we indulged her every whim, both when she was a little girl and as she grew older. Everything she wanted, she had.’
Except her freedom, I thought. Except her freedom! I could see that Sister Walburga had been in the right of it when she’d said that an old couple’s overwhelming love had stifled an eager, high-spirited girl. And when that girl had become a woman, she had rebelled.
Almost as an echo to my thoughts, Jonathan Linkinhorne went on, ‘Suddenly Amorette, my wife, and I didn’t know her any more. Looking back, of course I can see that even when she was small, riding her pony, Isabella would try her best to get clear of anyone who was accompanying her; my wife, myself or her nurse. And as soon as she had mastered the grey mare we bought her for her fifteenth birthday, there was no holding her back. Each day she was out riding, in all weathers, galloping across the downs in every direction. There was no longer anyone who could keep up with her. She grew defiant, wilful … You think we should have beaten her, no doubt. Locked her in her chamber. People told me to my face that I was too weak with her. That if she had been their daughter …’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, you can guess the sort of thing.’
I could, only too well. I had a daughter of my own and could foresee myself receiving just the same sort of advice when that strong-minded damsel reached maturity.
‘But,’ I prompted, when my companion threatened to lapse into silence once again, ‘Isabella always did come home? She never did run away?’
‘No,’ he agreed sadly. ‘She never did run away. I know that now.’ He made a sudden, visible effort and roused himself from his reverie. ‘Of course I do. But twenty years ago, my wife and I believed differently. We believed that Isabella had finally carried out her threat and run away with one of her suitors.’
A log fell with a crash on to the hearth behind me, sending up a comet’s tail of sparks. One of the old men at the next table hurried forward importantly, seized the tongs and put the crumbling log back on the fire, glancing around as he did so for applause. When none was forthcoming, he huffed his way back to his seat, offended. I felt sorry for him.
‘You say suitors in the plural,’ I said, turning back to face Jonathan Linkinhorne. ‘There was more than one?’
‘So we were told.’
‘Did you never see them?’
His jowl quivered defiantly. ‘No. Isabella always denied their existence when we questioned her concerning them.’
‘In that case, how can you be sure these men ever really existed?’
He gave a faint, fleeting smile and confirmed what Sister Walburga had already told me.
‘Neighbours, well-wishers, friends. People who knew people, who knew people, who knew people … Someone’s mother-in-law’s aunt had seen Isabella riding with a male companion near Westbury village, or on the Gloucester road, or as far away as the track that runs south to Bath. There were also reports of her visiting Bristol on her own, stabling the mare at the Full Moon, near Saint James’s Priory. Sometimes, of course, she accompanied her mother and me to the city, when we went to visit the market or for another reason. And I recall there were several occasions when we lost her. She always turned up again, later, but would never say exactly where she’d been in the meantime.’
‘Is there any chance she could have gone to visit your cousin at the Magdalen nunnery?’
Jonathan Linkinhorne shook his head glumly.
‘Jeanette – Sister Walburga that is – didn’t enter the nunnery as a postulant until just a few weeks before Isabella vanished.’
I thought over what he had told me for a moment or two while he once more lapsed into silence. Then I asked, ‘Why are you so certain that, in all these sightings of your daughter in the company of a man, it was not the same man every time? Why are you so sure that there were three?’
With a visible effort, Jonathan Linkinhorne dragged his
Except her freedom, I thought. Except her freedom! I could see that Sister Walburga had been in the right of it when she’d said that an old couple’s overwhelming love had stifled an eager, high-spirited girl. And when that girl had become a woman, she had rebelled.
Almost as an echo to my thoughts, Jonathan Linkinhorne went on, ‘Suddenly Amorette, my wife, and I didn’t know her any more. Looking back, of course I can see that even when she was small, riding her pony, Isabella would try her best to get clear of anyone who was accompanying her; my wife, myself or her nurse. And as soon as she had mastered the grey mare we bought her for her fifteenth birthday, there was no holding her back. Each day she was out riding, in all weathers, galloping across the downs in every direction. There was no longer anyone who could keep up with her. She grew defiant, wilful … You think we should have beaten her, no doubt. Locked her in her chamber. People told me to my face that I was too weak with her. That if she had been their daughter …’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, you can guess the sort of thing.’
I could, only too well. I had a daughter of my own and could foresee myself receiving just the same sort of advice when that strong-minded damsel reached maturity.
‘But,’ I prompted, when my companion threatened to lapse into silence once again, ‘Isabella always did come home? She never did run away?’
‘No,’ he agreed sadly. ‘She never did run away. I know that now.’ He made a sudden, visible effort and roused himself from his reverie. ‘Of course I do. But twenty years ago, my wife and I believed differently. We believed that Isabella had finally carried out her threat and run away with one of her suitors.’
A log fell with a crash on to the hearth behind me, sending up a comet’s tail of sparks. One of the old men at the next table hurried forward importantly, seized the tongs and put the crumbling log back on the fire, glancing around as he did so for applause. When none was forthcoming, he huffed his way back to his seat, offended. I felt sorry for him.
‘You say suitors in the plural,’ I said, turning back to face Jonathan Linkinhorne. ‘There was more than one?’
‘So we were told.’
‘Did you never see them?’
His jowl quivered defiantly. ‘No. Isabella always denied their existence when we questioned her concerning them.’
‘In that case, how can you be sure these men ever really existed?’
He gave a faint, fleeting smile and confirmed what Sister Walburga had already told me.
‘Neighbours, well-wishers, friends. People who knew people, who knew people, who knew people … Someone’s mother-in-law’s aunt had seen Isabella riding with a male companion near Westbury village, or on the Gloucester road, or as far away as the track that runs south to Bath. There were also reports of her visiting Bristol on her own, stabling the mare at the Full Moon, near Saint James’s Priory. Sometimes, of course, she accompanied her mother and me to the city, when we went to visit the market or for another reason. And I recall there were several occasions when we lost her. She always turned up again, later, but would never say exactly where she’d been in the meantime.’
‘Is there any chance she could have gone to visit your cousin at the Magdalen nunnery?’
Jonathan Linkinhorne shook his head glumly.
‘Jeanette – Sister Walburga that is – didn’t enter the nunnery as a postulant until just a few weeks before Isabella vanished.’
I thought over what he had told me for a moment or two while he once more lapsed into silence. Then I asked, ‘Why are you so certain that, in all these sightings of your daughter in the company of a man, it was not the same man every time? Why are you so sure that there were three?’
With a visible effort, Jonathan Linkinhorne dragged his
Similar Books
