Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  “It’s perfectly normal to be angry,” Mr. Driscoll said beside her, looking down at her clenched hands on her dress. She smoothed the material out. If he noticed her shaking hands, he said nothing, and Letitia was glad he didn’t comfort her again.

  She needed some measure of distance when her interest in him was rekindling.

  Letitia could no more say no to his aid than she could stay for an indeterminable time at a hotel. She needed his legal help should the police come back, and to flee now would invite suspicion. His unwavering kindness was more than because of her help with his daughter. There was something restful about the assured way he’d taken control of the entire situation.

  When the car pulled up at the house it was nearing sundown. Mr. Driscoll helped her out, but rather than go inside he took her around the side of the great house.

  “I thought you could use some sunshine,” he said at her puzzled frown.

  “I suppose,” Letitia agreed, taking a deep breath. “And I’ve yet to thank you for all…this.” The enormity of what he’d done was sinking in, and she hastened to extend her gratitude. “I don’t know what the legal fees will be, but I have quite a bit put aside—”

  “And you had the hide to say I only thought of money.” Rather than harsh, his tone teased and she glanced at his amused smile.

  “It’s hardly the same,” Letitia said, consternation in her tone.

  “Isn’t it?” There was a warning in his low voice, a question with a barb inside.

  “The kind of trouble I might be in could bring you much embarrassment,” Letitia rushed on. “Not to mention that I am staying at your house. Won’t your colleagues or some such find it inappropriate?”

  “It may surprise you to know I’m a very private person,” he said. “And I have no intention of telling anyone where you are unless you wish it. You are no more bound to my help or hospitality than you want to be, but I am here for you, without any other expectations despite what I said in my letter.”

  He held fast to her arm when she would have drawn away. Her breath caught for a moment, seeing the sun on one side of his face, the auburn waves of his hair threaded with silver and glinting in the light. All the while his green eyes were bright, burning away any doubts she might have had with regard to his honor or intent.

  His hand brushed strands of her hair aside. “I think you have difficulty allowing yourself the luxury of letting someone else take care of things for you. And I would very much like to do so. Not because you need me to—never that—but because you want me to.”

  Words died on her tongue, but rather than be answered he swept her away across the gardens. The grass was lush green under their footsteps as they left the stone terrace, and after a time she let go of his arm.

  “I need a moment.” She glanced up at him, and ever amicable, his hand touched hers before he let go.

  “Walk for a while,” he said. “Think on my offer to stay, and if it doesn’t suit, I’ll do as I promised and take you home or anywhere else you’d like to go.”

  Letitia’s hand tightened on his for a moment. “But I can’t go home, can I?”

  “It isn’t wise,” he said. “But there are a number of other places that shouldn’t be too fiscally taxing if you’d prefer. You are, however, more than welcome here.”

  Any answer she wanted to give sounded foolish, prideful even, and she needed some safety from the law.

  She needed to think and to undo the damage Detective Andrews had inflicted.

  Without a word, she let go of his arm and entered the garden.

  Winter’s spell withered the leaves of wizened roses, thorny barbs leaving no sign of the oncoming blooms. The bedded gardens gave way to rolling grass and trees, lush as any English garden. Letitia walked under bare trees beginning to bud for spring, and all the while she thought about what had transpired, Mr. Driscoll was never far out of sight.

  For once it was welcome, never intrusive, ever watchful, so she didn’t mind that he followed as she strolled through the chilly grounds. The breath of spring ghosted through the air in the sun’s weakened touch, but without glancing back she knew warmth was only a few steps behind.

  Somehow, she sensed she wouldn’t be free without wrenching something from herself, and her capacity to hold her swaying emotion toward him faded with every backward glance.

  No amblings across the grounds gave her answers as to what to do now, and every time her eyes met his, her resolve crumbled until she returned to where he waited.

  She couldn’t dwell on what to do from here, and he was a welcome and supportive distraction.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes, a little,” she said, tugging strands of loose hair from her eyes, his gaze following the gesture. She dropped her hand, thinking of his fingertips on the curve of her ear moments before.

  “What about some tea?” he said.

  “That would be delightful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  When he offered her his arm, she took it, sliding her chilly hand around his elbow, and when his warm hand covered hers, she couldn’t help but think of when she’d absorbed his essence on her sickbed, and how it sunk down into her bones.

  She wanted that warmth again.

  As though he was the one who could read thoughts his hand tightened on hers.

  “I don’t mind,” he whispered to her. “I’d be honored.”

  Letitia’s hand tightened on his arm.

  “It was a mistake—”

  “Will you fight me at every corner?” His amusement returned. “Is this what I am to look forward to?”

  “Borrowing someone else’s essence isn’t one of my strong suits,” Letitia said, and unbidden another confession came spilling out her lips. “It’s why I worry about Finola. I have such a dark past, and you aren’t aware of the worst parts. But Old Mother Borrows is safe. She has far more control and ability than I could ever hope to possess.”

  He was silent a long moment, accompanied by the wind in bare trees and the rustle of their steps over the lush lawn.

  “That is why you wanted me to take her to Scotland,” he said. “So you wouldn’t hurt her.”

  Letitia breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. I know this is a subject you aren’t familiar with, but simply because I recognize and could help get rid of the phantom doesn’t mean I can do everything.”

  “And here I thought you were without flaws,” he answered, though the corner of his mouth curled.

  “Don’t lay false platitudes at my feet,” she said with a reprimand. “I do what small part I can to stop others being hurt, though it does not sound like the truth today.”

  “No,” he said, voice harsh as a whip crack. “They scorned you and your abilities and had no right to do so.”

  “But can’t you see,” Letitia said, slowing her pace, “how easy it is to do so when you don’t understand?”

  Mr. Driscoll’s head dropped. “I’m not doing this to ask for your forgiveness either. But you are precious, just as Finola is, and you fight things no one else can see or touch yet haunt us still. To my eyes, at least, it makes you braver than any soldier.”

  Letitia swallowed against a sudden well of tears. “I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  “And I hope it will not be the last,” he said, taking her to a table laid out with tea things.

  She poured, and he turned the conversation to the gardens and house. The air filled with his subtle banter and her witty replies.

  The day’s unimaginable sadness diminished to the farthest corners of her mind.

  Whatever misgivings she had about Alasdair Driscoll’s interest in her, he was now her friend. A part of her wondered how much she’d like to be more than that, any trepidation she might still have melting with each of his devilish smiles.

  Chapter 17

 
Letitia stood before the mirror, criticizing her dress.

  The color she thought as forest green should have made her dark hair shine. The lace at her cleavage was a little old and faded, and there were a few places the beads were falling off. She turned, watching it swish about her ankles before adjusting the waistline to a better height. Letitia tried to believe she looked something other than drab.

  But then she’d hadn’t cared for years what anyone thought of her clothes.

  Sighing, she eyed the beaded dress of copper and jet black that still hung in the wardrobe. Tempting as it was to swan down to dinner in the garment, Letitia discarded the idea.

  She would save it for another time. Anything else implied putting herself on display, and the thought alone was distasteful. It was also not what interested Mr. Driscoll in her, which she discovered after spending the afternoon letting him take away the depression of her day.

  Resigned to the ordinary dress, Letitia had a pang of guilt when she opened the cosmetics kit she’d packed with the rest of her toiletries. Applying a light amount of powder, rouge, and lipstick, Letitia felt her reflection at least looked confident enough to withstand Mr. Driscoll’s charms.

  When she arrived in the drawing room for predinner drinks though, she discovered she’d arrived first.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked the footman, whose name she couldn’t recall.

  “Mr. Driscoll is on his way, madam. Can I offer you a drink?”

  Letitia had no idea what to ask for. She’d never been in a house with servants on hand. The footman seemed to sense it and looked at her with kindness.

  “Does the lady like soft liquors or something harder?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “What do you recommend?”

  “Let’s start with something easy, perhaps a Bee’s Knees.” He crossed to the side bar and began mixing her a drink. Letitia walked around the room, admiring the dark furniture against pale yellow wallpaper. There were even a few portraits, but they appeared to be older family ones rather than more recent renditions. She looked for a picture of Mr. Driscoll as if staring at his photograph would prepare her for the strength of his personality, but he was not there.

  He reminded her so much of a desert she’d never visited, a potentially dangerous place. While Letitia walked along its edge, she couldn’t help being drawn to the heat.

  “Here you are, madam.” The footman held out a silver tray upon which sat a rounded glass filled with cloudy yellow liquid. She took the cocktail and sipped it, pleased at the tang it left on her tongue.

  “That’s wonderful, thank you,” she said, taking another sip.

  “Gin, lemon, and honey, ma’am,” he said. “They make it with bootlegged gin, but with the right gin is palatable.”

  “Are you giving Ms. Hawking bootlegged cocktails, Horner?” Mr. Driscoll stood in the doorway, and Letitia felt her breath catch. He’d dressed for dinner, black tie and all, sophisticated in the elegant suit. Regret at not wearing the prettier dress flittered over her mind, her hand brushing the material of her dress as he came in.

  “No, sir,” Horner said, “a proper Bee’s Knees.”

  “Quite the underground drink,” he said, returning the grin Horner gave him. “Pour me a Scotch.”

  Horner went to the bar, while Mr. Driscoll crossed to Letitia.

  “You look beautiful.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  “Thank you,” she said, stopping herself from dismissing his flattering of the out-of-date garment. “Where is your sister and Finola?”

  “Gone to the theater,” he said, letting go of her hand to take his drink from Horner, who then disappeared. “She thought Finola would like it, that it may take her out of herself. Finola’s been cooped up here for months, and Abby didn’t want her to rejoin social circles if crowds will be a problem.”

  He was frowning and drew away to sit on the couch.

  Letitia sat opposite, leaning forward, as it appeared there was more to his story.

  “Is she not doing so well?” she asked. “I would have thought she would fare better without the nightmares.”

  “I thought it best not to trouble you,” he said. “I see now why it might be of concern. I’ve already made arrangements to take Finola to Scotland.”

  Letitia was surprised. “When does she leave?”

  “There is a boat in two weeks leaving New York,” he said. “All I need from you, Ms. Hawking, is a letter of introduction.”

  The formal address and request made her laugh. “I can most certainly write one for you, although one look at Finola and Old Mother Borrows will know what to do with her. She will be so overwhelmingly strong.”

  “Thanks to you,” Mr. Driscoll said.

  “And please,” she said, “call me by my first name.”

  He paused for a moment. “I’d like that, and I invite you to do the same.”

  Letitia covered her growing blush with a sip of her drink. “So now, Alasdair, will you tell me about Finola?” She didn’t miss the curl in his lips when she said his name, but he sighed when thinking on her question.

  “Yes,” he said, with a cant of his head. “Her thoughts are much stronger, but she’s taken what you said very much to heart. She’s protecting herself from seeing what others think. I can’t describe it because she can’t, but she says you surrounded yourself in light, and the bad thing went away.”

  Letitia hadn’t realized Finola had garnered that much in their short and somewhat traumatic meeting.

  “Really?” Letitia said. “I didn’t know she’d read that from me.”

  “Finola understood what you did, though,” he said. “She sees a bubble, like one made with soap. Covered in rainbows and light, harder than steel. She says she’s imagined it around her, too. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but the last three nights she’s slept like a lamb.”

  “I’m glad she’s come away from it not too traumatized,” Letitia said. “She’s quite a gifted young woman.”

  There seemed to be something else. He stared at the carpet, not meeting her gaze.

  “Does she do anything else?” Letitia asked. “Such as not like to touch people or look them in the eye?”

  “She draws, as though ridding herself of the nightmare,” he said, stroking the rim of his glass. “They are dark images. Nothing profane, but still horrifying. But she says they help, or they will help. She’s convinced the pictures will matter.”

  “To whom?” Letitia asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I am convinced by her belief.”

  Letitia nodded, sipping the cocktail. “A woman once told me that expressions of art to process traumatic events was a credible way of relieving the grief in one’s heart.”

  “And what’s your creative expression?” He asked, and the sudden change made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

  “I used to—well, you know, it doesn’t matter, I don’t do it anymore, and it was silly anyhow.” She gulped half her drink, coughing as the gin hit her throat. Alasdair leaned forward, chuckling, something of a predator about him as he rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Nothing about you strikes me as being silly.”

  Fiddling with her glass, Letitia found herself confessing. “I used to write poetry.”

  Though his eyes twinkled, he treated her creative endeavors with respect by asking an intelligent question. “An understated talent. Are we speaking of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe or perhaps less American?”

  “William Blake, or Emily Dickson, rather. Of death and the passage of time,” Letitia shrugged. “I wrote to release the anxiety of my soul.”

  It was an intimate thing to say. But by now she was at ease talking to him, though perhaps Horner had been too generous with the drink. She wouldn’t have minded another. Initially nervous at spending the evening al
one with Alasdair, she was now embracing whatever was happening between them.

  “What about you?” she said.

  “I don’t mind poetry, but I like novels, too,” Alasdair said. “I was always a fan of Oscar Wilde. Not the depravity of his writing, or the flippant and meticulous insults, but the greater condition of a soul that had sinned.”

  They were treading on dangerous philosophical ground.

  “Rather flamboyant a choice?”

  “Would you rather we discuss Jane Austen?” The taunt was meant to poke at the book on her bedside and Letitia’s blush returned. She wanted to point out her lonely childhood, but it would spoil the mood, and instead, she put her empty glass down.

  “Do you have something to say on the matter of romance?” she asked before her courage could leave her.

  When she met his gaze, there was a glimmer within that was more than amusement or interest—it was almost proud.

  The gong rang before he could answer, and he stood and offered his arm as the pocket doors slid apart. She walked beside him into the dining room, set for two, and he pulled out the chair for her to the left of the head of the table. He took his place, and a footman came forward to lay a napkin over their laps before the first course was brought out.

  Surprised by the strength of her appetite, she devoured the beef broth laid before her. The broth was followed by lamb shanks and then a rich chocolate flan. Each course was accompanied by a different wine, all of it part of a world she had never known. Conversation floated around the food, but was superfluous at best, and evolved to literature and music. She asked what Abby and Finola had gone to see at the theater.

  “Much Ado About Nothing,” he said. “Innocent enough for Finola, and a fun and confusing play.”

  Letitia’s eyes widened in delight, and before she could say something suitably appropriate Alasdair’s countenance changed to amusement.

  “Would you like to go?” he asked.

  “It would be divine,” she said.

  “I’ll take you to see it next week and then we’ll have dinner,” he said. “There’s an Irish place downtown I like to go to with private dining rooms. A little rough around the edges, but I suspect you’ll keep your English primness.”