Behind the Veil Read online

  “Who…who are you?” Finola shook her head, looking surprised at the action. “You’re Letitia. Uncle thinks of you often.”

  Mr. Driscoll cleared his throat, a chastising gesture though he said nothing.

  A creeping blush tinged Letitia’s cheeks, but she didn’t look away from Finola’s earnest eyes.

  “My name is Ms. Hawking,” Letitia said, with a little sternness to remind Finola of propriety before softening her words, “but when it’s just you and I, you can call me Tisha, if I may call you Finola?”

  “My dad used to call me Nola,” Finola said. “You can, too, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Letitia said with a grin. There was a pause as Finola still didn’t let go of Letitia’s hands.

  “You’ll stay up with me?”

  “I promise,” Letitia said. “And it shouldn’t happen again if we stay awake.”

  Finola’s face threatened to crumple, but after Letitia glanced at her with mock sternness, Finola flushed and took a few deep breaths.

  “I think Ms. Hawking will need fortitude if she’s staying up all night with you,” Mr. Driscoll said. Finola’s face burned and she turned away. Letitia wondered if the girl knew that it was not her uncle, but her father, speaking to her now.

  “You should get dressed,” Letitia said, distracting her. “I’ll help you, and we’ll see if your mother has any dessert.”

  Finola’s eyes widened before glancing at Mr. Driscoll.

  “Can I, Uncle?”

  “I did just tell your mother to lay out cake,” he said, frown fading with a warm smile. “If I thought midnight dessert would keep away nightmares, I would have fed you French cakes weeks ago, poppet. Your mother be damned.” He muttered the latter, shaking his head, as Finola giggled at his swearing.

  “You’ll be downstairs in a moment?” He hesitated, waiting for Letitia to nod.

  With one last look at the bed, he left the pair, shutting the door behind him.

  Letitia pulled Finola off the bed and helped her to stand.

  “Come on, we shouldn’t be alone,” she said when Finola hesitated. Finola was quick to retrieve her slippers and dressing gown, donning them before taking Letitia’s outstretched hand. Rather than the main staircase, Finola headed down the hall to a much closer set of stairs for servants. She paused at the sight. It was darker than the hallway, the only light was dim at the apex of the switchback. Finola’s hand tightened on Letitia’s, who also shared the apprehension that if the one light in the staircase went out, they’d return to the nightmare.

  “I’m not sure where you are going, Nola,” Letitia said with brightness, though her words were edged in caution, “but the stairs are this way. I remember that and I don’t live here.”

  She tugged Finola away from the dark descent and to the main staircase, and when they were in the hall Finola headed down a central passage, sure of where she was going. Finola went to a set of doors, flinging them wide.

  Smells wafted through the air, a roast duck from the rich aroma, though when Letitia scanned the large and bustling kitchen it was a cake topped with cream that dominated the table. Finola had stopped in front, mouth, and eyes wide.

  “Come here and have cake,” Mrs. Quinn said to Finola from where she was cutting a piece, wider than her hand as Finola picked it up. Her mother scowled. “Use a fork.”

  “Coffee, Ms. Hawking?”

  Mr. Driscoll was by the stove, jacket off and sleeves rolled up.

  “Please,” she said, coming to stand beside him, enjoying the domestic scene but unsure of herself. Mrs. Quinn babbled to Finola, talking about reading and games and how they would stay up all night together. Letitia didn’t want to interrupt since she’d already done so several times this evening. Mrs. Quinn was acting like a cat over her kitten and was inclined to spit if Letitia put so much as a toe out again.

  Instead, she followed Mr. Driscoll when he ushered her to a nearby room, where a servant was building up the hearth. The lights were on, filling the room with a warm glow reflected off the dappled yellow wall paneling. A long table of dark wood held over a dozen chairs and would have overlooked French doors, but the curtains were drawn against the night.

  Mr. Driscoll set the tray down at the far end of the room where a sideboard sat in one corner and took out cups and saucers. Beside the sideboard were several overstuffed chairs, the latest newspapers left on a side table.

  She came up behind him, discreetly admiring his broad back as he moved. It was not the same figure as Daniel; Mr. Driscoll was much broader, but for once guilt didn’t assail her at the notion of having Mr. Driscoll wrap his arms around her again, if only to transfer some of his endless warmth into her chilled soul.

  Looking after Finola had taken all of Letitia’s strength, but the thought of not doing so was now abhorrent since she’d seen what haunted the girl. Letitia had witnessed nothing like it, her own situation vastly different. But still, no one else would have understood enough to banish the specter better than Letitia.

  More tired than she cared to think about, she didn’t notice Mr. Driscoll staring at her. They stood for a moment, eyes locked, and Letitia saw the gratitude there, but there was something else in his gaze that made her palms sweat.

  “You can see dawn rise from this room,” he said. “It overlooks the garden, which isn’t so bright at the moment, but it promises spring is on the way.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Letitia sunk into one of the armchairs by the fireside. It was domestic to see Mr. Driscoll pour her a coffee.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “No,” Letitia said, “if I have to drink the abomination, then I’ll do so with no help.”

  He grinned. “You don’t partake?”

  “For you, I made an exception.” Letitia watched him over the rim of the cup he handed her before he turned away. She wasn’t speaking of the coffee but of her presence here. His head tilted and a small smile formed on his lips; he guessed her other meaning. She had come though he hadn’t known what it was he asked of her, but now he might understand a sliver of what risk she’d taken.

  “I am…sorry.” It was so tentative she almost missed it.

  “Thank you,” she said, acknowledging the apology, but there was more to do. “But this isn’t over. We will stay awake until dawn, Mr. Driscoll, and then you and I are going to the cellar beneath your study.”

  “What?” he said, spinning about to face her.

  “There’s something you took from the old hotel. I assume on the same day this entity latched itself onto Finola.”

  “It was just some furniture and odds and ends.” He rubbed his jaw. “The old hotel was full of junk, some of it salvageable but not suitable for what we’re doing. I put the saleable pieces down in the cellar thinking of having them cleaned and assessed later.”

  “You brought back something,” Letitia said, “and between whatever happened in the cellar at the hotel and the specter’s ability to find her here, it’s been able to continue the assault.”

  He looked about the room, as though the offending item were there, and when he took long strides to the door, she called to him.

  “Not tonight,” her voice cautioned. “Not in the dark.”

  It was enough of a warning that he came back and sat opposite her. “What do we do then? Wait?”

  Letitia raised a brow. “I know patience is not your strongest virtue, or perhaps even one you possess at all, Mr. Driscoll, but try, on my part.”

  His lips curled almost in a smile, and he gave a one-shouldered shrug at the insult before leaning forward to help himself to coffee. With a surreptitious glance at the door, he went to the sideboard and opened a cabinet to take brandy out and add it to his coffee.

  “Would you―”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I wouldn’t under normal
conditions,” he said, putting a tipple in his coffee, “but this has been quite a damnable affair.”

  “And it’s almost over,” Letitia promised, making herself take another draught of the bitter brew. It tasted like mud on her tongue, and she shivered as she swallowed the unpleasant substance, eyes pinched shut.

  Mr. Driscoll chuckled at her, and her eyes flew open to his amused expression.

  “Is my coffee that awful?” he said, a dry, self-deprecating grin on his face as he sat in front of her.

  “I think it’s more the material you are working with,” she said, “not so much the maker.”

  “If the offense isn’t with the maker, then please let me know what you need.” It was an innocent statement, but Letitia heard something else in the brogue of his voice. She swallowed, the grit of the coffee sticking to her tongue as her mouth became dry.

  “Water would be good,” she said, getting to her feet, “but I’ll get it myself. I want to check on Finola.”

  She swept out of the room, haste making her footsteps loud on the wooden floor. When she’d closed the door behind her, she took a moment in the hall to catch her breath. Her skin was hot when she raised a cool hand to her cheek.

  “Like a stupid schoolgirl,” she said, chastising herself under her breath, saying it aloud and bringing censure as she drew herself together and returned to the kitchen. Any attraction sparking within her wouldn’t last. She wasn’t of his world, and no amount of wanting would transform the shattered remains of her life enough to make her a suitable wife.

  Shaking off the notion, she went to the kitchen doorway.

  Mrs. Quinn and Finola had gathered several trays of cakes and sweets. The cook was laying out dinner things, several maids hovering nearby for when the cook gave direction. It was a close and comfortable setting, and not at all like the houses in England that Letitia had seen. At the aroma in the room, her stomach became a hard, painful knot in her middle. Whether it was the lack of food, the events of the evening, or Mr. Driscoll’s presence, she couldn’t say.

  “What can I help with?” Letitia asked when they all turned to her as she came in.

  “You should eat dinner,” Finola said, “or have some of this cake. I thought I felt awful.”

  Finola’s admittance of her perception regarding Letitia’s state of mind was met with a sharp chastisement.

  “Finola,” Mrs. Quinn admonished, “don’t do that, you know it’s rude.”

  A mischievous glint in Finola’s eyes suggested she knew full well what she was about, but she still waited on Letitia.

  “Dinner sounds wonderful,” Letitia said. “Can I take that tray to the table?”

  A maid picked up the tureen of roast vegetables before Letitia could touch it.

  “You’re fine, Ms. Hawking,” Mrs. Quinn said with a tentative smile, “but if I could speak to you for a moment, if you please. Finola, help with those tea cakes.”

  Finola’s pointed gaze fell on the indifferent Mrs. Quinn’s back before Letitia was ushered into the empty hall and the kitchen door closed.

  “I have to tell you,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I-I cannot thank you enough.”

  Letitia stared at the bright disposition as it wilted, remembering the wane woman in the café who covered every weakness. Mrs. Quinn wouldn’t meet Letitia’s eyes and instead focused on her hands held in front of her.

  “Whatever has happened to my girl, you’ve done the impossible,” she whispered, low and full of desperate gratitude. “I cannot think to repay such a debt.”

  “No,” Letitia said, damning all the family with their need for recompense. “I could not leave her like that, since she had no ability to fight such a thing, but I can tell you I will not leave until I find its source and remove it.”

  At that Mrs. Quinn’s head jerked up, eyes brimming, and appearing to forget herself she embraced Letitia. Walled in as she was, Letitia allowed the contact for a moment, sensing a tropical sultriness from Mrs. Quinn that she hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle, almost weak, but no less warm.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Quinn whispered. “And please, call me Abby, will you?”

  Letitia nodded, able now to extricate herself from Abby’s embrace. Abby beamed at Letitia, and with a quick brush of fingertips over her face, removed the signs of her sudden outburst and returned to the kitchen.

  Letitia stared after her, still shrouded in warmth, but she shivered and gave the kitchen a sidelong glance as she returned to the dining room. What goaded her to make such a promise to Abby she could not have said, except that it was true. Letitia would not try to bind or banish it herself, but if the attachment to the house was removed, then she was confident it would leave Finola alone to heal.

  With a deep breath, she returned to the sitting room, where another challenge of sorts waited for her. It would be fainthearted not to return, so with spine ramrod straight she made her way back.

  “Forgot the water?” Mr. Driscoll drawled from where he still sat.

  She’d overlooked it after Abby’s thanks.

  “I didn’t want to get in the way. They’re about to come in with the dinner things,” Letitia said, hoping the threat of the others’ presence would stop the innocuous comments.

  Letitia wanted to believe that his interest was motivated by her helping to save his daughter, but as she met his gaze, there was no mistaking the speculative interest within. If she had thought he was a desert wind before, he was now the cooling sultry night air against her sudden bashfulness.

  “Anyone would think my niece wasn’t the only one to read minds,” he murmured.

  “Not minds,” Letitia answered, licking her lips. “Intent.”

  She remained near the door, hands clasping her skirt, legs unable to cross the room and resume her seat. He didn’t move, but his stare went on, and she swallowed against the rising embarrassment at his perusal.

  “I’d ask what it is you see,” he said, “but feel I’ll only receive another of your cryptic answers.”

  “When have I ever not been clear with you, Mr. Driscoll?” Letitia said before she saw he was laughing at her.

  “I think you make your intentions well known,” he said, getting to his feet to stand before her, “but please don’t go reading into mine. I don’t believe you know just quite what it is I…want.”

  The last word was a whisper as he scanned her face, trying to read her in return.

  Letitia remembered his hand on her cheek, and how despite all of his airs and position as a lawyer he’d worked hard in his life. She wanted that calloused palm on her forehead again, the human contact something she’d not given herself leave to desire again.

  He was almost within reach, but stopped just shy, looking down at her. Letitia had never been so aware of their difference in stature, or the warm tone of his skin at the collar of his shirt where he’d loosened his tie, or the hands held at his side that she wanted to hold her.

  To keep her safe.

  The briefest moment of yearning came away with a knife-thin sliver of guilt.

  She stepped away. “As you like, Mr. Driscoll.”

  He opened his mouth, frowning at her sudden change, but there must have been a warning in her face for he remained silent. He was aware of her past, but much of it was still a mystery and Letitia intended for it to stay that way. He was not her Daniel, and she was not the same woman Daniel had loved.

  Letitia didn’t know if she could ever love again and saying no to Mr. Driscoll had proven hard when he was only asking for her help.

  She didn’t know what she’d do if he asked for her heart.

  Chapter 11

  Letitia stood at the top of the stairs to the cellar.

  Fear would have kept her there, trembling on the threshold, but the dawn’s light grew on her back and Mr. Driscoll, ready to face any dragon with the courage of the naïve, was at her sid
e.

  Down the stairs it was dark, but sunlight streamed into the shadows, fed from the open front door. The cellar’s door was tucked under the main staircase, the entrance gloomy and uninviting.

  “There are lights,” Mr. Driscoll said behind her. “I’ll get them.”

  “No.” Letitia’s upraised hand stopped him, and she softened her tone when she realized how loud her voice sounded, sucked away into the cellar. “No. I’ll do it in a moment. Where is Finola?”

  “She’s out the back, walking the gardens with Abby,” he said.

  Throughout the long night, Finola had done much to keep spirits high, gorging herself on cake and making sure no one fell asleep. Letitia suspected she’d done it in fear but answered Finola’s endless questions about England. Abby opened the adjoining room where a piano sat in a corner, taking Finola through all her lessons. Finola invited her uncle to cards and trounced him, though Letitia, seeing his hand, knew he let her win. It was a cozy family setting.

  But more than once Letitia had found Mr. Driscoll watching her, and when they were alone, he turned his attention on getting to know Letitia better—not her past, just herself. Little questions on her love of Jane Austen and what else she liked to read. The traditional fashions of England she preferred over the more brazen American trends. Not even Daniel had asked her favorite composer or the way she preferred her tea.

  In the heart of the night, despite weariness weighing her down, his quiet words and gentle interest kept her afloat in a sea of wariness and apprehension.

  When the gentle fingers of dawn had crept over the horizon the family was relieved, and despite any exhaustion, Letitia wished she could keep the mellow and insistent flirtation of Mr. Driscoll forever.