Page 33 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Agnes, Godmersham Park
“Sleep while you can, for dawn is almost upon us.” Grace pulls the gold quilt to Agnes’s chin as she lies, heart racing, limbs stiff, in the centre of the four-poster bed. After Armand had conveyed the three women from Rowling to Godmersham, Grace insisted on wiping the tears from Agnes’s face, and even bathed her hands and feet in warm, soapy water. Yet Agnes fears she will dirty the pristine linen if she moves so much as an inch. Mrs. Knight may have reinstated her in one of her many fine chambers, but Agnes knows she is an interloper, polluting everything she touches. The maid turns to leave, stooping to pick up Agnes’s precious breeches, traded for a plume of peacock feathers from the gardener’s boy. As she does so, the candlelight throws a monstrous shadow of her slight form onto the papered wall behind her, and Agnes must steel herself not to cry out. Is it really Grace, or Spooner and his men come to grab her? “I’ll take these down to the laundry, shall I?” Grace smiles, unaware of the horrifying apparition behind her.
“No.” Agnes sits upright, reaching for her belongings but caught from the waist down between the tightly wound sheets. “Leave them be. I’ll need them on the morrow.”
“There now, miss.” Grace tuts, as if she can sense Agnes’s furtive intentions. “We’ll not have you slipping out in disguise again. What would the mistress say?”
“But I must go …” In Kent, Agnes has met with more kindness than she thought possible. In return, she has brought nothing but trouble to all those who befriended her: poor Mrs. Wilmot tended Agnes’s wounds, only to suffer her husband’s wrath when Nessa would not be made pliant; gentle Mrs. Knight welcomed Agnes into her home, but was forced to flee in fear of her life when Agnes’s past caught up with them both; and Miss Jane gave Agnes hope that she was not alone in her affliction. Yet Agnes could tell, when she came to in the woods as Spooner lay injured, how truly terrified of Captain Fairbairn Jane had been. The memory of her new friends’ goodness must be enough to sustain Agnes. She cannot risk embroiling them any further in her troubles, and she could not bear to remain as their sympathy turned to scorn.
At first light, to preserve her resolve, she’ll quit the mansion without taking her leave. If she heads west, towards London and away from the sea, she will put even more distance between herself and the years of misery she spent imprisoned in Spooner’s wooden world. Once a kindly sailor asked Agnes why she returned to the Infanta when, in a city or even a busy port, a girl like her might lose herself among the crowd. At first, she was too afraid even to repeat the words in her head. Then, when she did, she held the prospect of escape to her chest as a secret morsel of hope to sustain herself. But as Agnes has discovered, no matter how far she runs, she can never escape her torment.
“You’ll feel better after some rest. You always do.” Grace places a hand lightly on Agnes’s shoulder, causing her to flinch as she is recalled to the present. “I’ll lay out a clean gown, ready for the morning.” The maid bustles around the room arranging the fine stockings and petticoats that Mrs. Knight procured. Agnes ignores her, staring mutely at the single candle flickering on the stand beside her bed until Grace is done with fussing.
Finally alone, Agnes presses her face to the cool pillow and a scalding teardrop slides down her cheek. She wishes she could be one of the others. Eleanor has no qualms about accepting Mrs. Knight’s hospitality, while Agnes fears even a pallet on the floor of the servants’ quarters would be too good for her. She squeezes her eyes shut and calls for the princess. But, try as she might, Eleanor will not come. None of them does as they are bade. Rather, they come and go inside her mind at liberty—sometimes permitting Agnes to remain, trapped in a waking nightmare as she watches herself speak and act as another. More often than not, they snuff her out and the memory of what she has endured, especially as Derdriu, does not resurface until days, weeks, sometimes years afterwards. As frightening as it is not to recall events, there are things about her life that Agnes would rather not be party to.
When Fairbairn takes hold, it is as if Agnes ceases to exist. The first she heard of the captain was after she awoke, confused as to why she was back on board the Infanta after summoning all her courage and dashing through the streets of Roscoff. She assumed Spooner must have caught up with her and could not fathom why she had been spared the lash, until Derdriu revealed the captain had forced her to return before Spooner noticed she was missing. Undeterred, Agnes tried again in Cherbourg and in Ostend, only for the same pattern to repeat itself. Just as freedom was within her grasp, the captain compelled her back to the ship. Those times she did not escape unpunished. As she lay, trying to block out the pain, the others began whispering their recriminations. They say it is Agnes’s fault the captain surfaces. They are as terrified of him as she is, for he has threatened to murder every one of them in his fight for supremacy. But, they say, if Agnes did not provoke Fairbairn, he would not come at all. She must try harder to submit. It is only when she tries to flee, that the captain chokes the rest of them.
Agnes cannot remember a time when she was whole, one girl inside one body. She suspects she must have been, back in Ireland, when she lived in the one-room cottage overlooking the blustery bay with her mammy, her brother and sisters, those short years of hunger and petty squabbles as they eked a living from the earth, before Pa died and Agnes sailed away to learn what it was to be truly afraid. Surely she must have been granted a short period of being alone in her own mind. Yet she knows Biddy says she came first, and there are probably others who claim that right too. All the voices clamouring to be heard believe Agnes’s body is theirs. But when Agnes catches her reflection in the mirror, she is the only one whose insides match her outside. That must mean this tired, wretched person belongs to her, must it not?
For a long time, Agnes wondered why she alone had been cursed so. People can be terrifying in their changeability, but nobody else seemed forced to share. Until she met Miss Jane, with her many voices and letters to her various parts. Agnes would never have guessed such an elegant young lady could be afflicted in a manner so similar to herself. She dreads to think what terrible thing happened to cause Jane to shatter. She tried to enquire, yet Jane denied it. She is probably ashamed, frightened of what may happen if anyone finds out about her other selves. Agnes has always been afraid and with good reason. When she attempted to account for the princess to Dr. Storer, he declared her a lunatic and, although she prays for the Lord’s help, Mr. Blackall claimed a demon lurked inside her. Mrs. Knight was the first to remain unperturbed by the sudden inexplicable shifts in Agnes’s character.
“What’s all this?” The widow stands at the door to her chamber in a silk banyan and nightcap, as if Agnes has summoned her soothing presence. “Grace tells me you’re talking of leaving again. Be assured, my dear, you will go nowhere until we’ve had the chance to discuss your future.”
Agnes sits upright. “But what if he comes back?”
“Mr. Spooner?” Mrs. Knight sets down her candle as she perches on the side of Agnes’s bed. “That’s impossible. He was gravely injured and my son, the magistrate, arrested him. Think hard, try to remember.”
“Not him, Captain Fairbairn.” Agnes’s lip trembles as she repeats the name of her greatest foe.
“Why would he? You told Miss Austen the captain emerged because, if Mr. Spooner found you’d escaped, the consequences would be more severe than if you’d remained. But now Mr. Spooner and his associates are in the custody of the authorities, there is nowhere the captain could take you. Is there?”
Agnes can hardly dare to hope that Mrs. Knight is right. If Captain Fairbairn was to remain buried, her mind, though never quiet, might be in harmony. She pictures Spooner, caught in the mantrap as if an iron devil had reached through the earth to claim him. Mrs. Knight is correct: he ought not to be able to recover from his horrific injuries or to evade the law. But Agnes made the mistake of believing she was free once before, when she awoke on the beach at Whitstable and realised the ship was lost. After that, Spooner rose from the dead to pursue her. “I don’t belong in this house, in this world. It would be better for everyone if I wasn’t here at all.”
Mrs. Knight places her palm over Agnes’s trembling fingers, the scent of lavender water emanating from her clean skin. “My dear, there was a time when I believed the same. After I was married, when I failed to produce the heir my husband so desperately wanted, I feared it was my fault—a punishment for sins I had committed, for sins that had been inflicted on me. I believed Thomas would be so disgusted if he knew the truth of my past that he would despise me for my failings. Yet we must live, Agnes. It is our duty to live. Each of us must carve out a place to do so, and the Lord has a way of providing what we truly need. As Thomas proved my protector, I will protect you.”
Agnes stares at the faint freckles on the back of Mrs. Knight’s hand, wishing she could prove worthy of her kindness. “There can be no place for a creature as wicked and forlorn as myself.”
“I have a sanctuary in mind, you wait and see. But you need time to recover from your ordeal and I have some arrangements yet to make. Sleep now. Say your prayers and, remember, the Lord is forgiveness.” Mrs. Knight extinguishes Agnes’s light, then retrieves her own.
Agnes nods in tired acquiescence before collapsing onto the pillow. Perhaps she will stay, just a while longer, until she can formulate a better plan than walking aimlessly towards a city she has never been to and that can guarantee her no friendly welcome. As Mrs. Knight departs, she stumbles over the Lord’s Prayer. Would that Agnes could find solace in religion, but the words do not fit easily on her tongue. Instead, she reaches for the frayed note tucked inside the sleeve of her nightgown. The paper is soft with wear and its edges are blackened from reading late at night, too close to the flame. In the current gloom, with her eyes adjusting to the lack of the candle, Agnes can only just make out the lines. But, by now, she has learnt the words by rote and it is the familiar shape of the small, neat handwriting that serves as an anchor to her wandering spirit. Dear Agnes, Biddy, Eleanor (or whoever you may be as you read this), Whenever you are tempted to fear yourself most afflicted and alone, please take this letter as my sincere assurance that, even in your darkest hour, there is another being who is thinking of you. I see how you have suffered and, though it is not within my power to undo the past, I may remain with you in the present—if you will only allow me the privilege of doing so. For the promotion of your health and happiness, and indeed your very safety, I beg you never to depart from the sight of your dear friends, among whose number I am blessed to count myself. Yours most truly, Jane
Agnes’s heartbeat slows and her body falls limp. The note slips from her hand onto the quilt. It doesn’t matter how many times she reads it, or who she is when she does so, Jane’s words remain the same.