Page 82 of Cruel Shame

I pulled out my smartphone, tapped the call recording app, and let Mother’s voice tell him. He lowered himself into one of the wooden seats, and stared at the screen, his face unmoving.

As he heard Mother refer to the rape, Mr. Burgh’s face paled, and his breathing became harried. My stomach churned with a mix of nausea and dread. That part was horrific, but it wasn’t the worst. The recording played Mom telling me about Lady Liddell’s reaction, and Mr. Burgh flared his nostrils, his face twisting into a rictus of hatred.

My pulse beat so hard that it muffled what she said next. I didn’t need to hear it again. Once had etched a horrific image into my mind that I doubted would never stop haunting me until I destroyed every Liddell in existence.

Mr. Burgh bowed his head and sobbed.

I dropped the phone and wrapped my arms around the old man’s trembling shoulders. Part of me wanted to rain apologies on his head, but my recorded voice was already apologizing to Mother.

As soon as it stopped, Mr. Burgh wiped his eyes. “I hadn’t expected to hear that.”

“I didn’t want to upset you, but—”

“Don’t.” He squeezed my arm. “For the past eighteen years, I’ve wondered how on earth a happy girl could have fallen in with a man like Billy Hancock. She was probably safer with that cocaine baron than with me.”

I hugged Mr. Burgh tighter. “How were you supposed to watch her on a school trip when you trusted your colleagues to take care of her?”

He shook his head. “Abby became rebellious after that trip, but I left her discipline to her mother. I was so preoccupied with climbing the ranks when I should have known something was desperately wrong.”

I exhaled a long breath. “You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s actions, but what will you do about your job?”

“If I bankrupt myself exposing the Liddells, it will be money well spent.”

My eyes fluttered shut, and I rested my head against Mr. Burgh’s shoulder. With Orlando’s grandfather mobilizing the negligence trial against the academy, maybe the Liddells’ resources won’t stretch to defend the defamation suit.

* * *

I spent Saturday helping Mr. Burgh to pack his things. Mrs. Campbell had already helped him with a major clear-out after his wife had died, so it didn’t take long to put his essentials together. When we found the certificate hidden within the grandfather clock, Mr. Burgh’s mood turned dark, and he swore to ruin Father Neapolitan, Lady Liddell, and the archbishop.

As much as I wanted to help him on Sunday, I’d already promised Gideon that I’d stand in as his girlfriend for him when he met his parents. I wore the camel dress in merino wool I had made in my first term, and met Gideon in the academy’s reception area.

He donned a navy-blue, three-piece suit, with a white shirt and burgundy tie. Instead of the quiff he wore these days, he slicked back his straightened hair. He looked even posher than the haughty boy who had knocked on my door offering me elocution lessons.

“You look like you’re going to church,” I said.

“I told them I preferred the fellowship of my students at the chapel instead of joining them in the Templar cathedral.” He offered me the crook of his arm.

“Do you ever go to church?” I asked.

“Not unless I have no chance.” Gideon checked his mobile, where a banner from Uber messaged him that the driver had just arrived. “Thank you for accompanying me. You look both beautiful and respectable.”

As we stepped out into the brisk morning, I said, “Best to keep the PVC catsuit for a day when I wasn’t meeting Mr. and Doctor. Adewale.”

Outside was a black BMW X6, the same model Sammy drove. I peered down into the front seat, relieved to find the driver was Asian.

“Professor.” Gideon opened the door, letting out a gust of warm air.

“Huh?” I climbed inside and scooted to the far end.

“My parents are very strict on titles.” Gideon took the seat next to me and shut the door. “Father used to teach Chemical Engineering before he accepted a research position with Shell Nigeria.”

My stomach lining trembled with trepidation. A doctor and a professor? Gideon himself was posh enough. What kind of people was I going to meet?

The driver took us to the Templar House—the same tudor-style hotel Orlando had arranged our romantic night together. Its lobby consisted of dark wood floors and beamed ceilings with red-velvet chairs arranged around a roaring fire twice the size of Mr. Burgh’s. Behind its counter stood a pair of women wearing waistcoats the same shade as the chairs.

One of them walked toward us with a clipboard and beamed. “Mr. Gideon Adewale?”

He offered the woman a tight smile. “Good morning.”