His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  The heavy curtains she had left open. She would have opened the window as well, were the weather even a bit friendly. Still, she had slept the whole night through undisturbed by dreams or nightmares. Unusual. It was rare for her to sleep so deeply.

  Now, there came a brisk knocking at her chamber door, calling Beth’s attention from the dismal view beyond the windowpanes. As she turned, something caught her eye, a shadow, a shape at the corner of the back garden wall, curtained by the sheeting rain.

  She paused, and leaned close to the cold glass, squinting into the gloom.

  Yes... there... a shadowy form, barely discernable, a charcoal lump against the backdrop of the blackened trunk of the dead tree.

  Shifting her weight, she tried to alter her position to better her line of sight, but the three dead trees, and the man—if indeed it was a man—stood to the west, barely in sight for the view from her window opened to the south.

  The knocking came again, louder, the maid impatient to be about her duties. Beth cast a glance over her shoulder, and when she returned her attention to the window, the shadow was gone.

  No man.

  Only three dead trees lurking in the storm.

  With a shake of her head, she crossed the room and opened the door to take the jug of warm water from the maid. The girl mumbled a morning greeting and scurried in to empty the chamber pot and wipe it clean. Beth carried the warm water to the stand in the corner and washed at the basin.

  She cast the maid a surreptitious glance from the corner of her eye, feeling strange that someone had come to clean up for her. Of course, her mother had shared stories of her own childhood, when she had lived in a house with many workers—scullery maids and parlor maids and footmen and coachmen—but Beth herself had never known such a life. The only servant her family had ever employed was a step-girl to wash the front stoop on Saturday mornings, and even that had been a luxury in a time long past. Certainly they could afford nothing of the kind now.

  Spurred by the early morning chill, Beth dressed quickly once the maid had left, then fixed her hair in two simple plaits. She worked deftly by touch and familiarity, twining and pinning one braid behind each ear. The style was easy and unadorned, and the best she had found for taming her wild and heavy curls.

  Taking up a clean handkerchief, she brought the cloth to her nose and inhaled the scent. With a wistful sigh she tucked the square into her sleeve. It smelled like soap and a little like her mother’s lavender water. It smelled like home, reminding her of the gift she was embroidering for her mother.

  The gift...

  She froze, looked around, lifted the lid of her trunk and peered inside, crossed to the clothes press and looked there as well, though she had the unpleasant suspicion that she would not find it.

  Her embroidery bag was not here.

  Distress touched her. How could she have failed to notice? When had she last held it? In the stage? At the church? In the curricle?

  She could not say with certainty.

  Oh, the loss of it was a blow. The ecru linen bag itself had been a gift from her mother. The linen for handkerchiefs and the needles and colored threads, Beth had purchased with her own hard-earned and carefully hoarded coins.

  She was frustrated with herself, saddened by the loss.

  Then she shook her head, and a small ray of hope burgeoned. She thought she recalled having it with her when she climbed up to Mr. Fairfax’s curricle. She might yet see its safe return.

  The thought of Mr. Fairfax brought a strange surge of emotion to the fore. She recalled the way he had looked at her, the way he had smiled, the rushing energy that roared through her when his gaze met hers.

  After a long moment, she realized with sharp mortification that she was standing about, listless and dreamy, thinking of a man she barely knew.

  Well, enough of that.

  Busying her hands, thrusting aside all thought of Griffin Fairfax, she folded her nightdress and placed it beneath her pillow, her actions measured and focused. Then she tidied her bed sheets, though she suspected a maid might come at some point to see to the chore. She was accustomed to doing for herself, and saw no reason to change that.

  There was nothing left to keep her in the room, and she could hear the echo of small feet and girlish voices from the hallway. The pupils were gathering. Excitement and apprehension warred in her belly.

  Her place here at Burndale Academy had been earned by sleight of hand. She knew the truth of the matter, and she wondered how long before others recognized her for the fraud she was.

  What did she know of teaching young girls?

  She was educated by her mother, had never attended a formal school of any sort. Despite the purposeful, cultivated impression presented in her carefully worded letter of application, she had never taught anyone, unless helping her mother teach her younger brother and the three little boys who had lived two doors down counted for something.

  The character she had submitted was true enough, prepared by Mrs. Blackwood of Lyttleton Road, a widow Beth had helped on occasion, reading to her and sorting her embroidery threads. Mrs. Blackwood wrote of Beth’s fine organizational skills, her moral fiber and rectitude, but made no mention of her teaching skill.

  The headmistress of Burndale Academy had either failed to notice the omission or, being in desperate need of a teacher, had not cared. Suddenly, the guard’s warning from the previous day and the gravestones she had read of two women who had died at this very school made a shudder chased up her spine. Beth could not help but wonder if the ease with which she had acquired this position had aught to do with the two dead teachers.

  What had happened to those women? How had they died?

  Had they lived in this very room? Slept in this very bed?

  She glanced about at the shadowed corners of her chamber, and a chill crawled across her skin. Beth rubbed her hands along her arms, then shook her head and shrugged off the cloud of anxiety that had descended upon her. She knew better than to conjure dark thoughts and suppositions, for to do so might open the floodgate to all her secret terrors. The last thing she needed on this, her first day, was an attack of dismay.

  She lifted her chin, forced aside her qualms and squared her shoulders as she reached for the door handle.

  Today was her first day as a teacher. She intended to do her job well, despite her lack of experience.

  In the wide, cold hallway, she found the girls already beginning to line up in pairs, whispering and giggling and occasionally daring to meet her gaze, only to look away quickly. She knew they speculated about her, and she thought that was fine. Were she a young girl, she might very well speculate about the new schoolmistress.

  They were all dressed alike in matching uniforms: inexpensive dark blue frocks, some threadbare in places, white pinafores, woolen stockings and sturdy shoes with brass buckles. From the youngest to the oldest, they were very presentable, with scrubbed faces and tidy hair.

  “You may proceed,” came the command, issued in a firm tone by the teacher who stood at the far end of the hallway. She caught Beth’s eye and nodded, but there was no opportunity for proper introductions.

  The girls began to descend the stairs, two by two, still whispering and giggling. Beth watched them go, aware of the other teachers—women whose formal acquaintance she had yet to make—positioned along the corridor at intervals, supervising the descent.

  They were clothed quite like Beth herself, in serviceable and plain garb of neutral color, gray or black or brown. Beth was glad of that, and glad, too, that her mother had insisted she purchase these garments before she left, despite their rapidly dwindling funds and Beth’s protests. Her old dresses of brighter color and pretty ornamentation would have been very out of place here. Moreover, those things were too young for her now in both style and frivolity. She had sold them to help pay for these more appropriate dresses, and she would not allow herself to pine for them. They were remnants of a different time, a time of plenty. A time of girlhood, gone n
ow.

  Gone long ago, really.

  In truth, her childhood had been a poorly darned guise, filled with darkness and melancholy that no child should know. The seams had unraveled more than once, and at times they had torn asunder with brutal force. Hazy recollections swirled up like a choking miasma, leaving Beth’s throat closed and tight.

  Not now, she thought bitterly, desperately, resenting the intrusion of old fears. Oh, please, not now.

  “Good morning, Miss Canham. I trust you slept well.”

  Startled, Beth spun, the dark wisps of her memories dissipating like smoke. A tall woman approached, brisk purpose and confidence in each step. She wore her russet hair scraped back from her face and rolled at her nape. Her forehead was broad and smooth, her gray eyes direct and keen.

  Miss Gwendolyn Percy, the headmistress of Burndale Academy.

  A woman of some four decades, she gave the impression of maturity, intellect and inner strength. Beth had met her the previous afternoon upon her arrival at the school, and had liked her immediately.

  Their meeting had been short and pleasant. Miss Percy had inquired after her trip, had a maid bring a small refreshment, and then outlined Beth’s duties and the expectations on her time. Beth had found it all very civilized and had, in fact, been surprised and grateful to be treated with such consideration after her lengthy journey. Miss Percy was a woman of refined compassion.

  Yet, beneath it all, Beth had sensed a vibrating tension, a distraction of thought and attention, as though Miss Percy’s mind was somewhere else entirely, somewhere distressing. She had recalled Mr. Fairfax saying the headmistress was occupied by a weighty matter.

  Good manners as well as an understanding of her position in the academy’s hierarchy had prevented Beth from inquiring about that, or about why she had been left standing forgotten at the crossroads by the church, dependent on luck and the goodwill of Mr. Fairfax.

  She had decided that to make mention of the headmistress’s oversight would only set a poor tone for her employment here at Burndale. But in fact, it was Miss Percy who had raised the issue, offering an apology, but no explanation.

  This morning, the headmistress looked far from rested, purple shadows marking the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

  “Good morning, Miss Percy,” Beth replied as she drew nigh. “Yes, I slept very well, thank you.”

  The girls continued their orderly, if not precisely sedate march, on best behavior under the watchful eye of Miss Percy.

  “The rain did not disturb you?”

  “Not at all,” Beth demurred. “In truth, I did not even notice it during the night, so great was my exhaustion.”

  “You were not frightened by the storm?” Miss Percy inquired, leaving Beth to wonder at her tenacious inquiry on the subject.

  “I found the sound of the rain quite soothing.” In that instant Beth realized that it was likely the sounds of the storm that had allowed her to sleep at all. Accustomed as she was to the riot and noise of London, perfect silence would be perfectly horrid.

  Miss Percy spoke a few more words about the weather, the rain that yet beat upon the windows, and the likelihood that the girls would not go outdoors today for noontide recreation. Then with a polite request that Beth follow the last girl down, the headmistress strode off and, alongside the column of pupils, descended the wide stairs.

  Beth stood to the side, watching the girls to make certain they continued on with appropriate decorum.

  A moment later, she looked about to find the maid, Alice, walking swiftly along the hall from the opposite end, carrying a carpet brush. Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched. She did not wear the black dress and ruffled apron of the previous afternoon, but a simple cotton print overlain with a heavy apron, her garments clearly suited for hard work.

  “Good morning, Alice,” Beth said with a smile.

  The maid started and skittered to one side.

  “Good morning, miss,” she said, recovering. She cast a quick look at Beth, then at the dwindling line of pupils. Her gaze lingered at the end of the line before sliding away.

  “Cleaning today?” Beth asked.

  Alice stared at the carpet brush in her hand for a long moment, as though considering her reply. Finally, she nodded.

  “Yes, miss. The carpets in the teachers’ chambers need brushing. One of the upstairs maids is sick with the scarlatina. I’m to see to her chores until she returns.”

  Sadness laced through Alice’s words, and the unspoken hung between them. If she returns. The sick girl must be someone Alice valued.

  “I hope your friend will recover soon,” Beth said, then wishing to distract Alice, she continued, “Where are the girls roomed?”

  “You mean where they sleep?”

  “Yes. I believe each teacher is afforded her own chamber on this floor...” She paused, and Alice nodded her confirmation.

  “Or the one above. Excepting Miss Percy, who has her rooms in the small house, and Miss Richards, who does as well, and Mademoiselle Martine.”

  “The small house?” Beth asked.

  “In the back,” Alice said, her explanation leaving Beth only vaguely more knowledgeable than she had been a moment past.

  “And what of the pupils?”

  “Two girls to a bed, ten to a room. Older girls in each chamber act as monitors for the younger,” Alice said, turning to look down the long hallway. “They’re the large rooms, at the far end of the hall, and two rooms upstairs, though there’re girls in only one of them now. And another two in the east wing. The west wing”—Alice paused, pressed her lips together—”the west wing is mostly empty. Well, not mostly. It is empty. Best not to go there. The floor’s rotted in places. Miss Percy says it’s not safe. One of the girls fell through yesterday, wandering where she oughtn’t, and was lucky she only came away with a scraped leg rather than a broken neck.”

  Likely the injured child was the matter that had occupied Miss Percy the previous afternoon.

  “Thank you, Alice. I’m to take turns with the other teachers supervising prayers and overseeing bedtime rituals for the girls. And now I know where to go.” Beth smiled. “And where not to go.”

  “That’s right, miss. Best be wise and stay away from the west wing,” Alice whispered, plucking at her apron.

  The line of pupils had moved along now, and only a single girl trailed behind. She was pale and wan, with a fey and dreamy look. Her long, dark hair fell about her shoulders and down her back, the ends ragged and knotted. Her pinafore was askew. One woolen sock bunched about her ankle. She was by far the least tidy girl Beth had seen that morning. But it was something more that drew Beth’s notice, something in the girl’s eyes. She was shadowed by sadness.

  Staring straight ahead, the girl walked slowly along the hall, alone, without a partner to giggle and chat with as the others had.

  Looking at her, Beth felt a cheerless pang, and a whisper of terrible, cold memory, long buried. She well knew what it felt like to be alone, haunted by horrors others could not know.

  Poor, sorrowful child.

  “Except her,” Alice said, her voice low but vehement. “She has a room of her own, when she stays. Can’t have her in with the others. Can’t turn her out, neither. So there you have it.”

  She gave a little shudder, and Beth stared at her in surprise.

  A puzzle. Beth looked at the girl and then back to Alice.

  “Why do you say that?” Beth asked, feeling certain that if she could only open her eyes a little wider, study the undercurrents of meaning just a bit more carefully, then she would discern the answer. She always felt that way when presented with a riddle. Layers upon layers of meaning, but eventually she would figure it out.

  Her father had taught her that. He held a great fondness for riddles and puzzles, for finding solutions and answers.

  “Well, this is a charity school in part, isn’t it?” Alice said. “Her father is generous with his money and very, very rich, they say. The trustees want her here
, and so, here she is.”

  Beth looked at Alice in surprise. A charity school. She had had no idea. “What do you mean, a charity school in part?”

  “Well, most of the girls come from families what pay, and some—a few—are local, from families what could teach them to read a little afore they came here. Those are supported by the good will and generosity of”—she pressed her lips together, lowered her voice and continued—”Mr. Fairfax. And old Mr. Creavy and Mr. Moorecroft, and others. But mostly Mr. Fairfax. Miss Percy says this school is their experiment.”

  “I see,” said Beth, though she really did not see at all.

  Alice caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes widened. “I oughtn’t have said that, miss.”

  No, she oughtn’t. But at this moment, Beth’s greatest interest lay with the odd little girl.

  “And why can that child not be put in with the others?” Beth asked.

  “Why she’s cursed, isn’t she? Shadowed by death.”

  With questions chasing each other to the tip of her tongue, Beth drew a breath, held it, then asked in a moderate tone, “What do you mean?”

  Alice shook her head and whispered, “Cursed and doomed, just like her father.”

  “Cursed and doomed? What... Who is her father?”

  “Didn’t I say? Mr. Fairfax, rot his black, murdering heart.” Alice tapped the handle of the carpet brush against her skirt, her fingers curled so tight the knuckles were white. “A killer, he is. A killer.” She pressed her lips together and shot Beth a wary glance. “I must go. I’ve said far too much already.”

  “Wait—” Beth cried, but Alice hurried off, leaving Beth alone in the hallway.

  She wrapped her arms about herself as a jarring chill touching her skin, as though a window had been thrown wide or some malevolent gaze locked on her with unerring attention. Beth spun, looking to the darkened doorways that lined the wall, to the shadowed and dim corners, but there was no one there watching her. Each door was shut tight.