by Eve Silver
She recognized the fear lurking beneath the surface of her composure, an oily, fetid sludge. With determination, she thrust it aside. There was no place here for ancient terrors, no place for her to imagine dark things and malevolent intent. Alice’s words were only words. They had neither substance nor power.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed the path the girls had taken moments past.
At the top of the stairs, Beth paused and watched the progress of that lonely little girl as she meandered down the last three steps, her hand trailing along the polished banister.
Suddenly, the child stopped and turned to look over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking with Beth’s, sorrowful and far too wise for her years.
Griffin Fairfax was her father. And Alice had called him—called them both—cursed and doomed.
Chapter Five
Stepney, London, January 15, 1813
Henry Pugh paced slowly along the hallway of the Black Swan Tavern, studying the bloody footprints that marked the killer’s path. He moved carefully, pausing now and again, searching out the place where the ghastly trail began. The footprints led in the opposite direction of where Henry stood, toward the landlord’s body instead of away.
Strange.
Halfway to the parlor, he froze, sickened and horrified by what lay before him.
The landlord’s wife, Mrs. Trotter, was sprawled on the hallway floor, her skirt rucked up, her limbs in immodest disarray. The top of her head was gone, caved in, and most of her face, rendering her nearly unrecognizable. Henry could be certain it was she only because her dress—drenched now in her blood—was the one she had worn earlier that day when, smiling and winking, she had teased him as he had stood about, searching for any excuse to remain where he was.
He had been at the tavern to hear the landlord’s tale of a stranger in the shadows. It was a tale he had dismissed as unimportant. He had thought it all a ploy to bring him round to see Ginnie. Everyone knew the Trotters loved to meddle, loved to bring together couples and see them happily wed.
“Sweet on our Ginnie, are you?” Mrs. Trotter had asked, following his gaze to the barmaid, Ginnie George.
Henry had ducked his head, hot blood rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, for he was sweet on her. He had been helpless to stop himself from looking at Ginnie, with her cupid’s-bow lips and wheat-bright ringlets. He was very fond of her, and she of him, enough so that one night last week she’d let him steal a kiss behind the tavern.
She was the reason he’d signed on for a decent living and a decent wage. A man needed both if he was thinking to marry. Standing in the tavern, Henry had looked at Ginnie once more and thought he was not ready for that yet, not quite ready to marry. But Ginnie made him think that one day soon he might be.
A quick flash of her dimples and a coy look from beneath her lashes, and Ginnie had gone off to her chores, leaving Henry under Mrs. Trotter’s watchful eye, with his pulse quickened and his palms damp.
Henry battled his sorrow now as he looked at Mrs. Trotter dead on the floor. His one consolation was the knowledge that Ginnie had gone to see to her sick mother tonight, that she was nowhere near this hellish place.
Shivering now, and not from the cold, Henry fought the terrible nausea rolling in his belly. He could scarcely bring himself to look at the horrific scene before him, let alone crouch down and carefully look for clues. What had made him think he could do the job of parish constable?
He had not signed on for this, to witness the aftermath of foul murder and desecration of the dead. He had signed on at the Shadwell Police Office for a fine and honorable living, to break up a fight or look into a theft. Not to stand in a pool of blood, to bear witness to such heinous acts.
The stamp of heavy boots, male voices in the hallway and the slam of the door against those who hovered in the street warned Henry he was no longer alone. Other officers had arrived. Glad he was of that.
Muffled exclamations echoed along the corridor, along with the sound of approaching footsteps.
“What have we here?” Sam Loder asked as he stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with Henry. Sam was a seasoned officer, a man of experience. Still, Henry wondered at Sam’s casual tone and seeming indifference to the brutality of the scene.
Clenching his teeth so tight he thought they might crack, Henry fought the urge to howl. A desperate animosity came over him; he barely managed to avoid snarling a reply to Sam’s question, a demand to know if Sam had eyes in his head.
“What have we here?” Murder. We have murder.
Shamed by his thoughts, he scrubbed his palm over his face.
“We’ve sent men to seal off London Bridge, and the Bow Street Runners have been called in. We’ll find him,” Sam said. “Just as we found John Williams when he did foul murder at Timothy Marr’s shop and again at the Kings Arms Tavern.”
The murders Sam spoke of had occurred two years past, before Henry’s time, but he’d heard the terrible tales repeated, and he’d seen the place where Williams was buried at the intersection with Cannon Street. ‘Twas a place where four roads met. Some claimed that a stake had been thrust through the murderer’s black heart to ensure he did not rise again, and that burial at the crossroad was meant to confuse and confound the evil ghost if he did rise from the grave.
Henry had never given much thought to ghosts.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, making him jerk. Blinking against the humiliating sting of tears, he willed himself to meet his duty as an officer. His gaze dropped to Mrs. Trotter’s crushed skull, her ruined face, her blood-soaked dress.
To Henry’s mind, one thing was certain. No ghost had done this deed.
Chapter Six
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 4, 1828
That evening, Beth walked along the road that led to Burndale Academy. The storm had let up and the sky had cleared. She followed the curves and twists, having no solid destination in mind save the next step and the next. Hers was no sedate stroll, but a focused task that freed a measure of energy and emotion with each stride.
She had survived the first day of her employment without episode. No one had branded her an imposter, and she was grateful for that.
She walked alone, and she was grateful for that, as well. When she had paused in the doorway of the small parlor and mentioned that she planned an evening stroll, the other teachers had looked at her askance and declined to accompany her. It was a circumstance that caused her no distress. She had no true wish for companionship, but good manners had led her to inquire if any would like to join her.
Miss Browne and Miss Doyle and Mademoiselle Martine and the others had seemed quite content to sit and sew and chatter amongst themselves, all lovely and worthy pastimes, but Beth could not bear to be still, to be confined in the small parlor with the four walls so close about her. A cage. A coffin.
She needed to walk, and since her duties of the day were complete, she had obtained Miss Percy’s permission and set out.
Her day had been long, both trying and fulfilling. Now, as the wind slapped her cheeks and her blood pumped with exertion, she revisited frozen moments in time, sifting through recollections of her classroom performance, learning from them, using that knowledge to plan improvements to tomorrow’s lessons.
Approached from the correct perspective, any puzzle could be solved, including a determination of how best to engage her pupils.
She did not stray far, only just around the sharp bend in the road, until the looming shadow of Burndale Academy disappeared behind the line of massive trees, their branches colored by the red-brown hues of autumn.
Beth found that the landscape, the trees, the forest, even the smells, were all strange and foreign in comparison to London. The only sounds were those of her own footfalls and the whisper of the wind. Accustomed as she was to the city, to buildings on either side and carts and people and the sounds of activity that almost never ceased, she had ambivalent reactions to the countryside.
While the vast s
paces were wonderfully appealing, the unfamiliar lack of noise was unsettling. Too quiet.
That quiet made the suddenness of a sharp sound all the more startling. Beth froze midstride and glanced about. What was that? The snap of a twig? A small animal skittering along a branch?
Wary, she turned right, then left in quick succession.
The hair at her nape prickled and rose. Prey to the eerie sensation that she was not alone, she searched for a glint of light, a reflection from unseen eyes that watched her from the depths of the copse.
Was it her imagination, or was something... someone... there?
She studied the foliage, feeling both wary and foolish as she did so. Imagination was a powerful thing, capable of conjuring all manner of ghosts and demons.
The quiet only made her anxious, or perhaps the vastness of the heavens, unbroken by church spires and roofs, unsullied by the smells of city life. She enjoyed the open space, but she did not enjoy the sensation of feeling so solitary here beneath the saucer of darkening sky.
Beth twined the edge of her shawl through her fingers, then let the soft cloth slide free. Darkness would be full upon her soon. It was time to return to Burndale Academy.
Only... she could not completely dissuade herself from the certainty that there was something...
A last glance revealed nothing amiss. Nothing. Only her imagination.
Nonetheless, caution made her grab hold of her skirt and raise the hem above her ankles in case she found herself in a position to bolt down the road at a tearing pace.
Now there was an image. It made her laugh at herself.
Gathering her emotions, she forced the tension from her shoulders. She could not allow the familiar terror to wriggle free, to swarm through her veins until her heart raced and her mind knew only fear. On that path lay only heartache.
Panic was not welcome here, but reasonable caution was.
Retracing the steps that had brought her to this point, she walked quickly back along the road toward the school. The perfect beauty of the pink and orange sunset overtop the trees made her feel as though the evening sky had sprung to life, as though it breathed and sighed. The sight brought her quiet joy, but the reasonable caution she had deemed appropriate did not let her slow her pace or tarry to enjoy the view.
As she rounded a bend, a movement caught her eye, a man in the distance walking parallel to her through the field. Turning, he cut across toward her.
Momentary alarm gave way to recognition when she saw it was Mr. Fairfax approaching. And then she had the thought that if Alice had her druthers, recognition of Mr. Fairfax ought to incite Beth to further alarm.
She watched his approach and wondered what he was doing, walking on this road. His curricle was nowhere to be seen and he was clothed for a warm day, not a rapidly cooling evening.
Her gait faltered and her heart twitched strangely in her breast. She turned and looked at the road behind her, then the lay of the field that blended with the copse at its far end. For an instant, she felt disoriented, and more than a little wary.
Had it been his gaze she sensed earlier, watching her from the woods?
She did not think so, for to be ahead of her here on the road now he would have needed to sprint the distance from behind her, and he looked relaxed and comfortable, not at all out of breath or exerted. Still, she could not negate the possibility. She pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders, raised her head, and waited.
As he drew near, she studied him, taking in each magnificent bit of him, put all together in masculine perfection. That was the puzzle. What made him so attractive? The cut of his coat to his broad shoulders? The slight curl of his hair, dark against the white collar of his shirt? The way he tipped his head, just a bit to the right as he approached?
She could not help herself. Her gaze followed the line of his coat to lean hips, and lower, lingering on his muscled thighs. He moved with the natural grace and elegance that she had noted the first time they met.
His stride was purposeful, his attention focused wholly on her person, and she had the odd inclination that he searched this road for her.
On a sharp exhalation, she looked away. Her heart beat too fast and her body felt flush and alive.
Had he known she would walk? Had he waited for her?
Impossible. She had herself not fully realized her intention or direction until she paused at the fork in the road.
So he did not—could not possibly—travel this way looking for her.
No sooner had the thought formed, than he dispelled it.
“Good evening, Miss Canham. I had hoped to meet you,” he said, inclining his head in greeting and offering a small smile. It was a strange and alluring beauty he had, harsh features, hard lips, handsome when taken in bit by bit, more than wonderful when looked at as a whole. She had never thought of a man as beautiful or wonderful, but Mr. Fairfax was.
“Good evening, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, feeling breathless and silly and out of sorts.
He was near enough now that she could see his dark eyes, sparkling with an inner light, bright with a heat that was both disturbing and alluring. That look left her feeling as though his gaze touched her in truth, as though sensation brought life to her flesh.
Again her heart tripped over, and she was awash in an odd, hot ache that stole her breath.
The breeze caught her hair and pulled strands from her carefully placed pins, then sent the tendrils dancing, restless and free. She was grateful for the distraction. Raising her hands, she gathered the few wayward curls and held them still. As the wind abated for an instant, she quickly tucked the stray strands into her carefully pinned plaits.
Mr. Fairfax kept his gaze upon her, his expression thoughtful as he stepped closer. He looked both the gentleman and the ruffian at once.
When he was an arm’s length away, he gave a spare smile that made her skin feel as though she had rubbed her feet on a carpet and caught a spark. She tingled with anticipation, with anxiety, with both dread and hope of... what?
The man flustered her to the extreme.
“Forgive me, Miss Canham. Do I intrude?” he asked.
The dying sun touched his dark hair, a bright halo, leaving his face in shadow. She dropped her gaze, anxious and uneasy, not in the way of fear, but in the way of... excitement.
The realization was disconcerting. Never had she experienced the like, but she was not so green as to play ignorance at the cause. She knew what it was, this feeling. She had seen girls turn silly over it, laughing and twittering behind their hands as a handsome youth swaggered past.
But she had never been prey to such herself. Until now.
Mr. Fairfax had her blushing, but he would not have her sighing like a lovesick girl.
“There is no intrusion, Mr. Fairfax.” She knew she sounded breathless. She could only hope that he attributed it to exertion.
“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, and offered the ecru linen reticule that she knew well. “You left it behind in my carriage.”
Oh, the sweet joy that flooded her at the sight.
“You have my gratitude, Mr. Fairfax. With a heavy heart, I discovered the bag’s loss this morning.” She smiled at him, wanting to throw her arms about him and hug him for this, for the return of the bag’s contents, the gift for her mother. Realizing she had half raised her hands to hug him in truth, she dropped them to her side, abashed.
He cast her a quizzical look, raising his straight, dark brows.
When he said nothing, merely looked at her in that intent way, as though he saw her right to the very core, she felt the awkwardness of the moment.
“You are most gallant, sir,” she said in a rush.
“Yes, I am the quintessence of gallant,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to her mouth and lingering there. “Actually, I am not gallant at all.” She reached for the bag, but he did not place it in her hand. His tone grew warm, intimate, and he asked with deliberate care, “Shall I name my reward?”
“Reward?”
Stepping close, so his legs brushed the folds of her skirt, he studied her with a half-lidded look that made her heart race.
She had ascertained at their earliest meeting that Mr. Fairfax was an odd blend of gentleman and... something else. Now, the way he looked at her, his gaze gone hard and sharp, told her that the gentleman had gone into hiding.
Restlessness stirred inside her, something impatient and curious and eager. She could not think that these feelings portended anything good. She ought to step back, step away, perhaps even run away.
The scent of him carried to her, warm, a little musky, and... spicy. Like a dish she would like to sample. Lovely, lovely smells that tickled her senses and made her wish for more.
She held herself perfectly still, not daring to breathe, not trusting herself lest she succumb to the urge to lean close and press her nose to his coat. To breathe deep and full the scent of his skin.
Oh, what madness had taken hold of her?
With a soft sound, she stumbled back a step, searching for safety in physical distance, but finding only confusion.
The part of her that craved order, solutions, answers, felt overwhelmed.
Mr. Fairfax lifted a stray curl from her shoulder, slid the length of the strand slowly between his fingers. Her hair was pale and bright against his sun-bronzed skin. She gasped, raised her gaze, found him watching her with a hooded look.
Beth recovered both her common sense and her voice then. She batted his hand away and said with firm conviction, “I should be getting back. I do thank you for the return of my property, Mr. Fairfax.” She cast a pointed glance at the bag he still held.
He smiled a little, a dark curving of his lips that made her shiver, and she thought he would ask again for his reward.
She held up her hand, palm forward, forestalling him. “But though I have no desire to disappoint you, I am afraid that my words of gratitude will have to suffice as your prize.”
“That does disappoint me.” He gave a low laugh, making her breath catch in her throat. “But perhaps my reward will come at a future date. I am a patient man. Some things are meant to be savored.”
