A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  It wasn’t at all a question that I was expecting, but the answer was simple enough. “Yes, I was.”

  “Do you remember it?”

  I saw it before me clear as a picture: the front door swinging open violently; Timothy, soaked to the skin, crying out for help; right behind him, Martin, carrying my father on his broad back; my father’s head, dripping blood onto the Savonerrie carpet, the one with the roses—it had to be thrown away—

  “Elizabeth.”

  My eyes jerked to meet his.

  They were full of sympathy. “So you do remember it.” A pause, and then: “Did someone break the news to your mother slowly, or did she find out suddenly?”

  My throat was dry, and I swallowed. “It was sudden. I was on the stairs when Martin carried my father in, and Mama saw him from the landing above. She screamed, and then she fainted.”

  “It must have been horrible,” he said soberly. “For both of you.”

  I nodded, feeling a burning sensation at the corners of my eyes. Abruptly, I got up and went to the window. Through my tears, the hydrangeas were enormous, blurry clumps of periwinkle blue.

  From behind me came Paul’s voice: “Did he ever regain consciousness?”

  “No. The doctor said he had blood on the brain. He applied leeches and did all he could, but my father died that night.” I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. I was fairly sure I knew what he was thinking. “The railway accident was a shock to Mama, just like his death. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  And then yesterday, I had shocked her again.

  I forced the words out: “Do you think Mama will recover? Or did I do irreparable damage?”

  “Honestly, I can’t be certain. But the human body is remarkable in its capacity to recuperate. I think she’ll be all right, with complete rest and the new medicine. I only had one vial, though, which I gave Jane. I’ll write a message to my apothecary this afternoon, and he can send more up by train.”

  I remained at the window. “And you’ll come back to check on her?”

  He said, not ungently, “There’s really nothing more I can do for her—and nothing that Jane can’t manage. But I’ll try to come back on Wednesday morning before I leave for London.”

  I heard him shrug into his coat.

  “By the way,” he said, “Tom asked me to tell you that he found something interesting about Lord Shaw.”

  I turned in surprise. “Something to do with the railway?”

  “Yes. It turns out that he was a board member for the London-Redfield, but he left in ’62, right about when the Great Southeastern was taking it over.”

  “So he was on the board with my father,” I said slowly. “Does Mr. Flynn know if Lord Shaw was pushed out, or left of his own volition?”

  “He didn’t say. But he did tell me that all the papers pertaining to those last meetings of the London-Redfield are no longer accessible.” He gave a wry look.

  “When we were in Travers, he asked if Lord Shaw would talk to me,” I said.

  He nodded. “My guess is that Tom would appreciate anything you could discover.”

  “Well, I did find something,” I replied. “I was waiting until I knew more, but if you’re going to see Mr. Flynn soon, will you tell him that I have the name of someone who sold land recently?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Already? Was it the Reynolds family? Tom told me that the daughter is a particular friend of yours.”

  “No, it wasn’t Lord Reynolds. It was their neighbor Mr. Pinsley. He sold a parcel of land last fall to an investor named Hayes. But Anne—Lord Reynolds’s daughter—didn’t know his first name or any of the particulars of the sale. She said she’d ask about it for me.”

  “So the land was bought by an investor,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, Tom has been leaning all along toward thinking it’s a financial scheme rather than a political one. This makes his theory more likely.”

  I bit my lip. “Speaking of politics, what did Parliament decide on Friday?”

  There was a pause, and—did I imagine it, or did his expression become guarded? He bent his head and began to button his coat. “The good news is that they’re taking the threat of another accident seriously. They voted to shut down the Great Southeastern for three weeks to conduct an extended investigation, not just a limited one.”

  “Well, that’s promising. But Mr. Flynn must’ve been disappointed. He was hoping for a month.”

  “I know.” He pulled his gloves out of his pockets. “And they’re dispatching inspectors to other railways coming out of London.”

  I took in my breath. “You mean in case the Great Southeastern isn’t the only target?” That hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “Exactly.” He fidgeted with his gloves. “But, Elizabeth…there’s something else, and I’m afraid it’s unfortunate news for you.”

  My heart gave a sickening little thud. “What is it?”

  “When the Select Committee meets on something like this, you understand, it’s a closed session. The only information revealed to the public is the type of investigation and the schedule they expect to follow. But Tom spoke with someone afterward.” His eyes held mine. “I’m telling you this in confidence.”

  A feeling of dread mounted inside me. “Go on.”

  “It looks like Parliament is leaning strongly toward closing the railway.” His expression was apologetic. “I’m sorry about it. Tom told me your family owns quite a few shares.”

  Of course it had always been a possibility; nevertheless, I felt like I’d received a blow. “But—but—that’s not fair!” I stammered. “They’re supposed to take three weeks to consider. How can they have decided already?”

  “Another inspector came forward,” he replied, “and told the Committee that the Great Southeastern has problems that are even more systemic and serious than the erosion of the embankments. Apparently, there’s a swamp area that wasn’t filled in properly; they’ve installed none of the new safety devices; the track is too narrow to accommodate the new standard gauge carriages; and some of the old rolling stock is in bad repair. He brought photographs to show.” He sighed. “We certainly wanted Parliament to take the danger seriously, but…”

  “It’s a delicate balance,” I said, my voice sounding to my own ears as if it were coming from far away. “I understand.”

  He shoved the gloves back into his pockets. “Frankly, even if the railway were allowed to reopen, they would have a hard time proving that they could raise enough money to make the repairs. The share price of the railway dropped again, immediately after Friday’s hearing.”

  Which meant that even if we were to sell our shares now, it would hardly help our situation.

  “I wish I had better news.” He picked up his case and just stood there for a moment, his expression regretful. Finally, he sighed. “Please don’t mention this to anyone. I wasn’t supposed to have told you.”

  I nodded numbly.

  “And of course Tom is doing everything he can to find out whether there’s a scheme behind all this.”

  “Of course.” The words came out through my dry lips. “When did you say they’ll decide for certain?”

  “Two weeks from this coming Friday.”

  Nineteen days.

  “Mr. Wilcox.” Agnes was in the doorway. She gave a quick bob. “Beg pardon, but I’ve been sent to fetch you, to be sure you make the train.”

  “Yes, I’m coming.” He turned to me. “Goodbye, Lady Elizabeth. I hope—that is—please give your aunt my regards.”

  I choked out a goodbye as he left the room.

  I heard the front door close; then came the crunch of the carriage wheels on the drive; and as the sound faded, I reached blindly for the high back of a chair.

  His visit had only made me feel hundreds of times worse.

  Yes, he’d been sorry at having to tell me about the railway. But there had been nothing personal in his concern. He wasn’t even angry at my de
ception anymore. The feelings he had in Travers, feelings that led him to take my hand, to resent a maid’s insolence on my behalf, to look at me the way he had before he left for London? In a matter of days, they’d faded to nothing.

  And what if he was right, and the railway did close?

  I took several deep breaths, trying to calm the rising fear I felt. After all, there were still over two weeks. Something could happen. Or maybe Mr. Turleigh would tell us that the railway shares didn’t matter so very much, that we could make do without them.

  But what if Mama didn’t recover? What if this latest shock was too much for her?

  I do not know how long I stood there. But I clung to the chair as if it were the only steady thing in the world.

  —

  That night, I went up to my mother’s room and told Jane that I would sit with my mother for a bit. Mama was fast asleep, her breathing deep and quiet; it was unlikely she’d wake.

  I waited a moment or two after Jane left the room, and then I opened the cabinet beside my mother’s bed and silently took out the brown bottle of laudanum. I always swore I’d never touch it, but at that moment all I cared about was forgetting everything: the wretched ball, our precarious fortunes, the railway accident, my mother’s anger, Paul…

  I unstoppered the bottle and held it against the light. It was more than half-full. I could take a sip and no one would notice.

  What would it be like, to be oblivious, to have the sharp edges of life blur and soften so they didn’t cut into me? I was desperate for something to make my heartache bearable. Something to replace the whirl of worry inside my head. I wanted warm golden oblivion, the kind I saw in my mother’s eyes after she’d taken it.

  I went so far as to put the bottle near my mouth.

  But the smell made me gag. What was I doing? Hurriedly, I replaced the stopper and tried to push the laudanum back into the cabinet.

  Something hard and unyielding blocked my hand, something that must have fallen over when I pulled out the bottle. My fingers groped, and I pulled the object out.

  It was a painted likeness that I’d never seen before, in a tarnished silver frame. It showed a man who looked vaguely familiar—but it wasn’t my father. It was a young man of perhaps twenty years old, and the painter had caught an expression that I liked—a warm half-smile under his fair moustache, his eyes bright with intelligence and affection. I turned the frame over.

  Tucked into the back, wedged inside the silver edge, was a yellowed page of writing paper, folded into thirds. I glanced up at my mother; she was still fast asleep. Nevertheless, I carried the frame to where I was hidden from her sight and there was a lamp that provided enough light for me to read. The paper was wedged in tightly, and I eased it out so it wouldn’t tear. I unfolded it to find a letter, written in a hand that was at first hard to decipher. But finally my eyes became used to the jagged letters:

  “My darling Meg,” it began, “For nine months now, I have considered us engaged—but now you no longer reply to my letters, and I’ve heard from my mother that you have no wish to see me. What could I have done to deserve such coldness? In my mind, I’ve combed through my actions of recent months and can come up with nothing objectionable, aside from the fact that I’ve been gambling—but I’m losing no money by it and helping a friend who needs to recover some of his. But I swear to you, that’s the worst that anyone could say truthfully. If gossip of a more vicious sort has reached your ears, tell me what you have heard, I beg you, for I long to provide an explanation—or if I have done something to offend you directly, I long to make amends! You do not know how badly. My god, if I have ever meant anything to you, have pity on me and send a word. I’m profoundly miserable. Yours ever, Charles.”

  In shock, I turned the frame back over and stared at the portrait.

  This smiling man was my uncle Charles?

  The clearest memory I had of him was from the last day he was here at Kellham Park. He had been called home from wherever he’d been living abroad because my grandmother was dying, and I saw him come out of her bedroom. I was holding my nursemaid’s hand at the far end of the hallway, and even from there, my uncle appeared not only tall but broad—two or three stones heavier than my father. He wore both a moustache and a beard; his pale hair was long and rather untidy; and while his face was tanned from living in a southern climate, it was also red with rage. I’d felt frightened and had frozen in place; my nursemaid pulled me away; and sometime afterward, I had been relieved to hear that he was gone. Only much later did I find out that he’d left England that very week; I never saw him again. Several years ago we received notice that he’d died in a crumbling palazzo somewhere in Venice, leaving behind a mistress and some debts. In the same envelope with the lawyer’s letter was a brief note from his mistress, saying she’d scattered his ashes in the Grand Canal in accordance with his wishes, for he’d sworn to curse us all from the grave if we buried him on English soil.

  The letter in my hands seemed to come from a wholly different man—one capable of profound affection, humility, and honesty. But most shocking of all—if his words were to be believed—was that he’d been deeply in love. With my mother.

  Or perhaps he had only wished her to think so.

  This was the failing of letters—there was no voice or facial expression to measure, no way to be sure of the meaning conveyed by mere words. I read the letter over again. Was this the letter of a man who was truly in love? Or was this the letter of a younger son who didn’t want to lose a large dowry? It was impossible to tell—but the last lines seemed to be a cry, from one heart to another, for compassion.

  And how had my mother responded? Had she ignored it? Had the letter come too late? I examined the letter carefully, but it bore no date. Had she been courted by my uncle first? Or both brothers at the same time? The letter suggested she’d engaged herself to Charles; but what had changed her mind?

  One thing was certain. My father wouldn’t have written a letter like this to her, not in a hundred years. It’s not that he was ever horribly cruel to her—only distant and uninterested. Even as a child, I wondered vaguely—the way children do, when something seems wrong but they cannot name it—why my father didn’t behave tenderly toward her. Why did he not sit with her at breakfast and laugh with her, like Uncle John did with Aunt Catherine? Why was my father gone for weeks at a time, on hunting trips to Scotland, or business in London, leaving her to wander around the house with nothing to do and no one to speak to but the servants? Never once did I see him touch her lovingly—a hand on hers, or a kiss. One evening, when I found her crying in her dressing room, I tried to embrace her. She pushed me away and called for Sally to take me to bed. From then on, some nights, I would stand at her doorway and keep vigil with her, though I never interrupted her tears again. I don’t think she ever knew.

  I did remember one time she tried to touch him. I was perhaps eight years old. We were having guests for dinner, and I was allowed to make an appearance in the drawing room beforehand. Sally had finished dressing me, and I was running to and fro along the corridor. The door to my mother’s boudoir was open—which was unusual—and so I had stopped and peered inside. Mama was at her dressing-table, putting on her jewelry; Father was standing in the room, fidgeting with his cuffs. When she’d finished adjusting her earrings, she went to him and tried to embrace him, and he pushed her away irritably, as if she should have known better.

  I had run silently back the way I came. Sally could tell that something had upset me, but I made up a story about having tripped and fallen. I don’t think she believed me, but she was kind and didn’t press, only took my hand and brought me down to the kitchen until my mother called for me.

  I refolded my uncle’s letter carefully, half a dozen questions whirling around my brain. I glanced at my mother. Then, instead of wedging the page back under the frame, I slipped it into the sleeve of my dress. I put the picture back where it belonged, behind the laudanum, and shut the cabinet door.

 
Chapter 16

  That night, I tossed and turned until the bedclothes felt hot and damp and the grandfather clock downstairs sounded quarter-past midnight. Finally, I sat up in bed. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

  I wrapped my dressing gown around me. The hallway was lit by the moonlight coming through the windows, and I went to the threshold of my mother’s room and looked in. The bed curtains concealed her from view, but on the far side of the room, my aunt sat in a chair, at the edge of a lamp’s dim circle of light. Wrapped in a blanket, with her hair down, she looked milder and kinder than usual.

  I nudged the door open far enough to slip inside, and she motioned me over.

  “How is Mama?” I whispered.

  When she didn’t answer, my heart skipped a beat. “Is she—”

  “She’s no worse,” my aunt murmured. “She was up at half-past ten and took some soup and bread before she fell back to sleep. Jane says she thinks the new medicine is helping.”

  I took the chair opposite. “Did she speak?”

  “No. But she was calmer.” She sighed, and though she was whispering, her exasperation was obvious. “Was that really the wisest idea, riding Athena your first morning back?”

  I was already so full of regret for what I’d done that my aunt’s rebuke felt unnecessarily severe. But I swallowed down the feeling and said only, “I’m sorry I scared her. It didn’t occur to me that she’d ever know.”

  She rolled her eyes, the way James did sometimes. “Regardless of that! I’ve heard that railway accidents can cause spells of dizziness and forgetfulness. What if you had fallen off Athena—or—or become lost? My goodness, Elizabeth, your head wound still isn’t healed—and for the sake of your nerves—”

  “My nerves are fine, truly,” I interrupted, still in a whisper. “And if anything, riding made me feel better, not worse. Besides, I’ve other things to worry about than my nerves.”

  I’d said that last with no particular idea of which worry I meant, but she nodded knowingly. “James said you’d asked him to write to Mr. Turleigh.”