His Wicked Sins (3 page)

the next room. There, she repeated her motions, emptying the slops, the stink from the

bucket heavy in her nostrils. Hot, revolting work, it was, and she dragged the back of her

wrist across her forehead, anxious to be done.

In the final chamber was a pitcher and bowl, and when she had emptied the last pot, she

poured fresh water, and was thrilled to see a sliver of soap—too dry to work a good

lather—laid by the side. The servants here at Briar House were allowed to take the

remnants of the soap and the worn-down stubs of candles for their own use. That was not

considered thieving, though she would catch a tongue-lashing at the very least if Mrs.

Sykes caught her washing up here.

With a glance at the open door, she used the water and soap to wash her hands and

scrub her face. She'd not go to him smelling like a hog rooting in the mud, and if she

emptied the basin and wiped it clean, none would be the wiser.

Above the hearth was a looking glass, and Sarah checked her appearance. Her hair, a

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bright guinea-gold, was naturally straight as a pin, and fine. Her man liked curls. Thick,

bouncing curls. He had said as much, more than once. So early this morning, long before

the sun came up, she had wet her hair, doused it in a mixture made from water and sugar.

She had turned the strands with a hot iron—she had a horrible blister at the top of her right

ear where she'd not been careful enough—until she had a head full of curls. They weren't

soft and fine, for the sugar water made them hard. Instead, they were solid, fat ringlets.

When Mrs. Sykes had seen them, she had frowned something fierce and made tsking

sounds and clicked her tongue. In the end, she had said nothing, just shook her graying

head with its white cap and let Sarah go see to her chores.

Sarah turned from the mirror and did a cursory dusting of the room. Finally, finally, her

work was done, and she walked as quickly as she could along the dark hallway, down the

servants' stairs, and out the back door. She was careful to avoid the other servants, having

no wish to be enveloped by a group of chattering girls off to buy ribbons in town on their

half day.

Stepping out, she found that the afternoon was warm enough, if a little gray. Anxious

now, she lifted her skirt and flew along the muddy lane, past the icehouse and into the

woods. Their special place was a clearing deep in the trees. As she came upon it, she saw

he was waiting, tapping his crop lightly against his thigh, impatient.

A fine figure he was, in his cord breeches and square-cut coat.

Turning at her approach, he stilled and stared hard for a moment, saying nothing. At

length, he stepped forward to take her arm and hold her in place, his fingers biting deep

until she gasped.

"You've done your hair in curls," he said in a strange, dead voice. His grip tightened,

making her flinch and jerk in response, but he held fast, raising his free hand to touch her

hair.

His gaze slid to hers, cold and dark and pitiless, and his lips curved in a terrible smile. It

was only then that Sarah thought to be afraid.

* * *

Resolutely shoving aside the incertitude that spiraled through her, Beth drew forth the

letter from the headmistress of Burndale Academy. She showed it to the stagecoach guard

when he appeared loath to leave her alone on the road.

"This is the place I was instructed to wait. The letter states that someone shall come for

me by six o'clock on the third of September," Beth said, attempting to infuse her words

with confidence. She was uncertain if the guard could read, but he stared at the page for a

time, then nodded.

As the guard strode toward the stage once more, Beth called, "Wait. I have one

question. Is there another route between Grantham and Northallerton? Another stage that

would have reached here more quickly?"

The guard frowned and shook his head. "No, miss. Why do you ask?"

"The two gentlemen who traveled with us from London to Grantham … I thought I saw

one of them on the road in Northallerton this morning…" She had glimpsed his face

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through the open coach window and, surprised to see him, had half raised her hand in

greeting. In truth, his were not memorable features, but for an instant, she had been so

certain it was he—thin, sandy hair, pale eyes, pale skin, his stock so high and tight he

looked as though he had neither neck nor chin—and then she had thought perhaps not.

"Not likely, miss. There's no other stage that goes this way."

No, of course not. She wondered why she thought of him at all. Likely, because his

presence in Northallerton was a puzzle that tickled her thoughts, and she had ever been

fond of puzzles. Or rather, of
solutions.

She liked everything neat and tidy, everything in its place.

The guard tapped his foot, impatient now. Raising his head, he met Beth's gaze, his

brow furrowed, and she realized that it was not impatience that made him edgy, but

something else. Worry.

"You have a care, miss. Burndale's a small place, but there are goings-on—"

"Oy, Bill, come on, then!" the driver called, shifting on his seat as he glanced at them

over his shoulder.

Beth knew he must stay on schedule as measured by a chronometer held under lock and

key. He had already done her a great kindness, leaving her at the crossroads by the church

as defined in her letter rather than at a prescribed stage on his route. Had he declined her

request, she would have been forced to hire a cart in Northallerton, an expense she could

ill afford. She was very grateful that he had chosen to acquiesce, and she knew it was

churlish to hold him up any longer.

Stepping back, she watched in silence as the guard climbed up and the coach rocked

into motion, creaking and jingling as it picked up speed, the wheels crunching on the road.

A place right below her ribs, deep inside, tightened and did an odd little dip as the carriage

grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared from view.

She was left utterly alone as the dust slowly settled and her thoughts churned.

What had the guard meant about goings-on in Burndale? From his tone and his frown,

she could surmise it was nothing good.

Reaching up to settle her bonnet more securely on her head, Beth tamped down her

apprehension. She turned to the north, and then to the south. There was no sign of an

approaching vehicle. Not the sound of a bridle. Not a cloud of dust on the road. Her

trepidation surged as she wondered if she and the guard had both erred, trusting that

someone from Burndale Academy would soon come to fetch her. Perhaps she would be

left here as the sun sank low and the shadows grew and blended with the night.

She made a huffing little laugh, laced more with anxiety than humor. To be left alone in

the dark in a strange and foreign place was a less than appealing outcome.

Resolutely, she concentrated her thoughts on the facts at hand, shutting away her

incertitude. Here was the stonebuilt church, with its peaked roof and squared tower, and

the crossroads just as the letter described. She most definitely had come to the location

outlined in the letter, and she must trust that someone would arrive forthwith to fetch her.

Only … she had presupposed the crossroads to be at the hub of the village. She had not

expected this place to be so very solitary, with not a single living soul in sight.

Wrapping her arms about her waist, she glanced about at the unfamiliar surroundings,

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then up at the bruised sky. Heavy clouds of pewter and dark purple hung brooding on

the horizon, but at least it was not fearfully cold. Her cloak was in her canvas-covered

trunk, and with the breeze temperate and light, she felt no need of it.

Beth pressed her lips together and gave a last look along the empty road as she assessed

her options. There was still time until six o'clock, over an hour, but she would feel more

secure if she formulated a plan for the eventuality that no one arrived to greet her. She

could not possibly drag her trunk all the way to Northallerton, some five miles to the

south, and she disliked the idea of leaving her every possession untended here in the

roadway while she trudged the distance unencumbered.

The village of Burndale was closer, but in which direction? Not south, for they had not

passed it on their way from Northallerton, but that left three possibilities and she was more

likely to choose wrong than right.

Unfortunately, the landscape provided no clue. From where she stood, she had a clear

view of rolling hills on all sides, and in the immediate vicinity, the church, the graveyard,

and the drystone wall that surrounded it.

She ran her fingers over the small cloth bag she carried at her wrist wherein were

colored threads and needles and linen squares she meant to embroider with her mother's

initials and send home as a birthday gift. But she could not imagine sitting on the low wall

and sewing neat, tidy stitches while her skin fairly tingled with both excitement and

anxiety.

How could she feel aught but anticipatory as to the end of her journey? She was filled

with curiosity and interest, even as each passing moment stoked her genuine concern that

no one would come for her and she would greet the night here on the road.

That thought was not one she wished to dwell upon. With a last look about, she

determined to walk through the graveyard, to read the stones and know a little of the

inhabitants of Burndale, or at least a little of those who had passed some time in this place.

Anything to carry her thoughts from the uneasy contemplation of the dire possibility that

she would be left here, forgotten, and the full dark of night would come upon her like a

pall.

From the graveyard, her trunk would still be in view should she turn to glance back at

it, and she would be able to see the cart from Burndale Academy should it arrive—No!—

when
it arrived.

She reached the low wall around the yard and saw that a broad, pebbled path cut a

swath to the wooden front doors of the church. She supposed that if it rained, she could

drag her trunk along the path and under the overhang so that both she and her belongings

might remain dry. The plan offered her some small comfort.

Meandering through the rows of headstones, she paused now and again to read one or

another, refusing to allow her thoughts to wander to supposition and desperation.

She had made her decision, and it was a sound one. Her employment at Burndale

Academy offered her family a small spot of hope in an otherwise desperate situation.

Worry and exhaustion could not change that.

She was inordinately fortunate to have secured this teaching placement. One

advertisement she had read in the London paper had asked that a governess come for no

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pay at all, merely room and board. Another position as companion to an elderly widow

would have paid a pittance in comparison to the thirty-five pounds per annum offered her

as a teacher at Burndale Academy. Once she had earned her pay and could send monies

home to help her family, she would feel far better, far more secure, than she did now.

The thought cheered her and she turned her attention once more to reading the words

etched in the stones.

Here was a cherished wife and mother, and here a loving husband. A son. A daughter.

She stopped, head cocked to one side as she studied the epitaph before her. With a vague

sense of unease, she read the words a second time to be certain she had not misunderstood.

Helen Bodie-Stuart. Born July 5, 1798. Died January 10, 1828, at Burndale Academy of

this place.

A chill of foreboding touched her skin, or perhaps it was only the gathering wind that

made her shiver so.

Distressing recollections of the guard's warning that she have a care, and of the

conversation with the rather nasty gentleman in the carriage—his assertions of beatings

and starvation and death at schools such as Burndale—burgeoned, giving rise to all

manner of horrific suppositions.

This woman, Helen Bodie-Stuart, had died at Burndale Academy, the exact destination

Beth sought. A portent? She did not like to think so.

The cry of a raven made her stiffen, and she glanced at the leaden sky, and then the

still-empty road. Swallowing, she shook off her disquietude and continued on to the next

grave marker, and the next.

Some moments later, she read another epitaph that made a second, stronger surge of

unease snake through her veins like a poison, leaving her heart thudding in her chest.

Katherine Anne Stillwell of Burndale Academy of this Parish who departed this life

13th day of September in the year of our Lord 1825 aged 24 years.