“I was only startled when young Angus took my arm, nothing more.”
Sister Abigail made a honking sound of disapproval. “Young Angus is barely fourteen. You scared him half out of his wits. I’m sure his father beat him soundly for his misstep. You behaved as if he accosted you.”
Elizabeth felt terrible as she was certain Angus had been punished as well. He hadn’t meant to harm her, or even startle her. For goodness sakes, he’d only complimented Elizabeth on the sparkle in her eyes and offered to help her with the heavy basket she’d carried.
I have an affliction.
Elizabeth would never survive living amongst the ton. London and society were to be avoided at all costs. Her skin crawled, imagining all the touching which would be required should she return to live with her brother. She wasn’t capable of being out in society and she certainly could never marry. The very thought of the intimacy required of a wife filled her with ice-cold panic.
“I apologized profusely, Sister Abigail. Mother Hildegard explained to his parents that I was only startled. Angus did nothing wrong.”
Sister Abigail snorted. “You screamed like he’d committed murder, poor lad. I wrote to my sister about what a daft nun I lived with.”
Elizabeth rounded the stone wall at the side of the abbey, trying to distance herself from the disapproving Sister Abigail. She wasn’t daft. She had an affliction. Much like having a limp or not being able to hear. Her anger flared sharply at the thought of Sister Abigail writing witty anecdotes about Elizabeth to her sister. Perhaps Elizabeth was a source of amusement for the nun’s entire family.
“I can find my own way to Mother Hildegard’s,” she said, giving Sister Abigail a pointed look.
Sister Abigail merely shrugged, bits of dough dropping from her apron. “I was going in this direction anyway.”
Elizabeth gritted her teeth as she approached the abbess’s office.
“Ah, Elizabeth.” Mother Hildegard waved her inside, casting a stern look at Sister Abigail. “Please shut the door, Sister.”
Sister Abigail frowned at the dismissal but did as she was asked.
Mother Hildegard waved Elizabeth inside, a stern look fixed on her angular features. A large crucifix carved of mahogany hung on one wall of the office. The artist had been incredibly talented. If Elizabeth looked closely enough, she would see Christ’s eyelashes, intricately carved in the wood. A gift, Mother Hildegard had once told Elizabeth, from a past Duke of Dunbar.
“Please sit.” Mother Hildegard’s lips were pressed tight.
It was about the honey.
“I’ve recently returned from visiting with McMannish.” The abbess sat down and proceeded to drum her thin fingers atop the desk.
“How is McMannish?” Elizabeth inquired politely, suddenly knowing with certainty that this was not only about the honey.
“Proud, actually.” Mother Hildegard’s mouth hardened further. “You have a keen eye and a steady aim, I’m told. He was surprised to find I knew nothing of the skills he boasted about, considering you told him I approved of your training with pistols.”
Elizabeth’s stomach fell. “I—” She instantly regretted not swearing the Scotsman to secrecy. Learning to fire pistols had been an inspiration on Elizabeth’s part. The ability to protect herself, if such a thing became necessary, gave her a great deal of security.
“My child.” Mother Hildegard’s mouth softened. The abbess had always been kind to Elizabeth, more substitute parent and mentor than disciplinarian. “Learning to be a crack shot, while certainly admirable in some circles, is not a skill required to serve God.”
“I thought it would be useful. What if St. Albans is attacked? I could protect us.”
“Elizabeth, St. Albans has never been attacked. Not by Vikings or anyone else. I am assured we never will be.” Mother Hildegard’s fingers ceased their drumming. She laced her fingers together before setting them upon the scarred, battered top of her desk. “Your…affliction has led you to take actions that are not within the teaching of St. Albans, namely, learning to shoot a pistol.” She held up her hand as Elizabeth started to protest. “You are not suited for the life of a nun, Elizabeth. Dislike of London is not an alternative to a true calling. There is no need to be terrified of a ball. Or a dinner party.”
Elizabeth swallowed, knowing the abbess was correct. “I don’t think I can navigate such affairs. I can’t return to London.” She looked down at the floor. “You don’t understand. If I hadn’t screamed—”
“Your father might still be dead, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth flinched from her words. “But Archie—”
“Your mother’s cousin might have done more than touch your knee, but he did not. Your mother watched the entire affair and did nothing. Sutton sent you away without asking you what happened.” The abbess took a deep breath. “Elizabeth, we have discussed these events repeatedly since you first arrived on St. Alban’s doorstep. I understand, my child, your fear at returning to a world which could be filled people very much like Archie and your mother. But you cannot hope to ever live a happy life while you carry such fear within you. Nor such guilt.”
Mother Hildegard stood and took Elizabeth’s hand in hers, holding stubbornly so that Elizabeth couldn’t pull away. “You are not to blame for your father’s death. He didn’t die because you yelled for help. You should feel empowered, Elizabeth, if nothing else.”
“Empowered?” She lifted her eyes. Her stomach was in knots at just the mere memory of Cousin Archie.
“You have seen evil and are prepared should you cross paths with it again. Your shooting skills, though I do not approve in the least, now give you an advantage.” Mother Hildegard’s lips moved into a smile. “Your brother was not punishing you. He wished to protect you for a time. His intent was not to have you spend your life here because you were afraid. Your family loves you, Elizabeth. They want you to come home.”
This conversation wasn’t going at all as Elizabeth wished it to. Mother Hildegard was going to send her away. She couldn’t leave St. Albans. She wasn’t ready.
“My mother—”
“Is being cared for in Yorkshire by her husband and your cousin, Herbert Reynolds. A man your brother trusts. Your mother is ill, Elizabeth. Her mind is broken.”
Mother Hildegard was being kind. “She’s mad.”
The abbess nodded. “Indeed, she is. But she can’t harm you anymore.”
2
Elizabeth snipped at the rosemary, placing the fragrant herb into the basket at her side. While her pride stung a bit at the other nuns deeming Elizabeth only fit for tending the garden, she didn’t mind. She tossed a handful of fresh cut mint into her basket next to the rosemary and smiled. It was far better to be in the garden than the heat of the kitchen, kneading dough with Sister Abigail. Besides, plants were good listeners. The basil, in particular, had seemed to lean toward Elizabeth intently as she discussed Sister Abigail and her judgmental stares, as well as Mother Hildegard’s belief that she wasn’t suited for life as a nun.
She hummed a tune she’d heard at the fair a few weeks ago, before the incident with Young Angus. Mother Hildegard was right, of course. The abbess usually was. Young Angus, so called because his father was also Angus, had done nothing more than be a little forward and flirt with her. He’d meant her no harm. He wasn’t Archie. And no one in the village had laughed at Elizabeth’s distress, as Mother once had.
The sea breeze tickled her nose, inviting Elizabeth to inhale deeply. The vastness of the ocean, stretching out far past what the eye could see, always filled her with peace and a sense of adventure. The air smelled of salt and…Elizabeth sniffed again.
A strong floral scent, vaguely familiar, now mixed with the sea air blowing against her back. Strong and nearly overpowering, the scent was instantly recognizable no matter the years that had passed.
Mother.
Elizabeth turned and looked around the small yard. The gardens remained untouched. The ocean still stretched
from the cliffs behind her. She could hear Sister Abigail, her voice terribly out of tune, singing from the kitchen. Snipping a sprig of rosemary, Elizabeth started humming again. The discussion with Mother Hildegard and the incident with Young Angus had stirred up bad memories. She’d even dreamed of Jeanette Reynolds the night before; it was likely her imagination was tricking her nose into believing she smelled her. Mother was not even capable of speech, let alone of dousing herself with perfume.
The prickle at the back of her neck was so strong, Elizabeth ceased cutting the mint. The soft fall of footsteps in the grass came. The floral scent once again assailed her nostrils. Gardenia, Mother had once told her.
“There you are, darling.”
The tiny pair of shears dropped from Elizabeth’s trembling hands. This couldn’t be real. It was only her imagination.
The footsteps came closer, along with the sound of fabric rustling softly in the wind.
“Elizabeth, my dear daughter.”
No. No. No. Breathe, Elizabeth. This wasn’t happening. Could not be happening.
Mother Hildegard had taught Elizabeth when the panic threatened to overwhelm her to focus on taking one breath at a time until she was calm. She did so now, slowly counting to ten. There, that was better. Her fingers touched the trowel again.
“No greeting for your mother? Haven’t you missed me?”
The cloying gardenia scent surrounded Elizabeth, threatening to choke her. She turned slowly, panic clawing at her throat, her fingers clutching the tiny pair of shears. Her mother’s clipped, patrician tone echoed in the garden. The stuff of nightmares.
When Elizabeth finally raised her eyes, she saw her there, dramatically posed at the edge of the woods surrounding St. Albans, her back to the ocean and cliffs. The breeze ruffled the skirts of her black silk dress, as well as the veil floating across her face. A flip of her gloved hand pushed the lace up and over her head to reveal her face.
Jeanette Reynolds was still ethereally, impossibly beautiful. The sunlight struck her elegant coiffure of white-blonde hair topped with a small, stylish hat. Not a wrinkle or blemish marred her flawless complexion. The morning light caressed her elegant bone structure, her perfectly arched brows and thin aristocratic nose. Only her eyes, pale blue, gleaming like shards of broken glass, gave a hint of the madness beneath her beauty.
“Mother.” Elizabeth’s voice was barely a whisper. Darkness crowded at the corners of her vision.
Breathe, Elizabeth.
She blinked, telling herself Mother would disappear. This was only anxiety caused by the thought of returning to London. Her heart beat fiercely, her mind screaming for her to run. Hide.
Breathe, Elizabeth.
“Overcome with emotion at our reunion, I see.” Mother came forward, the black silk rustling seductively as seagulls swooped behind her.
All black. Widow’s weeds. Elizabeth comprehended the meaning immediately.
Cousin Herbert was dead.
Elizabeth fell back, crushing the poor rosemary, terrified, at the approach of her mother. The scent of gardenia became stronger. Mother had found her. She was here. How could that be? Mother had been barely conscious and unable to speak. Locked away in Yorkshire with Herbert.
Her eyes flew to the widow’s weeds again. One should never underestimate Jeanette Reynolds.
Breathe, Elizabeth.
“Oh, my dear, I can see you are overcome with happiness. I am as well.” Mother batted her lashes prettily as if overcome with emotion and produced a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “Our separation has been cruel to us both.”
Elizabeth begged her heart to stop pounding. “What are you doing here?” Her voice trembled. Every breath was a struggle. Would she faint? No one thought monsters were real, but here was her mother, proving everyone wrong. She stood on shaky legs. Mother Hildegard had told Elizabeth to face her fears, though she was certain the abbess hadn’t anticipated how literal the meaning would become.
Mother reached for Elizabeth’s free hand, bringing it to her cheek in the gesture of a loving parent. “I’ve come to take you home.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside Elizabeth. This had to be a bad dream. A nightmare. Any moment she would wake. She tried to wrench her hand away, her mother’s touch making the situation entirely too real.
“You—” Elizabeth tried to speak again, but the words wouldn’t come out. She opened her mouth to scream, to alert the nuns of the dangerous viper she’d found while gardening but found she couldn’t. “You can’t be here, Mother,” she choked out instead. Elizabeth tugged at her mother’s grasp.
Mother released her abruptly with a cruel smile, giving a soft laugh when Elizabeth plopped to the ground in a heap of gray skirts.
She loomed over Elizabeth, blocking the sun. “Always so stubborn. Disobedient. One hopes your brother didn’t expect these nuns to correct the deficits in your character, for certainly they have not. If we had more time, darling, I would march into Mother Hildegard’s office and make my displeasure known.”
Elizabeth was panting, trying with desperation to take a breath. Her heart was beating a fierce tattoo in her chest.
“Gustave.” Mother looked behind Elizabeth. “My daughter has chosen to be difficult. Can you assist me, please?”
Large hands gripped Elizabeth’s shoulders as she was jerked to her feet. Immediately she shied from the touch and began to struggle.
“Don’t make a sound, Elizabeth. Don’t you dare scream as you did before. Remember what happened last time? You caused much more trouble than was warranted. I’d hate for any of your precious nuns to be hurt. Especially Mother Hildegard. She could take a fall off one of these cliffs.”
Elizabeth twisted to see the man holding her and wished she hadn’t. A small head covered with luxurious blond hair sat atop thick shoulders. His features were soft, like those of a cherub. Only his eyes were at odds with his appearance. Flat and cruel. Lifeless.
“Shall we, Gustave?”
“P-P-please,” Elizabeth finally spat out.
“Good Lord, I do hope that stutter is only the result of surprise. If it is a true affliction you must not speak when you meet Langford. Just stay silent.”
Elizabeth’s eyes bugged. She struggled in vain against the giant hands and fingers digging into her shoulders.
Gustave’s grip tightened until Elizabeth yelped in pain.
“Not a word, Elizabeth. Kitchen fires are terribly common in heaps of stone such as these. Do you really wish to be responsible for someone else’s death?”
“Not Abigail.” The giant behind Elizabeth spoke, his voice oddly melodic.
“No, of course not,” Mother assured him. “I meant the other nuns.”
Abigail? Mother and her accomplice knew Sister Abigail?
A handkerchief smelling of something sweet passed across Elizabeth’s nose, making her dizzy. Her knees buckled. Mother and the garden grew blurry.
“We are expected in London.” Mother’s voice came from far away. “It took us days to reach you.” Mother chatted pleasantly as Gustave hauled Elizabeth against his side as if she were no more than a sack of flour. Her feet bumped against the ground as Gustave walked her uphill and through a copse of trees to the road. An expensive looking coach sat waiting, complete with a driver on top.
“And we’ve dukes to see, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s stomach pitched violently. She could lose the tea and toast she’d had for breakfast all over Mother’s expensive black silk skirts.
“Once we arrive in London,” Mother continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “we’ll immediately find a modiste. One who can work quickly. You can’t very well be presented to the Duke of Langford in those rags. You look like a street urchin.”
Gustave shoved Elizabeth unceremoniously into the coach before assisting her mother inside.
Elizabeth propped herself up against the corner, as far from her mother as she could get. Whatever the handkerchief had been scented with made her movements slo
w and clumsy. A dull ache began in her left temple.
“How,” Elizabeth tried to shake off the lethargy, “did you find me?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy,” Mother assured her. “Sometimes fate intervenes, you see. I have always had luck on my side.”
“Luck?” The coach spun and Elizabeth had to shut her eyes. “Sister Abigail?”
“She absolutely loathes you, my darling.” Mother shook her head. “She called you inept and incapable of being a decent nun. Abigail seems especially annoyed that you receive all sorts of special attention from Mother Hildegard. Nun jealousy. She claimed you did nothing but draw attention in the village because you flaunted your looks.” Mother giggled. “I found her letters to my nurse amusing, but it wasn’t until Abigail mentioned your name that I became very interested.”
Elizabeth could only stare at her mother, in shock. “Your nurse?”
“Abigail’s sister.” A calculated look entered her eyes. “I had begun to feel better by that time. Much better. And suddenly there was a way I could regain my former place in the world.”
All her brother’s safety measures and even the presence of McMannish had not been enough to protect her from Mother. All it had taken was one horrible coincidence and Sister Abigail’s dislike.
“Why do I need to be presented to the Duke of Langford?” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep her voice even, suspecting what her mother’s plan might be.
“One should at least meet their future husband before the wedding, don’t you think?” The pale blue shards of her mother’s eyes glittered with intent.
Still Wicked Page 2