Page 30 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY

St. Augustine’s Abbey lies in darkness. Jane and Mr. Bridges did not pass a single other traveller on their race to reach the ruin. In the black of night, the tower is far eerier than Jane remembers. Moonlight reflects from the yellow stone, highlighting the fallen pillars. Strange noises drift from the fields beyond and dark shapes move as shadows all around them. They are merely cattle, grazing on Sir Edward Hale’s rich pasture. Jane refuses to let her nerves get the better of her as she dismounts and begins calling, “Agnes.”

“We could ride on to the inn and ask to borrow a lantern?” Mr. Bridges glances towards the irregular outline of Canterbury’s rooftops in the distance.

“There’s no time. We must find her.” Jane sets off, stumbling over the loose bits of rubble concealed in the grass. “Perhaps we should separate? She could be hiding anywhere.”

“For someone whose intelligence is so highly lauded, you say some very silly things.” Mr. Bridges secures the horse to a branch of a sprawling oak.

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid the monks will serenade you?” Jane does not slow down to wait for him.

“Is there a more terrifying sound than vespers?” He grabs her hand, pulling her to an abrupt standstill. “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Look, there.” He gestures towards the remains of the small chapel. “You were right.” A few yards away, on the marble slab of the altarpiece, a woman’s body is stretched out. Her features denote a resigned peace, and her skin is luminous. Not a nun in a white habit with blood running from a head wound, but Agnes in her nightdress, her red hair fanned out around her pale face.

“Agnes!” Jane’s heart constricts as she races towards her. At the arched entrance, she hesitates, burying her face in Mr. Bridges’s chest. Agnes is too calm, too still. She does not stir at the sound of Jane’s voice. Her eyes are closed. Deep shadows cut into the hollows of her cheeks. A memory surfaces of another young woman laid out in a borrowed nightdress—one whom Jane could not save. “She’s dead.”

“No, she can’t be …” He wraps his arms around Jane.

Beside them, the body emits a long, pitiful keening, echoing around the stone chamber. Jane rushes to kneel beside the altar, where Agnes lies as still as a stone effigy atop a tomb. “Agnes, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“Agnes is gone.” She answers without opening her eyes, her monotone voice betraying only the slightest hint of an Irish accent.

Jane looks to Mr. Bridges, who stares down at her with equal consternation. She wants to ask him to lift Agnes in his arms and forcibly carry her to safety, but Jane knows that would alarm her even further. Instead she pushes her hand along the altar, until their fingers are almost touching. “Where has Agnes gone? Can you tell me?”

“To the devil.”

The words send an icy shiver through Jane’s soul. Agnes’s body is here, talking to her, and yet this is not Agnes. It is possible that Agnes is so terrified, so damaged, that she may never surface again. “Then who, may I ask, are you?”

“Derdriu.” Derdriu’s eyes flicker open, but she stares at the heavens rather than at Jane.

“Derdriu, listen to me. You must come with us. I know you have been terribly frightened, with that horrid man intent on hurting you. But my brothers have set out to arrest him, and Mrs. Knight is most anxious for your return. We must take you back to her, so that she can keep you safe.”

Derdriu does not flinch. Instead, she stares, unseeing, at the night sky. “I’m not frightened. I’m not anything. Agnes was the one who was always so afraid. Nothing can hurt me for I am made of stone.”

Jane meets the tip of Derdriu’s index finger with her own. It is so cold, she must have been lying here for some time. Is this how Agnes has endured, by becoming impassive when subjected to the captain’s abuse? “You are not stone. You are someone and you matter. You must cease this talk at once and allow me to take you, and Agnes, to safety.”

Still, Derdriu refuses to move. Her breathing is slow, her body listless. “You cannot save Agnes. She is beyond salvation.”

“No, Derdriu,” Jane protests, thinking that Derdriu must hold Agnes responsible for the vile depravities to which Captain Fairbairn exposed her. “None of it was Agnes’s fault. She was just a child.”

“I keep finding her here, begging for absolution. But this is not the Lord’s house. It’s crumbling rock and emptiness, like me.”

Jane recalls Agnes’s words when she refused to enter the church in Crundale. I can’t confess. He’ll smite me for what I’ve done. What sin is weighing on her conscience? If Jane can draw it out of Derdriu, Agnes may return. As horrific as it was to bear witness to Agnes’s pain, Derdriu’s resignation is even worse. “What terrible deed did Agnes commit? Why does she require forgiveness? Tell me, Derdriu, so that I may understand.”

“The Infanta. ”

“The princess?” Jane asks.

“The ship. Agnes sank it. She killed all those men, and the other girls.”

“But Agnes couldn’t sink a ship.”

“Yes, she did. She sank the ship, and she drowned everyone on board. She would have slain herself, too.”

“No.” Jane places her hand over Derdriu’s, hoping to suffuse her with some warmth of her own. “It was the captain’s fault. He attempted to turn the boat in a mighty gale without readying the sails. There was a witness—an old man was watching from the Isle of Sheppey. We’ll find him and he’ll swear to it, I promise.”

“The Lord is the only true witness, and he knows.”

Jane looks at Mr. Bridges. He remains beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder in reassurance. “What does he know?” Jane asks.

Derdriu’s fingers remain limp. “As the storm hit, Agnes was praying for death. And then, when the wave washed over, she didn’t hold on. She could have but she didn’t.”

“She was swept overboard?”

“She let herself be taken. She believed even Hell would be a blessed release from this torment. But he … he wouldn’t let her go. So long as there is breath in his body, he’ll never let her go. And, in his haste, they were all tipped screaming into the swell.”

“Oh, Derdriu.” Jane swallows, picturing the dreadful scene. Tossed and turned like it was no more than a toy. Mast broke first. Snapped in two like a blade of straw. We could hear the sailors’ screams. But we can’t do nothing, not when the sea decides she’s going to make you hers. “That is horrifying. But it’s not Agnes’s fault. She’s just a girl. She could no more control the actions of that despicable man any more than she could the sea, or the wind.”

“They all died because of her, and now she is doomed for all eternity.”

“No, she is not. I won’t let her be.” Jane turns to Mr. Bridges in desperation. “Do something.”

“Like what?” He stares down at her, wide eyed.

“You intend to be a clergyman, forgive her.”

“In the Anglican Church, Jane. I won’t hear confession. I’m not even ordained.”

Derdriu lifts her head. “Jane?”

Is it possible that Derdriu is so closed off from Agnes’s other parts that she had not recognised Jane before now? “That’s right. I’m Jane.”

“You wrote to us.” Derdriu places one hand flat against the slab and pushes herself upright.

“I did, yes.” Neither Biddy nor Agnes responded to Jane’s note; she was not certain either of them read it. But now, as the girl withdraws a familiar square of yellowed paper from beneath her nightgown, Jane can see she must have. The frayed edges attest to it having been unfolded and refolded a thousand times, and the singed corners prove it has been scrutinized by candlelight. Derdriu sits cross-legged on the altar, holding the letter aloft as her eyes scan the words. She blinks. The note wavers as her hands shake. In an instant, her entire demeanour switches. She gazes around the ruined chapel with large, fearful eyes, lips trembling.

“Agnes?” Jane can hardly dare to believe she has returned.

“Miss Jane.” Agnes reaches for Jane’s hand, clasping it tight. “Why do I keep waking here? Where is Mrs. Knight? You said I would be safe if I stayed where she could see me. I must get back to her.”

“Yes, you must.” Jane’s heart lifts. Despite all the odds, she has recovered Agnes. “She’s at Rowling. Let me take you to her immediately.”

Agnes unfolds her legs and jumps down from the altar. Jane holds her hand as she leads her hastily over the grass towards the horse. The one horse, which Mr. Bridges thought adequate to carry out their rescue operation. Jane throws him a chagrined look.

“I … er … I suppose we’ll have to separate.” He frees the reins, tossing them to Jane. “You know the route. Even if you don’t, just set off along the high road, and the horse will make his own way back to Goodnestone.”

“But what about you? We can’t leave you stranded.”

“You mustn’t worry about me, Jane. I’m a man.” He places one hand on his hip. “I’ll walk to Canterbury and hire a mount. It’s not that far. I might even catch up with you on the road.”

“It’s just …” Jane chews the inside of her cheek. She’s going to have to admit how utterly useless she is. “I’m not a particularly skilled horsewoman. I’m not certain I can command such an enormous beast.”

Mr. Bridges tips his face upwards. “Well, luckily for you, it would appear your companion is.”

Jane follows his gaze. Agnes has mounted the animal. She sits astride, face placid as she holds the reins in one hand and pats the horse’s neck with the other. With her hair hastily swept under a felt hat and her nightgown tucked into a pair of breeches, she sits as confident in the saddle as any of Jane’s brothers. She does not even bother using the stirrups. Rather, as Frank was wont to do when he fancied a hack but was too lazy to tack up, she presses her bare feet into the horse’s girth.

“Up you go.” Mr. Bridges laces his fingers together and crouches before Jane. She places her foot in his makeshift cradle. This is it. The last leg of her journey to save Agnes. Then, God willing, she will never have to ride on horseback again for as long as she lives. She grips the polished leather and hoists herself up, but as soon as Mr. Bridges removes his support she slides down again. The horse prances sideways, and her stomach roils. She is not even on the monstrous beast, and already she is falling off. Mr. Bridges places a hand on the back of her right thigh and shoves her back on. Of all the indignities! Agnes remains poised. The girl’s body is uncharacteristically tense—spine straight and shoulders back. Jane reaches her arms around her waist but does not press tightly, as she did with Mr. Bridges. She can sense a detached air emanating from Agnes, and the last thing she would want is to intrude on her person. “All set?” Mr. Bridges grins up at them.

“Quite.” Jane shoots him a vexed look. The rascal is enjoying her discomfort. “And, Mr. Bridges …”

“Yes?”

“Watch out for those singing monks, won’t you? Gah!” She screams as he slaps the horse on the rump, sending them racing off into the night.