Cruel Shame

by Sofia Daniel

I guess they were taking names, but with so many people standing around and making a nuisance of themselves, why weren’t they calling for backup? “Templar Academy and its grounds are private property, aren’t they?”

  Mr. Burgh grunted. “These people are trespassing.”

  “Wankers, more like,” I muttered.

  He glanced down at me but didn’t say a word about my language. Because he probably agreed with my assessment or had an even more colorful insult.

  The officers went from person to person, seeming to jot down their details. Once they’d spoken to each gatherer, the police ushered them out through the gate. It took several minutes for the crowd to dissipate, and a white minivan pulled in on the other side of Mr. Burgh’s fence to pick them up.

  I leaned against the cool glass to get a better look at the wording on the vehicle’s side. “That’s not a police van. Do you know Giffnock Church?”

  Mr. Burgh groaned. “It’s a congregation of the Church of Scotland, but they’re fifty miles away from Templar.”

  The doorbell rang, making us both jump. Mr. Burgh stepped away from the window and headed for the hallway. I followed after him, wondering if these church people had watched Elizabeth on television and gotten so moved by her performance that they decided on an evening’s outing to Templar.

  He was already halfway to the front door when I stepped into the hallway, and I had to jog to match his long strides. “Let me open it.”

  “I’ve got to tell the police what’s happening.” At the door, Mr. Burgh picked up the wooden wedge and slipped it in his pocket. Then he glanced at the garments on the coat rack, selected a heavy sweater, and pulled it on over the rumpled shirt.

  I stepped back and folded my arms over my chest, wondering if the police would do anything about these annoying busybodies or if the police would take their side.

  Mr. Burgh opened the door. The woman in the tweed coat bristled on the doorstep, still flanked by the skinny priest and the walrus-faced Vernon lookalike. The police stood behind them, looking like a pair of useless twats.

  “There he is.” The woman pointed a red talon between Mr. Burgh’s eyes. “Arrest that man.”

  “What do you want?” Mr. Burgh shouted, making her flinch behind the larger man.

  “Now, look here.” The chubby man, who I guessed was either her husband or an admirer, stepped in front of her like a shield.

  “Everybody calm down.” The officer at the back pushed his way to the front.

  “Why haven’t these people been arrested?” asked Mr. Burgh.

  “Lady Liddell gave us permission to protest in the online newsletter.” The woman, who cowered behind her husband, produced a piece of paper. “She also allowed any concerned churchgoers to inspect the premises for child pornography.”

  Mr. Burgh leaned forward and plucked the paper out of the woman’s hands. She stumbled backward with a shriek and clutched at the collar of her coat.

  A growl reverberated in the back of my throat. That bloody, scheming bitch. Surely, writing shit like this was libel? Anger simmered in my belly, and my entire body thrummed with the need to land a punch in the woman’s smug face. I balled my fists and wrapped my arms around my chest. Nothing would come from lashing out except for my arrest.

  For someone who once kicked the shit out of Father Neapolitan, Mr. Burgh remained calm and asked the police to escort the woman, her husband, and the priest off the premises. When the officer didn’t move, he said he would file a complaint under the Protection from Harassment Act of 1997.

  After establishing my identity as Mr. Burgh’s granddaughter and not a random schoolgirl he had lured into his house, the officer jotted down Mr. Burgh’s statement. He wanted to take the piece of paper as evidence, but Mr. Burgh refused to hand it over.

  The procession of police and protesters moved down the stairs, and Mr. Burgh shut the door, his posture sagged.

  I reached for his hand, but a rush of guilt had me pulling away. The Liddells would never have fucked with the old man if it hadn’t been for me.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  Mr. Burgh shook his head. “This problem started before you were born. I was too blind to see it.”

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. I parted my lips to tell him that this wasn’t his fault, but no words came out.

  “Good night, Lilah.” He trudged down the hallway and up the stairs, leaving me staring at his retreating back.

  My pulse boomed in my ears, and my blood burned with the desire for vengeance. I trudged back to the living room, sending a silent plea to Maxwell to ask the right questions during his discussion with the Liddells.

  The next morning, I lay in Mother’s old bed, having spent most of the night glaring at the ceiling. I’d been powerless many times in my life, powerless to solve Mother’s drink and drug habit, powerless against Billy Hancock and his snapping dogs, and powerless against the groping hands of foster fathers who crept into my room at night.

  This situation with the Liddels was the first time ever that it had made me feel so overwhelmed. These people had an army of police officers, churchgoers, and sycophants to do their bidding while they sat back and enjoyed the chaos.

  Pale sunlight streamed in through the balcony’s net curtains, making it impossible for me to get back to sleep. As I rose from the bed of Mother’s old room, the church woman’s taunts rang in my ear. How many others would come to torment Mr. Burgh until he broke under the pressure?

  After showering, I put on my school uniform. Fashion and Textiles was our first lesson today, and I intended to ignore that bullshit they texted about compassionate leave.

  I knocked on Mr. Burgh’s door, asking if he wanted breakfast, but he wasn’t in. He also wasn’t downstairs in the living room or further down in the kitchen. When I checked my phone, he’d sent a text, saying he was driving to Glasgow to visit a lawyer.

  There was enough time for breakfast at the academy, so I went across the road and stepped through its double doors. The porter who usually sat in the reception area doffed his cap and nodded. Warmth filled my chest. I hoped more people would believe Mr. Burgh over Elizabeth and Lady Liddell. Nodding back, I smiled and wished him a good day.

  A few people in the hallway cast me furtive glances, but it was nothing like the time Elizabeth had made me the academy’s whipping girl.

  At this time of the morning, the dining room should have been three-quarters full, with latecomers sloping in to grab a slice of toast. There were mostly boys sitting around the tables, and most of them turned but didn’t comment or sneer. After the huge revelation two days ago, I guess the girls were still freaked out and giving each other support at having ingested cocaine.

  Gideon rose from the table he now shared with the knights. He’d done something fantastic to his hair. It was still straightened, but instead of being slicked back, he’d shaved the sides and arranged the middle into a cute quiff that brought out his high cheekbones.

  I hurried up to him and grinned. “Look at your hair!”

  His brow furrowed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Mr. Burgh, so Lachlan took me to get my hair and nails done.” He stretched out his fingers, which looked exactly the same as usual, but shinier. “How are you feeling?”

  I slipped into the seat next to him and picked up a pot of tea. “The concussion is gone, and I don’t need any painkillers.”

  “And the cuts?” He retook his seat and glanced down at my hands.

  “The liquid stitches are still holding tight.”

  He winced. “On my skin, cuts like that would mean the most terrible raised scars.”

  I brought my cup to my lips and smiled. “At least that’s one benefit to being so pale. It’s so annoying that you can get away with wearing the most amazing colors.”

  Gideon sat straighter in his seat, and pressed his lips together to suppress a smirk. “One has to dress to one’s advantage, I suppose.”

  A laugh bubbled out from my chest. I turned to a server wh
o brought a fresh rack of toast to the table, who took my order for breakfast. That was the sort of thing Kendrick would say, if he cared about color coordinating clothing and makeup.

  “I heard there was a commotion last night at the headmaster’s quarters,” Gideon said.

  “Right,” I muttered.

  Orlando and Kendrick strolled into the dining room, their steps faltering as soon as they noticed me sitting at the table. They hurried toward me and took their seats.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Kendrick.

  “After last night’s stunt, I’ve got to strike hard at those wankers.” I told the three boys everything that had happened, from the busybodies at the door to the red carpet invitation across the Church of Scotland for people to make an evening of making Mr. Burgh’s life a misery.

  “They mean to drive him out,” Gideon muttered.

  “That much is obvious,” Kendrick drawled.

  Gideon huffed an annoyed breath through his nostrils. “According to the Herald, the headmaster has been placed on paid leave.” He paused and raised his brow. “Now, do you see why they’re doing this?”

  I nodded. “They’re stingy with their money as well as life-ruining bastards.”

  “Don’t forget the Liddells’ legal trouble,” added Kendrick.

  Gideon inclined his head. “True, but everyone’s looking to the headmaster to coordinate a lawsuit. My parents are coming up on the weekend, wanting to know what Mr. Burgh will do about that business with the cocaine.”

  I took a slice of toast and plastered it with a generous serving of butter. “Your mum and dad are in London, right?”

  “That’s how you found out about Elizabeth’s television appearance,” Orlando said, seeming to remember Gideon’s words from Saturday night.

  “Indeed.” Gideon took a sip from his teacup.

  “But Mr. Burgh has enough legal troubles of his own,” said Kendrick

  “Precisely.” Gideon raised a brow.

  My shoulders slumped. “The Liddells are so—”

  “Diabolical?” asked Orlando.

  “Calculating?” asked Kendrick.

  I shook my head. “They’ve thought of this from every angle. The word I was looking for was ‘thorough’.”

  “Not quite.” Orlando leaned back in his seat, letting one of the servers slide a plate of scrambled eggs, kippers, and grilled tomatoes in front of him.

  We waited for the servers to provide our cooked breakfasts—eggs on toast for me and a bowl of porridge for Kendrick. When they left, Orlando glanced from left to right before leaning forward. “I spent all of yesterday afternoon caddying for my grandfather.”

  I leaned forward, my eyes wide. The Nevis family owned one of the oldest and most prestigious breweries in Scotland. These people were seriously old money, rich, and could get an audience with people like the archbishop.

  Orlando picked up the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. “Grandfather asked the archbishop point blank if there was any truth in Elizabeth’s allegations.”

  My heart flip-flopped. “And?”

  “The archbishop said Elizabeth was a disturbed young woman who had a tendency for pork pies.”

  I flinched. Did the Archbishop think rhyming slang would soften Elizabeth’s lies? “Did your grandfather press for more details?”

  Orlando shook his head. “When I asked if they were going to let Elizabeth get away with it, Grandfather sent me back to the buggy.”

  “I hope you didn’t leave,” said Gideon.

  “Oh yes, I stayed alright.” Orlando cut into one of his tomatoes, sending juice spilling out into the plate. “The bastards changed the subject, but I asked them about Mr. Burgh.”

  My eyes bulged. “And?”

  “The archbishop plans on giving him a generous severance package in compensation for the hardship.”

  “Hardship.” I exchanged a glare with Gideon. Money couldn’t compensate for Mr. Burgh living out the rest of his life with these filthy accusations following him around like a plague.

  Kendrick cleared his throat. “His Grace wouldn’t pay off a man who molested his daughter, which proves the allegations false.”

  “Cameron Liddell was standing right there,” Orlando snarled. “The bloody bastard didn’t say a word.”

  I turned my gaze up to the ceiling and exhaled a weary breath. Maybe Kendrick’s plan to be nicer to Elizabeth wasn’t so outlandish.

  Chapter Twenty

  As soon as I stepped into the Fashion and Textiles class, Miss Martin clapped her hands together and beamed. She wore a high-necked dress with a cut-out front and fluted sleeves that ruched into deep pleats where they met the bodice. The rest of the garment was made up of panels that hugged her body and flared out to make a mermaid tail. It would have made a dramatic evening gown if she hadn’t made it in gray wool.

  Today, she taught us the basics of appliqué embroidery, where you sew pieces of fabric onto an item of clothing to make a design. It’s something I watched on Youtube, but never paid it much attention because I thought it was more of a technique for baby clothes.

  Miss Martin brought out some of her designs, including a dress of sheer, gossamer silk embellished around the upper skirt and bodice to create a garment out of a fairytale. She told us to make something out of a square of fabric and then walked around the class to offer corrections and advice.

  I took some silk and cut it into the shape of a bandana top and sewed rolled hems on all four sides. Once I had my base for the garment, I picked scraps of mulberry silk and cut them into leaf shapes. For the rest of the glass, I machine-stitched the leaves to the base fabric, linking them with a rolled stem and branches.

  Maeve worked at my side and said her parents would refuse to pay the tuition fees for a school where the founder’s kid pushed cocaine. A lot of other girls around the room said they would talk to their families about doing the same.

  I kept my head down and ears open. To me, it sounded less of a protest and more like getting access to a posh school for free. The academy still needed to pay the salaries of the staff, who tried to run a decent school but kept getting undermined by Elizabeth and Lady Liddell. Why couldn’t they take the Liddells to court or press for criminal charges?

  By the end of the three hour class, I had a basic front for the top that needed straps for around the back. If I wanted it to look more elaborate, I could add ready-made, appliqué flowers. It would make an excellent piece for my portfolio.

  When I stepped out of the attic room, I found Maxwell leaning against the wall with a wide grin. He wore his top-two buttons undone with a loose tie and no waistcoat, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and didn’t give a shit.

  “You’re back?” I said with a giddy laugh. After my weekend with Kendrick, I doubted that either of them could ever fool me with switched identities. Even when pretending to be Kendrick, Maxwell was a thousand times more easy going and absolutely zero effort to seduce.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  My stomach tightened. I glanced over my shoulder at the girls piling out of the classroom. “Where?”

  “I’ve got something to show you in my room.”

  Someone behind me giggled. I hoped that didn’t mean she would tell the teachers I would be in a boy’s bedroom, getting fucked.

  Maxwell and I took the spiral stairs in silence, and we continued to his room at a rapid pace. A thousand scenarios raced through my mind, each as nauseating as the other. What if Elizabeth told Maxwell’s parents that every word she had uttered on television was true? What if they outlined a plan to put Mr. Burgh behind bars to save Elizabeth’s reputation?

  My pulse pounded in my ears, drawing out the sound of my footsteps. Absolutely anything could have happened over the weekend.

  As we climbed the stairs, I shook off those thoughts. If there was an even bigger conspiracy than the one already happening, Maxwell wouldn’t have smiled. He also wouldn’t have withheld the information until now.

&
nbsp; We continued down a familiar, empty hallway. It was the one Maxwell had led me down the day he and Orlando wanted to make that sex tape. My heart thrummed with anticipation of the news, and maybe a reunion. The weekend with Kendrick had turned out well, but I wasn’t used to a guy using his fingers and tongue and leaving it at that.

  Maxwell opened the door, and I stepped into a freshly cleaned room. An elaborate quilt in varying shades of gray lay on his bed, and a plastic bag sat on his desk. I was about to ask what he discovered over the weekend, but his lips descended on mine.

  A jolt of excitement shot through my insides. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and threaded my fingers in his hair. His lips were eager, forceful, claiming—exactly what I needed. My core clenched with need, urging me to kiss back with equal passion. I curled my tongue around his and pressed myself against his glorious hard body.

  Maxwell groaned into the kiss and cupped my ass with his large hands. “I missed you so much.”

  “Me, too,” I murmured.

  His lips drifted to my jaw and down the column of my neck, each urgent kiss sending tingles to nipples and heat between my legs. When his hardness pressed into my belly, it sent my head spinning with desire.

  In all the times I’d been sexually active, I’d never had this soul-deep yearning for another person. Maybe my time in Richley showed me how much I’d achieved since coming to Templar—a loving grandparent, fantastic friends, and three gorgeous boys who wanted me in their own different ways and were happy to share. None of that mattered right now. If didn’t get that cock inside me right now, I would die.

  Releasing my fingers from his hair, I slipped my hands beneath his heavy blazer and slid my fingertips down the contours of his chest. Maxwell hissed through his teeth as I grazed his nipples and groaned as I fumbled with his belt.

  “You want it?” he asked.

  “Fuck, yeah.” I unbuckled the belt, unzipped his pants, and palmed the hot, heavy weight of the huge cock straining against his boxers. The huge organ pulsed against my fingertips and my core pulsed in response.