A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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.”

  “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.”