Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  A few minutes pass, then someone—sounds like a man—walks the length of the sidewalk outside Hollister’s, directly to our hitching post. He does something with the reins. Slowly, quietly. Alarmed by his secretive manner, I shove my bonnet back into place and sit up. I smell strong emotion now and shrink from it. Blood. Hatred. Whoever stands at Jem’s head is filled with the unholy passion.

  Out of the wagon, Hester. Find help.

  Before I can move, the reins are dropped and the brake lever released, followed by a brutal snap of a whip. Poor Jem takes off in a panic. I grasp the iron railing that runs along the bench and slide over to the driver’s side. Everything is so loud it’s difficult to think.

  Be calm. Get Jem under control. The wagon pitches forward, and I’m almost tossed off. Deus miserare. That was close. Taking a deep breath, holding the railing for dear life, I squat down on the boards where Willard’s feet rest when he’s driving the wagon. Dirt and pebbles from Jem’s hooves fly into my face. Calmness, be damned. Get those bloody reins, you fool! Slow the horse down! I run my free hand around the boards, but there is nothing. Then the vehicle slams to the left, and my body flips back up to the bench seat. I lie across it now, stomach down, feet hanging over the side of the wagon. How can I save myself? O di immortales.

  The chickens in the wagon bed squawk an octave higher, and my eardrums feel as though they will burst. This situation would almost be comical. Except for the fact I’m in mortal danger and a threat to the pedestrians in my path. All the escape artist skills in the world won’t help me here.

  Is this my day to die? Does Sir Death wait for me just ahead?

  I turn on my right side and draw my knees toward my chest. My feet no longer dangle in mid-air. As I sit up on the bench, we round the corner on two wheels and tear across High Street. Poor Jem is completely out of control and crazed with fear, the froth from his mouth flying back and hitting my cheek. People scream at me, as though I’m capable of fixing things. Children cry out in alarm.

  If I survive, I will never live this down. Witnesses will tell and retell this tale forever.

  The wagon swings wide, nearly turning over, and Jem jumps an obstacle in the road. I hear him crash against something and scream in pain. The crate of chickens topples out, and my head strikes the metal railing.

  Blast it all but that hurt…

  I must have lost consciousness, for how long, I’m unsure, but when my wits return, a horse and rider are bringing my wagon to a stop.

  Curses! My top lip burns like hellfire. I spit the blood from my mouth and hear Jem swing his head, agitated and restless. His breathing is erratic, punctuated with shrill braying. I turn my hearing down while tears form in my eyes. Dear Jem. He must be in a world of pain with all that carrying-on. What can I do for him?

  The rider dismounts and strides over to me. “Are you all right, madam?”

  Slumped over the bench seat, I lift my aching head and nod once.

  “Good,” he says, touching my shoulder lightly. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  Don’t move? But I must help Jem. Do I know this man?

  It feels as though I’ve barely sat up when my rescuer returns. “Your horse needs to be put down,” the low voice murmurs. “His front leg is nearly severed, and he has deep lacerations on his belly. I’m sorry, madam, but it should be done now. It’s the merciful thing.”

  This news breaks my heart, for Jem has been my friend for many years. Even before Cordelia came, when I had no one else. Covering my face with my hands, I listen as the man leads his horse away. He returns to the wagon, unhitches Jem, and moves between the cob and myself.

  I wish I could pet Jem or rest my head against his neck, as I have done so often. Smell that dusty hay and horseflesh combination. There, there, old dear, I’d tell him. I’m so sorry. You’re a grand boy, and I’ll always love you.

  The stranger cocks his weapon and a shot rings out, shattering the air. Sound waves strike my ears, and Jem grunts briefly. His heavy body settles upon the earth. Oh, Jem. Farewell.

  Dizzy, brain throbbing. Everything turns upside down again.

  I resurface amid bits of conversation.

  “You there, transport the remains of the horse. It’s blocking the street.” This person speaks with an official, constable-like tone. It’s probably Wilkins-the-Younger—he comes from a long line of policemen.

  Another person steps forward. “Did she strike the poor beast with this whip?” He rounds his vowels excessively and sounds so condemning that I wince. Must be Judge Phelan. He hangs everybody whether they’re guilty or not.

  “Miss Hester would never do that!” Cordelia replies.

  Thank you, dear companion. That calls for a raise. And please don’t quit. This wasn’t my fault.

  “There’s a fresh lash on his back, I tell you!” the judge exclaims. He must be hoping to impress his constituents. It’s an election year.

  I shake my head gently, and sit up as Wilkins disperses the crowd. “Go home everybody. Clear out—”

  The wood under my hand is rough. Where am I? How did I get here? The world spins like a top, and strong hands catch me, urge me back. Someone solid is sitting so close I can feel his warmth. In fact, I am lying across his thigh. He tilts my chin up and curses when I slap his hand.

  “Stop struggling. Let me help.”

  It’s the voice of the calm, reassuring man from before, the champion who saved me. Only now he sounds a bit peeved, and he’s pulling off my spectacles.

  This action dispels my hazy stupor. Nobody, but nobody, touches my glasses unless we’ve been introduced at the very least. I slap his hand again.

  “I’m a doctor, Miss Grayson,” he says. “I need to examine your injuries.” Now he’s at my spectacles again, this time successfully removing them. “The name’s Kelly. Just arrived in town today.”

  Vulnerable, and therefore supremely put out, I gesture for the spectacles. Dr. Kelly returns my glasses, laughing softly. Even though this man has shot my horse and sworn at me, I do like his laugh. It’s a smoky, whiskey-flavored sound.

  “Where’s your home?”

  Raising my eyebrows, I gesture at my throat, implying that I cannot talk. And that he is a dunce. And quite probably medically incompetent.

  Again, that smooth, dark laugh. “So you’re mute as well as blind.”

  I clap and point at my nose.

  “Right on the proboscis, eh?” Kelly checks my limbs for broken bones while he talks. “Let it never be said that you’re uncommunicative. I’d rank your scowl with the best of them.”

  Cordelia joins us, climbing into the wagon bed, and sitting between the good doctor and I. Truly, it’s rather crowded now.

  “I’m so glad you’re alive, Miss Hester.” She puts her hand on my arm, turning me for a closer inspection. “You look horrible! Does your face hurt?”

  What a ridiculous question. Of course it does.

  Someone ambles over to the wagon and spits in the dirt. I know this man. He smells of chewing tobacco and sagebrush. “Yep, White Hair,” Willard Little Hawk says. “You were born lucky, all right.”

  Dr. Kelly snaps his bag shut. “She’ll be fine. Miss Grayson has a very hard skull.”

  He jumps off the wagon and walks south. His horse whinnies happily as the doctor approaches. Cordie immediately begins grooming me—wiping at something on my nose, fixing my hair, pulling my skirt into place. It has been a long, frightening afternoon, and my nerves can’t tolerate much more. I think I’m being reasonable when I shove her away and stand on wobbling legs, ready to climb down from the wagon and walk home if necessary.

  “You’re a mess,” Cordie whispers, brushing at my sleeve. “That Kelly’s one fine-looking man, though.”

  I’m a mess? A mess? Doctor Kelly can bloody well—

  These thoughts have barely formed when the man in question rides up alongside the wagon and grabs me.

  6

  Urbanus et instructus.

  A gentleman a
nd a scholar.

  There are no words. No words even in my mind. I am so shocked by the indignity of being hauled out of the wagon like a sack of flour that I can’t even think of what to call Kelly.

  “Your friend Little Hawk told me where you live. Let’s get you there, Miss Grayson.”

  We ride along with me sitting in front of the doctor, sidesaddle, with the pommel digging into my leg. Blasted uncomfortable. But Kelly cradles me with his free arm against the worst of the galloping motion, and my cheek rests against his chest. I haven’t had any visions during this ordeal, even with the doctor’s probing. Unusual. Must be the bump on my head.

  The minutes drag by until we reach my family’s estate. The manor house is called The Revels, which is incongruous since I have never heard the slightest bit of revelry taking place there. Dr. Kelly speaks with a footman, telling him to notify my mother that we have arrived. From Mama’s gasp, I’d say she’s flummoxed. The doctor introduces himself, and describes the wagon accident in a matter-of-fact manner.

  He hands me over to a stable groom, climbs down from his horse, and then takes me back in his arms again. It’s similar to a slow game of hot potato, with me as the traveling spud. We proceed through the porte-cochere like incognito royalty, and Mama leads our entourage—housekeeper, butler, valet, cook—and Dr. Kelly and I to the second floor. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be swept off my feet and carried to my boudoir by a gentleman. It’s not at all as I’d imagined. The staircase is steep and long, and although Dr. Kelly does not sound out of breath, I’m sure he’s regretting that he didn’t just leave me with the stable groom.

  Mama opens my bedroom door, and the entourage enters, Dr. Kelly and I bringing up the rear. He puts me down gently upon the mattress, and pushes me prone, taking off my glasses again without permission. Damnation, they don’t belong to you. Give them back.

  The doctor does nothing of the kind. Rather he clears the room of all bystanders except for my mother. Then Kelly unbuttons the collar of my dress and feels the pulse at my throat, the forward fellow. “Any nausea?” he asks.

  I shake my head, causing it new pain, and hear the dreaded rattling in my mother’s pocket. She sets the bottle and spoon on the nightstand.

  Please, no laudanum. I’m not strong enough to wrestle with you and Cordelia now.

  “What medicine is this?” Dr. Kelly asks Mama.

  “The elixir of the poppy. It helps Hester to rest.”

  I hear the doctor pick up the bottle and uncork it. A moment later he puts the stopper back in. “I’ll take this laudanum with me,” he says. “It’s the last thing your daughter needs. She must remain awake for a few hours, to ensure that her concussion is not worse than I suspect.”

  Much obliged, Kelly. I take back all the bad things I thought about you earlier.

  “What if we require the laudanum at another time?” my mother asks.

  “All your daughter requires is nourishing food and kind company. The repeated use of narcotics can lead to addiction.”

  Cordelia’s footsteps hustle along the hallway. Willard must have borrowed a rig in town to bring her home. She opens the bedroom door and enters, quietly listening as the doctor gives further instructions for my care. He sends for water and clean towels and bathes my facial wounds—the broken skin on my forehead, the raw cheekbone and split lip. It is an odd, humbling situation for me, but the doctor has a soft touch. Checking his handiwork, Kelly leans over me again, cupping the side of my jaw in his hand.

  Brightness and color explode within my head. Vignettes, not like a full-length vision at all, but a mental scrapbook of sorts. This kind of thing is rare for me, happening only a handful of times that I can remember. A flash of discernment without any scenes of death or crime. In theory, the revelation is supposed to help me understand people better, but I do not always know how to use the information I receive. And it can be quite disconcerting, to witness so much of another’s life.

  I can barely keep up with the vision, the images change so fast. A child plays at the seashore. He is golden-haired with heavily-lashed, hazel eyes and a faint cleft in his chin. A woman watches from a distance and calls him Noah, telling him to get out of the waves. The next scene shows an older version of the child—nine or ten, perhaps?—standing on the stoop of a brownstone with a toddler in his arms. Two people argue inside the building behind him; the man throws furniture about and the woman screams. Now Noah is a youth, at least five years older than the boy outside the brownstone. He runs through the night with a gang of hoodlums. They break the glass of a shop window, steal the jewelry on display inside, and flee. Except Noah is caught by a man wearing a top hat and carrying a doctor’s satchel.

  The last picture shows Noah Kelly at his graduation from medical school. Seated on a stage, he looks over the audience at the commencement exercises as though he is searching for someone, anticipating, a muscle working in his jaw. The strong, clean lines of his face are mature now, having finally achieved their full promise of rugged beauty. A stylish brunette waves at him from the crowd, holding an infant on her lap. Seeing them at last, the new physician smiles and waves back.

  “You’ll feel better soon, Miss Grayson,” Kelly says, his deep voice sweeping into the vision and returning me to the present time. “I’ll follow up with you tomorrow.”

  My cheeks bloom with heat, and I feel contrite, as though I’ve seen him bare, body and soul. After a few more words, he bids us farewell and leaves. Mama begins to give Cordelia instructions. Do not excite Miss Hester, see that she rests … I tune out their conversation and listen as a groom brings the doctor’s horse to the porte-cochere. Kelly rides away, whistling the song “Oh, My Darling Clementine”, and I smile inside at his choice of music. If my mother had heard it, she would have disapproved, but I like that the doctor doesn’t take himself too seriously.

  Mama kisses the top of my head before making her own departure, and Cordelia helps me undress. She chooses my favorite cotton nightgown—the soft, nearly-threadbare one. Bless her heart for putting my comfort before fashion.

  “Shall I read to you?” she asks.

  I smile with my cracked lip as Cordie takes a book from the shelf. It is most likely Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic masterpiece, The Mysteries of Udolpho. My companion smuggled the forbidden novel into my mother’s fortress of propriety a few days ago, and it has proved gripping. I settle back against my pillow and she begins reading where we left off last time. And continues on, with only a few pauses to sip water or adjust her lap blanket, until the book reaches its conclusion. “Well, wasn’t that something, Miss Hester?” she asks.

  Nodding in agreement, I stifle a yawn. Despite my weariness, Udolpho was a thrilling tale which transported me outside my little world for a few hours. How I wish I could travel to far away places! Visit the Continent, the Far East, India and Africa. Even as I dream of it, I know I never will. My parents wouldn’t allow me to go and neither would my magic. Stonehenge is the center of my power as a Visionary, and it sustains me in both the supernatural and physical sense. I can visit other places for a time, but I cannot remain there. If I do, I’ll grow weak and eventually perish.

  “How are you feeling, miss?” Cordelia asks.

  She sounds worried. Does my face reflect my disappointment with the confines of life? I try to look cheerful, and it must be convincing. Cordelia decides that I am well enough to leave alone, says goodnight, and pulls the curtains around my canopy bed. The bedroom door shuts, and I listen as her footsteps turn toward the servant’s quarters.

  Snuggling under the satin duvet, I close my eyes, but sleep does not come. I toss and turn as the wagon accident repeats itself in my mind. Should I contact Tom? Would he mind the interruption at this time of night? I had planned to tell him tomorrow since he is likely asleep, but my reserves of pluckiness and strength are tapped out. I sit up and send Tom a message of yearning, pour my heart into each word. I share with him how scared I was in that wagon, express my sadness over losin
g Jem. He answers immediately with warmth and concern. We remain in this suspended state of mental togetherness, until Tom begins thinking rationally. He has me describe my experience again. The questions sound casual yet I know he is upset.

  The horse was given a lash? You’re certain of it?

  Miles away in my bedroom, I nod, as though Tom is there with me. Yes, just before Jem bolted. Was it a practical joke run amuck, do you think?

  Someone struck the horse and threw the whip back into the wagon, making it look as though you’d hurt the animal yourself. Nothing funny about that, Hettie. You might have been killed, as well as a score of other innocent people.

  At Tom’s request, I make a list of those who might want me dead. It’s a miserable, horrible thing to do, but I begin with the obvious candidate. He who wishes I had never been born and has said so on several occasions.

  My father.

  It didn’t sound like him walking toward the wagon. The emotion smelled different, more intense. As if it were usually contained and had suddenly broken free. Besides, Father doesn’t hide his feelings. His distaste for me is obvious.

  I’m sorry, love. John Grayson’s a rotten, money-grubbing scoundrel. Just say the word, and I’ll give him the trouncing he deserves.

  No! No trouncing’s needed at present. It can’t be Father, anyway. He plans out every possible outcome. This was too spur-of-the-moment for him.

  Tom’s thoughts are a tapestry of frustration and fear. What about our killer from the Halloween vision? He might have tracked you down, thinking you know the truth about him.

  I grab a pillow and hug it tightly against my chest. Mary Arden warned me of danger, too. Let’s not forget the heir of Archimendax.

  You communicated with the woman telepathically before. Why not try it again? Ask her about him. His identity, to begin with…