by E. J. Dawson
“If she’s told you or that idiot Edwards anything,” Mr. Driscoll said, “then perhaps you best use the advice, because she will not offer it again.”
Mr. Driscoll pushed past him, taking the coat she’d laid to one side with her handbag and hat. He helped her to her feet, wrapping her in the coat. She didn’t bother pinning the hat back on, since there didn’t seem to be any point in covering her face.
His hand was warm on her arm, and he was about to lead her out, but Letitia paused. After a moment, she knelt and picked up the pieces of the bowl. Some shards were too small, but she gathered what she could in her hands, and Mr. Driscoll pulled out his handkerchief so she could lay the sharp edges against the cloth rather than risk cutting herself.
When they stood his eyes met hers, and she felt herself crumble.
He placed the handkerchief in her hands with the utmost care, and she did not miss the sneer on his face as he turned to Andrews.
“Damage of personal property, Andrews?” Mr. Driscoll said. “You best believe the judge and the commissioner will hear from me.”
Letitia let him escort her out while trying not to clutch the shards to her chest, the precinct a blur. Then they were out on the street, and she got into his car. He closed the door and they rumbled away from the station.
She laid out the handkerchief in her lap to look at the shell of what had been her grounding force. Her one hand that was still bare brushed the surface. She liked to touch them with her skin and to see the work Old Mother Borrows had put into making it for her—for her alone.
Nothing resonated from the pieces. They were calm as Old Mother Borrows had been.
But even now the sensation was fading to nothing more than echoes.
“Where can we get another one?” Mr. Driscoll was beside her, almost leaning over her lap to study the broken pieces.
“Scotland.” Letitia’s voice was devoid of emotion.
Mr. Driscoll cursed long and with eloquence. “I will buy you another.”
“It won’t be the same,” Letitia said, numb to the words that spilled from her mouth. “This was made by the woman who helped me regain my sanity after I was institutionalized. She taught me control and how to use my abilities for the better. It was my penance for what I’d done. She didn’t agree, but she made me the bowl. I used it to give grieving widows and families the chance to say goodbye to those that they loved. The chance no one gave me…”
Letitia shivered. Mr. Driscoll drew her close under the crook of his arm.
“I’ll fix it,” he vowed in her ear, the conviction there as his breath brushed her hair.
“Once something is this broken,” Letitia said through stilted words, “nothing can erase the marks left behind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Driscoll said. “You fixed my daughter after we’d given up hope. You let my sister know that at the end the only man she ever loved was thinking of her. You showed me the dark, and you were unafraid. I broke, Ms. Hawking, and you were fearless.”
The words were a lie to Letitia, and denial was a shield to stay true to her convictions.
“I’m not,” she gasped. “A man came the same as you, and asked me to save his little girl, and I couldn’t do it.”
She shook her head. The guilt grew with every second Cassy was out there in the hands of a monster, and Letitia couldn’t face her fear to find Mr. Edwards’ daughter.
“Tisha,” Mr. Driscoll said her name as though it were a prayer, “you have to stop blaming yourself. I’ve been down that path, as have you, but you have never veered from it.”
“You don’t know,” Letitia said, her whole story coming to the fore. She had to explain how wrong he was about her.
“You weren’t there, you don’t know what happened, how this could go wrong. Did go wrong. The woman at the séance…she promised to find my husband. His spirit followed me for months after his death, worried about us—the child inside me. I sensed his presence but didn’t understand it. When I had the chance, I went to a séance to find him, to see why he haunted me. The woman, the witch, was a fake, but because I was there, reaching for Daniel, I made it happen. I opened myself to Daniel, but something else came through. It tried to possess me, and I couldn’t let it, not with Daniel’s baby inside me. It took the witch instead and used her body to kill my baby!”
She was bending over, shards in her lap digging into her stomach where she gasped through the memory of similar pain. The confession was an admittance of her guilt, and she deserved the agony scarred onto her soul.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said, enveloping Letitia in his arms.
“I can’t look for another lost soul.” She wept against his coat, clutching it as close as she could, even as she heard the delicate threads tearing in her hands. “You see that now, don’t you? I can’t!”
“I’m sorry, Tisha, I’m sorry I even asked.” He squeezed her tightly against him, running his hands down her back, threading to the nape of her neck, holding her as though she were the most treasured and careful thing. Inside she was as jagged as the glass shards in her lap.
They were the fragmented promise she could no longer keep.
She had sworn she would offer true aid and closure to those who needed it like she herself had sought when the tides of the veil had turned against her in her naivete.
Her chance at giving peace to others ended with the shattered bowl. The inquisition by Detective Andrews was a knife wound to her bitter memories.
She cried through them all as Mr. Driscoll swept her away.
Chapter 16
“You’ll be safe with me,” Mr. Driscoll said.
Letitia set the phone down. She’d canceled her next week’s appointments. The explanation of her continued illness was the only excuse she could think to tell them. Most were kind enough to state they could wait. One humorous man said his wife would not get any deader. Letitia gave a polite reply but otherwise didn’t respond.
It was as though she had exhausted all of her energy in the car.
Not even embarrassment trod upon her as she glanced at Mr. Driscoll.
He leaned on the doorjamb, having listened in on her conversations and not leaving her side for a moment. They hadn’t spoken of what had passed between them.
“The house is huge,” he said, “and you are welcome to stay as long as you like. I don’t believe the police will come by again, but I don’t trust Andrews.”
“I suppose it’s for the best.” Letitia stared beyond him at the mess.
After what they’d done to her apartment, she didn’t want to be there.
The police had ordered Mrs. Finch to open the door after Andrews had taken Letitia away. They had opened drawers, combed through her things, taken some of the case files on her desk, and pried open the hazelwood box, and taken her scrying bowl.
Letitia had broken down again at the invasion, and the hatred toward her things. The violation of it all.
Mr. Driscoll had set her down in her chair by the fire, made tea, and done what he could to straighten her things.
When he finished and she was calmer, he’d given her the appointment book and told her to cancel her upcoming meetings. She’d followed his instructions in a daze, unsure of what else to do.
Beyond exhausted, she didn’t have the energy to be afraid anymore.
It didn’t aid matters that Mr. Driscoll wore an expression that didn’t bear defying.
There was something about him that was disconcerting, though it wasn’t directed at her. It had haunted his eyes since the police station, but if she caught his gaze, it vanished under a slight smile, only to return within moments when he didn’t know she studied him.
“I’ve packed you a bag,” he said. “While I don’t imagine they will come back, it would be better to be out of the way if they do. That you had your address book in your handbag means
they don’t have all the information on your prospective clients. Detective Andrews is convinced you can help him, and he will keep pursuing you.”
“I know,” Letitia said, hand resting on the phone.
She loved it here. The routine she’d developed was still so new that it hurt to have broken it.
“Tisha.” He took her listless hand. “I will run this down to the car and come back. Can you collect what else you want to take with you?”
She nodded and walked through her rooms.
There was nothing she couldn’t replace in here, though she took some of the oils—sandalwood, lemongrass, and rose. There were others, but the names on the labels were a blur as she turned away from the destruction and entered the bedroom. Far less violated, it still bore signs of the unwelcome entry. Letitia glanced around at the desk, but since the files were gone there was nothing else of note.
Mr. Driscoll had already collected her copy of Pride and Prejudice. Her closet was for the most part empty. The rest didn’t matter.
It struck her then how little she possessed. How fruitless her life had been if only to give closure to others, and she now no longer could. She stood in the middle of the room, absorbing the last few months. Had she made a difference to many people? Had it been worth it?
She turned at the sound of footsteps.
Imogen was there.
“You’re home early,” Letitia said.
“What on earth happened?” Imogen raced across the room and wrapped her arms around Letitia.
“The police,” Letitia said, as though that should explain everything.
“But they can’t do this.” Imogen let go of Letitia’s unresponsive form to bend down and meet her gaze. “It’s illegal, and you need to find a lawyer.”
Mr. Driscoll was there behind Imogen, studying Letitia.
As though waiting for permission.
She’d never thought twice about asking him.
“I have one,” Letitia said, and Imogen turned around, startled to see him.
“Mr. Driscoll,” she said. “Thank goodness you are taking care of her. How did this happen?”
“Ms. Hawking was helping a client,” he said, “and the client took the information to the police, who seem to think Ms. Hawking has something to do with the missing girls.”
“But she can’t,” Imogen burst out. “She’s not a hurtful bone in her body!”
The truth that Imogen didn’t know landed heavily among Letitia’s other evasions. Of secrets she hadn’t confessed in her grief during the car ride with Mr. Driscoll. The people around her weren’t aware of her past, and it was in self-defense, but Letitia knew she was capable of harming someone.
She could kill if she wanted. If she had to.
“Be that as it may,” Mr. Driscoll said, “Ms. Hawking has been in the country only a few months, and this case appears to have been going on for much longer than that. They are grasping at straws and looking for scapegoats, and they will not find one here.”
“Can she stay with you, though?” Imogen asked. “I know you were here while she was sick, but we would look after her.” There was more than a ghost of censure in Imogen’s voice, and it caused Mr. Driscoll’s lips to twitch as he gazed at Letitia, who took it upon herself to answer.
“I’m fine,” Letitia said, struggling to find her voice. “There is Mr. Driscoll’s sister and her daughter at the house. Besides, it has already damaged my reputation. I will need to move to another city.” The concept of having to leave and of figuring out where she would go clenched her stomach hard. Letitia stopped herself from cringing.
“I’ll come visit you, if I may?” Imogen said. “I don’t think you’ll feel much like going out, though.”
“Actually,” Mr. Driscoll said, “I think it would be a wonderful idea. Ms. Hawking has had little chance to let her hair down these days, and I suspect she could do with an outing. But only if she feels like it.”
There was an insistence there, but Letitia didn’t much care.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Imogen said. “I’ll come by Mr. Driscoll’s house tomorrow afternoon at least, and we can take tea and go from there? That is, if you’ll please give me the address, Mr. Driscoll?”
“Certainly.” He rattled it off, watching with amusement as her eyebrows rose at the prestigious location. “I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up at about two in the afternoon. It’s a long way to take a cab. The address is just in case you or Mrs. Finch are worried or would like to visit. You are more than welcome.”
“That would be very kind of you.” She smiled before turning back to Letitia. “You will be all right, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Letitia said and nodded in affirmation when Imogen’s smile faded. “I’m just quite shook up is all.”
“I don’t blame you. I’d lend you my place as a hideout, but it’s not very good.”
“And full already,” Letitia reminded her, and Imogen grimaced.
“We should leave,” Mr. Driscoll said. He didn’t need to say why.
Looking about, Letitia collected a few of her favorite hats, the materials she’d bought to make more, and the hatbox he’d gifted her. “I’m ready.”
Mr. Driscoll came over to take the box out of her hands, a warmth in his eyes when he caught sight of his gift to her. It was brief, only a sliver of eye contact, but it did much to dispel her unhappiness.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Imogen said as they left the apartment. “If the police come by, I’ll tell them what for.”
“Don’t do that—” Letitia started, but Mr. Driscoll interrupted her.
“They have no right to be here without a warrant. Call me straight away if they dare show their face here.”
Even Imogen’s eyes widened at the heat in his voice. “Straight away.”
“Thank you,” Letitia said, “for everything.”
“You are most welcome.” Imogen embraced her again and then drew back.
Letitia went down the stairs and into the kitchen, already taking her purse out.
Mrs. Finch was making dough and covered in flour, but she looked up as Letitia entered the kitchen. Her eyes were red, face pale, and the smile she attempted trembled on her lips.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she said, waving her hands about, sending gusts of white powder into the air. “I couldn’t stop them. I only let him in because he said he’d break down the door.”
“Which one was that, Mrs. Finch?” Mr. Driscoll asked, putting down the hatbox to take out a notepad from his suit pocket.
“That Smith!” She snapped his name, detest in every syllable. “Tried to insinuate our Ms. Hawking was a con, and that she was going to prison. I knew they wouldn’t find anything like that. She’s the honest-to-God real thing, and the people who visit here are made whole again!”
Letitia was already shaking her head. “Not all that,” she said, derision coating her words. “Nothing like that.”
Mrs. Finch shook her finger at Letitia.
“That first couple you’d seen, the one whose brother died,” she said, coming around the bench to stand before Letitia. “He felt as though he should have died in the war with his twin. It was destroying their marriage, their chance at a future. I heard them outside on the street, I was in the garden. He was apologizing to her, saying he would be a better husband, reopen the shop. You gave them back their lives.”
Letitia stared at her. “I only meant to give them closure…”
“They weren’t the only ones you helped. Far more could leave their grief behind because of you.” Mrs. Finch reached her hand out for Letitia’s, but she drew it back at the flour there. “More than one step was lighter on the stairs as they left—I heard them all—and was glad for it and for them.”
Letitia swallowed against the constriction in her throat. “Thank you.”
“
Well then, there you go,” Mrs. Finch said. “Now, you’ve paid me three months in advance just the other week, so you put away your money. Let’s just see where we’re at in a few days. And as for that policeman, if he comes back here, I’ll set my daughters on him. See if I don’t!”
“Please call Mr. Driscoll,” Letitia said before Mr. Driscoll could speak. “Don’t get in their way. I’d hate this to hurt your business.”
“I’ve kept it alive during the war,” Mrs. Finch said. “Not a bit of gossip will stop me. That cherry oil you left has pleased the girls, too. Can’t say I’m going to like it much with you not here to do that.”
“I promise to come back, even if it’s to deliver scented oil,” Letitia said.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Finch said with a sniff and watery eyes. “Be off with you. You look like you’re in capable hands.”
Letitia had forgotten Mrs. Finch would still assume Mr. Driscoll was her intended.
“Yes, and thank you,” Letitia said, blushing, before they took their leave.
Out on the street, the car was waiting, and Letitia was unable to ignore the sense of persecution at departing, as though this were England and she was running away again. The world was her choice then. Now she had only one, but she was grateful for it as she slid into the car.
Mr. Driscoll got in beside her, and they drove out to his estate.
She glanced over her shoulder as they drove away, a pang in her chest at what was to her an ideal and safe place. But no longer.
Following fast on its heels was a burning resentment toward Mr. Edwards. The doubt she’d failed him faded under the assault on her person by the police. While her heart was heavy in sympathy for the lost girl, ire grew at both Mr. Edwards and the police at what had been done to her private things. To her life.
Her numbness faded to rage, and she fumed on the long trip to the Driscoll house.