Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  She needed to find a better way of screening patrons if she wanted to continue. Meeting at her home wasn’t ideal with the likes of Mr. Driscoll thinking he could stop by whenever he pleased. Perhaps she’d keep it as a place of business but find a new house to let or even buy. Mrs. Finch wouldn’t mind, and Letitia was carving herself a small niche in the vibrant, boisterous city. Though there was security in staying in a house full of other women.

  Mr. Finch died during the war, but Mrs. Finch hadn’t stopped the family business of soap and oil making. Mrs. Finch’s products came from a long line of tried and tested recipes and concoctions to delight the skin and senses. Scented soaps, conditioners, and ladies’ products. The two daughters convinced their mother to move into cosmetics and were quite successful. They sold their merchandise in a boutique store on the ground floor that opened onto Spring Street, the other half closed off for manufacture of the goods and access to the garden where all their herbs grew and the soaps dried. The family lived below Letitia and Imogen, though there was a front room on the second floor Mrs. Finch had all to herself.

  The arrangement was pleasant enough and Letitia didn’t want to lose it yet.

  The possibility of buying a house was becoming more difficult with the war and growing film industry, but she had funds yet. After her husband’s death and the subsequent incident, she could not stand the sight of the house that had once been her home. Letitia sold everything she owned and took only a suitcase when she moved to London. A hazy idea floated in her mind to return one day and buy a cottage on the coast where she’d grown up before Daniel swept her off her feet…

  It was a thought for another day. Picking up the packages, she hurried to her rooms. She needed time to prepare the meeting room before this afternoon’s guests and tonight’s session. Unlocking the door, Letitia was proud of what she’d accomplished with the décor, conscious of its purpose.

  People were suggestible, and while she wanted to assure her patrons of her abilities, there were certain expectations. With Mrs. Finch’s permission, Letitia coated the walls in a burgundy velvet wallpaper and covered the windows with a thick damask fabric in a plum wine color, darker than the walls. She used wrought-iron candelabras in four corners of the room and a chandelier over the table for atmosphere. The rounded walnut table stood in the center, two chairs opposite the one Letitia sat in. It was a suitable room for what she did and put patrons in the right mind frame to be receptive to her gift. It was a little dark for her tastes, but she’d learned to appeal to the theatrics in people’s own heads when it came to her unique talent.

  Her clients didn’t want to hear the final moments of their loved ones over a white lace tablecloth in a bright green room. The wall’s previous color hadn’t been suitable for any décor that Letitia could think of, and Mrs. Finch had welcomed Letitia’s changes.

  The gloomy room still smelled of the salt she’d swept up that morning. She’d need to burn incense to remove the odor. It was hard to assure patrons of her profession if her working room smelled like a kitchen. The next room she used as a bedroom since it had far more space, and it contained another small fireplace that kept the room warm, with an iron arm over the hearth she used to make tea. Far brighter with sun yellow wallpaper and soft cream curtains, Letitia kept it as her refuge from the dark of her profession.

  Two large windows let in sunshine, the lace curtains giving privacy from the houses opposite.

  A large bed sat in one corner. The room was meant for a couple, but Letitia liked the big bed. It gave her flailing limbs space to thrash during night terrors. The blanket lying over them belonged to her mother, the blue down made of soft angora wool.

  She dropped the packages there, shrugging out of her coat, relieved to be in the privacy of her own space.

  In another corner sat a desk for letters and correspondence with a small series of files on her patrons. It was slender, but she didn’t worry over it. Instead, she turned to the wardrobe and hung her coat among the other simple items. Her black brocade dress was in a cloth bag to one side. The somber tone of the black dress was suitable for her evening affairs, but her simpler day dresses were far different.

  English in its modest cut, as were all her day dresses, today’s dress was a soft cream and of a good wool, but the style was out of fashion here with its far more conservative hemline. Her hands brushed over it, remembering the way Mr. Driscoll stared, in surprise she thought, but something else glimmered in his eyes.

  No, it was nothing more than surprise, and she discarded the notion. The last thing she wanted was attention from an amorous man, but after the war, most ladies could take their pick. The veil she wore at all times was enough to dissuade any gentleman from coming too close, and the frosty manners of a former schoolteacher did the rest.

  She hadn’t given it much thought when talking to Mr. Driscoll, but the pale white hat with its lace cover that hung over her face would have obscured any chance he would have had at guessing her emotions. She’d take whatever shields were available against such a personality.

  Odious man, she thought, unpinning the hat and putting it with the others in the rack above her desk. Every hat was small and discreet, each one with a veil ranging in size and obscurity. She never left the apartment without one.

  Smoothing her hair back into place in the mirror beside the wardrobe, she turned to the packages, leaving her gloves on her hands. Her touch attuned itself at odd times, and she didn’t need to see the manufacturing process of ladies’ stockings. Those went in a drawer in her wardrobe, along with a few other sundry items. American fashions extended themselves to simpler trends than English ones, but it was the opportunity to not have to wear such thick corsets that appealed to Letitia.

  Another package perfumed the air when she opened it—dragon’s blood incense for the session room. Waxed paper held more of the fat white candles for the candelabras. The last items were a box of bergamot tea and shortbread. She loved the semisweet treat after a session, though it did no favors for her waistline. It was why her corsets were getting snug.

  Resolving to walk around the city more but not to stop eating shortbread, Letitia went to the little firebox and put several logs on the fire. The box was low on wood, and with a groan of annoyance she tied a smock over her dress and picked up the battered basket she used to haul wood. She went downstairs.

  At the bottom were two doors with a coat rack between them. One led outside to the laneway, the other into the heart of the Finch household—the kitchen.

  A long room, the kitchen at varying times of the day smelled of food or soap. A great iron stove dominated one end of the room with enough cooking space for a feast. The table, broad enough to seat twelve, performed the dual duty of dining table and workplace for the making of soaps.

  Stacks of the perfumed bars sat dripping onto the cloth underneath, waiting to be taken out into the cool afternoon air.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Finch,” Letitia said as she came in, heading straight for the wood box.

  “Hello, dearie,” Mrs. Finch said from where she was counting off a list. She finished her row and then turned to Letitia. “The wood box is running low, so I’ll have more delivered tomorrow.”

  “I’ll just get enough for this evening then,” Letitia said, getting on her knees to pick up the smallest pieces and load them into the basket. She left the fat round ones for the chugging iron stove. The great behemoth of an oven warmed the kitchen but not the rest of the house. On its wide flat top pots of oils were simmering. There was an array of bottles on the table ready to scent the soaps. Letitia recognized the labels.

  “You’re running low on the lily,” she commented. “Would you like me to get more for you?”

  Letitia’s addition to the house had been rarer scents. Since Letitia needed the incense found in specialty shops in Chinatown, she was more than happy to share with the household. The Finches were broadening their exper
tise and giving patrons wider range of choices.

  “Just hold off on that,” Mrs. Finch said, putting the pencil and tally to one side. “I think we’ve got another batch, and then I will move into getting spring scents. Do you want to have lunch with the girls and me? There’s a kidney pie in the oven.”

  Letitia was glad her face was turned away. She loathed kidney pie.

  “No, thank you,” she answered instead. “I have files to review before this evening.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mrs. Finch answered, before hoisting the racks of soap outside. “I would have thought you’d need a solid stomach before looking at those horrid things. I know I would.”

  Letitia didn’t respond and took her load up the stairs.

  She enjoyed Mrs. Finch’s easy acceptance of and lack of questions about Letitia’s abilities. Letitia had proved a quiet lodger and a prompt payer, which Mrs. Finch assured was all she wanted. The last woman in the room was tardy with payment.

  Setting the basket down, Letitia built the fire up to make tea. Her routine was to spend the early afternoon reviewing the files for the night’s session, but it also helped quiet her mind.

  This evening the Normans were her patrons. Their youngest son, having taken to drink after the war, had fallen asleep outside and died of the cold and alcohol poisoning. Mr. Norman had banished him to the guesthouse when he’d come home drunk and interrupted a dinner party. They’d assured her of their grief and regret. She believed them.

  Inadvertently causing the death of one’s own child was a familiar intimacy she’d never forget.

  The Normans had given Letitia their son’s picture and a watch they had gifted him before he’d gone to war. Such a treasure was precious, and to survive along with its bearer made it resonant of the deceased’s experiences in life. It left an impression on the object, enough for Letitia to pick up the thread of who they were. She took it out of the drawer she kept personal items in, having asked the Normans to hold them before the session and promising to return them after.

  “Now, Joseph Norman,” she said to the silver pocket watch, “who were you?”

  Taking care to pull her doeskin gloves off one finger at a time, she studied Joseph’s profile. Far more handsome than his father, Joseph was feminine—soft mouth, thick lashes, and a languid pose of self-assurance that was beguiling. It was a face she suspected would have been bullied in school and at home for being too feminine. The youngest son of the gruff old man that was Mr. Norman, who Letitia guessed held high expectations of his sons.

  The kettle whistled and Letitia dropped the photograph on her desk.

  There was a small sideboard where she kept foodstuffs, and Letitia fetched out a basket with bread wrapped in a cloth and another with cheese. Making a plain cheese sandwich and Earl Grey tea, Letitia also cut an apple to eat while she looked over her research.

  Mrs. Finch was a wonderful landlady and cook, but she invited her solitary two residents to only breakfast and dinner in the kitchen. If they planned to be out, Mrs. Finch needed to be advised at the start of the week when she did her shopping. Sometimes Letitia would have a guest stay too late and find Mrs. Finch had placed a plate in the cooling oven.

  Letitia kept her own meager stores in her room.

  Her funds allowed her the luxury of the apartment while only taking two bookings six days a week, but she lived with as little expenses as possible. Not all her appointment spots were taken, though she offered reasonable rates after a conservative study on the more flamboyant clairvoyants laying claim to similar gifts. While there were a few spiritualists in town, they steeped themselves in phantasmagoric airs. Letitia suspected each was a fraud. She did her best to avoid them, but superstition and the thriving world of Hollywood lent itself to the impossible.

  The world was open to her, and Letitia could have found herself anywhere, but America had called to her. Old Mother Borrows warned Letitia there was a fate out there waiting for her.

  She would not look for it. The last time she had, she’d lost her only connection to Daniel.

  Their unborn baby.

  Chapter 3

  It was cold when they kicked him out of the pub. Joseph only wanted to buy a bottle to take home. They hadn’t sold it to him after he vomited in the gentlemen’s. But tonight, of all nights, he needed it.

  Just like every other night, really.

  The rain drenched him, but he didn’t care.

  All he wanted was a drink.

  He didn’t want to see his family, sitting around the table praising his brother John for the promotion at the bank. Declining the dinner invitation, Joseph had made excuses before John’s mocking laughter caught him at the door.

  “Let him go, mother, he’s tight already.”

  Joseph had proven to himself that his level of sobriety was nigh on angelic then, compared to what he was now. The world swam, and he struggled even to see in the dreary night.

  He was lost.

  The streets kept turning about, the normal route that should have taken him up Beverly and onto Gardner found him on Vista. Rain turned to sleet as he stumbled through the sleepy streets.

  It was lucky, he thought, because if he hadn’t been drunk the cold would’ve bothered him. He’d get home. The rain had momentarily confused him. As the downpour turned to frozen slush on the pavement, the slippery surface caught his unwary feet.

  There was a flash, and the sidewalk was level with his eyes.

  He blinked away stars, feeling an echo inside his head, and the world went black, streetlamps dying out…only to come back. Joseph studied them, fading in and out, waiting for it to stop.

  A part of him assessed the damage, cold and distant. This was bad. He’d fallen and given himself a severe concussion. It wasn’t the first time. The last time had been…had been…

  Joseph tilted his head to the side so he could retch, agony rushing through him, sharp this time as he spat out the contents of his liquid dinner.

  “This no’ good,” he muttered to himself, staring at the amount of vomit on the pavement.

  Joseph got to his knees, and his stomach regurgitated yet more liquid, the stench of alcoholic bile bringing up everything until his body was curled in its own excess.

  Pain lanced through his head, an iron spike that squeezed his eyes shut, and he didn’t see the men walking toward him.

  “Tad ossified, sir?” one asked.

  “Might be.” Joseph slit an eye open to see two policemen there and breathing a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t about to be robbed. That would have been the highlight of the evening. Or possibly it had turned worse; it was the police after all.

  “I’m trying to get to 161 South Gardner,” he said, searching for excuses not to be dragged to the drying out tank. His father wouldn’t bail him out, and when he threatened like he had tonight, he meant it.

  “All good, sir,” the policeman said. “We’ll get you home.”

  They picked him up under the arms, the journey foggy until he was standing in the porch’s light. The policemen knocked on the door and Joseph couldn’t stop them in time.

  The maid opened it, her mouth dropping open at Joseph’s state and the presence of two officers.

  “Oh, I’ll get Mr. Norman.” She dashed off.

  Joseph tried to pull away, to stand on his own two feet, but even with his stomach empty of alcohol he was still drunk. His head hurt, thumping in pulse to the angry pounding of his father’s footsteps.

  “Thank you, officers,” his father said and shook their hands, a glimpse of paper in his palm. The officers’ smiles were wide at the thick wad of money—the cause for their kindness, which continued as they tipped their hats and left.

  “Walk around back and get in the guesthouse, boy,” his father intoned, not letting Joseph in. “I will not disgrace your mother by letting you into this house. I will not let you ruin
John’s good fortune because you’ve pissed your own pathetic life away. You were a doctor, and then you drowned in a bottle. I should have told you I was disowning you, but I didn’t want you to come home like this, you’re a disgrace…”

  It went on.

  Joseph stopped listening, and he didn’t even notice when his father shut the door. How long he’d been standing out on the porch he was uncertain, the world’s tears falling on his shoulders. He turned around, walking around the outside of the house and down the side path to the guesthouse.

  The door handle didn’t want to open.

  The deck chairs around the covered pool were inviting, even with the cold, but the bitter chill was getting worse. He had to get into the guesthouse. There was a gas heater inside if he could concentrate long enough to open the door.

  Another shove pushed the door open, and it slammed when he fell against it. Stumbling steps took him to the center of the room, but looking about it was as welcome as the rain covered chairs outside. Dust sheets covered the furniture and became the ghosts of his past. Silent and accusatory, he waited to hear their pleas to make the pain stop, though they were naught but memories.

  Standing alone in the dusty space, Joseph fell to his knees and cried.

  No family.

  Friends dead in the war.

  Few who understood what being in the medical tents was like, what it did to you, night after night. The endless screams and the visions that haunted him.

  During the day now, it was worse, he could see them during the day…he could see them right now…

  

  Letitia wrenched herself away, manifested as physical reeling, and her hand slapped down on the table. The end had been so subtle, it had wrapped about her with the tentative touch of a spider, coming closer to bite her and share the death with Joseph. She gripped the wood, absorbed the warmth in her palm, sweat on her upper lip, and a chill on her skin from the cold of Joseph’s death.

  “Ms. Hawking, are you all right?” Mrs. Norman asked.