A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  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.

  “James, I’ve a question for you. And,” I added firmly, “you must tell me the whole truth, no matter how unpleasant.”

  He took a sip of the tea, and his lip curled slightly. “Well, it’s hot anyway.”

  “James.”

  He set the cup down in its saucer with a sigh, leaned back into his chair, and met my gaze. “All right, what is it?”

  “When we were at the ball, people were gossiping about us—about my mother and me, I mean. About our fortunes.”

  His expression became uncomfortable. “Well, I overheard something about it. But people certainly aren’t going to gossip about you with me.”

  “After the ball Mama admitted that we’ve suffered some losses recently, but when I asked her what they were, she simply wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give me a reasonable answer. She just became terribly angry.” I leaned over the table and lowered my voice. “Please, James. I feel stupid, not knowing the sources of our income. I assume that some of it is interest from investments, and some from rents. That’s usual, isn’t it? But I don’t know any of the particulars.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know the particulars either. But your income from rents wouldn’t diminish; and the interest on the funds is guaranteed at five percent, so the problem isn’t with them.” He frowned. “I know that your grandfather and father both made significant investments in joint-stock companies, including shares in mining and railway ventures. My guess is that’s where you could be losing money.”

  “But how would anyone outside the family have any idea about that? The only person who would know is Mr. Turleigh. And he’d never say a word about our private affairs; you know that.”

  Mr. Turleigh was our family solicitor and the most close-mouthed man I’d ever met—quite literally. His lips were thin, and they naturally came together in a line that made them almost invisible. In all the times he’d come to Kellham Park, I’d never even heard him mention another client by name.

  James took a scone from the plate. “My guess is it’s someone who’s in the same boat you are. Maybe someone on one of the railway boards. Or maybe someone who purchased shares of mining stock when your father did.”

  “But why would anyone want to disclose such unfortunate information about himself, let alone us? Why spread such damaging gossip?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  I sighed. “Well, clearly, I’ll have to write to Mr. Turleigh—”

  “Write to Mr. Turleigh?” His voice was sharp, and the butter tongs he was using halted in mid-air.

  “Well, yes.” I stirred sugar into my fresh tea. “Why shouldn’t I write to him? He’s the one who will know for certain.”

  “Because you’d send the poor man into apoplexy, that’s why.” He finished tonging butter onto his plate. “You know how old-fashioned he is. He’ll never discuss a financial situation with a lady.” He raised an eyebrow. “And don’t look at me like that, all outraged. Despite my conservative tendencies, you know that I don’t necessarily agree with him.” He buttered a bite-sized section of his scone carefully. “I’ll tell you as much as I can, and if you’re still bent on knowing more, I can write to Mr. Turleigh and ask him.”

  “Would you? Would you do it soon?”

 
“I’ll do it tonight, when I’m back in London.”

  I sat back with a sigh. “Thank you. I do feel as though I have a right to know about my own fortune.”

  He finished swallowing the bite of scone and adopted the meticulous, pedantic air that I used to find so terribly annoying as a girl. “Well, there’s certainly no reason you shouldn’t, but strictly speaking, it’s not your fortune, Elizabeth—”

  “For god’s sake, I know that much. The estate is entailed upon my second cousin Colin, and there’s a special provision that says that my husband receives my dowry only so long as we remain within the British Empire because Great-Grandfather was a proper John Bull. English money for England, and all that.”

  He picked up his knife and resumed buttering. “Well, I’m glad you know. You wouldn’t believe how uneducated some young ladies are when it comes to matters of trusts and inheritances.”

  “But at the ball, Lady Nestor said specifically that it was my ten thousand pounds per annum that were a thing of the past. Do you know if the estate and my dowry are funded separately?”

  He rolled his eyes. “As if you can believe anything you’d hear from Lady Nestor!”

  “I know, but—”

  “Your father was a clever man, so I’m sure your dowry is diversified among stocks and the funds just like the estate”—he raised his eyebrows as I opened my mouth to protest that in fact he knew no such thing—“and in any case, there’s nothing you can do about it, so you should take a page from my mother’s book and don’t go looking for trouble.” He waved his knife vaguely in the air. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Fine?” I repeated sharply. “The way Mama made it sound, I’m going to end up a spinster, having no opportunities except to live at Kellham Park until she dies, at which time I will be thrown into the merciful arms of my relations—which means my aunt and your father.” I stifled a groan. “Maybe Mama is right. I should have disposed of myself last Season and gotten it over with.”

  He looked disconcerted, and when at last he spoke, his voice was strained. “I do wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself that way.”

  I swallowed down my bitterness. It wasn’t James’s fault I was in this uncertain situation, and he had already agreed to do what he could to help me. I forced a smile. “I’m sorry, James. You didn’t come here to listen to me moan. Besides which, I know I should be feeling grateful. I could have been badly hurt in that accident, or even killed. Plenty of people were.”

  He touched my hand briefly where it rested on the table. “We are all very glad you’re all right.”

  I managed a genuine smile this time. “Thank you.”

  He looked at me uncertainly, as if he were about to say something else, but thought better of it and took out his pocket watch. “I should be going. I’ve no idea when the next down train will come through. The accident has closed the Great Southeastern north of Hartfield, so the line to Bonwell is simply crammed with travelers. Everything’s running behind.”

  “I do appreciate you coming to check on us.”

  “Of course.” He folded his napkin onto the table with a practical air. “Now, is there anything you need? Anything at all? I was planning to hire a carriage to take you home immediately, but—”

  “That’s kind of you, but Mama truly can’t be moved just yet.”

  “And you’re all right to stay here with her?” he asked, rising from the table.

  “Of course. Martin already brought a trunk of our things.” I smiled. “As for the awful tea, I’m just going to have to muddle through somehow.”

  He grinned, shrugged into his coat, and bent down to give me another kiss on the cheek. “Give her my love, and don’t worry about the rest of it. I’ll write to Mr. Turleigh tonight, and I’ll report back as soon as I hear from him, all right?”

  “Thank you, James.” I paused. “Be careful on the train.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Lightning won’t strike the same place twice.”

  It was only after he’d started walking away that I remembered what Mr. Wilcox’s friend had said. If Tom was right, lightning might not only strike twice, but it would do so soon. I felt a moment of panic before reason reasserted itself. James was going south to London, not north toward Malverton, so whatever was happening there wouldn’t affect him. But the thought of another accident made my heart jerk unsteadily, and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from calling him back.

  Chapter 7

  I took a late nap that afternoon, and I woke to Jane’s hand on my arm. The curtains were drawn, and the lamp in our room was turned to a dim light.

  “Lady Elizabeth. You should go have dinner. The second seating is in fifteen minutes.”

  I sat up and blinked a few times as I came awake. I glanced over at my mother, who looked to be asleep. “How is she?” I whispered.

  “She’s resting nicely,” Jane murmured.

  I rose, went to the washstand to splash water on my face, and took up the hairbrush. I felt wonderfully refreshed and even hungry. Keeping my voice low, I asked Jane if she had eaten dinner herself.

  “Yes, and I brought something for your mother.” She gestured to a covered tray on the table. “I’ll wake her in a bit.”

  Her voice was moderate as always, but there was some quality in it that made me turn to study her expression. I hadn’t misheard the undertone; Jane was looking at me anxiously. I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but she shook her head and pointed toward the door. Hastily, I finished brushing my hair, bundling it into one of my nets. Then we went into the corridor.

  “Jane, what is it?” I asked softly, as she shut the door behind us. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Lady Elizabeth. But I need to ask you something.” Her brow was furrowed with concern. “At dinner, I heard people talking about a young unmarried woman who’d spent all of Friday night alone in the kitchen with the surgeon. At first I paid no attention because I was sure it was no concern of mine. But then I realized they were talking about you. Is what they said true?”

  I felt the blood rise to my cheeks, and a note of annoyance crept into my voice. “We weren’t alone, Jane. There were at least a dozen patients in there with us—all of whom desperately needed care!”

  Her eyes widened. “My dear, what were you thinking?”

  “He had no one to help him! He was trying to be a surgeon and a nurse all at once. And—and—there was a maid with us too. She was boiling the water on the stove.” I paused, and when she didn’t reply, I added a bit impatiently, “Surely you, of all people, understand my wanting to help. Not that I’m a proper nurse, of course.”

  Her expression altered. “Of course I understand, and it’s a fine impulse. But it was still improper for you to be alone with an unmarried man—even given the extraordinary circumstances.”

  I fidgeted with the sash at my waist.

  “I haven’t seen him myself,” she continued, “but people are saying that he’s young and very handsome.”

  “So if he’d been old and ugly it would’ve been all right?”

  “Well, if you weren’t a lady, it might’ve been all right.”

  “Yes, far better for people to die than for a lady to do something improper,” I retorted.

  She looked stricken, and I repented at once. “I’m sorry, Jane.” I touched her sleeve. “I’m not angry with you. I know you’re trying to help. I just wish—I wish that in unusual circumstances, the usual rules could be broken without…” My voice dwindled.

  “I’ve sometimes wished that myself,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “Well, I didn’t want you to go downstairs unprepared.”

  My heart sank. It was like the night of the ball all over again—only here, people wouldn’t be able to hide their snide looks behind their fans. Maybe they’d use their napkins.

  She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t fret about it. As my aunt used to say, there are some tongues that must always be wagging about someone. And if you keep your distance from Mr. Wi
lcox and behave properly, the gossip will die down and there’ll be no lasting harm—for either of you.”

  Keep my distance from him.

  My heart sank again, remembering how he had all but ignored me in the dining room that morning. In all likelihood, I wouldn’t have to worry about keeping my distance from him; he wouldn’t be anywhere near me to begin with.

  I nodded unhappily. “I will.” And then I started down to the dining room. From the stairs, I could hear the noisy chatter and the clink of silver. I smelled mutton and onions, rosemary and bread. I had been hungry when I woke, but as I came close to the doorway, my stomach clenched with dread. I could not go in there, knowing that I had been the subject of their recent gossip. I could imagine, all too easily, what would happen. They would be startled when I appeared; they’d look at each other guiltily; and then some would turn their heads away to exchange knowing smirks. The kinder people would suddenly become intent upon their dinners.

  I wanted no part of it.

  Turning my back on the dining room, I went to the threshold of the sitting room and peered in. It was empty except for a low-burning fire, so I slipped into the chair I was beginning to think of as mine. I did not want to admit to myself how much I wished it were last night again, as I sat staring at the coals.

  Stupid, small-minded gossips. I should see if I can wangle invitations for them to Lady Lorry’s next party. They would be right at home.

  “You’re not taking dinner?”

  My heart jumped. Mr. Wilcox was standing behind the other chair, his left hand resting along its back.

  The blood rushed to my cheeks, as one thought after another embarrassed me: Did he think I’d come in here on purpose to meet him? Had he overheard the gossip in the dining room? Had he come to find me because he felt sorry for me?

  I tried to keep my tone light. “No. I don’t feel much like eating.” And then, before I realized how rude it would sound, I asked, “How did you know I was in here?”