she had fled England when she was a young woman. Now she was dying. She had decided to come home and settle certain matters. She said she had done something terrible, many years ago, to a man named John Aislabie. She wanted to see him one more time, and beg his forgiveness.’
‘Molly Gaining.’ Aislabie’s voice cracked as he spoke the name – for the first time in years, most likely.
Lady Judith reached across and plucked the brooch from the table. She handed it to her husband.
‘I knew,’ he said, long fingers tracing the diamond petals. ‘I knew this was Anne’s brooch.’
Mrs Fairwood watched him, unmoved. ‘Molly died the night before the ship reached England. Francis believed that God had brought them together for a divine purpose: so that he might serve justice upon John Aislabie. The man who had destroyed our family.’
‘You dare call this God’s work,’ Lady Judith breathed.
‘Your brother forged Molly’s confession?’ I asked.
Mrs Fairwood hesitated, then nodded. ‘He took some of her papers so he might copy her hand. By the time he reached London he had formed a plan: that I should pretend to be Elizabeth Aislabie, saved from the fire. I refused at first. I could not imagine doing something so bold. Francis swore he would never find peace otherwise. He spoke of nothing else, day after day: I thought I should go mad. In the end he said that if I did not help him, he would disappear and I would never see him again.’ She pressed her hands to her chest at the thought.
‘I insisted upon one thing: that he would first visit Studley Hall and effect some meeting with the family. I wanted him to be sure of the path he was taking. He did as I asked. He secured an invitation to Fountains Hall and he rode up from London. He saw the grand designs for your stables, and the scores of men working on your estate. He sat at your dining table while you spoke of your cruel treatment, and your determination to return to public office. He saw how you closed off the moors and pursued the men who had farmed there for generations. He saw all this, and then he wrote to me. And Mr Aislabie, after I received his letter, I decided that my brother was right. You deserved to be punished.’
Aislabie rose from his chair. ‘Enough. I will listen no longer.’
Mrs Fairwood gave a thin smile. ‘The truth is a bitter medicine.’
‘Insufferable,’ Lady Judith muttered.
Aislabie beckoned me to the terrace door. ‘I shall ride to Ripon, bring the magistrate and his sergeants back to arrest Forster. Wait here for Metcalfe.’ He gripped my arm. ‘I want that woman guarded at all times, Hawkins.’ He strode off towards the stable, boots stamping on the cobbles.
‘Oh, what a relief!’ Mrs Fairwood sighed, stretching out her arms. ‘To be myself again.’
‘You have no heart, madam,’ Lady Judith said, softly.
Mrs Fairwood tweaked a dark, perfect brow. ‘I pity you, Mrs Aislabie. It must be exhausting, defending your indefensible husband. But wives must be loyal, I suppose.’ She crossed to the hearth. ‘You are very quiet, Mrs Hawkins.’
She was – unnaturally so. Kitty was sitting in a green silk armchair by the fire, her chin propped in her hand. She had not spoken one word since Mrs Fairwood had returned to her confession.
Mrs Fairwood frowned at her. ‘D’you know, I am sure I sprained my wrist in my fall.’
Lady Judith had no patience left. Leaving us to stand guard over Mrs Fairwood, she returned to the stables. Perhaps, like Gulliver, she expected to find more reasoned conversation among the horses.
And still, Kitty said nothing. Having finished my pipe, I had nothing to do but pace the room. There were still elements of Mrs Fairwood’s tale that did not quite make sense to me. The fire, the threatening notes. I poured myself a fresh glass of brandy.
‘Another glass,’ Mrs Fairwood observed. ‘Are you ever sober, Mr Hawkins?’ She sat down opposite Kitty. ‘Well, madam? What do you think of my story? Has it not stirred your sympathy?’
Kitty lifted her chin from her hand. ‘Oh, no. I have just bee
n wondering to myself how you will die.’
Mrs Fairwood gave a little start.
‘There’s a good chance you will hang, of course. Accessory to murder, that’s the phrase is it not? Then there’s theft,’ Kitty counted this off on a second finger, ‘as the deer were stolen. Or would that be termed poaching? The notes threatening murder, well, they are a hanging offence upon their own. And arson, of course,’ she held up a fourth finger. ‘You would have let poor Sally take the blame for that.’
‘The chambermaid?’ Mrs Fairwood shrugged.
Kitty glared at her. ‘Sally Shutt. Fifteen years old, with no fortune and no family. You would have ruined her to save yourself. Doesn’t that stir your sympathies, Mrs Fairwood? No, of course not – because your tragedy is the only one that matters. As if no one else has ever suffered as you have. I could tell you stories . . .’
‘I—’
‘What – you would have me weep for your brother? An arrogant prick who gambled away his family’s fortune? And you. I should feel sorry for poor little you? You’ve preyed upon a father’s grief for weeks! Oh! I could stamp on your head I’m so cross.’
Mrs Fairwood was confounded into silence. I doubt she’d been spoken to in such a raging fashion in all her life.
‘Why did you start the fire?’ I asked, once she had recovered. ‘As a distraction?’
‘Francis wanted Aislabie to know that he could not protect me – not even here in the house. He wanted to torment him. And he had promised a fire.’
‘So you obliged him? You take your sisterly duty a little too seriously, I think.’
‘You refuse to understand,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘Francis has kept me a prisoner here for weeks. He said that if I left Studley, he would tell the world what we had done. He would be hanged and I would be transported. He told me about the ships – how the guards would use my body. He described the vilest things. When I begged him to stop, he laughed at me. He said, begging does not make them stop, sister . . .’ She clamped a hand to her mouth, rocking silently in her chair.
A Death at Fountains Abbey Page 24
