Page 82 of A Devil in Silk
It was an odd thing to say.
Almost as if the women shared the same burden.
Guided by little more than intuition, Clara said, “You speak of what happened at the Rosefield Seminary?”
It was a stab in the dark. A clue that made no sense.
Lady Rutland’s eyes widened. “Dear Lord. Agnes told you? Your mother clutched her Bible and swore never to breathe a word.”
Clara seized on a sudden certainty that explained why she was being questioned for two murders. “You attended the seminary with my mother.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, and I’ve paid for it every day since.” Lady Rutland looked at the crib, her sudden sadness palpable. “We’ve all suffered because of the curse that stupid girl placed upon us. None of us took it seriously.”
Clara searched her mind, desperate to recall the name of the pupil who perished. “I know Miss Forbes was involved in a scandal. That she died tragically at the Rosefield Seminary.”
Lady Rutland flinched as if pricked by a pin, her face turning chalk white as she clapped her hands over her ears. “Heavens above. Do not mention her name here. I’ll not lose the only child I have left.”
Jaw tight, Bentley said, “Mother, if you know something that can end this madness, you’ll tell me now.”
Clara softened her tone. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion downstairs, over tea.” Somewhere that didn’t rouse upsetting memories or reopen wounds time had failed to heal.
The tension followed them down to breakfast, lingering like an unwelcome guest at the table. They sat in uneasy silence while the footman poured the tea. Steam curled from china cups no one touched. None of them had an appetite.
At last Bentley dismissed the servants. He waited for the soft click of the door before speaking. “Miss Nightshade was afraud. She planned to blackmail Miss Dalton over the tragedy at Rosefield, convinced she knew the secrets buried there.”
“A journalist planned to write a story about Miss Forbes,” Clara added. “But she was murdered before she could print a word.”
“Murdered?” Lady Rutland’s hand trembled as she drew her lace handkerchief and dabbed her brow. “Good heavens, I might be next. Do you see the danger you’ve brought us by refusing to marry Sarah? If you had honoured the pact, we might all have been spared.”
Bentley slammed his hand on the table, his patience evidently frayed. “What has this got to do with Sarah Woodall?”
Lady Rutland blenched as silver clattered against china. “Because while we all suffered, her mother remained untouched.”
“Untouched? Untouched by what?”
“The curse, of course.” Lady Rutland’s gaze darted about the room as though Miss Forbes’ spirit clung to the wallpaper. “The pact was the only way of saving you.”
Clara recalled something Miss Nightshade said while trying to frighten her. That Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. “My mother bore some of the guilt for Miss Forbes’ death.”
“Not just Agnes. Mimi and I, too,” Lady Rutland said, her voice breaking. “I suspect that’s what drove Lord Tarrington to open that museum and fill it with dark relics. After what befell his poor wife, perhaps he’s as desperate as I am to break the spell.”
Bentley tutted. “You’re speaking in riddles. Who is Mimi, and why would Tarrington care about omens?”
His mother gave a frustrated groan. “Amelia Tarrington. The lord’s aunt. She shared our dormitory at the seminary.”
Trying to piece the fragments together, Clara asked, “My mother shared a room with you, Miss Tarrington, and Miss Forbes?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs Woodall was at the seminary too?”
“Yes, though she went by her maiden name then. She’s the only one whose life isn’t blighted by tragedy.”
Bentley raked a hand down his face, his disbelief plain. “You think you’re to blame for Marcus’ death? You thought if I married Sarah, I would somehow be saved?”
“Well, yes. Why did you think I was so insistent?”
Bentley’s voice softened, the sharpness ebbing. “And you’ve carried this burden alone for forty years?”
