His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  As Beth approached, they broke off, looked away, their faces drawn, their expressions wary.

  Miss Doyle looked back, and her gaze slid to Beth’s, narrowed, expectant. Beth had the sensation that there was something they were keeping from her, while at the same time they wanted her to overhear it. They wanted her to wonder. To ponder. To be afraid.

  The thought made her shiver.

  Turning away, she guided her charges onto the benches, encouraging both promptness and decorum.

  Steam rose from great kettles that were set on the tables, and the smell of porridge flavored the air. It was plain fare, but well-prepared, generously ladled into bowls and passed out amongst the girls. Inhaling the scent of the porridge, Beth recalled the pallid gentleman from the coach—the one who had left the stage in Grantham, but whom she had thought she caught sight of as the coach passed through Northallerton—and his horrid stories of beatings and starvation. As she watched the girls take their places, she felt very glad that his morbid insinuations had proven far from the truth. There were no hungry bellies here, no bruised and beaten children.

  “Silence!” Miss Percy’s cry, loud enough to be heard over the general commotion, was accompanied by much double hand-clapping. “To your places!”

  Finally, all were settled and the bowls passed round to each place. Miss Percy led grace, after which a buzz of conversation hovered in the room, ricocheting off the walls and growing in volume by the moment.

  A maid brought tea to the teachers, and the girls drank water poured from a pitcher set in the center of the table. There was one cup for each side of the table, and they passed it from girl to girl, refilling as necessary.

  Turning her attention to her meal, Beth sampled a spoonful of porridge, and another, before realizing that the lively discussion at her table had trailed away to furtive whispers. She glanced up to see Isobel Fairfax, the pale little girl from the first morning, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, her eyes wide and dreamy. She stood a little to one side, making no move to join the others at breakfast.

  “Good morning, Isobel,” Beth said, and smiled.

  The child made no reply, but something, perhaps a sharpening of her gaze or a flicker of recognition, made Beth certain that she acknowledged the greeting.

  “She don’t talk. Not once since I’ve been here,” said a girl with mud-brown braids and a plain and open face. “Come on now, Isobel”—the girl, Lucy, patted the bench at her side—”you may as well sit here, because none of the others will welcome you.”

  Isobel sidled a step closer, but did not sit.

  Beth had the odd notion that the child had come to this table because of her. Though consumed by the newness of Burndale Academy and the demands of her duties for the past days, Beth had been aware of Isobel clinging to the shadows like a wraith, watching her with eyes wide and solemn.

  Their communication had been limited to a nod or brief greeting, but Beth had made certain to meet Isobel’s gaze and murmur a kind word when the opportunity presented. The other teachers seemed inclined to disinterest, letting Isobel sidle along the cool walls, always an outsider, always watching. Even in the classroom, Isobel was silent, though she did write a lovely hand, and her ciphers were without flaw or error.

  Looking at her now, Beth felt a twist deep in her heart, both sadness and affinity for this eerie, quiet girl.

  She rose, ladled a bowl of porridge and set it at the place beside Lucy, to her own left. Isobel stepped closer, hesitated, then slid onto the bench, shifting to the farthest possible reach, away from her neighbor.

  Lucy made a sound of disgust.

  The girls were not kind to Isobel. Beth had seen them pinch or poke or pull the child’s hair, just to see if they could make her squeal.

  She never did. And that was the thing that saddened Beth the most.

  Though she watched the world around her unfold, Isobel seemed to react to very little. Beth wondered what had driven her into the shadows, what tragedy had marked her in such a way. Of course, there was the possibility that Isobel had simply been born with her peculiarities, but Beth thought not.

  The memories of her own past, locked tight away, made her recognize terrible heartbreak in another.

  Isobel Fairfax kept silent to hold her secret demons at bay.

  What was it that Alice had said? That both father and daughter were cursed and doomed. Beth held no belief in curses, but something had happened to this child, something tragic.

  She recalled the way Griffin Fairfax had looked as they stood on the road in the light of the fading sun, the silky sound of his voice as he asked her about her knowledge of dreadful things, the cynical curve of his lips and the dark secrets in his eyes. Those recollections only served to solidify her conviction that all was not right in this small family, that tragedy had struck them a vengeful blow.

  Finishing her breakfast, Beth glanced up and saw Lucy’s hand snake toward Isobel’s, sly, furtive. Lucy’s face was turned away as she chatted with the girl on the opposite side. She pretended interest in conversation while she edged her fingers closer and closer, carrying out a clandestine attack.

  Annoyance pricked Beth, and something else, something stronger. Pressing her lips together, she shot Isobel a look, and laid her hand flat atop the little girl’s. Lucy’s questing fingers came close, gathered the skin of Beth’s wrist, and twisted hard.

  “Lucy!”

  At Beth’s sharp reprimand, the girl turned, and instantly realized her error. She had pinched her teacher. Her face turned white.

  Isobel’s hand shot out, and she caught the skin of Lucy’s wrist and squeezed, short and sharp, until Lucy cried out. Beth gasped. All the times that Isobel had been cuffed or pinched, she’d done naught save draw away, or scamper a safe distance to the shadows. Yet now, she returned the insult with vigor, seeking to avenge Beth’s hurt at Lucy’s hands.

  “Well,” Beth mused softly. “It appears, Isobel, that you can be roused to defend another, if not yourself.”

  The child made no reply, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes veiled by her lashes.

  Every eye at the table was trained on Isobel, every girl’s face a mask of surprise. For her part, Isobel stared straight down at her lap, retreating into the misty, dreamlike expression that was her norm.

  The other girls dropped their gazes, and concentrated on their bowls, but Beth knew they listened and watched, waiting to see how the scene would unfold.

  With her voice pitched low, Beth spoke clearly and directly, determined to see the matter to an acceptable conclusion. “Lucy, Isobel, there shall be no more pinching. Of anyone. By anyone.”

  She let her gaze wander along the table then, waiting until each girl in turn met her eyes. They knew she included each of them in this edict.

  “Please, Miss Canham,” Lucy whispered, her voice clogged with tears. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I thought...”

  “You thought to pinch Isobel,” Beth said quietly. “And that makes the deed no better. Perhaps far worse.”

  In that instant, Beth recognized that Lucy was trembling, genuine fear painting her countenance a stark white.

  “Will it be the strap?” The child raised her gaze at last, her eyes damp, her jaw set, and Beth felt a momentary horror. She had never raised a hand in violence to anyone. The thought made her ill.

  What to do now? What punishment to decree? Oh, but she had so little knowledge of such things. She thought of her mother and the way she had handled sibling spats between Beth and her brother.

  Lucy and Isobel both stared up at her now, and Beth spoke slowly, carefully, choosing her words as ideas spiraled through her mind.

  “Lucy, you shall... mind Isobel... and watch over her. Make certain that no one pokes her or pulls her hair. Or pinches her. For the... week. Yes, you shall be responsible for Isobel for an entire week. That is no punishment, Lucy, but a task that matches the strength of your character.”

  “The strength of my character?” Lucy bl
inked, and blinked again. “Watch over her? You mean like I do my little sister?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “For a week?”

  “She is in your care,” Beth said. “And I have every confidence that you shall watch over her as you would your sister. That Isobel shall sprout no new bruises from pinches or pokes.”

  Lucy shot her a look of mingled fear and incredulity, as though pondering the merits of taking a beating in favor of this odd and daunting task.

  “And...” Beth continued. “Lucy, Isobel, you shall both weed and tend the garden in your free hour every day this week. Perhaps if you learn to busy your hands with productive tasks, you will not busy them with pinches.”

  “Yes, miss,” Lucy whispered, her head bowed.

  In that moment, the bell tolled, marking the end of the morning meal. The girls rose and trooped out of the refectory, along the wide, dark hall to the schoolroom. Isobel lagged at the rear, dragging her feet with slow, heavy steps, and as she passed the place Beth stood, she reached out and ran her fingertips along the back of Beth’s hand, a butterfly stroke, there, then gone.

  o0o

  Afternoon found Beth outdoors in the walled garden, supervising the two girls as they carried out the chore she had set them. They had both come to the garden of their own accord, and she was glad that she had not been forced to fetch them.

  Her gaze strayed time and again to Isobel, who pulled weeds from the earth with sharp, aggressive tugs, her brow wrinkled in concentration. After a moment, Isobel raised her head, met Beth’s gaze, her eyes solemn and wide. Then she cast her attention back to her task, and Beth was left with an odd, warm sensation in the center of her chest.

  Turning away, she looked around the garden, then beyond the tall, surrounding wall to where the leaves of great trees formed a canopy of yellow ocher and rich brown. She wandered to the end of the yard where a large verandah ran across the back of the house. There, Beth sat on the stone bench and watched as the girls worked at their task. Satisfied that they were well occupied, she drew forth a handkerchief and needle and thread from her ecru embroidery bag.

  How grateful she was that Mr. Fairfax had returned it to her. Pressing her lips together, she thought of him, of his eyes and his hands and the way he walked. There was something dangerously enticing about him. Something exciting and dark and forbidden.

  She thought of his smile, his lips, his mouth. Were his lips soft?

  Her breath caught.

  With a start, she jerked her head up, realizing where her thoughts wandered.

  In dismay, she stared at the square of white linen in her hand, and the hash she had made of stitches that should have been small and neat. This would not do. A sigh escaped her and she began to pick out the stitches that she had only just put in.

  A faint sound—odd and out of place—carried to her. Not a rustle of the leaves, or the breeze in the trees. Something... else.

  She looked up, her gaze traveling along the high brick wall. She could see nothing amiss, but a strange quiver of unease made her skin crawl. The feeling passed, and she looked down once more, intent on her task.

  When three-quarters of an hour had gone by, she called a halt to her charges’ activity. “Well done, girls,” she said, tucking away her embroidery. “Go and wash your hands and faces before afternoon lessons resume.”

  Lucy straightened and took two steps, then paused and turned back.

  “Come along, Isobel.” She took the younger girl’s hand in her own and led her away.

  With a flicker of hope, Beth watched them go. Perhaps her words to Lucy about watching over Isobel had brought about a permanent change.

  Perhaps.

  She shook her head and thought of her own childhood, of the girls who had pinched her and poked her and pulled her braids, and she had the suspicion that the benefits of her solution might be short lived.

  As the girls turned the corner and disappeared from view, Beth picked up her bag and rose from the bench. A gust of air swirled around her, making the dry leaves dance and crackle at her feet. They tumbled end over end, then drifted away.

  She hunched her shoulders, noticing a sudden nip in the air as the sun slid behind a cloud and the breeze gathered strength to tug at the ends of her shawl.

  Unease slithered up her spine, an oily chill.

  Someone watched her.

  Slowly, she turned to face the empty garden. With the kiss of sunlight gone, the leaves she had thought so pretty only moments past now looked dried and brown. The thick green hedge that followed the wall suddenly harbored menace, offering any number of shadowed places to hide—

  “There is no one there.” Even as she breathed the words on a whisper, she knew them for the lie they were. There was someone there, watching her from the shadows.

  She took a step back as her gaze slid along the hedge, searching for any glint of light, any sign of movement. Nothing stirred for a moment, and then she thought something did.

  Her heart raced in her breast; the sound of her blood rushed loud in her ears.

  There, to her right. Rustling leaves.

  She spun but could see nothing. Heart pounding, she took a step back, and another, not daring to look away.

  Again, a sound reached her, leaves shushing against each other and branches creaking and sighing.

  The sharp snap of a twig.

  She sidled to her right, around the stone bench. Her fingers clenched the material of her skirt, and she lifted it above her ankles lest she find herself tangled and stayed when she wished to flee.

  As quickly as it had gathered, the wind died, leaving all still. Too still. Heavy with malice and threat.

  A moment later came a muffled thud, distinct and solid, as though feet hit the ground on the far side of the garden wall.

  Beth exhaled on a sharp breath, her belly knotted with genuine fear. Panic clawed at her, a torrent fighting to rip free of her control. No. No! She would hold it back, no matter the cost, for she knew from vast experience that to set her panic free would cost her far more.

  Trembling, she battled for control, and her thoughts focused on a single truth. Someone had watched her from the trees.

  Why?

  She took three quick steps, intent on summoning Miss Percy and telling her—

  The tenuous reality of her situation slapped her. She stopped short, her heart pounding a rough rhythm.

  Summon the headmistress and tell her what?

  Someone watched me...No, I did not see him. I only know he was there because... because...

  Therein lay the difficulty. Without proof, or even a glimpse of the hidden menace, there was nothing for her to say. Her only proof was her belief that he had been there, and the sound she had heard as his booted feet hit the ground. Even to her own mind, her case was weak, indeed.

  She might jeopardize her situation if Miss Percy thought her some excitable and fainthearted fool, jumping at every shadow or gust of wind. And she could ill afford to lose her place here and the generous income it provided.

  She looked around once more, rubbing her palms against her upper arms. Had she imagined it? Had she conjured an evil watcher where none existed in truth? No. She had sensed a malicious gaze, but she could not risk the likelihood that no one would believe her. She had too much to lose.

  What would she do if Miss Percy determined her cotton-headed and excitable, a poor example for the pupils? What would she do if she were dismissed from her post? How would her family survive?

  Her mother had warned her to have a care what she revealed, to trust no one, to present only a calm and capable façade.

  No one here must know...

  Beth closed her eyes and filled her lungs with a breath so deep she felt the stretch right in the center of her chest. Turning, she strode forward, tempering her pace as she left the garden, a deliberately sedate promenade. The squeal of the gate set a knotted tension to her shoulders and neck. Her teeth clamped tight together.

  Some intangible cert
ainty made her pause, her hand resting on the iron scrollwork. She heard it then... the unmistakable sounds of a bridle, and horses’ hooves clopping against the road, and wheels creaking and turning as they rolled away.

  She yanked the gate closed behind her, lifted her skirt and bolted around to the front of the school. Heart pounding, she skidded to a stop, and saw the back end of a vehicle disappear around the bend.

  o0o

  She had seen him.

  No, not seen him, not precisely. Perhaps sensed him.

  He felt a quiver of excitement deep in his gut. There was a connection there, a link that made her search for him though she could not possibly know he was there.

  Soon, she would be his.

  The sweet, perfect bow of her lips. The silky strands of her hair. The pounding of her heart, her terror and pain.

  All his.

  He had watched her now. Once, before he even knew who she was, he had spied her as the stagecoach rolled through Northallerton. She had leaned out the window to study her surroundings, offering him a fine view. Once from the woods as she walked on the road. He had watched her tip her face to the sunset, seen the flash of appreciation in her gaze. And he had watched as she walked along the road, her black skirt swaying with each step. No sedate walk. Not Elizabeth Canham. Hers was a purposeful stride, full of life and vigor.

  He wanted to taste that life, to feel it drain away in a pool of hot, wet blood. Ah, but he loved the blood. The smell of it. The rushing in his own veins as he watched it pump from severed vessels.

  The first time, so many years ago, had been too quick, a brutal taking that lacked all finesse, all beauty. He had been confronted by the landlord and then the landlord’s wife. Unexpected and disturbing. But he had dealt with them, and then he had slit the girl’s throat, so deep she had been dead before her body slumped to the ground.

  A pity and a waste.

  But he had learned from that. Perfected his approach. Now he savored every moment. The terror of his prey. The muffled screams, muted behind a gag that stifled all but the most desperate moans.

  Perhaps someday, he would find a place so private that he could enjoy the music of the kill, a place where he could listen to the screams rise and crest, toppling one over the next in a storm of terror.