When the time had come to find a bolt-hole for Amelia, it seemed as good a place as any. It was out of the way, and-clockwork scarecrows aside-seemed quiet and tranquil, just the sort of place for someone to repair to while they convalesced, away from prying eyes.
Veronica heard a bird squawk loudly nearby and looked out the window, but could see nothing beyond the blur of raindrops striking the pane. The hansom ploughed on across the slick, waterlogged ground, and Veronica sighed and rocked back in her seat, feeling drained.
It had been a gruelling week, culminating in Amelia’s counterfeit funeral, and the consequences of all that had happened were only now beginning to dawn on her. Fabian was dead, the Bastion Society was in tatters, and the Queen… Well, she supposed Victoria’s days were coming to an end.
Most important, however, was the fact that she still had Amelia, and the burden of her sister’s care was now Veronica’s to carry alone. Newbury would help-of course he would-but it was unfair of her to expect any more than that of him. He’d already done so much, given up so much of himself to come to her aid. Now, it was down to her.
The hansom drew to an abrupt halt before a small thatched cottage. It was a pretty, picturesque little building, detached and at the far end of the village. It sat squat in the centre of an extensive, mature garden. Rose and holly bushes bordered an uneven flagstone path up to the front door, and smoke curled like grey ghosts from twin chimney pots. It looked inviting, even in the pouring rain.
Veronica grabbed her umbrella from the seat beside her and climbed out of the cab, dipping her head against the pounding rain while she struggled to put her umbrella up. It offered little protection against the onslaught, and within moments her skirt was plastered to her legs, soaked through to the skin. She felt sorry for the driver, who was hunkered down on the dickie box beneath a thick woollen overcoat and a black cap. He looked like a drowned rat. She paid him his fare, plus a few extra coins in an effort to compensate him for the long drive and the inclement weather. He nodded in gratitude, water dripping from his chin, and took the reins, cajoling the horses into action. The beasts’ breath made steaming clouds in the air.
Veronica turned and fumbled with the latch on the front gate, eventually having to balance the umbrella under one arm as she simultaneously opened the latch and hefted the gate itself to force it open. The hinges squealed, and the rain stung her eyes as she ran up the path towards the cottage, leaving the gate hanging open behind her.
Veronica rapped on the door and then tried the handle. It was bolted from the inside. She waited on the step, pressing herself as close to the building as possible in search of any semblance of shelter the overhanging thatch might offer.
A few moments later she heard footsteps and the sound of the bolt scraping in its brackets. She heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of the coming reprieve from the downpour. Hot tea and a towel were, at that moment, the two things she desired most in the world.
The door cracked open and a suspicious-looking face peered out at her through the gap. When the woman saw it was Veronica, she flung the door wide open and beckoned her quickly inside.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Leeson, was a short, rotund lady in her late forties, with a kindly manner and a prim and proper accent that suggested she had once seen better days. She wore her platinum grey hair scraped back in a bun so severe that the resulting facial expression was one of permanent shock. She had an authoritarian air about her that gave Veronica the impression that she may once have been employed as a governess or schoolmistress.
Today, however, Mrs. Leeson looked heartily relieved to see Veronica at the door. “Oh, do come in, Miss Veronica, out of that rain.” She took Veronica’s umbrella and busied herself shaking it out before helping Veronica off with her coat. Veronica stood in the hall, trying not to drip on the sea green carpet.
“I’ll pop the kettle on, miss, while you make yourself comfortable. Miss Amelia is in the drawing room.” Her face grew momentarily more serious and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I fear the seizures have been growing steadily worse, Miss Veronica. Very frequent and very violent. I know you warned me in advance, Miss Veronica, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”
Veronica smiled. “I understand, Mrs. Leeson. I’m speaking with a doctor tomorrow. Someone who will be able to help. He’ll prescribe some medication and I’m sure that will make all the difference.” She’d made an appointment to see Dr. Mason at the hospital in Wandsworth. She hadn’t yet decided how she was going to broach the subject with him, but she knew he’d find a way to help. She was considering telling him she needed the medicine for herself, that she’d begun to have seizures similar to those suffered by her late sister, but the thought of lying to such a good man tied knots in her stomach.
Either way, her words seemed to appease the housekeeper, who smiled and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent news indeed, Miss Veronica. I knew you’d have the situation in hand.” She clapped her hands together. “Right. I’ll fetch the tea. And a towel, too, I’d imagine, judging by the amount by which you’re dripping on the carpet!”
Veronica smiled, and Mrs. Leeson bustled off down the hallway towards the small kitchen at the rear of the cottage. Veronica tried to shake the worst of the water from her skirt, and then followed her down the hallway as far as the drawing room door. Pausing there for a moment, she peered inside.
Amelia sat in a wheelchair by the window, which looked out across the farmer’s fields to the rear of the property. She looked pale and thin, but there was a glow about her Veronica hadn’t seen in years. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time in as long as either of them could remember, she felt like she had a home. For years, Amelia had been bounced from sanatorium to hospital, gradually losing not just her strength of body, but her strength of spirit, too. Now, Veronica thought, it seemed like she might finally be regaining some of that lost strength of heart.
Veronica rapped on the door and stepped into the room. Amelia turned and saw her there, and her face cracked into a beaming grin. “Veronica! You’re all wet!”
Veronica couldn’t help but laugh. “Have you seen the weather? Of course I’m wet!”
“But you still came,” Amelia replied, and Veronica walked over to stand before her, stooping low to kiss her gently on the cheek. “Is it done?” Amelia asked, her voice suddenly anxious.
“It’s done. Everyone believes you’re dead.”
Amelia stared out the window at the rain-lashed fields and the dark smear of clouds beyond. But Veronica knew she was seeing something else entirely. “Even Mother and Father?” she said.
“Yes. Even them.”
“How were they?” Her voice sounded strained, as if she feared whatever answer Veronica might give. All of the brightness Veronica had seen in her just a moment before seemed to have suddenly drained away.
Veronica felt a pang of guilt. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Amelia the truth, of the look of relief on their mother’s face as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the ground. “Distraught. Sorrowful…” She didn’t know what else to say.
Amelia turned to her, her eyes wide. “Perhaps we should tell them the truth, Veronica? Perhaps if they knew?…”
Veronica shook her head. “No,” she said softly. And then more firmly: “No.” She squeezed Amelia’s shoulder affectionately. “You know we can’t do that, Amelia.”