Antonia Hodgson - A Death at Fountains Abbey

A flash of astonishment crossed Aislabie’s face, as if I had made a great and unexpected deduction. Then he scowled as he took my meaning. ‘A bastard child? No.’

‘A daughter through marriage, then? Or a young ward – someone you might consider a daughter, if not by blood?’ I waved the note. ‘The threat is quite specific.’

Sneaton cleared his throat. ‘Your honour…’

‘In my own time, Sneaton!’ Aislabie poured himself a glass of brandy. His hand was shaking.

I took out my watch. Past noon. I could be sitting down to dinner with Kitty at the Cocked Pistol. Better still, chasing her upstairs to bed. I shoved the watch into my pocket. ‘Mr Aislabie. I have travelled for five days to reach you. I am tired, sore, and to be frank, sir, I’m not sure what you want of me. What is this matter with your daughter? Will you oblige me with an explanation? Or should I summon another carriage and return home to my wife?’

Aislabie turned in surprise. ‘Mrs Hawkins did not accompany you?’

‘She was called back to London. The note , sir?’

He settled his brandy glass. ‘We have a guest staying with us at Studley – a young widow, from Lincolnshire. I had hoped your wife might be company for her. A confidante. You know how ladies are.’

Kitty – a lady? A confidante ? I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

‘Her name is Mrs Fairwood. Mrs Elizabeth Fairwood. I fear she is in great danger.’

‘Indeed? How so?’

Aislabie smiled sadly. ‘Because she is my daughter, sir. My youngest girl, returned to me from the grave.’

I stared at him in dismay. His youngest daughter had died in a fire with her mother. Glancing at Sneaton, I saw he had composed his face in that cautious expression practised by all wise servants – that is to say so neutral one might believe he had stopped thinking altogether.

Aislabie reached out, as if possessed, and put his hand upon the dead fawn’s head. He gave a shudder, and drew his fingers away.

‘Mr Aislabie, forgive me… I understood your youngest daughter died many years ago.’

‘Lizzie?’ Aislabie blinked. ‘Yes. She died in a fire, with my wife.’ For a moment I saw the grief of a young husband, fresh and raw upon his face. Then he pulled the shutters tight across the memory.

‘But you believe this visitor to be…’ What, precisely? Mr Aislabie had a reputation for being haughty and obstinate, not unbalanced.

He sensed my confusion. ‘I’m a straightforward man,’ he said, gruffly. ‘I’ve no time for tales of ghosts and demons. There is this world and – God willing – the next. I do not believe there is a path between these worlds, except in death. And yet…’ He fixed his jaw. ‘Mrs Fairwood ismy daughter. I cannot explain it easily. And yet I am certain of it.’

The thud of horses’ hooves cantering up the avenue took him back to the window. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘They are returned.’ And then he smiled in such an unaffected way it quite transformed him. He strode to the door, no doubt expecting me to follow.

Sneaton hurried after his master, his wooden peg putt ing softly as it hit the oak floorboards. I could see where it had worn a hundred little dents in the wood over the years.

I tucked the letters in my pocket, thinking on a line from the first note – one that neither Sneaton nor Aislabie had chosen to mention.

You robbed England, you rogue.

It was a fair charge. And here he resided at Studley Royal, stranded in splendid exile on his enormous estate. There must be plenty who thought he deserved a harder punishment than that. Could one of them be plotting to burn down his house? Or worse?

To be blunt, it was not my concern, and my interest – in the main – was counterfeit. The queen had not sent me to Yorkshire to protect John Aislabie, or to solve his troubles. He could burn in his bed and she would take the news with exquisite indifference, before reaching for another macaron . My true mission was clear and very simple: Find the green ledger, and bring it to me.

I might begin now, here in Aislabie’s study.

A sharp tap at the window brought me to my senses: Sneaton, beckoning urgently before limping away. I became conscious again of the stink of blood and meat wafting from the deer. If I had arrived yesterday evening as planned, I would have witnessed its discovery this morning. Had this butchery been a warning to me, as much as to Aislabie?

You are not alone by day or night.

I threw the sheets over the deer and its fawn. What a waste. What a damned waste.

‘How’s your riding, sir?’ Mrs Aislabie asked again.

‘Tolerable,’ I replied, distracted by the sight of her.

‘You are too modest, Mr Hawkins,’ she said, patting the thick-muscled neck of her dark bay stallion. Her gaze snagged upon my hips. ‘I’m sure you have an excellent seat.’

She must be near fifty , I warned myself, though she didn’t look it. We were a small group, gathered upon the gravelled drive: Mr Aislabie, Mr Sneaton leaning upon his walking stick, and the two women on horseback, their faces flushed from their morning ride through the estate. Aislabie had introduced his wife as ‘My Lady Judith, daughter of the Right Honourable Sir Thomas Vernon’. Her Ladyship had winked at me, clearly not as impressed by her title as her husband. Near fifty, I warned myself again. Perhaps older.

Lady Judith was a handsome woman with strong features, as if God had sketched a man’s face then changed His mind, adding wide, full lips that curved up at the sides. The silver collar of her riding coat was turned up in the gentleman’s style, the effect softened with a froth of lace about her neck. She wore a velvet cap over her pale blond hair, pierced with a white feather that fluttered in the breeze.

All most appealing, but this was not the cause of my distraction. What had confounded me was the fact that she was sitting full astride her horse. That is to say: with one leg upon one side of the beast, and the other leg upon the opposing side.

Naturally this extraordinary position would have been impossible in a gown. In its stead, she wore a pair of close-tailored drawers, stitched in a heavy woollen cloth. No doubt this remarkable garment made for a comfortable ride, but it also meant that, from the waist downwards, Mrs Aislabie’s shape was perfectly transparent.

London does not suffer from a lack of women’s legs. In my estimation there must be at least two hundred thousand pairs in and about the city. But I had never in my life seen a pair of them parted wide and clamped tight around a horse’s flanks. It was a diverting spectacle: so much so that I scarce noticed her companion, dressed in grey and perched stiffly on a fat little pony. She was sitting side-saddle, thank God. One pair of legs was distraction enough.

‘You must join me for a tour about the gardens, sir.’ Lady Judith leaned forward in her saddle, the leather creaking beneath her. ‘I will send for a horse. There is nothing so fine as a good ride before dinner, don’t you agree?’ She smiled at me.

I glanced nervously at Aislabie, but he was busy helping the woman in grey from her pony. Lady Judith followed my gaze, and her smile faded. ‘You have seen the letters?’ she murmured. ‘We’ve said nothing of them to the girl, nor this morning’s butchery. She is too fragile.’ Somehow, in her inflection, Mrs Aislabie conveyed that this was her husband’s opinion, and one she did not share.

I watched as the girl stepped away from her mount as if it might kick her. She really was tiny – they had given her a training pony to ride, as if she were a child. She was also exquisitely beautiful. This I relay as an objective fact, for it was acknowledged by everyone who spoke of her at Studley, whether they liked her or not: the gloss of her rich brown hair, the high plane of her cheekbones, the neat little chin, and features so refined and harmoniously balanced that they seemed almost a rebuke. If I am able to achieve such loveliness, cannot the rest of you try a little harder?