His Wicked Sins (2 page)

crushed the material of her black bombazine skirt. She was not in mourning, but the dress

had been both available and inexpensive, two factors in favor of its purchase.

The drone of a woman's voice buzzed through the confined space of the coach. Today,

Beth was not alone in the conveyance, but tomorrow she would be.
That
was an

eventuality she could not despise.

Her carriage-mate, Mrs. Beacon, had nattered on the entire trip from the coach yard at

the Saracen's Head in London. A well-meaning and fine woman of incomparable

verbosity, she was free with both her words and her advice.

"You are pale as a shroud," Mrs. Beacon offered now, shifting on the seat beside Beth

and leaning close to peer at her from beneath her bonnet. She evinced no hesitation to

offer such personal observation to a near stranger.

"That dull black makes you look whiter than a cod's belly. With your blond hair and fair

skin, you need a bit of color." Mrs. Beacon softened her words by producing a tin of

peppermints and offering one to Beth, then to each of the two gentlemen occupying the

opposite seat.

One was plump and pasty, and rather green about the gills. Coach travel appeared to

disagree with him.

The other was bland as oat pudding, with thin sandy hair worn in a disheveled style, and

small, pale eyes that darted nervously about.

HIS WICKED SINS

Page 6 of 103

Glancing down, Beth smoothed her palm over her skirt. Mrs. Beacon's observations

aside, Beth was well pleased with her drab and sad wardrobe, purchased at a significant

discount when the young widow who had ordered it never arrived to claim the dresses

from the seamstress. Mindful of her limited funds, Beth had bought only the bare

minimum that she needed, serviceable garments of black and gray, clothing suitable for

her new position.

"Blond hair and blue eyes … my youngest daughter has the same coloring as you,

though she is by no means as skinny. There, there"—Mrs. Beacon patted Beth's knee

consolingly—"you'll put on a bit of meat when you reach my age."

Her monologue continued throughout the ride, and then, close to Grantham, the sandy-

haired gentleman took advantage of Mrs. Beacon's need to draw breath and spoke in the

rare instant of silence.

"We are near to Gonerby Hill. 'Tis just to the north of Grantham," he said, leaning

forward in his seat. The movement pushed his high collar and stock even higher, and his

chin was nearly swallowed by the cloth. "Steep it is. The steepest on the Great North

Road. Why, I heard that last winter, there was so much ice and snow that the wheels could

not hold to the road and the stagecoach slipped and careened down to the bottom, flipping

end over end and crushing the driver and guard."

No one said a word.

"Everyone
died," he continued, his tone tinged with morbid glee. "And the horses, as

well."

A cheering thought.

"Oh." Beth could summon no more appropriate rejoinder.

Mrs. Beacon made a sound low in her throat and, after a moment, leaned close to Beth

and spoke for her ears alone.

"Remember, love, you must pay the coachman an extra shilling per stage, and the

guard, lest you find he loses your luggage. At the inn where you stay the night you must

give sixpence to the chambermaid and tuppence to the boots. My son and his wife are in

Grantham, and their twelve little ones. I'll not be going on with you to Northallerton…"

There, Mrs. Beacon made a lengthy pause, cleared her throat, blinked again and again,

her rheumy gaze locked on Beth's, until at last Beth understood the hint. In truth, her

thoughts were consumed by Mrs. Beacon's talk of shillings and sixpence and tuppence,

inordinate sums when compared with Beth's rapidly dwindling resources. Nonetheless, she

summoned a rejoinder to satisfy the other woman.

"I am bereft to lose your fortifying companionship, Mrs. Beacon," she murmured,

attempting to instill the observation with the appropriate tone of regret.

Closing her eyes, Beth battled a sharp pang of loss, not for the thought of leaving Mrs.

Beacon, but for her home, her parents, her brother, for everything known and customary.

She opened her eyes to find the gentleman who had spoken of the carriage accident

studying her with interest.

"I believe you mentioned Northallerton. Do you stay on there?" he asked.

"No. I go to the village of Burndale, to Burndale Academy. I am to be a teacher."

To Burndale Academy. Her mother had not wanted her to go, but there had been little

HIS WICKED SINS

Page 7 of 103

choice that Beth could see. Unless starvation was an option. Food was not free, nor

lodging, nor coal.

The gentleman made a rude sound that snuffled out his nose. "I know of such places,

such
academies."
He sneered and nudged the man next to him. "William Shaw, the

headmaster at Bowes Academy, was prosecuted … oh … some years past, on account of

two boys went blind from his beatings. And he starved them, too."

Beth felt a wary tension creep through the muscles of her limbs, her shoulders, her

back. His assertion shocked and horrified her. Pressing her lips together, she suppressed a

shudder.

Her horror would only burgeon and grow to unmanageable proportions if she let it.

Beatings and starvation.

"Burndale Academy has no such reputation," she said firmly.

"So you say." The man shrugged. "But such schools always harbor death, from

maltreatment, neglect, disease."

"If that is the case, who would send their children to such a place?" Beth demanded.

"Well, I suppose some do not know, and others do not care. Some of the children are

born on the wrong side of the blank—"

Mrs. Beacon cleared her throat loudly, and the gentleman broke off and gave a nervous

little laugh.

"I would not lodge a dog at Bowes Academy," he said, vehemently.

"You ain't got a dog!" the second gentleman pointed out, and gave a loud guffaw, the

noise drowning out Beth's rejoinder as she said, "Then it is a fine gift of fortune that I do

not travel to Bowes."

For some inexplicable reason, Mrs. Beacon chose this moment to cocoon herself in

silence. Beth gritted her teeth and turned her gaze back to the window, her heart heavy.

What viciousness had precipitated such discourse? She recalled the gleam in the

gentleman's icy pale eyes as he spoke of the carriage accident. Some people were

malicious creatures who thrived on tales of horror and pain. Perhaps he was such a one

and had set out with the purpose of creating unease.

She should not allow it.

Still, a troubling wariness gnawed at her. Was there a possibility that the man's horrific

assertions sprouted from a seed of truth? She truly knew almost nothing of Burndale

Academy…

No, she would not cast her mind to needless worry. Her correspondence with the

headmistress of Burndale had been most pleasant, and she would carry that positive

expectation until such time as it might be proved faulty.

Not so very far now,
she thought, though she felt as though she had been traveling for

an eternity. The jolt of the wheels as they dipped into grooves and ruts in the road shook

her bones, leaving her feeling bruised and broken.

But the worst of it for her was the confining nature of the carriage, the walls close, the

space small and tight. She felt the tug of panic, and she tamped it down lest it surge free

and drown her in an icy deluge that would rob her of breath, of rational thought, leave her

in a despised state of mindless terror.

HIS WICKED SINS

Page 8 of 103

An
attack of dismay,
her mother called it. Beth thought that a polite and benign term for

the ugly reality of her secret infirmity.

Forcing her shoulders to relax, she turned her gaze to the carriage window and the vast

space beyond. She could only be grateful that her destination was not so far as Edinburgh,

which would take a full fourteen days of travel.

A fortnight in a small, restricting coach. Dear heaven, what a thought.

Mrs. Beacon shifted closer, pressing her tight to the corner. Beth fixed her gaze on the

patch of sky she could see through the window and deliberately ignored the walls that

surrounded her.

Despite her current discomfort, she knew herself to be fortunate. Many women in her

position would be driven to truly desperate ventures. Surely traveling to Yorkshire, alone,

with only a letter to guide her and without friend or even acquaintance, was not desperate.

After all, she had secured honest employment as a teacher at Burndale Academy, and so

must count herself as privileged.

Her strengths lay in French, English language, music, and drawing, and she was quite

competent in geography and history. She was glad of her mother's tutelage these many

years, else they would all be in a terrible fix.

Yes, well, a
worse
fix than they were in.

You must not be afraid.

The thought brought a sad smile to her lips, for she could hear her mother's voice, kind

but firm, recalling that exact sentiment so many times over the years.

She must not be afraid.

Yet, in a secret corner of her heart, a place she shared with no one, Beth admitted only

to herself that she was
always
afraid of so many things … the memories … the dreams.

The truth.

* * *

Sarah Ashton lugged her third load of coal up the stairs to the fireplaces of Briar House.

So many fireplaces in this cursed place. Midmorning sun streamed through the window,

showing the dust on the table and the mantel. Sarah sighed. She would need to take care of

that before her workday ended, else Mrs. Sykes, the housekeeper, would make her stay

back on her afternoon off.

When the last of the coal was done with, she scrubbed her hands over her apron, careful

not to soil her dress. It was a pale blue cotton print, unlovely and faded from many

washings, but the color was fine on her. She hoped to keep herself clean until the

afternoon.

Fetching a wooden bucket, she started on her next task. Down on her knees, she

dragged forth the chamber pot from beneath the bed. She emptied the contents into her

slops bucket, then wiped out the pot with a wet cloth that hung from the waist of her

apron. Her nose wrinkled at the smell and she thought herself better than this, better than

chamber pots and slops and fetid rags.

He
thought so, too, her gentleman. He thought her worth pretty ribbons, a silver

HIS WICKED SINS

Page 9 of 103

thimble, a lace handkerchief, a silver watch. Imagine! She kept the delicate little watch

pinned to her dress, hidden beneath her apron so none would see. No sense inviting

questions. Likely, the housekeeper would think she'd pinched it.

In turn, she had gifted him with a lock of her hair. It was all he had asked of her, and

she had been happy enough to give it.

Sarah moved to the next room, the next chamber pot, and the next. Seven bedrooms.

Almost done now.

She paused and smiled as she thought of
him.
She'd not let him do more than hold her

hand and kiss her cheek. Only once, she'd been brave and bussed him on the lips. They

had been smooth and warm, and she thought perhaps today was the day she would let him

do more. He had been true, meeting her every week on her free afternoon. Today marked

the sixth week.

Sarah was no fool. He was taken with her, but no man of his ilk would stoop to marry

such as she. The best she hoped was that he might set her up, nice and quiet, and barring

that, well, a few trinkets and gifts. She was sentimental, but only to her limit. In the end,

she would sell what he gave her in order to buy herself a better life.

There was a sound in the hallway, barely a whisper. Sarah quickly fell to her knees and

dragged out the chamber pot. It would not do to be caught woolgathering. She emptied the

pot and wiped it as she had done with the others already that morning, then she rose and

turned toward the door. As she had expected, Mrs. Sykes stood in the doorway.

Sarah bobbed a quick curtsey.

Mrs. Sykes frowned, her brows drawing together to gouge deep furrows, her fingers

worrying the ring of keys at her waist. She looked as though she meant to say something,

and Sarah wished she would not.

Perhaps the housekeeper knew what Sarah did with her free afternoon. Perhaps she

meant to warn her away. If that was the case, Sarah wanted no part of it. 'Twas her own

affair, and she meant to keep it that way.

Pressing her lips together, Mrs. Sykes shook her head, and after a moment, she turned

and left Sarah alone.

Sarah's breath left her in a harsh whoosh as, hefting the half-full bucket, she moved to