His Wicked Sins (15 page)

consumed by the newness of Burndale Academy and the demands of her duties for the

past days, Beth had been aware of Isobel clinging to the shadows like a wraith, watching

her with eyes wide and solemn.

Their communication had been limited to a nod or brief greeting, but Beth had made

certain to meet Isobel's gaze and murmur a kind word when the opportunity presented.

The other teachers seemed inclined to disinterest, letting Isobel sidle along the cool walls,

always an outsider, always watching. Even in the classroom, Isobel was silent, though she

did write a lovely hand, and her ciphers were without flaw or error.

Looking at her now, Beth felt a twist deep in her heart, both sadness and affinity for this

eerie, quiet girl.

She rose, ladled a bowl of porridge, and set it at the place beside Lucy, to her own left.

Isobel stepped closer, hesitated, then slid onto the bench, shifting to the farthest possible

reach, away from her neighbor.

Lucy made a sound of disgust.

The girls were not kind to Isobel. Beth had seen them pinch or poke or pull the child's

hair, just to see if they could make her squeal.

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She never did. And that was the thing that saddened Beth the most.

Though she watched the world around her unfold, Isobel seemed to react to very little.

Beth wondered what had driven her into the shadows, what tragedy had marked her in

such a way. Of course, there was the possibility that Isobel had simply been born with her

peculiarities, but Beth thought not.

The memories of her own past, locked tight away, made her recognize terrible

heartbreak in another.

Isobel Fairfax kept silent to hold her secret demons at bay.

What was it that Alice had said? That both father and daughter were cursed and

doomed. Beth held no belief in curses, but
something
had happened to this child,

something tragic.

She recalled the way Griffin Fairfax had looked as they stood on the road in the light of

the fading sun, the silky sound of his voice as he asked her about her knowledge of

dreadful things, the cynical curve of his lips and the dark secrets in his eyes. Those

recollections only served to solidify her conviction that all was not right in this small

family, that tragedy had struck them a vengeful blow.

Finishing her breakfast, Beth glanced up and saw Lucy's hand snake toward Isobel's,

sly, furtive. Lucy's face was turned away as she chatted with the girl on the opposite side.

She pretended interest in conversation while she edged her fingers closer and closer,

carrying out a clandestine attack.

Annoyance pricked Beth, and something else, something stronger. Pressing her lips

together, she shot Isobel a look, and laid her hand flat atop the little girl's. Lucy's questing

fingers came close, gathered the skin of Beth's wrist, and twisted hard.

"Lucy!"

At Beth's sharp reprimand, the girl turned and instantly realized her error. She had

pinched her teacher. Her face turned white.

Isobel's hand shot out, and she caught the skin of Lucy's wrist and squeezed, short and

sharp, until Lucy cried out. Beth gasped. All the times that Isobel had been cuffed or

pinched, she'd done naught save draw away, or scamper a safe distance to the shadows.

Yet now, she returned the insult with vigor, seeking to avenge Beth's hurt at Lucy's hands.

"Well," Beth mused softly. "It appears, Isobel, that you can be roused to defend another,

if not yourself."

The child made no reply, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes veiled by her lashes.

Every eye at the table was trained on Isobel, every girl's face a mask of surprise. For her

part, Isobel stared straight down at her lap, retreating into the misty, dreamlike expression

that was her norm.

The other girls dropped their gazes and concentrated on their bowls, but Beth knew they

listened and watched, waiting to see how the scene would unfold.

With her voice pitched low, Beth spoke clearly and directly, determined to see the

matter to an acceptable conclusion. "Lucy, Isobel, there shall be no more pinching. Of

anyone. By anyone."

She let her gaze wander along the table then, waiting until each girl in turn met her

eyes. They knew she included each of them in this edict.

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"Please, Miss Canham," Lucy whispered, her voice clogged with tears. "I didn't mean it.

I didn't. I thought…"

"You thought to pinch Isobel," Beth said quietly. "And that makes the deed no better.

Perhaps far worse."

In that instant, Beth recognized that Lucy was trembling, genuine fear painting her

countenance a stark white.

"Will it be the strap?" The child raised her gaze at last, her eyes damp, her jaw set, and

Beth felt a momentary horror. She had never raised a hand in violence to anyone. The

thought made her ill.

What to do now? What punishment to decree? Oh, but she had so little knowledge of

such things. She thought of her mother and the way she had handled sibling spats between

Beth and her brother.

Lucy and Isobel both stared up at her now, and Beth spoke slowly, carefully, choosing

her words as ideas spiraled through her mind.

"You shall … mind Isobel … and watch over her, Lucy. Make certain that no one pokes

her or pulls her hair. Or pinches her. For the … week. Yes, you shall be responsible for

Isobel for an entire week. That is no punishment, Lucy, but a task that matches the

strength of your character."

"The strength of my character?" Lucy blinked, and blinked again. "Watch over her?

You mean like I do my little sister?"

"Yes, exactly."

"For a week?"

"She is in your care," Beth said. "And I have every confidence that you shall watch over

her as you would your sister."

Lucy shot her a look of mingled fear and incredulity, as though pondering the merits of

taking a beating in favor of this odd and daunting task.

"And…" Beth continued. "Lucy, Isobel, you shall both weed and tend the garden in

your free hour every day this week. Perhaps if you learn to busy your hands with

productive tasks, you will not busy them with pinches."

"Yes, miss," Lucy whispered, her head bowed.

In that moment, the bell tolled, marking the end of the morning meal. The girls rose and

trooped out of the refectory, along the wide, dark hall to the schoolroom. Isobel lagged at

the rear, dragging her feet with slow, heavy steps, and as she passed the place Beth stood,

she reached out and ran her fingertips along the back of Beth's hand, a butterfly stroke,

there, then gone.

* * *

carried out the chore she had set them. They had both come to the garden of their own

accord, and she was glad that she had not been forced to fetch them.

Her gaze strayed time and again to Isobel, who pulled weeds from the earth with sharp,

aggressive tugs, her brow wrinkled in concentration. After a moment, Isobel raised her

head, met Beth's gaze, her eyes solemn and wide. Then she cast her attention back to her

task, and Beth was left with an odd, warm sensation in the center of her chest.

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Turning away, she looked around the garden, then beyond the tall, surrounding wall to

where the leaves of great trees formed a canopy of yellow ocher and rich brown. She

wandered to the end of the yard where a large verandah ran across the back of the house.

There, Beth sat on the stone bench and watched as the girls worked at their task. Satisfied

that they were well occupied, she drew forth a handkerchief and needle and thread from

her ecru embroidery bag.

How grateful she was that Mr. Fairfax had returned it to her. Pressing her lips together,

she thought of him, of his eyes and his hands and the way he walked. There was

something dangerously enticing about him. Something exciting and dark and forbidden.

She thought of his smile, his lips, his mouth. Were his lips soft?

Her breath caught.

With a start, she jerked her head up, realizing where her thoughts wandered.

In dismay, she stared at the square of white linen in her hand, and the hash she had

made of stitches that should have been small and neat. This would not do. A sigh escaped

her and she began to pick out the stitches that she had only just put in.

A faint sound—odd and out of place—carried to her. Not a rustle of the leaves, or the

breeze in the trees. Something … else.

She looked up, her gaze traveling along the high brick wall. She could see nothing

amiss, but a strange quiver of unease made her skin crawl. The feeling passed, and she

looked down once more, intent on her task.

When three-quarters of an hour had gone by, she called a halt to her charges' activity.

"Well done, girls," she said, tucking away her embroidery. "Go and wash your hands

before afternoon lessons resume."

Lucy straightened and took two steps, then paused and turned back.

"Come along, Isobel." She took the younger girl's hand in her own and led her away.

With a flicker of hope, Beth watched them go. Perhaps her words to Lucy about

watching over Isobel had brought about a permanent change.

Perhaps.

She shook her head and thought of her own childhood, of the girls who had pinched her

and poked her and pulled her braids, and she had the suspicion that the benefits of her

solution might be short lived.

As the girls turned the corner and disappeared from view, Beth picked up her bag and

rose from the bench. A gust of air swirled about her, making the dry leaves dance and

crackle at her feet. They tumbled end over end, then drifted away.

She hunched her shoulders, noticing a sudden nip in the air as the sun slid behind a

cloud and the breeze gathered strength to tug at the ends of her shawl.

Unease slithered up her spine, an oily chill.

Slowly, she turned to face the empty garden. With the kiss of sunlight gone, the leaves

she had thought so pretty only moments past now looked dried and brown. The thick

green hedge that followed the wall suddenly harbored menace, offering any number of

shadowed places to hide—

"There is no one there."

Even as she breathed the words on a whisper, she knew them for the lie they were.

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There
was
someone there, watching her from the shadows.

She took a step back as her gaze slid along the hedge, searching for any glint of light,

any sign of movement. Nothing stirred for a moment, and then she thought something did.

Her heart raced in her breast; the sound of her blood rushed loud in her ears.

There, to her right. Rustling leaves.

She spun but could see nothing. Heart pounding, she took a step back, and another, not

daring to look away.

Again, a sound reached her of leaves shushing against each other and branches creaking

and sighing.

The sharp snap of a twig.

She turned and narrowed her eyes, even as she sidled to her right, around the stone

bench. Her fingers clenched the material of her skirt, and she lifted it above her ankles lest

she find herself tangled and stayed when she wished to flee.

As quickly as it had gathered, the wind died, leaving all still. Too still. Heavy with

malice and threat.

A moment later came a muffled thud, distinct and solid, as though feet hit the ground on

the far side of the garden wall.

Beth exhaled on a sharp breath, her belly knotted with genuine fear. Panic clawed at

her, a torrent fighting to rip free of her control. No.
No!
She
would
hold it back, no matter

the cost, for she knew from vast experience that to set her panic free would cost her far

more.

Trembling, she battled for control, and her thoughts focused on a single truth. Someone

had watched her from the trees.

Why?

She took three quick steps, intent on summoning Miss Percy and telling her—

The tenuous reality of her situation slapped her. She stopped short, her heart pounding a

rough rhythm.

Summon the headmistress and tell her what?

Someone watched me. No, I did not see him. I only know he was there because …

because…

Therein lay the difficulty. Without proof, or even a glimpse of the hidden menace, there

was nothing for her to say. Her only proof was her belief that he had been there, and the

sound she had heard as his booted feet hit the ground. Even to her own mind, her case was

weak, indeed.

She might jeopardize her situation if Miss Percy thought her some excitable and

fainthearted fool, jumping about at every shadow or gust of wind. And she could ill afford

to lose her place here and the generous income it provided.

She looked around once more, rubbing her palms against her upper arms. Had she