A Lady in the Smoke (5 page)

He looked carefully at me. “There's one other thing. There may come a time when she wishes to speak of the accident. If it doesn't distress you to listen, try to let her.”

“But I thought you wanted me to distract her from thinking about it.”

“Yes, for the first day or two. But eventually, if she
wants
to speak of it….” He hesitated. “I'll be frank, Miss Fraser. Plenty of medical men will tell you that talking about the accident is a form of brooding and only causes their patients more harm. But that hasn't been my experience. I find it's more like an infection. Just as the pus has to come out of the body before it can heal, the words have to come out of her mouth before the horror of the memory will go away.” He gave a wry look. “It's an unorthodox notion, I know. Most people will tell you I'm spouting utter rubbish.”

Mama didn't speak to me about much of anything these days, but for all I knew, she might want to talk about the accident, seeing as I was the one who had been with her. “All right,” I said slowly. “If she wants to talk about it, I'll let her.” I paused. “Should I be worried that she hasn't spoken since the accident?”

A frown creased his brow. “It's not unusual in railway cases. Speech often comes back in a day or two. Try not to worry.” He shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I need to go. I have patients to see over at the Polk Hotel.”

“Don't you need to sleep?”

He smiled and shrugged. “I'll be back this evening.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “For everything you've done.”

He put out his hand for mine, and this time I gave it to him without hesitating. “Thank you for your help.”

“You're welcome.”

Another one of those half-smiles, and he was gone. My hand felt cold after the warmth of his was withdrawn. I heard the hotel door open and close, and I stepped to the window to watch him leave.

But he didn't appear on the front steps. Instead I heard his voice again, in the hallway: “Why, Tom! I thought you were in London.”

“I just got in,” came another voice, low and hoarse, as if the speaker had a head cold. “Took me half the damn night to get here, what with the accident. Just spent an hour on the back of a bloody horse. God, I hate horses. My arse is about raw. Where were you when it happened?”

“On my way to the station, so I was close, thank god,” Mr. Wilcox answered. “I spent a few hours in the field, and then I followed the wagons back here. Have you seen the wreck?”

“Yes—it's bad.”

“Well, Palmer said it would be. He knew.”

“That's what I need to tell you.” Tom's voice dropped. “Palmer's dead. He was thrown off a train two nights ago at Chumnley Bridge.”

I caught my breath.
Had I heard him correctly?

Mr. Wilcox gave a low sound that might have been a curse.

“The papers are saying it's an accident,” Tom continued. “But his wife said two men came to the house a few nights ago and warned him to stop asking questions about what happened to his report. They told him if he tried to contact anyone at the bureau or the commission, they'd make sure he never worked again.”

“My god.” Mr. Wilcox's voice was strained. “That poor man. And his poor family.”

“I know.” A gravelly cough. “But with him gone, we've got to be damn sure we keep Michael safe. Where is he? What's he doing?”

“He's upstairs. I assume he's sleeping.”

“He can't stay here, Paul. We need to get him to London tomorrow. Can he use your rooms? No one will look for him there.”

“Of course. I have to be back home in a day or two, but I've a couch he can use as long as he likes.”

Their voices were quieter now, and I moved toward the door to listen.

“What about your housekeeper?” Tom asked.

“She won't ask questions. Tell him the key is on the ledge above the window.”

“All right. But you know what this means. Palmer was probably right about Malverton too.” Another cough. “We're going to have a look on Monday morning. You'll come, won't you? To help?”

“I can't, Tom.” Mr. Wilcox's voice was regretful.

“What?” Tom's voice rose again. “For god's sake! We only have until Tuesday. You
know
that if we don't find tangible proof that we can bring back and show them, more people are going to die—dozens of people—”

“You think I don't know that?” Mr. Wilcox's voice sharpened. “But I've got fifty patients right here—some of them in critical condition—not to mention half a dozen in London.” A pause. “We're on the same side of this fight. Remember?”

A deep sigh and Tom's voice flattened. “I know. Sorry. Where're you going now?”

“The Polk Hotel. I had them bring the worst cases here, so I could see them straightaway. I haven't even been over there yet.”

“Then I'll walk with you. There's more I have to tell you.”

The door opened and shut. I stepped hastily to the window and peered out from behind the curtain. Mr. Wilcox's back was to me, but I could see his companion in profile. Tom was shorter and stouter than Mr. Wilcox and appeared to be a few years older. His brown hair was cropped close to his head, and he had a round face and a small, turned-up nose. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his coat as they stood at the curb, waiting for a hansom cab to pass. Tom was talking quickly, his eyes fixed on Mr. Wilcox. Then they stepped between two carriages, crossed the street, and were lost to view.

I stood for a few minutes, staring at the corner the men had vacated and mulling over what I'd just heard. Had someone truly been thrown off a train? And who was Michael, and why did he need to hide in London? What was happening on Tuesday? And what did Tom mean about more people dying?

The rain had let up, and there was only wind—wind that came through the cracks in the window leading and made a hollow sound as it whirled around the chimney. I shivered. I was beastly cold and my head ached, and I was suddenly so tired that the words Mr. Wilcox and Tom had exchanged were becoming jumbled in my memory.

At first I tried to hold them in place. But with a pang of guilt, I realized that what I
should
be doing was trying to forget them. I wasn't supposed to have overheard any of that, and I certainly shouldn't have strained to eavesdrop, especially once I realized that their conversation was private and important.

Besides, I had plenty to worry about, looking after my mother and myself.

I started toward the kitchen to find someone who could supply me with some stationery and a penny-stamp. I had to send a letter to Mrs. Ellsworth to let her know where we were and that we were safe, to have her pack up a trunk of our things for Martin or Timothy to bring, to see if she had news of Miss Rush or anyone else we knew on the train, and to ask if Jane might be available to come.

In the kitchen, I found Mrs. Mowbray, who—despite having been up most of the night and being in the process of receiving the morning deliveries from the butcher—was wonderfully kind. She found me some writing paper and a pen, and, when I'd finished my note, said she'd send it straightaway. She also told me there was one last bed in the attic; Jane, or whomever Jane sent, could stay there until another room opened up on our floor.

By the time I had taken care of everything it was nearly noon. I longed for a hot bath, but I was too tired to do anything but go to bed.

I removed my soiled dress and slid between the sheets. The bed-warmer had long gone cold, and my feet were half-frozen. I drew them up, tucked my chemise around my toes, and immediately fell asleep.

When I woke, it was dark save for the faint yellow glow from the street lamps outside. I was hungry and sluggish, the way you feel when you've been abed all the wrong hours. I pushed aside the covers. Mama was still asleep, though she moved restlessly and her eyelids were fluttering.

I eyed my soiled dress on the chair with distaste.

That's when I saw the trunk at the end of Mama's bed. It must have come this afternoon, while I was asleep. I breathed a sigh of relief and opened it to find a letter, which I set aside for the moment, several day dresses and warm shawls, underthings for both of us, a hairbrush, and two hair nets for me. After riffling through everything, I took up the letter; it was a short note from Mrs. Ellsworth expressing how glad she was that we were all right, that no one we knew was killed and Miss Rush was unscathed, and that Jane would be in Travers tomorrow night at the latest.

Thank god.

I undressed quietly, so as not to wake Mama, and washed with the bit of soap and flannel. My shoulder was more painful than it had been last night, my head was tender to the touch, and I found a fist-sized bruise on my arm and a larger one on my thigh. But once I was clean and had brushed my hair and donned fresh clothes, even the bruises and aches felt better.

I spent the next hour taking care of Mama. First I went downstairs to fetch a cup of broth, a slice of toast, and some hot water to make the special tea. When I woke her, she was agitated; her eyes were unfocused and she seemed not to know where she was; and she said not a word to me about the railway accident or otherwise. It was after eight o'clock, which meant that she hadn't had a dose of laudanum in about thirty-two hours. I bit my lip and looked at the trunk. How utterly stupid of me. I should have asked Mrs. Ellsworth to send some. All we could do now was wait for the supply that Mr. Wilcox promised.

I found a maid to help settle Mama upright in the bed and rubbed her with the camphor-scented salve, after which I fed her most of the toast. But after a few mouthfuls of the broth, she turned her head away. I took a sip myself to see if it was all right and grimaced. No wonder Mama wouldn't drink it; our cook would have said the chicken gave no more than a scratch of its claw to it. Mama's pulse was high, so I gave her the tea and drops. Finally, I sat on my bed and said tentatively, “Mama, Mr. Wilcox—the doctor—said I should read to you.”

She made no sign that she'd heard me—not a nod, or a frown, or even a blink.

There were plenty of times this past year when Mama had ignored me, but this was different. She seemed unable to comprehend much of anything around her. Was it the effect of the lack of laudanum, or had her nerves, or even her mind, been damaged by the accident?

I pushed my anxiety away and opened
The Eustace Diamonds
. The edges of the pages were already cut for the first few chapters, so I began to read.

“Chapter one. Lizzie Greystock. It was admitted by all her friends, and also by her enemies—who were in truth the more numerous and active body of the two—that Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself….”

I was halfway through the chapter, completely caught up in the tale, before it occurred to me that maybe Mr. Wilcox had wished to help redirect
my
mind from the accident as well. I felt my heart lighten, just a little, at the thought.

By the time I'd finished the chapter, Mama had fallen asleep. I felt for her pulse again and was relieved that it had come down. Her breathing was quiet and her hand cool.

My own stomach was pinched with hunger, and I was deliberating whether I could leave, just for long enough to eat, when I heard a soft knock at the door. I opened it to find Mrs. Mowbray.

She looked up and down at my dress and smiled at me kindly. “I see you found your trunk. Your man Martin brought it this afternoon, but I told him you weren't to be disturbed, so he turned straight about to get home before dark. It wasn't heavy, so I had two of the maids bring it in, to be sure you'd have it when you woke. Lucy said you didn't even stir.”

“Thank you so much. It's a relief to be in clean clothes.”

“I daresay.” She peered past my shoulder, her expression concerned. “Mary said she's been helping you shift your mother. Is she any better?”

I hesitated. “She's still not talking. But I don't think she's worse.”

“I never did get a chance to thank you for helping the doctor. I couldn't have done it myself. I'm quite squalmish, you see, can't bear the sight of blood.” Mrs. Mowbray looked over my shoulder again. “I can sit with her for a while, so you can get yourself a bite. Dinner's past, but Cally's still in the kitchen, and I'm sure they can find you something.”

I smiled with relief. “Mrs. Mowbray, that's very good of you. I
am
hungry, but I didn't want to leave Mama.”

“Well, go on then.” She came into the room and sat down in the chair. “I brought some mending with me, and I've an hour or so I can spare before bed. 'Twill be good to be off my feet.”

I knew she was being kind; surely she could be off her feet elsewhere, perhaps in her own comfortable room with a warm fire and a cup of tea. But I sensed she wanted to help me without my making a fuss about it. So I only said, “I'm sure you deserve more than an hour with your feet up. Your hotel has been turned upside-down since last night.”

“ 'Tis no matter,” she said practically with a shake of her head. “It'll all be to rights again in a few days.” Then she smiled and waved me off.

I went down to the dining room, which was nearly empty, took a small table by one of the windows, and looked out. Gone was the bustle of the night before; there were a few cabs and some pedestrians, but aside from the gas lamps, the street was dark and quiet. One of the maids brought me a bowl of soup with meat and potatoes—a small portion, but at least it was something heartier than that awful broth. She also gave me a hunk of bread and some tea, plunking it onto the table with poor grace. But I thanked her and forced myself to eat slowly.

When I finished, I was still hungry, but I dared not ask for anything else. Still, I didn't want to go back to my room just yet. Instead, I went across the hall into the sitting room, dragged a chair nearer the hearth, and sat down. The fire had burnt down low but was still warm. The room was quiet, but the sounds of the hotel—the thumps of footsteps overhead, some voices raised in laughter, the chiming of the clock in the next room—created a feeling of loneliness that threatened to engulf me. It was absurd, really. I was used to being alone. Then I sighed and gave myself a mental shake. It was only because this morning, I'd had something better than a fire for company. I wedged myself more closely into the chair and watched the play of flames among the coals.

Over the sound of the clock striking half-past, I heard the front door open.

A series of slow footsteps, and then Mr. Wilcox's black-coated figure paused in the doorway. He came into the room, sank into the other chair, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. He hadn't seen me. My chair was turned away, and he hadn't even cast a glance in my direction. But before his head dropped, I caught a glimpse of the bleak expression on his face.

I couldn't help thinking of what I'd overheard that morning. How much of his despair stemmed from worry about his patients here in Travers, and how much of it was due to what Tom had told him?

“Mr. Wilcox,” I said softly, leaning forward so he could see me.

His head jerked up.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He sat, still not saying a word, his eyes on mine, his face pale to the lips.

“Would you like the room to yourself?”

He stretched a hand toward me, to keep me there. “No. No, Miss Fraser. Not at all.” There was a note of desperation in his voice that pained me—and yet, in an odd way, was gratifying. Perhaps I wasn't the only one who wanted company tonight.

He lowered his head again and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I rose and stood beside his chair. “Mr. Wilcox, have you slept at all since the accident? Have you eaten?”

His voice—muffled: “I don't know. That is—I don't think so.”

“Stay here. I'll be back.” I went into the kitchen where I found a woman kneading dough for the next morning. With my best smile, I introduced myself and asked whether she was Cally.

“I am,” she said, not taking her eyes off the white mass under her hands.

“I know it's late, but could you put together a light supper? With some wine and coffee?”

She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, kneading all the while. “Ain't you already 'ad summat? We got enough to do without makin' up special meals for folks who cain't be bothered coming to the dining room with ever'body else—”

“It's not for me,” I interrupted, keeping my voice pleasant. “It's for Mr. Wilcox. He's just returned.”

She looked up, the annoyance fading from her face. “Where is 'e?”

“In the sitting room next to the parlor. Surely he's worked hard enough the past twenty-four hours that he deserves something to eat.”

“Well, 'course 'e does!” She wiped her hands on her apron and set them on her broad hips. “I don't s'pose you'd be offerin' to bring it to 'im?”

“I'm happy to, unless you'd rather,” I replied somewhat tartly. “And you needn't put anything extra on the tray for me. I'm still full from that extraordinarily robust cup of soup.”

She pursed her lips again—to hide her grudging amusement?—then turned away. I watched silently as she moved around the kitchen with brisk efficiency; in a matter of minutes, she assembled a tray that held not only a pitcher of hot coffee but also a few thick slices of bread, some cake, some preserves, a hunk of cheese, and a fair-sized piece of cold ham.

I came forward to pick it up.

“I di'n't say it was ready,” she snapped, waving my hand away. Carefully she placed a knife, a fork, and a napkin beside the plate. Then she added a glass and a decanter of wine—and, after a moment's hesitation, a second glass, a napkin, and silver, muttering, “You might be a lady, but nobody can say you ain't done your share, same as the rest of us.”

“Thank you,” I said, surprised. But apparently I'd received my day's allotment of kindness from Cally. She grunted and turned away, which I took as permission to take up the meal and be gone.

Mr. Wilcox glanced up as I put the tray on the table but made no move toward it. Clearly, he was too tired to fix himself anything, so I put a wedge of the pale yellow cheese and a slab of ham between two slices of bread and put it on the plate. Then I poured wine for each of us and placed a glass in his left hand. His fingers were freezing cold.

Unsure of what more I could do, I pulled my chair back to the table, sat back, and waited.

The inn was quieter now, and the firelight was working a peculiar magic on the ugly little room. The flickering gold softened the colors in the carpet, imparted a silvery sparkle to the clouded mirror, and etched our shadows delicately on the wall behind. I sat still, but my every nerve felt alive to the taste of the wine, the warmth of the fire, and the movements of his hands as he unfolded the napkin and turned his attention to the food.

He managed to drink some of the wine and choke down most of the sandwich. Some color returned to his face, but it still bore the heavy lines of fatigue and anxiety. There was part of me that longed to ask what was worrying him, as if I hadn't overheard Tom this morning. But the question would have felt disingenuous, and I'd have been asking just as much to satisfy my own inexcusable curiosity as to be kind to Mr. Wilcox. So instead, I sought for something to pull him out of his dark thoughts. Something to make him laugh.

“You apparently stand quite high in Cally's good graces,” I said lightly.

He looked startled. “I beg your pardon. Who?”

“Cally, the kitchen maid. She scowled at me when I asked for a tray—until I told her it was for you.” I grimaced. “I must say, I'm rather afraid of her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So you can bear blood and broken bones in the dead of the night, but the kitchen maid unnerves you.”

“Well, you didn't see the look she gave me as she put the knife on the tray.”

He gave a small laugh, settled back more easily in his chair, and drank from his wineglass. I let out a breath of relief and surreptitiously tucked my left foot under me.

“Have
you
eaten?” he asked.

“I had some soup.”

“If you're hungry, there's plenty here for both of us.”

The wine I'd drunk had made me feel warm and light-headed. And I
was
still hungry. I took him at his word and made myself a sandwich like his. The cheese was salty and the bread tasted of rosemary.

He smiled at me. “So this is your true identity.”

I nearly choked on my bite of sandwich. I gulped it down, feeling the twin pangs of guilt and regret, and wondered how he had found out about my title. But he didn't seem at all angry.

Perhaps he saw my dismay, for he added hastily, “I only mean that you probably don't usually look as if you'd been dragged out of a muddy field.”

So he hadn't heard about my title after all.

I smiled with relief. “Yes, our trunk arrived this afternoon.”

“And how is your head?”

“I'm fine.” I refrained from touching the plaster. “Out of curiosity, how many stitches did you put in?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve!” I echoed, startled. “Why, you told me it would be only a few.”

He shrugged. “I didn't want to alarm you. How is your mother?”

“I had to give her drops twice, when her pulse rose; but she took some toast with her tea, and she's sleeping now.”

He frowned. “Has the laudanum come yet? I sent someone to Bonwell to meet the afternoon express—although I'm not sure trains are running anywhere near on schedule today.”