His Wicked Sins (7 page)

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Chapter 4

Wickham Hall, Burndale, Yorkshire, September 3, 1828

G
riffin Fairfax paced the dusty, neglected Long Gallery that spanned the length of the

upper floor of Wickham Hall, a hallway of ghosts and memories. If he closed his eyes, he

could see Amelia here, dancing in a beam of sunshine, spinning faster and faster, dust

motes floating about her…

"Bloody hell." The oath and his footsteps echoed hollowly against the backdrop of the

howling storm that rattled the windows and whistled through cracks and crevices.

Above him arched the barrel ceiling, creating a vast and lonely space wide enough to

drive a gig through. The roof and plaster walls had fallen in on themselves at the far end of

the hallway, collapsing under the weight of disuse and disrepair, leaving an acrid pile of

timber and rubble. The damage was done long before Wickham Hall passed to him, but

none in all the years had seen fit to repair it. Including him. The collapsed section was

boarded up, but the boards were half rotted and the air was heavy with a rank, damp smell.

The smell of decay.

Rain beat upon the mullioned windows, a pounding torrent, and for a single, frozen

instant, he was tempted to run the length of the hall, to pause only long enough to throw

open each window as he passed.

Let the rain come. Let a
flood
come in a violent flow to wash the blood from his hands

and cleanse this place.

Of memories.

Of death.

He could imagine a great black wall of water cascading doggedly from floor to floor,

destroying everything in its path. There would be a certain satisfaction in that, but there

would also be an ember of regret.

Though unentailed, Wickham Hall and all it contained had been in his family for

centuries, never changing hands by sale. Perhaps it was time it did. Perhaps he should sell

it, leave here. 'Twould be the wiser course, rather than flinging wide the windows and

letting in the storm.

All the water in the world would not make him feel clean, would not wash away the

guilt or the scent of death that clung to him.

Leaning close to the window, Griffin squinted against the storm and the dark, and stared

out into the night. At first he saw only his own face, hanging disembodied against the

backdrop of black sky. After a moment, he saw beyond that to the shape of the gatehouse

wall, its crenellated upper limit jagged against the murky, storm-laden heavens and the

sheeting rain.

Then again, given the weather, perhaps he saw the wall only in his mind's eye, conjured

it from memory and nightmare.

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He should tear down the gatehouse, stone by cursed stone. Likely, he should have done

that three years ago.

Should have. Should have.
Regret was a pastime for fools.

Jerking back from the window, he turned away. He had not wanted to come here, had

not intended it as he paced the halls of his home like a caged beast.

Or a madman.

Was he? Was he mad?

There were days he thought—nay, days he was
certain—
that he was.

With a snarl, he spun, flung out his arm to lash at the porcelain vase on the table by the

window, In the last instant, he stopped, frozen, his breath heavy in his chest, the vase

untouched, his emotion held in check by sheer will and determination.

She refused to come.

He had sat in the curricle by the front door of Burndale Academy and listened to the

maid say that Isobel would not come.

Will you fetch her?

After what had happened the last time, he most certainly would not fetch her.

The maid—what was her name?—Alice. She had eyed him warily, as though she

expected him to tear her head from her body.

Bloody hell.

Isobel was to come for dinner once each week. Usually she was there on the step

waiting for him, docile. But once before she had refused to come. It had been a stormy

day, like this one, like the one three years in the past.

Last time he had lifted her and carried her to the curricle. She had been a limp doll,

unresponsive, her head lolling to the side. But as he had placed her on the seat, she had

begun to scream and scream, bloodcurdling sounds that were horrific in their torment. His

horses had shied and he had been hard-pressed to keep them from bolting with both the

carriage and Isobel behind them.

He closed his eyes for a moment at the recollection, pinched the bridge of his nose.

Isobel was better away from here.

Hell,
he
was better away from here.

Sometimes, he thought they were best off far away from each other. Perhaps she was

the wiser of the two of them, given his current melancholy.

He ran his palm along the stubble that roughened his jaw, disturbed by this turn of his

thoughts.

From the floor below him came the sound of the hall clock, echoing hollowly. He

wanted to break that clock, to tear out the workings, to stop time—

No. He would not allow himself to free the rage. His anger was too close to the surface

tonight, with the storm and the memories heavy upon him.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned to find Mrs. Ashton, his housekeeper,

standing at the far end of the gallery, shadowed but for the glow of her candle. Flickering

fingers of light and shadow danced along the walls and darker doorways. Her hand shook,

and the flame leaped and swayed, caught by the terrible draft that found its way through

the boards.

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He knew why she had come even before she spoke.

"Sorry I am to bother you, sir—" Her words caught on a sob. "'Tis my husband's niece,

Sarah. She is gone. Never returned to her work at Briar House after her half day."

Briar House.
Griffin tensed at her words.

"Perhaps she has run off with her beau," he suggested, forcing a casual tone.

"No." Mrs. Ashton shook her head. "No, I feel it. As soon as I heard, I thought of the

other two, their hair shorn off, their fingers—" She shook her head again, and finished on

a whisper. "I fear she is dead."

Not yet.
Certainty clawed him, sharp and deep.

"Have searchers been organized?" he asked, though he knew they would not find her.

"Yes."

"I should like to offer—"

"No!" Mrs. Ashton cut him short, then continued in a quieter tone, though her voice

shook and the words sounded clipped. "I beg your pardon, sir. I mean no disrespect. But I

fear that were you to arrive at Briar House, even to offer your assistance, it would"—she

drew a ragged breath—"it would…" Shaking her head rapidly from side to side, she

exhaled in a rush. "I only ask leave to go to my husband's brother's home in Northallerton.

To offer what comfort I may to the girl's family."

He knew very well what she left unsaid. His presence at Briar House would only make

everything worse. Likely, they would have him dragged from the premises. He could not

blame them. He could hardly expect Amelia's parents to welcome
him
to Briar … they had

entrusted their only child to him in holy matrimony.

And he had killed her.

There was little else to be said about that.

"You must go to your family, Mrs. Ashton. Offer what comfort you can."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The housekeeper turned and walked away, her posture

stooped, her gait pained, a middle-aged woman made ancient in the space of an hour.

Griffin closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

And, inexplicably, thought of the teacher, Elizabeth Canham.

Her moon-pale hair.

Her wide, lush mouth.

The way she had made him smile.

* * *

start of a new day. Awake and out of bed even before the summons, Beth stood by the

heavy window curtains and looked out at hammering rain and an angry sky. A gloomy

welcome to her new home.

She was a little surprised to realize that despite the boom of thunder and the pounding

of the storm, she had slept well, exhausted from her travels, grateful to have finally

reached her destination.

Fatigued by her journey, she had been sorely tempted to fall fully clothed upon the bed

the previous night. She had seen immediately that the linens and blankets on the bed were

fresh, a circumstance that made her more comfortable than she might have been. But her

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nature felt uneasy with leaving her things packed in a trunk. She had a preference for

order and neatness. So she had put her belongings away on the shelves of the large

wooden clothing press in the corner, folding and organizing until she was satisfied.

Everything in its place, organized by color and function.

That chore complete, she had nodded off quickly as she lay in bed, silently revisiting

the things she had discussed with her mother before leaving home, preparing and planning

for the next day's lesson, her very first. Unable to brave the full dark in this new and

strange place, she had left the rushlight burning and drifted off to its small illumination.

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.

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 of cloth 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

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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