His Wicked Sins (17 page)

HIS WICKED SINS

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Chapter 10

Burndale, Yorkshire, September 13, 1828

B
eth sat on the stone bench in the shade of the verandah on the south wall of the school,

watching Isobel and Lucy at their gardening tasks as she had each afternoon for a week.

Her embroidery bag lay by her side, and a square of linen was open in her lap. She had

rolled and hemmed the edges, and had begun to sew her mother's initials in the lower right

corner. Staring at the cloth, she tried and failed to summon more than listless interest in

colored thread and tiny, neat stitches.

Edginess rippled through her, a powerful tide. There was no true reason for her unease,

no particular trigger. There was only…

She shook her head, glanced over her shoulder, her skin prickling.

The school was not three feet behind her. She studied each window in turn, and saw …

nothing. No one watched her, yet the fine hairs at her nape rose and her pulse raced as

though someone did. She ought to have grown inured to it by now. Each afternoon this

past week she had sat in this garden watching the girls, certain that someone watched
her

from the shadows. Each afternoon she rose and paced, and each afternoon she failed to

find him.

She was beginning to wonder if she was sliding back toward the terrible episodes that

had punctuated her life, the overwhelming fears, the secret terrors. Not a particularly

pleasant possibility.

Her fingertips tapped a random pattern against the stone as she made a last slow perusal

of the garden.

Drawing a deep breath, she stilled, determined to rein the scrabbling agitation under her

will and control. Based on what she had observed of the women she had met here at

Burndale Academy, she imagined that all teachers were calm and genteel and sanguine.

She supposed that if she was meant to maintain her employment, she would be best to

present the exact same mien.

With a glance at the girls, who worked side by side at the far end of the garden, she

placed her embroidery in her lap. Lucy and Isobel appeared content enough, even happy.

That gave her no small measure of satisfaction.

She turned her gaze to the sky, the vast, open sky. Small, dark shapes—swans, she

thought—glided through the clouds in the distance, their flight beautiful. The open space,

the freedom of the birds, the sound of Lucy's laughter … these things made the unease in

her heart settle a bit, and she was glad of it. She must not allow her control to crack, must

not let her anxious temperament slide free. She knew where that would lead. Her heart

would race, her chest grow tight, her palms grow slick with sweat. The world would fade

away and there would be nothing but cold and bitter fear, a black pit of despair.

She had spent years learning to master her terrors.

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How many doctors had she seen? A half dozen? More? Her parents had sacrificed so

much to afford the exorbitant fees. Once, they had even taken her to a German doctor who

was reputed to be a worker of miracles.

Beth could remember well the concern that had laced her mother's words as she sought

the opinion of those experts. She does not sleep, Doctor. Night after night, she prowls, or

tosses about on her bed. She cannot bear the dark or closed spaces. Throngs of people near

send her to fits.

Oh, she bitterly regretted the money her parents had wasted on those consultations. The

doctors had invariably suggested that she would be best off in Bedlam or some similar

place, that her condition was a weakness of her feminine nature, that she was inclined to

hysteria.

And perhaps she was.

But now was not the time to indulge in it. Now her family was relying on her income,

and she would not allow herself to fail in this.

Over the years, her mother had expressed hope that she would outgrow her peculiarity.

That had proven a fallacy. But at least Beth had learned to master her terror to some small

degree, to lie in the dark though she
knew
it would smother her, to stand in a close crowd

and imagine a barrier of distance between her body and others, to travel in an enclosed

carriage and not fling open the door and throw herself from the horrid, tight little box.

She had learned no funnel the powerful unease into tasks that busied her hands and her

mind.

And she had learned no hide her secrets.

Her terrors had not faded, but they came upon her less frequently, and she learned to

control them rather than allowing them to control her. She had worked so hard to master

them and, until now, she had thought her success quite remarkable. But that success had

been achieved within the safe confines of her parents' home, where everything was known

and familiar. With the horrific change in their circumstance—her father succumbing to

apoplexy that left him confined to a bath chair, unable to walk or speak, the subsequent

loss of their home, their dire financial straits—Beth had found the waves of panic grew

ever stronger, more difficult to hold at bay.

And it appeared that Burndale Academy, vast and remote and cold, brought out the very

worst of her anxious nature.

Returning her attention to her embroidery, she raised the handkerchief and frowned at

it, irked by the series of uneven stitches. Again. That was the very reason this gift would

be so precious to her mother: because she was well acquainted with Beth's inability to sit

still long enough to form anything remotely resembling fine stitchery.

With a little shake of her head, she began to unpick what she had only just put in. Yet

again. How many times had she repeated these same actions? At this rate, her mother's gift

would never be complete.

Lucy's voice carried to her, and Beth glanced up at the sound. Ever bossy, Lucy was

instructing Isobel in the proper way to squat in the gravel, and the correct angle for her

bonnet, and the best way to turn the earth. Isobel stared straight ahead and listened. Or

perhaps not. Perhaps the words only washed over her like the tide.

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Watching the two for a moment, Beth smiled. Yesterday had been the last day of the

punishment she had imposed on them. No,
punishment
was the wrong word. Both girls

had appeared to enjoy their gardening duties and had brought themselves here today,

though no requirement constrained them. Their presence this afternoon was no longer

mandated, but was purely their own choice. Beth found a quiet satisfaction in that.

As though sensing her regard, Isobel paused and raised her head. She met Beth's gaze,

then turned to study the top of the high garden wall. Seconds ticked past, and the girl did

not move, her shoulders hunched with tension, her body tight as a bowstring.

Wariness trickled through Beth's veins. Was Isobel subject to the same eerie sensation

that ruffled Beth's calm?

Her gaze slid to the trees beyond the wall. There was nothing to see, save greenery and

turning leaves, but… Was there a sound out of place? The faint crunch of gravel? No …

but …
something
…

She could not say with certainty. She only knew the suspicion that swam at the edge of

her thoughts.

There is someone out there, watching, waiting.

Tucking her embroidery away in her bag, Beth rose and walked the perimeter of the

garden, feeling twitchy and jittery. Her every sense was attuned for a clue, an indication of

any sort that her wariness was justified.

Again, she scanned the surrounding trees, their red-brown foliage forming a thick

barrier to her questing stare. She looked back to the girls. Lucy hummed quietly as she

worked, but Isobel was still, frozen like a rabbit stalked in an open field, as though she,

too, sensed a strange current in the air.

The child stared hard at a tree that grew on the far side of the wall at the corner of the

garden. She tipped her head slightly to the right. Her brows rose and the ever-dreamy

expression she bore sharpened and changed.

She smiled, open and bright, joy radiating from her in a way that Beth had not seen

before.

Startled, Beth stilled and stared.

The moment passed too quickly. Isobel's smile disappeared as it had come, in an

instant. Then, dropping her chin, she went back to turning the soil.

Beth glanced at the tree and saw nothing. She sifted through the limited information she

had, lining up bits and pieces until she was satisfied with the result. Certainty chased

through her, and she strode to the corner of the wall.

With her back to the tree and her arms folded at her waist, she spoke, her tone

conversational, though too low to carry to the girls.

"Why do you hide in a tree to watch your daughter?" Silence greeted her query, and

then sound: the rustle of leaves followed by the dull thud of booted feet hitting the ground.

She turned to find Griffin Fairfax an arm's length away.

Her heart jerked and plunged.

Tall. Broad. Darkly intriguing. She had thought it was only wishful memory and

imagination that painted him so in her thoughts. But here he was, more alluring in the

flesh than in her private recollections.

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He was disreputable. He wore no hat, and his dark hair, long and thick and shiny, curled

over the white collar of his shirt, a vivid contrast. His brown riding coat was square cut,

finely tailored, and perfectly respectable, as were his tan waistcoat and cord breeches. But

the open neck of his shirt was not respectable in the least.

She stared at the vee of sun-kissed skin revealed there, the hollow at the base of his

throat.

Wild
, she thought. For all that the cut and fit of his clothing screamed quality, he was

feral beneath a thin veneer of civilization.

The realization made her shiver.

He studied her, his expression both quizzical and intent, and she felt a warmth run from

her belly to her arms and her legs, a rushing heat. The way he looked at her—absorbed,

thoughtful, a little puzzled—left her breathless.

"How did you know I was there?" he asked, his tone laced with a cynical and self-

directed humor. He gestured at the canopy of changing leaves. "The foliage obscured your

view."

She heard it again, the odd shade to his vowels, the clipped, round tones that spoke of a

gentleman, and the coarser underlay that hinted at something else.

Swallowing, she glanced at the tree he had so recently vacated, and said, "Isobel knew

you were there."

The low, breathy quality of her voice made her feel ridiculous. Did he hear it?

"Isobel…" He cut a sidelong look to his daughter, and Beth was uncertain of the

emotion that crossed his features. Love? Hope? Regret?

With her head bowed, Isobel worked away at the weeds and did not look in their

direction. After a moment, whatever sentiment Mr. Fairfax had allowed to surface faded

away, and the silence hung like a damp fog, heavy and cloying. Uncomfortable.

"And you made a sound. In the tree. You …
crunched
," Beth said in a rush, compelled

to fill the void, to explain the answer to the riddle. She looked pointedly at his left hand,