His Wicked Sins (8 page)

would not find it.

Her embroidery bag was nowhere about.

Distress touched her. How could she have failed to notice? When had she last held it? In

the stage? At the church?

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. Perhaps she had left the bag not in the stage, but in 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 bedsheets, 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.

On a slow exhalation she smoothed her hands along the plain twilled cotton and

worsted cloth of her black bombazine skirt. The action served to steady her nerves and

push back the concern that pricked her confidence.

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 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.

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The headmistress of Burndale Academy had either failed to notice the omission or,

being in desperate need of a teacher, had not cared. The guard's warning from the previous

day leapt to the forefront of her thoughts, and the recollection of the gravestones she had

read of two women who had died at this very school. A shudder chased up her spine, and

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? She glanced about at the

shadowed corners of her chamber, and a chill crawled across her skin.

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

She shuddered. The possibility was disconcerting.

Pressing her lips together, 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.

She lifted her chin a notch as she prepared herself to face her day and the challenges she

was certain would come. Blowing out a short breath, she 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 dark-haired

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. 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, before her family had been

forced to a dingy flat, before their circumstance had become so dire. A time of girlhood,

gone now.

Gone long ago, really.

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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, 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 pressed, 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

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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 with fulminant vigor, 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."

There was a terrible melancholy 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."

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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.