A Lady in the Smoke (6 page)

“So far as I know, it hasn't come. Mrs. Mowbray is sitting with Mama, and I'm sure she'd have mentioned it.”

“Well, it should be here soon. Has your mother spoken yet?”

“Not a word. But she's been sleeping most of the day.”

He made a small noise in the back of his throat.

I took another sip of the wine and closed my eyes just for a moment so I could feel its warmth spread through the soft area under my ribs.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “why did she first start taking the laudanum?”

My eyes flew open. Surprised again by his forthrightness, I said nothing for a long moment. A flush darkened his cheek, and he turned away, muttering, “Forgive me. It's a private matter. I shouldn't have asked.”

I was sorry that he felt he'd overstepped, and I reached a hand toward him. “No—that is, I don't mind telling you.” I didn't add that aside from Anne, I'd never spoken of it with anyone. “It began when my brother died.”

“You said the birth was difficult.”

With the clarity of a picture, the image came back: the smears of blood on the sheets, the silver bowl, the doctor's serious face and Mama's screams, and me being pushed toward the stairs and told to get away, to go down to the kitchen—

“Yes.” It came out a half-whisper. “She was in a good deal of pain afterward.”

“So she's taken it since then.”

“Well, not constantly. Jane—the nurse I told you about, who's coming tomorrow—she weaned her off it for a while. But then my father died, and our doctor began giving Mama small doses for her nerves. She's taken it ever since.”

“And when did your father pass away?”

“Ten years ago.”

He winced. “So you lost him when you were still a child. I'm sorry.” A pause. “I'm sure it affected your mother very much.”

I nodded. “She wasn't strong, even then. In fact, I remember the day of his funeral, someone said that my father's death would kill her too. That she wouldn't last a year because she had no constitution.”

He looked taken aback. “Someone said that in your hearing?”

“Oh, I don't think she knew I was listening,” I amended hastily. “There were dozens of people there. I doubt she even saw me.” I paused, remembering the parlor at Kellham Park like another picture: the polished casket, its wood cut from the family elms; dozens of callers in black paramatta silk and bombazine, their handkerchiefs fluttering around my ears like crows; and Lady Jurgens spouting her terrifying predictions. “But the fact is, she wasn't far off. My mother took to her bed and didn't get out of it all summer.”

He frowned. “Well, for what it's worth, I believe everyone has a constitution of one kind or another, and most medical men I know would agree with me.”

I smiled briefly. “I wish I'd known that then. It might have helped.” I took another sip of wine. “That entire summer, I was simply terrified. I went to her bedroom every day and sat there for hours, watching to make sure she was still breathing.”

His eyes were full of sympathy. “Was your mother conscious? Did she ever speak to you?”

“No, but I think she spoke to the doctor sometimes. He came in the afternoons, and he'd always shoo me off.”

He shifted in his chair. “Well, I imagine she knew you were there, even if she didn't say anything. It was probably comforting.”

I turned the glass so that the wine rose in waves against the sides. The liquid was a deep red, shot through with gold from the fire.

“You think not,” he said. It wasn't a question.

I met his gaze squarely. “No, I don't believe my presence brought her any comfort.” I paused to see if he would make some conventional protest, but he didn't, so I told him the rest. “We've never been terribly close, but that summer, I'd been reading
A Tale of Two Cities,
and I had the idea that if she saw me every time she woke up, like Doctor Manette saw Lucie, it might make her want to live because she'd want to be with me.” I forced a small laugh. “Naïve, I know.”

But there wasn't even a glint of humor in his eyes. “You were only ten years old. I think plenty of children that age believe—and hope—that life can imitate books.”

“Yes.” My throat tightened. “And back then I still believed that if you loved someone hard enough, they had to love you back.”

His whole body went still.

I looked away, feeling the blood rising to my cheeks.
Dear god, I hadn't meant to say that. I wouldn't have, if I hadn't been drinking wine.
“I'm sorry, that was—”

“Don't apologize.” He stood and picked up a poker, bending over to stoke the fire. “Please
don't
. I—I appreciate your candor. And your confidence.”

He seemed to mean it. Nevertheless, we fell into a long, awkward silence. I was casting about for some less fraught topic when I noticed that the gold chain with its pendant had fallen out of his collar again.

I touched my throat. “What is that you wear around your neck? I saw it last night too.”

He looked down at it, as if surprised by its appearance, but after a moment's hesitation, he drew it over his head and offered it to me. It was heavier than it looked, and the metal was warm from his skin. It wasn't a pendant that dangled from the chain. It was a ring, heavy and masculine, with carving on top and words around the edge.

“It's my great-great-grandfather's ring,” he said. “My father gave it to me before he died. It's my family's crest—or was.”

Was?

But he didn't elaborate, so I tilted the top of the ring toward the fire to study the carving. “Is this a bird?” I asked.

“It's a kestral, sitting on an acacia branch.”

“Acacia? But that's an African tree.” Some generations back, one of our gardeners had imported several of them and planted them beside our rose garden. They required extra care to survive our English climate, but I'd always liked them because they looked so different from our oaks and yews.

“My great-great-grandfather traveled to Africa once, back in the 1750s. He chose the acacia because it stands for eternal and affectionate remembrance.”

I looked up. “But why the kestral? I always think of it as a ruthless bird of prey.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “By all accounts, my ancestor believed firmly in the philosophy of
carpe diem
. You know, seize the day. Or seize the goods, in his case. Family legend has it that he made a considerable fortune as a glorified pirate before my grandfather made our holdings respectable.”

“Really?” I couldn't tell if he was joking.

He nodded toward the ring. “The words around the edge are
hae mynd o lealtie an scowth
. It's Scottish for ‘keep in mind loyalty and liberty.' There's nothing in there about minding the law or being honest.”

I laughed and dropped the ring and chain into his hand, picking up my glass as he tucked them back inside his shirt.

“But if your family is Scottish, how is that you speak French with a
Parisienne
accent?”

His eyebrows lifted faintly.

“You spoke French to one of the patients in the scullery,” I reminded him.

“Oh.” His expression cleared. “My mother was French.”

“You grew up there?”

“No. In Edinburgh.”

“And was your father a medical man as well?”

He smiled. “Far from it. He was a textile merchant. That's what I meant about my grandfather making the family respectable. He began importing cloth and lace from Belgium and France in the 1820s. Then my father took it over.” He cradled his glass of wine in his palm. “That's how my parents met. My mother's family owned some laceworks outside Paris.”

“Then how did you come to be a railway surgeon?” I knew I was asking too many questions, but it seemed utterly peculiar to me that the son of a wealthy textile merchant and the daughter of a foreign laceworks manufacturer, with piracy in his family no less, ended up a medical man.

Mr. Wilcox didn't seem put off by my curiosity. “My mother died when I was twelve, and when my father died shortly thereafter, I went to live with my uncle. He eventually sent me to university, and my first year, I went to hear John Erichsen speak.” His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “It was brilliant. He was one of the first people to recognize how peculiar railway injuries are—and to be able to explain it rationally.” He paused. “Then my uncle also died, and I could no longer afford to stay. But I'd read all of Mr. Erichsen's books and articles, so I went to him and asked if I might apprentice as a surgeon, and he took me on. A good thing too. I'm not sure what I'd have done if he hadn't.” Suddenly, he grinned at me. “You're asking a lot of questions. Are you sounding me, Miss Fraser?”

I felt the blood rise to my face.

He leaned forward and laughed. “I'm teasing you. This is the first pleasant hour I've had in days.”

The fire cracked and popped in the silence between us. I didn't dare take the compliment seriously, so instead I adopted his light tone: “That's not much of a standard, Mr. Wilcox.”

“No?”

“You've spent the last twenty-four hours doing nothing but working and going without sleep and food. You could be sitting opposite a—a fish in a bowl and find it more pleasant than
that
.”

He gave me a sideways look. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes.” The word slipped out before I thought, before I realized how much I was revealing. There was another of those long silences, but this one wasn't awkward. And I was conscious of a glow spreading through my whole body.

He leaned back in his chair. “How often do—”

The front door slammed open and shut, making both of us jump. A boy's rough voice shouted urgently, “ 'Ello? 'Ello?”

Mr. Wilcox jumped up and strode toward the hallway, and after a startled moment, I rose and followed him.

From the hallway came Cally's voice in a stage whisper: “Hsst! What are you thinkin', you wretch, bangin' about like an ox where there are sick folks? Stop your shoutin'!”

The boy's voice didn't drop a notch in volume. “Is 'e 'ere? Mr. Wilcox? I need to see 'im! Got what 'e needed. Where the bloody 'ell is 'e?”

“Jeremy, I'm right here.” Mr. Wilcox stepped into the hallway and nodded to Cally, who grimaced and turned on her heel.

By the front door stood a scrawny boy of somewhere between twelve and fourteen, wrapped in a coat that was too large for him, and with his brown hair flopping out from under an ugly cap. He had a shrewd, almost wolfish look about him, and a runny nose that he wiped on his sleeve. I'd have taken him for a pickpocket if I saw him on the street.

The boy was grinning at Mr. Wilcox. “I got it,” he said and pulled four medium-sized brown vials from his various pockets. “The train was late, o' course—then the box went missing—'cause o' course it warn't labeled properly—”

Mr. Wilcox put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Thank you.” He turned and handed me one of the bottles. It was warm from being in Jeremy's pocket. “And here, Miss Fraser, is your mother's medicine.”

Jeremy inspected me curiously, his black eyes bold and unblinking.

I didn't like his scrutiny. “I'm sorry for the trouble,” I said stiffly.

“Don't be,” Mr. Wilcox replied. “I needed it for some other patients as well. Give your mother a teaspoon now; and if she develops any of the symptoms we talked about, give another half. That should be enough to keep her comfortable, and I'll check back tomorrow to see how she is. But try not to give her more than that before I see her again.”

He looked over at Jeremy, who was staring fixedly at him and shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. Clearly he had something to communicate.

“Just a moment, Jeremy.” Mr. Wilcox went into the sitting room and returned with his coat and bag. “I need to see a few more patients tonight.”

“And then you'll be able to sleep?” I couldn't help asking.

“Yes. Then at last I will be able to sleep.”

“Thank you,” I said, raising the bottle to both of them. Even though that wasn't all I was thanking Mr. Wilcox for.

“Thank you for dinner.” Mr. Wilcox had his back to Jeremy, so only I saw his warm smile. “Good night.”

Clasping the precious bottle in my hand, I started toward the stairs. Behind me, I heard Jeremy's voice, low. “Cor, who's that lady? And what'd y' say 'bout dinner? 'Ad to stand 'round that station for three 'ours waitin' for the bloody train, and I'm starving.”

“You're always starving.” Mr. Wilcox's voice was indulgent. “But we'll find you something. You certainly deserve it.”

As the door closed behind them, an icy updraft chilled me through my dress. Still, I found myself smiling, and I went up the stairs with a lighter heart than when I'd come down.

I had just finished dressing the next morning when there came a soft knock at the door.

I opened it, thinking it might be a maid with some extra pillows and linens for Mama. But to my surprise it was Jane Grace. She looked almost exactly as she had when she visited Mrs. Ellsworth at Kellham Park several years ago: a slight figure, dressed modestly, with beautiful gray eyes, and fine brown hair drawn into a low bun.

Her eyes darted to my forehead, reminding me of my bandage. But she only gave her usual calm, cheerful smile and held out her hands. “Hello, Lady Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Jane! I didn't even hope to see you until later today!” I embraced her warmly, filled with relief that she'd arrived. Her hair was soft against my cheek, and she smelled of the rose-scented soap she always favored.

“I'm so glad that you're all right,” she murmured. “It must have been dreadful beyond words.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I nodded into her shoulder, swallowing the lump in my throat. “But how are you here so quickly? Were you in London?”

She drew back. “I was visiting my cousin Mary. She's only just in Wickland. Deborah”—Deborah was Mrs. Ellsworth's Christian name—“sent for me straightaway when she got your letter.”

“So you interrupted your visit to come here. I'm sorry.”

“It's no matter at all,” she replied, picking up her satchel and bringing it into the room. “I'm glad I can help.”

She set her case on the floor, removed her gloves and cloak, and went to my mother's side. Very gently, she lifted my mother's hand from the counterpane, taking her pulse the way Mr. Wilcox had shown me. Mama stirred faintly and her eyes flickered open. She saw Jane and seemed to recognize her, but then she closed her eyes again.

“Has a doctor seen her?” Jane asked under her breath.

“Yesterday morning,” I whispered. “His name is Wilcox. He gave me some medicine and instructions.”

She let go of my mother's hand and picked up the packet of tea from the side table.

“For her digestion,” I said softly.

“That's very good. Often doctors forget the complications that can result from extended time in bed.” Next she unscrewed the lid of the jar.

“It's strong,” I warned her hastily.

She took a faint sniff of the mixture. “Camphor and some lavender, to keep the blood circulating.” She replaced the lid. “You've been applying it?”

“To her arms and legs, yes—but not her left ankle. It's badly sprained.”

She nodded approvingly as she set aside the jar; but her expression sobered as she picked up the brown vial, and she looked at me with surprise. “Is this laudanum?”

“Yes. But he only ordered it because she's been taking it regularly.”

The two delicate furrows between her brows deepened. “Why?”

I hesitated. “Her nerves. But we left her usual bottle on the train, and Mr. Wilcox says to deprive her of it entirely could be dangerous. He asked me to give her just enough to keep her symptoms away. I gave her a teaspoon last night, but none this morning.”

Her lips were pressed into a thin line.

“Do you think he's wrong?” I asked anxiously.

“No, he's quite right. I just wish she weren't taking it in the first place. I suppose Dr. Martinson was prescribing it?”

I nodded.

Jane had never much liked Dr. Martinson's methods, but she held back what she might have said, turned away, and picked up the small bottle of drops.

“He told me to administer those if her pulse rose above one hundred and five per minute.”

She nodded. “A bromide, no doubt.”

“I gave her some twice yesterday,” I said uncertainly.

She set the medicines back in a row and smiled. “It's exactly what I'd have done. Have you been turning her, so she doesn't get bedsores?”

“A few times. One of the maids has helped me.”

She laid her hand on my arm reassuringly. “You've done beautifully.”

I let out a breath of relief. “She's been eating a bit. She managed some broth and toast at lunch and dinner. And I've been reading to her. The doctor—actually, he's a railway surgeon, not a doctor—he said it might help take her mind off what she might be remembering—or not remembering.”

Jane gave me a puzzled look.

“She hasn't spoken a word since the accident.”

Her expression became understanding. “Shock, no doubt. I've seen it often enough with soldiers.”

I glanced at my mother's pale face. “Do you think she'll recover?”

“I don't see why not. But it may take a while. The laudanum will complicate things.”

“That's what Mr. Wilcox said too.”

She gave me a small smile and looked up at the bandage on my head. “And how are you feeling?”

“I'm fine. I cut myself on something during the crash.”

“May I look?” she asked.

I sat down on the bed and she carefully removed the bandage. Her eyes widened slightly. “Goodness, child. And you've no idea what you cut it on?”

“No. Those few minutes are all a bit muddled, honestly.”

“Well, your surgeon knows his business. That's a tidy bit of stitching, and there's no sign of infection.” She began to replace the bandage. “I spoke with Mrs. Mowbray on the way in. She said breakfast is served for another half an hour. Why don't you go down? It'll no doubt be good for you to be out of this room for a bit, don't you think?”

I wasn't particularly hungry, but I was so grateful she was here that I would have done anything she asked.

Although the dining room was crowded, I was able to sit at the same table that I'd taken the previous night, and now I could see more than a dark street and some gas lamps. The sky was a whitish-gray, like sheets in the barrel on wash-day, and though it was no longer raining, people carried umbrellas under their arms and stepped carefully to avoid the street-filth and puddles among the cobblestones.

Travers was several times larger than our town of Levlinshire, and this main street was longer and more interesting than ours, crowded with a variety of shops we didn't have. If I craned my neck both ways, I could see a haberdasher, two bakeries (one for cakes, one for plainer fare), a butcher, an apothecary shop, and two public houses. In the street, costermongers shouted the prices of radishes and potatoes, a small gang of boys darted around the carriages, a woman hurried along with two chickens in a cage, a man whirled by on a velocipede, and a thin lone dog lurked hopefully near the butcher shop. And then I saw Mr. Wilcox across the street, walking toward the hotel with the same man—Tom—who'd come to the hotel yesterday morning. Tom was talking so energetically that he half-kicked, half-stumbled over a grocer's box and all but ran into a woman who spun about afterward with an angry look on her face. He didn't even notice.

The two men crossed the street, dodging the horses and carriages, and I leaned close to the window, wishing I could read their lips. Mr. Wilcox listened attentively and then spoke for several minutes; Tom's expression was skeptical. But finally he shrugged and nodded, abruptly turned on his heel, and walked back the way they'd come.

My heart quickened as the front door opened. A few moments later, Mr. Wilcox entered the dining room and scanned the tables, searching for someone. Though his eyes met mine, and he gave a brief smile, I clearly wasn't the person he wanted. It was a man—lean and pale, with a pocked face and a reddish birthmark over his right brow—hunkered in a chair by the far wall. Mr. Wilcox put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and spoke a few words, then handed him a slip of paper. The man looked up at him with a grateful, relieved expression.

My curiosity—which I'd successfully squelched last night—returned with a vengeance, and I couldn't help staring. Was that Michael, the man who needed to be kept safe? He certainly had a furtive, anxious look about him. And was that Mr. Wilcox's London address on the paper?

The man opened a worn brown wallet and placed the slip inside. Then he stood up and put on his coat, and Mr. Wilcox led him out of the dining room without a glance in my direction.

And I was left with a smile fading from my lips, feeling stupid and absurdly bereft.

I let the cold toast drop onto my plate and stared out the window, seeing nothing. What an idiot I'd been. In the bright light of day, the prosaic truth was obvious. Mr. Wilcox was the sort who was kind and concerned about everyone—not just about me. The belief that we'd done something unusual and meaningful together in the scullery, and the sympathetic understanding I'd felt during our dinner last night, were on my side alone. I was merely someone who had conveniently and perhaps not unpleasantly crossed his path these past two nights. This morning, he was sufficient unto himself.

A voice above me said, “Well, the plaster isn't exactly elegant—but at least you're up and about.”

I turned in astonishment. My cousin James stood next to my table, his spectacles slightly fogged from the warmth, his expression both exasperated and relieved. “I finally found you. This is the third place I've been.”

I couldn't help but smile; it was lovely to see a familiar face. “I'm glad you persisted. Did you come up from London?”

“Of course.” He gave me his usual swift kiss on the cheek, laid his spectacles on the table, and began to take off his coat.

Although I've always called James and his younger brother, Anthony, cousins, they're not blood relations. My father, Samuel, was one of three children; his brother, Charles, four years his junior, had left England for good when he was twenty-one. I was very young at the time, and no one ever spoke of him, so all I knew was that he lived what my aunt referred to as “a debauched existence on the Continent” until he died several years ago. In between my father and Uncle Charles was my aunt Catherine; she had married a wealthy tea tradesman who died of cholera in India and left her a young widow. Shortly after she returned to England, she met and married John Isslin, a Member of Parliament in the House of Commons, whose first wife had died, leaving him with two sons, James and Anthony. The boys began spending their summers at Kellham Park when James was thirteen and Anthony was eight. Anthony—being only a year older than I—was my playmate; we rode horses or boated or found hiding places under trees, where Anthony would lie idle or drowse while I devoured my books. James loved to read too, but he preferred to be in the library with his long legs draped over the arm of a chair. In truth, he was rather a self-righteous prig back then, rolling his eyes when Anthony and I sneaked up the servants' stair to hide our scrapes and torn clothes from Aunt Catherine's watchful eye. Now twenty-one, Anthony was at university, studying economics; James, just twenty-six, was already one of London's rising barristers, reputedly fair-minded, forthright, clever, and, lately, willing to acknowledge that he was only
almost
always right about everything.

He sat down opposite me and unfolded his napkin, grimacing at the dingy cloth. “Mother sent me a telegram as soon as your letter arrived at Kellham Park yesterday, so I took the early express. I can't stay long as I have appointments later. But I had to see for myself that you were all right. How are you managing in this lovely establishment?”

“I'm fine, James. People have been very kind.”

He lifted the lid off the pot of tea, frowned at the contents, and put the lid back on. “I had no idea you were taking that train home on Friday. Weren't you supposed to stay in London until Wednesday next?”

“Mama wanted to leave immediately after the ball.”

From the look that flashed across his face, I had a feeling he knew something about why; but he merely smoothed his napkin before asking, “And how
is
Aunt Margaret? Can I see her?”

I hesitated. “She's all right, I think. Or she will be. The doctor saw her first thing yesterday and said she needs to stay very quiet, so it's probably best we let her rest.” I fiddled with my spoon. “She seems to be in a fog or half-asleep most of the time. It's almost as if she doesn't want to wake up. Or maybe she just doesn't want to think about what happened.” I sipped at my tea, which had cooled to lukewarm. “And then there's the laudanum.”

“Hm.” James's lips tightened. He wholly disapproved of my mother's habit. “What about it?”

“Well, apparently it does something to the nerves that makes them more susceptible to the strain of a railway accident.”

“Yet another reason she should stop taking it,” he said bluntly. “It's a poor travel companion.”

“I know, James. But the doctor says we can't stop the laudanum abruptly.” I set the teacup into its saucer with a clink; my hands were trembly. I put them both in my lap, one over the other, to steady them. “Besides,” I added, “I don't imagine she'll ever travel by train again, no matter how much laudanum she takes.”

A pause, and then James said, haltingly, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be unsympathetic. I'm sure it was horrifying. The papers say there were fires everywhere, and people were absolutely overcome with the smoke.”

Those few words were enough to bring to mind our burning carriage, the air in the corridor so thick I couldn't draw a breath—

A shudder welled from within me. “It was beyond horrifying, James. I don't want to speak of it.”

“No, of course not.” He took up his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, and replaced them on his nose. Then he laid his hand on the teapot and spoke with rather forced cheerfulness. “This tea is cold. I'm going to ask for another.”

He gestured to one of the maids, who responded with more alacrity toward my handsome cousin than she had to me. She brought a fresh pot, a cup and saucer, and a plate with some unburnt toast and fresh scones. As I watched him doctor his tea with sugar and milk, it came to me suddenly that James was the very person I needed to see about something else.