by E. J. Dawson
Standing so quickly his chair flew back, he came to stand and yell down at her.
“She needs your help, Ms. Hawking,” he leaned over her, spitting his accusation. “An innocent girl is in the arms of a man who has taken over four girls in the last two years. Do you think God will forgive you if you sit in your chair, with your dramatic veil, and tell me you will do nothing?”
A sudden spike of animosity speared her and would not be contained.
Letitia ripped her veil off.
When she looked up at him, she knew what he saw and why he stepped back.
She’d had few patrons who behaved in such an uncivilized manner, and while she sympathized, she needed to not only protect herself from his brutish nature but from her own sense of guilt.
“Look upon me,” she instructed, insinuating her voice with authority, and he took a step back but his gaze was fixed on her.
“The gray in my hair was from doing what you are asking of me,” she told him, voice low and threatening, “and of which you have no comprehension. It even touched my eyes—I see the silver every time I look in a mirror or when strangers stare at me the exact way you are now. It’s not natural, is it? Forced to age through an event I had no control over. God had nothing to do with it. I was left to fend for myself and couldn’t save my baby. Or didn’t you wonder why I said I would not do this with your wife present?”
He fell back, the flush fading from his cheeks as Letitia glared.
Without another word he collected the things from the table and rushed out the door.
It relieved Letitia when he took the money with him, but worry over his hasty departure bit into her heart. Getting to her feet, she went to the hall and looked out the window. Mr. Edwards was running down the street.
She had meant to frighten him, but not to such extent. Mr. Edwards had already lost one daughter, and it had been unkind of her to remind him he might only have one left. Picking up the phone, she called the Barkley household.
“Yes?” It was Mr. Barkley himself, as though he expected Letitia’s call.
“Mr. Barkley, Ms. Hawking again,” she said, drawing in a breath. “I appear to have startled Mr. Edwards, though he was being rather rude. I think I may have stressed too much the nature of why I couldn’t help him. Would you be kind enough to pass on my apologies?”
“Of course, Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Barkley said, but she heard the disappointment in his voice.
“Thank you so much,” Letitia said in relief, “and Mr. Barkley, I trust you will do as I’ve asked and not bring my name into conversation with any such people again. I believe it hurts more than it helps.”
There was a long silence on the phone and then a sigh.
“As you like, Ms. Hawking,” he said, “though goodness knows, you could help a great deal of people if you wanted to.”
Letitia didn’t answer, feeling the sting of responsibility in the wake of Mr. Edwards’ accusation. These men had two daughters, one dead and one alive, and she couldn’t help either of them.
“You mistake me, sir,” she said. “I can die for your peace of mind, or you can accept what little closure I can give you. In that, I think I’ve been rather generous.”
Letitia rang off, not waiting for a reply.
Chapter 14
Furious at offering her aid and having things go astray, Letitia cleaned up, her stomach rumbling for breakfast. A quick tidying up around the sitting room did much to dispel her irritation at both herself, the angry Mr. Edwards, and the judgmental Mr. Barkley.
By the time she went downstairs, she was far more composed.
“Decided to join us?” Mrs. Finch teased, already sitting at the table, tea poured and a platter of bacon, eggs, and toast laid out. Letitia picked up the toast and buttered it.
“I’m sorry about the recent discrepancies in my attendance at the dining table,” Letitia said.
“I miss your English manners,” said Diana, one of Mrs. Finch’s daughters, sweeping by to collect a cup of coffee up and not waiting for Letitia to respond. The young woman was a bane to her mother—sharp of wit, bored, and intelligent. She read at the store when she thought no one was looking.
“I’ll ask her to teach you sometime,” her mother shouted at her daughter’s form retreating to the work room.
“Are you finished with the paper?” Letitia asked, staring at the discarded folds.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Finch said, rising to her feet. “I best get this cleaned up.”
“I’ll do it. I want to have a moment to myself first,” Letitia said.
“That’s kind of you, for I have a lot to do this morning.” Mrs. Finch downed her tea, placed the cup in the sink, and then went off to open the store.
Letitia returned the folds to the front page, and the front page’s blatant headline glared in her face.
GIRL KIDNAPPED!
Letitia saw Cassy’s picture and cringed.
She read the article.
Cassy had been dropping her father’s lunch off to him on her way to school. He’d seen her off, but she’d never arrived at the school. They hadn’t called the family until midday to ask why she wasn’t in attendance.
A local search had revealed nothing as it appeared Cassy had used backstreets to make a shortcut. Police were calling for all parents to take care of their children and to contact them if anyone knew anything about the disappearance.
There was a follow-up article reviewing the missing Barkley girl and two others before her. For all the nuanced disavowal in earlier reporting that these disappearances had anything in common, it appeared the papers were no longer prepared to abide by the police department’s reassurances. Instead, they raised the concern that another girl was taken less than three months after the previous one, indicating the kidnapper might strike again…
Slamming the paper down, Letitia moved to clear the table. She ate her breakfast while doing the dishes. She needed something that got rid of the uselessness creeping over her skin. Mr. Edwards’ accusation and Mr. Barkley’s disappointment prickled at her.
Worse still, she knew that wherever Cassy was, she would not be alive long.
But what was Letitia to do?
If she reached out to the girl, all she could do is sense the girl’s fear and whatever fate lie in store for her. Like Maisie, Cassy was somewhere dark that smelled of the sea. It could be the western seaboard for all she knew since she had no other information, nothing but what the girls were seeing, which wouldn’t be helpful to the police.
To look for them, and going in blind, was a risk Letitia dared not take.
It wasn’t worth her sanity, or her life, to be dragged down into death with them.
She couldn’t help them. She’d only suffer the same fate.
The reasoning chaffed more with every reassurance she uttered to herself. Little white lies telling her she helped Mr. Driscoll, so why not these girls? But it was different. She could see Finola’s enemy. These girls were trapped in the dark and could tell her nothing. They would only sweep her into their own dread-fueled deaths.
Ignoring the newspaper, Letitia wiped the table clean and went upstairs to gather her purse and coat.
She wanted fresh fruit. She was intent on buying an orange—something rather than sit in her rooms.
Back in her session room, a box caught her eye.
The present Mr. Driscoll dropped by when he returned to pick up his things. She hadn’t opened it. She’d even thought about returning it, but she didn’t know where he bought it and didn’t want to ask him. Picking it up, she placed it on the table and unwrapped the surrounding ribbon. Lifting the lid, she saw it was a rather flat hatbox.
Nestled in the tissue paper a black cloche sat, peaked on one side and dropping to the other. A small swathe of chiffon hung down over the eyes, which would leave the rest of the face bare. The veil was p
inned to the sides by two green and copper collections of stained crystal. It was gorgeous, fashionable, and well crafted.
When she looked at the maker’s label, she put the hat down.
It was Italian, from Milan, and a name she recognized. He must have paid a small fortune for it. Letitia had never owned a designer piece before and scarcely knew what to do with it. Yet her fingers brushed the silken folds. She guessed it would fit her to perfection.
Of all the things to buy her, he’d chosen the mask he appeared to so loathe.
Not that it mattered now.
She’d have no idea where to return it, and as her fingers brushed the soft wool of the cloche, she knew it didn’t matter because she would keep it. A small reminder of him.
Whatever anger existed at their last encounter faded under the kind gesture.
She took the box to her room, and with a small amount of vanity, put the hat on and looked at herself in the mirror.
The chiffon veil came down to just cover the tip of her nose, making her jawline and mouth stand out. The effect made her seem mysterious and knowing, as the judgmental eyes of the figure in the reflection roved over the lines of the cloth.
Letitia never thought of herself as dramatic but couldn’t shake that this was the impression Mr. Driscoll had of her—that it was slight mockery as much as a well-meaning gift. It would be why he’d bought the hat with a veil rather than some other gift of apology.
Letitia couldn’t imagine that he’d ask for it back. She hoped perhaps he would so that she might explain herself better than she had at their parting.
Rather than hang it with her other hats, far more drab by comparison, she put it back in its box and put it beside her wardrobe. The colors he’d chosen still called to her and picking a hat for the day from her normal ones, Letitia resolved to make another similar to it. She’d collect the materials today, and when she had the time to update and amend the hats she had, she might even stitch up a new one. The chiffon rather than lace or other sheer materials made it far easier to see, but she’d never thought to use it quite as they had on the cloche.
Adding a detour on her list of tasks that morning, Letitia collected her coat and purse and took to the stairs.
“Ms. Hawking.” Mrs. Finch was coming through the kitchen toward the back door. “There’s a letter come with the post this morning for you.”
“Thank you,” Letitia said, taking the letter. “Do you need anything from the market?”
“Are you going to Chinatown?”
“Yes, I need some things,” Letitia said.
“Could you pop into the apothecary and see if they have any new oils? I’m thinking of something to get into the swing of spring. See what you can find?” She held up a wad of money, but Letitia waved it away.
“I’ll get it in exchange for a single soap with the new oil,” Letitia said.
“Oh, very well then,” Mrs. Finch said with a smile. It seemed to thrill her that both Imogen and Letitia liked her products, even to test them, and she didn’t hide it. Imogen loved the makeup kits Mrs. Finch’s other daughter, Norma, created. Letitia had one too, but it went untouched.
For Letitia, it was the scented soaps Diana and Mrs. Finch made that she loved.
She enjoyed bringing them the odd scents she found at the stores she visited, so much more exotic than lavender or vanilla, though those soaps had their place, too.
Letitia resolved to get something that wasn’t quite roses, perhaps with citrus or a rare lily. Picking something to challenge the girls gave her something to look forward to after her unpleasant morning. Walking into the sunlight, Letitia was optimistic, the worst of a terrible situation behind her.
The feeling diminished when she approached the corner store with its newspapers out front, which reminded Letitia that perhaps she hadn’t done all she could. The headline of the missing girl haunted her.
She was considering visiting Mr. Edwards, but to visit Cassy’s parents risked repeating the trauma of the mother losing her baby, or being confined to the asylum, or worse.
The bitter memory should have been more than enough to reassure her that Mrs. Edwards was not the same as Letitia, who’d done all she could.
Watching out for her safety and protection sounded fine when she remembered those events, but it didn’t change that there was another frightened girl out there. Locked in a basement, in the dark, at the hands of a depraved and jaded soul, and for what purpose didn’t bear thinking about. He would take other girls and wouldn’t stop unless caught. Mr. Edwards’ hasty departure sent a wriggling nervousness through Letitia of what he may do because she didn’t think she’d seen the last of him.
Letitia didn’t like the direction of her thoughts and instead turned to the letter she still hadn’t opened.
Keeping an eye on other busy pedestrians making their way through the streets, her gloved fingers struggled for a moment to open the envelope, ripping the paper by accident as she plucked the letter out.
Dear Ms. Hawking,
I can only excuse my rudeness in offering you compensation as a result of what transpired in the cellar and as a need to recompense the immense sacrifice you made for my daughter, now that it’s clear to me. It’s one thing to hear about spirits from another person, but to see for myself shook the foundation of my fears. My offer was to atone in a way that I could, as I know now what it is you faced. I’m sorry to have caused offense.
I feel we left on bad terms and would like to find another way of making it up to you. Not only the act of your complete generosity and selflessness in helping my daughter, and in keeping my secret, but also for acting with such compassion and dignity. It has been both traumatic and healing for our family.
Abby would also like to extend her gratitude to you, as Finola was doing well in less than a few hours after ridding the house of that item. It will please you to know I took it out on a boat myself and threw it into the sea. It should trouble no one further.
I would like to renew our acquaintance on friendlier terms if you are amenable to doing so. Would you deign to dine with me this Saturday evening? This is by no means a way to reimburse you; I found your conversation and intelligence becoming. I would no more lie about my intent than the darkness that came to possess our house. Please know that should you not reply, I will consider my proposal rejected, and trouble you no further, despite any temptation to do otherwise.
Yours Sincerely,
Alasdair.
Letitia’s feet had halted on the sidewalk and she glanced around as though the man himself would be right there. Walkers passed her, one with a scowl for stopping in his path, so she stepped into an alcove to reread the letter. Ignoring the sense of guilt for spying, she slipped off a glove to lay a trembling hand over the cream letter. She could see him, thoughtful as his pen traced across the paper, written in his sunlit study yesterday afternoon. Seeing him in her mind’s eye, it was as though he touched the paper with the purpose of imprinting himself onto its surface.
The impression was so strong she even heard him say her name.
“Tisha.”
Not even Daniel had called her that. Letitia’s cheeks heated at the sound of Mr. Driscoll’s voice, and she clutched the letter, a quivering in her chest catching her breath. Delighted and afraid, Letitia put the paper in her purse, and even then, the feeling wouldn’t fade.
She couldn’t accept since she’d already agreed just that morning to go out with Imogen on Saturday. Having canceled on Imogen when she’d fallen ill, it would be the height of rudeness to do so again, even if she only changed the date. Still, a part of Letitia couldn’t banish the way Mr. Driscoll whispered her name. With fondness and longing…
Walking through the stalls of the market, Letitia picked up several oranges. Brought from further south, they were a little bruised but would do. When she arrived at the Chinese market, she went inside h
er favorite apothecary.
“Good morning, Mr. Chen,” she said to the elderly gentleman behind the counter. It was impossible to guess his age. The old man’s distinguished hair was pale gray, combed to fall down his back, and a long beard far darker than his hair gave him a contrasting appearance.
“Ms. Hawking, so nice to see you again.” He came around the counter, holding out his hand to her, arthritis and age bending the limbs as he hobbled with a walking stick. She took his hand, and then they both turned to the shelves.
“What do you desire today?”
“More juniper oil,” Letitia said, “and something for spring. Mrs. Finch does so enjoy getting new scents from you and they are making the soaps for the new season.”
“Ladies need to embrace the budding flowers, just as they too are blossoms.” Mr. Chen’s hands drifted over the brown bottles, moved by memory alone. His daughter and her husband kept the shop stocked, and helped when needed, but Mr. Chen appeared to know what everyone wanted when they came in. Plucking a bottle off the shelf, he held it out to her.
“It isn’t common, but I think you may like it,” he said with a shrug.
“Cherry blossoms?” Letitia asked, taking it. “I didn’t know you could make an oil from that.”
“It is not, in fact, from China but comes from Japan. They have the most beautiful cherry trees there, and in the spring the blossoms are a sign of renewal. Life is short, Ms. Hawking, and we must not let it pass us by while we wait in the shadows.”
Letitia studied the old man, pausing before sniffing the oil herself.
Opening her abilities, she felt a stillness and peace, the scent of freshly dug earth and oncoming rain soothing her senses. If he was perceptive of her assessment, he gave no sign, but he stood there with a gentle smile.
“You said more juniper oil,” he said, turning about after her stare became scrutiny.
“Please,” Letitia said, and on impulse, she snatched another bottle of the cherry oil, “and I think I’ll take two of these.”
