Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  “Here.” Mr. Driscoll placed it on the table, and then took out of his pocket a box and lay it on top of the file. “Mrs. Quinn felt dreadful about what happened yesterday, and she wasn’t sure why you ran―”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Letitia said over the top of him, “but I must ask that you leave now.”

  She brought her hand to her temple, catching the beads of sweat. As her hand drew back, she saw the moisture, her vision swam, and her grip tightened on the chair until the wood groaned.

  “Would you like me to call a doctor?”

  “Go away, Mr. Driscoll,” she muttered, her legs shaking.

  “You look ill.” His feet appeared in her downturned vision. Realizing he was too close, she looked up at him, afraid. In the streaking light from the door, his features were stark but not unkind. When she didn’t respond his brows furrowed.

  “You left without your umbrella yesterday, and it was raining…” he said. Letitia scowled.

  “It’s no concern of yours.” She gestured to the door, but even as her arm swung her trembling legs gave out. He caught her outstretched hand, letting her crumple against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm about her.

  “Running through the rain because of bloody Abby,” he said in a furious curse. Her head was spinning too much to respond, vision swimming in and out as her consciousness faded. The world tilted as he brought his other arm under her legs. Her head fell against his shoulder and she couldn’t utter another protest. The thuds of his steps reverberated through her like heartbeats as he walked across to the door to her room.

  There was a disgusted sigh, no doubt at her meager lodgings. Standing her up by the bed, he flung the covers back with one arm and then sat her on its edge. She looked up at him with fear of the shadow that followed him, but there was nothing there. Instead, a shaft of light was striking his head, surrounding it in a crown of rose gold and silver. The nimbus effect robbed her of any timid response at indecency, and the once-stern lines of his face were of concern.

  He studied her in equal measure, fingertips brushing sweat-slicked strands from her face, touch tentative and warm. Letitia fought against leaning into his hand, taking meager comfort in the gesture of tenderness.

  She willed herself to sit upright, grasping at what little strength she had remaining to undo her dressing gown, but her fingers fumbled with the buttons.

  He pushed her hands away, undoing the buttons as her fingers would not.

  “I can’t…insist enough…how inappropriate…” Her voice trailed off as he helped her out of the dressing gown. She still had her nightgown, but the thin cotton was all that covered her. For all of his help, his gaze was minimal on her person in assisting her to bed.

  “Another time, Ms. Hawking,” he murmured. “Right now, you need rest and a doctor.”

  “It’s just a cold,” she said. “Please, I’m fine, just shut the door on your way out.”

  “Or it could be the damn Spanish flu,” he said, holding her with care despite the angry words. “How long have you been in the country?”

  He took care to lift her, pulling away the dressing gown and cradling her against his chest as he assisted her.

  “About six months,” Letitia said, the truth tumbling out. He tucked the sheets into the bed, the motion gentle even though he glared at her all the while.

  “Damnit.” He placed a hand against her forehead, the soft gesture a cool balm though his calloused palm was rough against the hot skin. “You would have landed in New York about the time a carrier ship from England brought the flu with it. Never mind all the traveling you must have done or all the clients you meet. Hold on.”

  He disappeared, returning moments later with a cloth and the bowl she kept her fruit in. Now empty of fruit, it slopped with water. Dragging a chair to her bedside, he wet the cloth and lay it on her forehead. It was bliss. The coolness was almost painful in its relief, bringing clarity to her thoughts but with it sleep and a growing fever.

  “Mr. Driscoll,” she whispered, licking her dry lips, “you can’t stay here.”

  “Propriety be damned, Ms. Hawking,” he said, putting on the kettle and taking off his coat. “I’ll get a cup of tea, ring for a doctor, and at least wait until he’s here to assess you aren’t in any immediate danger.”

  “That’s not what I meant…” Letitia felt herself fading, but she couldn’t have him here while she knew something dark followed him. Not while she was sick and weak, unable to stand, let alone face a malevolent spirit.

  Mr. Driscoll ignored her, making tea and taking stock of the things in her cupboard. Selecting the tea box, he made a cup and put it by the bed. “You need to keep your fluids up. I’m going to make a call or two and be right back.”

  Letitia couldn’t even answer. She lay in bed staring at him, aches stretching throughout her body, heat building in her limbs, and sweat beading under the cool cloth.

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said, touching her hand where it lay on the cover. She wasn’t wearing her gloves.

  Warmth flooded her, hotter than the fever, but burning it back and leaving her hand light. The cleansing wind across the desert left her breathless, but it eased the tension under her skin. She grasped his hand, wanting the sensation to fill her, body trembling with the sweet relief of his persona.

  He gasped but kept holding her hand, staring down at where she gripped him. Fire within him ran along her nerves, stemming the fever’s advance and flooding through her. The accidental touch brought back her clarity, and with horror, she snatched her hand back and drew it under the covers, but it was too late.

  She’d drawn on a sliver of him.

  It should mean nothing, it wasn’t too much, and she hoped she didn’t dream of him when she fell asleep.

  “Please go,” she said, weeping as she rolled over and away from him. There was silence behind her, and then the rustle of cloth and footsteps. Prone, Letitia was unable to open her eyes, the dry desert heat fading under the rush of the fever as it overwhelmed her.

  

  Letitia lay in a bed of a stonewalled room, desperate for water and her skin on fire. A part of her knew it was in the past, nothing but a memory, but she could no more have stopped it than she could change history’s events. At least it was her own dream and not Mr. Driscoll’s, but it was her last thought as the vision swept her away.

  Fever rocked through her, trying to claim her body. She was ready to give in.

  She could not scratch—they had bound her hands. She could not move—they’d tied her feet.

  “Please,” she begged the figure by the fireside.

  “They spent a year filling you with poison,” the old woman said. “Did you think it would all go away?”

  No, she didn’t, but Letitia had never guessed it would be like this, the sweat pouring from her body and saturating the sheets. A stranger changed them, paying no mind to the bindings, but Letitia never lost sight of the woman in the rocking chair whose words stole any inclination to cry for help. Gimlet eyes pierced her soul and when Letitia wanted to scream, she found the compulsion absent.

  The woman studied her, smoking her pipe, piling more wood on the fire, and making the room hotter and hotter. Not a bead of sweat was on her, though covered head to toe in wool as she was. She was there while Letitia burned, with watchful eyes that never blinked. They became Letitia’s anchor, drawing her back to life and sanity.

  On the third day, Letitia awoke, calm and still. The old woman got up and unbound her legs and hands without Letitia asking. Letitia couldn’t even lower her arms by her sides or curl her legs up, so the woman did it for her. A buxom frame with the arms of an ox moved Letitia about as though she were nothing but skin and bone. It’s what Letitia had become.

  “Who…who are you?” Letitia asked between cracked lips.

  The woman smiled for the first time in days, and not the tooth
less grin of a hag but the wide smile of a Cheshire cat, with perfect teeth and all the secrets.

  “You can call me Ol’ Mother Borrows,” she said. “Everyone does.”

  “What do you borrow?” Letitia said, weak and light-headed.

  “Lost souls. Like you, my girl.” She picked up a cloth and wiped away the last of the sweat from Letitia’s forehead. “I’ll borrow you for a time and make you whole again.”

  “After what I did?” Letitia said, able to think of her pain and loss without falling into the void of grief.

  “There’s another fate waiting out there for you, tangled up in your past,” Old Mother Borrows said, “and you’ve got to go find it to get through it, even if it means revisiting your worst fears.”

  

  Letitia opened her eyes.

  A hazy memory lingered. Sunlight streamed into the room, but it was from the afternoon sun. Had she slept all day?

  Stretching against her tired limbs, she felt feeble as a kitten as she lifted her head. Scanning her bedroom, Letitia caught sight of her bedside covered with bottles of medicine. Upon the bureau across from her sat a leather bag, open at the top. Other things that weren’t hers were strewn about.

  Mr. Driscoll sat in a chair across the room.

  Ankles crossed, he slumped in the chair, a book in his hands. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, and he’d hung his coat and waistcoat on the stand she kept in her session room. He was reading her battered copy of Pride and Prejudice.

  The trickling light etched the lines on his face about his eyes, haggard but at ease, as he turned another page.

  There were footsteps across the session room, and Mrs. Finch came in, carrying a tray.

  “Here you are then, Mr. Driscoll,” she said.

  “You are a godsend, Mrs. Finch.” He put the book to one side and placed the food on his lap. Letitia puzzled over their easy companionship before Mrs. Finch noticed Letitia was awake.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Finch cried, bustling over to Letitia, “you’re back with us, dear!” She came over to the end of the bed and patted Letitia’s foot under the covers.

  “How long was I ill?” Letitia asked, her throat raw. Mr. Driscoll set aside the tray, getting a glass of water before Mrs. Finch could move.

  “Three days, no less,” Mrs. Finch said, a fond look at Mr. Driscoll, “and your intended hasn’t left your side.”

  Letitia raised a brow as Mr. Driscoll blocked Mrs. Finch’s view, saying nothing as he held out the glass. She lifted her hand, the glass almost slipping through her trembling fingers before his hand tightened around hers. He sat on the bed beside her, his free hand coming around to cradle her head and lift her up so she could sip the water.

  She gulped it down, and he took it away before she was ready.

  “Not too much. You haven’t eaten in a few days,” he said, easing her head down and getting up before she uttered a word.

  The water eased the dryness in her throat, revitalizing her. When Letitia tried to sit up, he was there again, one hand under her back and the other keeping her decency as he held the covers to her chest. She wasn’t in the same nightgown.

  When she widened her eyes, there was an amused glint in his eye, but he said nothing. Letitia wanted to know what he thought he was about but was silent as Mrs. Finch put a pillow behind her head.

  “Thank you,” she said, puzzled and uncomfortable at the turn of events.

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Driscoll murmured.

  “I’ll get more broth,” Mrs. Finch said, beaming at Letitia. “You’re so lucky to have such a good fiancé, Ms. Hawking.”

  Letitia couldn’t stop the color burning up her cheeks, and from Mrs. Finch’s sly twist of her lips, she was aware Mr. Driscoll was not her partner. “That man hasn’t left your bedside for three days, Ms. Hawking, for it’s Sunday afternoon, I’ll have you know.”

  With that, she picked up her skirt and swept out.

  “Three days?” Letitia croaked, searching for her purse and appointment book. All those clients she’d have to call and apologize to. She struggled to find an excuse.

  “Looking for this?” Mr. Driscoll was holding the little black book, picked up from where it rested on the desk. Letitia held out a hand for it, but his stern expression gave her pause.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I called them all and explained you were ill. They’ll wait until you call them again.”

  At his cool expression, Letitia became aware he’d seen she didn’t have as many appointments as she’d claimed. Not that he hadn’t guessed already, but now he’d be sure. She drew back her hand, her scattered brain finding no excuse to give him as they stared at one another, the seconds ticking on.

  She cast her gaze to the floor.

  There was nothing she could say to a man as determined as he was, and instead, she turned to other embarrassing subjects.

  “Thank you for taking such excellent care of me.” She tugged the ends of her hair fallen loose from their plait.

  “It was the least I could do,” he said. “Whatever was said and done, it was never meant to hurt you. You were in this predicament after the duress placed on you by me and my sister.”

  Letitia opened her mouth to deny that it had been anything Mrs. Quinn said, almost mentioning the figure before she fell silent. To confess would only make Mr. Driscoll wonder what had made Letitia run. He did not need to know of her fears.

  “Besides,” he went on when she didn’t speak, “if you had Spanish flu, there was a good chance I did as well when the doctor arrived, and I didn’t want to bring sickness to my own home. By the time the doctor could have organized a nurse there was no point.”

  Letitia’s brows puckered, wondering if Imogen or Mrs. Finch and her daughters could not have assisted, and he must have read it in her face.

  “I didn’t want to impose on the people of this house,” he whispered, “or make them ill, too. They have livelihoods of their own.”

  Suitably chagrined, Letitia instead dwelled on having Mr. Driscoll stuck here for three days, trapped in this tiny room with a sick woman he didn’t know. A sneaking suspicion of his motivations burned in her cheeks, replacing the fever. Would he demand her help now?

  “You’ve been very kind, and I am much better now,” she began, and his mouth quirked as he blinked at her.

  “Are you about to ask me to leave?” he said, soft as the hearth fire, and far hotter. Letitia wanted nothing more than to have her apartment back. To untangle herself from his insistent advances. She longed for a slender thread of his tenderness to be for her and her alone—and not her abilities.

  “I cannot thank you enough,” Letitia said, but not denying she wanted him to leave. “But doing so does not indebt me to your niece’s cause.”

  Mr. Driscoll froze, staring at her. “It might surprise you to know, Ms. Hawking,” he drawled her name, anger burning in every word, “that I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

  Then without another word, he stood up and walked out the door.

  Letitia would have breathed a sigh of relief had it not been for all of his things strewn about the room. A reminder of all he’d done, and a promise he’d be back.

  Chapter 8

  Letitia wasn’t surprised when she opened the door and Mr. Driscoll stood there.

  He hadn’t returned for several days, and by then she was better.

  The scope of his aid came to Letitia long after he’d left. Imogen, returning from work, came to check on Letitia. Imogen had nothing but kind words for Mr. Driscoll, who’d called for a private physician and rang all of Letitia’s clients to apologize and rebook or promised a return call on Wednesday when Letitia should be better. He took her calls as well, making notes of times and numbers so Letitia could get in touch with ease. He left the book with all the numbers on
the dresser for when she was ready.

  And he’d not done it for her help. His words echoed back to her every moment she uncovered another facet of the days he’d spent there. A pile of papers in a briefcase indicating he’d worked away from his office. A delivery came with her laundered dresses. Her cupboard was full of food she’d never bought, even the tin of shortbread full.

  She hadn’t asked him to do any of it, didn’t remember the days as it was, but she still carried a conviction he meant to win her gratitude for what he wanted.

  Yet the thoughtfulness needed to be acknowledged.

  Letitia met his eyes, a thousand questions on her lips but most of all a beseeching why, which his return gaze did not answer.

  And something twisted within, an admission she never wanted to make. She couldn’t ignore him any longer.

  Stepping aside, she opened her door to him, and there was the briefest flicker of relief as he passed her.

  He carried a box under one arm. She hadn’t even noticed it until he placed it on the table.

  “I brought you a gift.”

  It was she who should be thanking him, but he came with a present not knowing his reception.

  Another time...

  His words still echoed in her ears. The whisper he’d uttered when he’d helped her to bed—in her anxious state in the days after he left, she’d wondered if she’d heard them. She did not expect him to have had such thoughts about her.

  The vivid memory of him standing over her, with her in nothing but a nightgown, caused raucous butterflies to skip over her skin and slip under it to writhe in her chest at the sight of him in her rooms once more.

  Now they came again, a thousand times louder, not with dread but the foreign touch of anticipation.

  Letitia’s gaze flickered between him and the box, the prickling sensation of wariness warring with the tightness in her throat. Though she’d invited him in, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stay. Some measure of fear, or of betrayal to her once love, nibbled at her thoughts during Mr. Driscoll’s absence.

  Despite it, she’d collected all Mr. Driscoll’s belongings, had laundered his clothes in kind, and even mended a loose button on his waistcoat. It had seemed a trifling, silly thing to have done for someone she was both drawn to and feared, yet she had bought the right color thread and made the stitching as small as possible to fit in with the fine cloth of the garment.