Chapter 4 The Discovery

Thomas arrived at Ashworth Manor on a Monday morning, having travelled by coach from London to the village of Ashworth-in-the-Wold and then by hired gig the remaining two miles to the estate. The November weather had not improved; the sky was the colour of wet slate, and a fine drizzle misted the air, turning the roads to mud and the fields to a vast expanse of grey-green gloom. The manor house was a substantial building of honey-coloured stone, built in the reign of Queen Anne and modified in each subsequent generation according to the tastes of its occupants. The result was an architectural conversation across centuries—Palladian symmetry overlaid with Gothic revival ornament, Georgian sash windows set into walls of medieval masonry, and a Victorian conservatory tacked onto the east wing like an afterthought. It was, Thomas thought, a house that had been designed by committee and modified by argument, and it possessed a certain grandeur precisely because of its inconsistencies. He was received by Mrs. Danvers, who showed him to a small sitting room on the ground floor that had been prepared for his use. The housekeeper was a tall, angular woman of sixty or thereabouts, with a face that revealed nothing and a manner that was courteous without being warm. Mr. Hartley. Mr. Graves informed us of your visit. You will find the estate papers in the west wing, as arranged. I have instructed the staff to make themselves available for questioning, though I should warn you that some of them are—reluctant. Reluctant? Thomas set down his travelling bag. Sir Julian has made it clear that he does not welcome this investigation. Several of the servants fear that speaking with you will cost them their positions. She paused, and something shifted in her expression—a flicker of defiance, quickly suppressed. I am not one of those servants, Mr. Hartley. I served the late earl for thirty-one years, and I shall speak with anyone I choose. I appreciate your candour, Mrs. Danvers. I should like to begin with you, if you are willing. She nodded once, sharply, and left the room. Thomas unpacked his bag—two changes of linen, a shaving kit, his legal volumes, and a notebook—and arranged his materials on the table. Then he sat down and began to read. The estate papers were extensive. Mr. Graves had been a meticulous record-keeper, and the late earl had been a man who corresponded about everything. Thomas worked through the documents with the systematic thoroughness that was his greatest strength, sorting them into categories: financial records, legal settlements, tenant correspondence, personal letters, and miscellaneous. The financial records were straightforward. The estate was worth approximately twelve thousand pounds per annum—a substantial income, though not among the largest in the kingdom. The investments were sound, the debts manageable. Sir Julian, if he inherited, would be a wealthy man. The legal settlements were more interesting. The entail upon the estate was, as Thomas had expected, old and complex. It specified that the title and the bulk of the property should pass to the male heirs of the body of the original grantee's second son, with remainders to various collateral lines. Sir Julian's claim rested upon his descent from the fifth earl's younger son, and on the face of it, his claim was unassailable—unless there existed a closer heir. The personal letters were, as Sir Julian had already discovered, conspicuously thin. The earl's correspondence was almost entirely business-related: letters to his solicitor, to his agents, to neighbouring landowners. There were no letters from friends, no social correspondence, nothing that revealed the man behind the title. But in the miscellaneous category, Thomas found something that made him pause. It was a small bundle of papers, tied with a faded ribbon, tucked into the back of a drawer in the strong room. The papers were old—twenty years or more—and they consisted of three items: a receipt from a firm of London silversmiths for a gold ring, inscribed with the initials A.P. and M.H.; a letter, written in a woman's hand, that was too faded to read in places but that contained the phrases my dearest Arthur and our son; and a scrap of paper, torn from a larger document, bearing the words baptismal certificate and the name Leonardo. Thomas read the letter three times, holding it up to the window to catch the weak November light. The handwriting was elegant but uneducated—the hand of a woman who had learned to write by necessity rather than by training. The language was simple, direct, and suffused with an emotion that twenty years had not entirely faded. My dearest Arthur—I write to you from Bristol, where the company has come for the winter season. I am well, and the child is well, though he grows daily more active and more like his father than I could wish—or than you could safely acknowledge. I do not write to trouble you, nor to ask for anything. I write only so that you may know that we live, and that the boy—whom I have named Leonardo, after a man I once knew in the company—thrives. If ever you wish to see him, you know where to find us. But I beg you, Arthur, do not come unless you mean to stay. For I cannot bear another leaving. Yours always, M.H. Thomas set down the letter and stared at the wall. M.H. Marie Harrington. The circus woman. And the boy—Leonardo. Named Leonardo. He picked up the baptismal certificate scrap. It was torn, but the remaining portion showed the name Leonardo and a date—some thirty years ago. The parish was not recorded, which was unusual; baptismal certificates typically specified the church. This suggested that the baptism had taken place outside the established church, perhaps in a dissenting chapel, or perhaps—Thomas's mind raced through the possibilities—perhaps the certificate had been deliberately obscured. He returned to the receipt from the silversmiths. A gold ring, inscribed A.P. and M.H. Arthur Pemberton and Marie Harrington. A ring. An engagement ring? A wedding ring? The questions multiplied faster than Thomas could formulate them. He sat at the table for a long time, the three papers spread before him, his mind working through the legal implications with the cold precision that his profession demanded. If the earl had married Marie Harrington, and if Leonardo was their son, then Leonardo was the legitimate heir to the title and estate. The marriage, even if secret, would be valid if it had been performed by an ordained clergyman and witnessed by at least two persons. Under the Marriage Act of 1753, certain requirements applied, but a marriage performed before a clergyman in proper orders was generally recognised as valid, even if it had not been recorded in the parish register. But if there had been no marriage—if the earl had merely kept Marie Harrington as a mistress—then Leonardo was illegitimate and had no claim to the title. He might, however, have a claim to property if the earl had left him money or if the earl had acknowledged him in some formal way. Thomas needed more information. He needed to find Marie Harrington—or discover what had become of her. He needed to find Leonardo. And he needed to determine whether the earl's relationship with Marie had been a marriage or a liaison. Mrs. Danvers arrived at the appointed hour, and Thomas showed her the three papers. She examined them with a steady eye, her expression unreadable. I know of the ring, she said at last. The earl kept it in his writing desk, in a locked drawer. I saw it once, when I was dusting. He caught me, and he was—angry. Not with me, precisely. With himself. He told me that some things were best left forgotten. And the woman? Marie Harrington? She was here, sir. Many years ago, before the earl succeeded to the title. He was still Viscount Ashworth then, and he was—different. Younger. More—alive. She paused, choosing her words with care. She was with the Harrington Traveling Show, sir. They came to the fair at Michaelmas, as they did every year. And his lordship—well, he became acquainted with her. Did they marry? Mrs. Danvers shook her head. I do not know, sir. I never heard of a wedding. But the earl was—devoted to her. For a time, I believed he would marry her. But his father, the old earl, would never have permitted it. A circus rider—the scandal would have been— She stopped, and her jaw tightened. But if they did marry, in secret, I would not be surprised. The earl was a man who did what he believed was right, regardless of what others thought. And the child? The woman left before the child was born. I was told she went to Bristol. After that—I do not know. The earl never spoke of her again. Not once, in thirty-one years. But he kept the ring. And he kept these papers. She looked at the letter, her eyes glistening. He kept her letter. Thomas made a note. The Harrington Traveling Show. Do you know where they might be now? They travelled, sir. Throughout the country—London in the summer, the southern counties in the autumn, the Midlands in the winter. But I believe they had a winter base somewhere in Hertfordshire. A village called Ware, perhaps, or one of the villages nearby. Thomas nodded. He had a direction, at least. The Harrington Traveling Show—if it still existed after thirty years—might be traceable through trade records, through fairground licences, through the kind of paper trail that traveling entertainers were required to leave. Mrs. Danvers, one more question. Sir Julian—has he found any of these papers? She shook her head. I do not believe so. He has searched the desk, I know. But the drawer where the ring was kept is lined with velvet, and the papers were beneath the lining. He would not have found them unless he had dismantled the drawer entirely. Then we have an advantage. But not for long. Thomas gathered the papers and placed them in his portfolio. I must go to Hertfordshire. I must find this circus. Mrs. Danvers looked at him with an expression that was almost—almost—warm. Be careful, Mr. Hartley. Sir Julian is not a man to be trifled with. If he learns that you have found these papers, he will stop at nothing to prevent you from pursuing the matter. I am a barrister, Mrs. Danvers. Stopping at nothing is what I do best. She almost smiled. Then God help you, sir. And God help the boy. ---