A Death at Fountains Abbey by Antonia Hodgson Page A

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