A Lady in the Smoke (12 page)

“Is there any chance…” I cleared my throat. “Could Lord Shaw be involved?”

He drew back and blinked several times. “Lord Augustus Shaw?”

“Yes. He lives at Shadwell Manor, not far from Kellham Park. He and my father never liked each other.”

Mr. Flynn's eyes were darting from place to place, as if his thoughts hung before him in midair and he were tracing some complex trajectory among them. “He's not on the current board, and he's not part of the railway interest.” He chewed at his lower lip. “Do you know why they didn't get along?”

I shook my head.

His eyes narrowed.

“Truly, I don't,” I said honestly.

“Is there any way you can find out if it had something to do with the railway?”

“I can try.” I hesitated. “Mind you, this is only a guess. I may be leading you off on a—a—wild-goose chase, and wasting your time.” My voice became resolute. “And no matter what, I don't want you trying to find every last bit of dirt in their cellar. And you can't talk to Lord Shaw about anything you find until you talk to me first. Agreed?”

He thought for a moment. “If I find out that he might know something worthwhile, would
you
be able to talk to him? That is, is he cordial to you?”

“I wouldn't say he's cordial, but he's never been impolite.” I leaned forward. “I'm quite serious, Mr. Flynn. Do you
promise
you won't talk to him without asking me first?”

“I promise. Thank you.” He shoved his hat on his head and was at the threshold before I thought to ask—

“Mr. Flynn! If I do discover something, how can I reach you?”

He turned back, his hand on the doorframe. “Care of the
Falcon
. And send a telegram, not a letter. I'm hoping for a month, but it'll probably be less.”

It was a quarter past nine on Friday morning. I'd been in the front parlor, watching for Paul for an hour, when a carriage drew up to the curb. He got out wearily, with a disheartened expression.

It seemed something had gone badly wrong in London. My mind darted among the possibilities. Had something happened to one of his patients? Or to Michael Griffin? Could it be possible the Select Committee had already made their decision?

I hurried to meet him in the hallway.

He stopped short as he saw me. “Hello, Lady Elizabeth.”

A wave of hot shame was followed by bitter resentment toward Mr. Flynn.
He had told Paul, after he promised that he'd let me do it—and after I'd told him about Lord Shaw, no less.

“Paul.” It came out as an apology. “I was going to tell you today—I wanted to explain—”

He shook his head and let out a long breath. “I can't talk about this right now. I don't mean to be rude. I truly don't have time. I have two patients over at the Polk Hotel who are getting worse, and I need to see them.” Paul looked at me, his face expressionless. “I only came to check on your mother. Tom said she spoke.”

“Yesterday morning,” I said haltingly.

“Then the worst of it is probably over.” He shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I'll examine her now, and she may be able to leave later today.”

He wanted me gone. He might as well have said so.

He turned and started up the stairs, and, miserably, I followed him.

Mama was sitting up in bed, dressed in her pretty bed-coat, her fair hair brushed and put up in a simple style. Her eyes slid over me to Paul, who smiled at her politely and set his bag on the chair.

“Hello, doctor,” she said.

I heard the faint slur in her voice, and my eyes—which had been on Paul—jerked back to her. Yes, her eyes were dark and a bit dreamy, and her mouth was soft.

So she'd had laudanum this morning—and by the looks of it, more than the small dose Paul had approved. I turned and shot a questioning look at Jane: had she administered it? Jane shook her head faintly; then her eyes darted to the brown bottle on the table in the corner and came back to mine. So Mama had been well enough to get out of bed and fetch some for herself.

Did Paul see it?

I watched him carefully. Yes, he did. His smile had faded, and he was taking her pulse. “Hello, Lady Fraser.” His tone was carefully neutral. “How are you feeling today?”

Mama's voice was soft and pleasant. “I'm feeling much better. Jane has been telling me everything that you've done for me, and I wanted to tell you how grateful I am.”

“Thank you. That's very kind.” He drew out his little mallet and his stethoscope from his bag. “Although it was your daughter and Jane, not I, who did most everything.”

Hearing him trying to give me credit made something inside me twist. He was still being kind to me, and I had a mounting sense that I didn't deserve it at all.

His exam, with Jane assisting, was brief but thorough, and he seemed satisfied with her progress. As he put his instruments away, I saw him say something to Jane under his breath, and she replied so I couldn't hear.

Mama ran her hands over the bedcovers. “When may I go home?”

He turned back to her. “You can leave whenever you like. I'm sure you'll be much more comfortable at Kellham Park than here. But you still need rest, and you can't walk on that ankle for at least another fortnight. Have you a family physician who can look in on you?”

She gave a small, vague moue of displeasure.

“Dr. Martinson sold his practice last year,” I murmured. Mama didn't like the new man, Dr. Finley, and had only let him come to see her once.

Paul looked at Jane.

“I'll be staying until she's well, Mr. Wilcox,” she said. “I'll be sure she receives all her treatments as you've directed.” There was a faint emphasis on those last words.

He gave her a quick nod of understanding and smiled down at Mama. “Well, with Jane's care, I have every reason to believe you'll recover perfectly.”

“If I could find a carriage, could I leave this afternoon?” Mama asked.

“It's less than two hours away,” Jane said. “And the roads are good.”

Paul turned back to my mother. “That would be fine.” He picked up his bag, and his eyes went from Jane to me to my mother. “I wish you all a pleasant journey. Goodbye.” And he was out the door, shutting it behind him.

I stood there, frozen for a moment—

And then I opened the door and went after him.

I knew what it looked like—and I knew Jane wouldn't approve—but a few minutes from now, he'd be gone, and I couldn't let him leave without explaining as best I could.

By the time I reached the top of the staircase, he was already at the bottom. “Paul.”

He turned with a look of strained patience.

I hurried down to him. There was no one to hear us—the front hall was empty—but I kept my voice low. “Please, Paul. I know you have patients. I won't keep you long.”

He stood there, irresolute, until I added, “We'll be gone for good in a few hours.”

Wordlessly, he went to the sitting room, which was empty as usual. He put his bag down on one of the chairs, as if to forestall the possibility of us sitting down, and waited.

I fiddled with the ruffles on my sleeve. “I assume Mr. Flynn told you who I was.”

He looked taken aback. “No. He knew?”

Surprised myself, I blurted, “Only after you left for London. How did you find out?”

He seemed to debate whether to tell me, then gave a shrug as if it really didn't matter. “I went to Whitehall after the Parliamentary hearing. Tom had already left, but Blackstone was standing outside talking with two MPs. One of them was your uncle.”

Uncle John. Of course he'd have attended.

“When Blackstone introduced me,” Paul continued, “your uncle recognized my name. Apparently your nurse Jane had written to his wife. He thanked me for the care I'd been giving you and your mother.” He paused, his expression chagrined. “At first, when he described you as the daughter and widow of the Earl of Kellham, I assured him he was mistaken. But he insisted. And then he called her Lady Fraser.” He gave a short, dry laugh. “I'm sure he thinks I'm an absolute fool not to know who you were.”

“I'm sorry.” My voice was low.

A pause, and then, more perplexed than angry: “Why didn't you tell me?”

Because I was so drawn to you that I wanted to pretend, just for a while, that—that—

“You're going to rip it if you keep on.” Paul nodded toward my hands.

I stopped tugging at my sleeves, put my hands at my sides, and tried to muster some semblance of composure. “It was never my intention to lie to you,” I said earnestly. “That first night, I only wanted to help. I didn't want my title to get in the way.”

“But the next day?”

“I didn't want you to see me as a—as an earl's daughter. I wanted you to see me as a person. As a—friend.”

His expression became incredulous. “My god, Elizabeth! You had just spent the whole night helping me—when you were injured yourself!” He shook his head. “Your
title
isn't something that could make me forget that.”

No,
I thought.
But my lie had.
I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes and looked away.

“What sort of man do you take me for?” he added more quietly.

The sort of man who would never chase me for my fortune.

The sort of man I could fall in love with.

The sort of man I might even marry, if you could think of me that way, and if I were allowed to choose.

But I could hardly say any of
that.

My eyes fixed on the ugly swirls in the carpet.

After a moment, he sighed. “I need to go.” He picked up his bag and went past me. But he paused at the threshold. “I wish you all the best. Honestly, I do. Your mother as well.”

And then the front door closed behind him.

A quarter of an hour later, when Jane came down and offered to help me pack my things, I was still standing where he'd left me, feeling wretched and ashamed and terribly alone.

How did I ever find the rocking of a carriage pleasant?

Timothy, our driver, was a good handler of horses. But the entire ride home felt to me as though he were choosing the roughest parts of the road on purpose. My mother and Jane seemed quite content—my mother even dozed part of the way—but every nerve in my body felt as though it had been jangled and jarred and wrung to a thread by the time we reached Cobbley's Knob, the hilltop at the southern margin of our estate. I felt Timothy put on the brake for the downhill, and I pushed aside the curtain at the window to look out.

By the fading afternoon light, I could see nearly all of Kellham Park: the grounds and gardens, greener than when we'd left; the stream—our own bit of the River Lyle—that cut in and out of the thick stand of trees to the west; and the splendid house at the bend of the curved drive. The original manor, built by the first Lord Kellham back in the late 1600s, was still there. But one of his descendants, who had been politic enough to complete the climb from baron to earl during the second half of the eighteenth century, had refashioned it, adding a wing to either side to make his home more imposing. He'd done it tastefully; all three sections were built of the same pale stone that took on a hue of pinkish gold as the sun fell behind a western hill. By the time we reached the famous Kellham Elms, the sky was darkening toward navy over the dozen brick chimneys at the roofline, and lights had begun to appear in the upper windows. We drove toward the portico, and I could see Martin, our groom, waiting to take the horses. Mr. Waller, our butler, stood beside him, ready to help us with our things. And as we stopped, the front door opened, and my aunt Catherine appeared, silhouetted against the rectangle of light.

I stepped out of the carriage, and the dusty smell of the boxwood hedge diminished the feeling that I'd been away at all. Aunt Catherine's first concern was for Mama, of course; and after a perfunctory embrace for me, she told me that I must be hungry after my journey.

“No, Aunt,” I replied. “I'm not. I'm just tired, truly.”

“Nonsense,” said my aunt. “You'll have some toast and soup at least. Sally will be up in a few minutes with a tray.”

Though she meant to be kind, her officiousness chafed at me. But there was no point in arguing. I stifled a sigh and started up to my room.

I was at my dressing table, sliding the pins out of my hair, when there was a knock on my door and Sally entered, bearing a tray in her plump hands. She had the same air of agreeable dependability as her brother Martin, our groom. I'd known them both since I was in short clothes, and I found their presence—especially Sally's—comforting.

“Hello, Sally.”

She set down the tray on my desk. “M'lady, I can do that for you, if'n you like.”

I dropped my hands and let her help me, while I watched her reflection in the mirror: her round face, firm at the chin; her brown hair, growing silver at the temples and scraped into a neat bun; her pale blue eyes searching for the pins; and her hands drawing them out.

She removed the last one and smiled at me in the mirror. “It's good to have you home, m'lady, that's sartin. It's been an anxious time, and you look a mite peaked.”

I turned to look up at her. “Thank you for the tray, but I'm not at all hungry.”

She gave a faint shrug. “I know. You aren't the sort to eat when you're troubled, like some folks do.”

Wordlessly, I stood up and turned so Sally could undo the buttons down my back. Her very touch, tender and familiar, brought tears to my eyes. “There you are,” she murmured, and the dress was up and over my head. I looked down, meaning to unfasten the petticoats from my waist, but my tears blurred everything, and I couldn't see the ties.

Sally's arms were around me in a minute. “Oh, child.”

I burst into sobs.

She pulled me to the cushioned settee, big enough for both of us, and held my head to her shoulder, stroking my hair, making soothing clucks. “It must have been dreadful,” she whispered. “But you're home now, and it's all over.”

“I wish it weren't,” I gasped out between sobs.

She drew away from me, her expression dismayed. “You wish it weren't? Whatever d'you mean?”

But I couldn't explain. There was too much to say, so all I could do was cry. But instead of subsiding, my sobs grew until they took all my breath, and I began to shake.

“M'lady,” she said anxiously, patting my hair. “M'lady, this isn't like you. You're getting yourself all heffed up.” She pushed a handkerchief—one of hers, plain white, with no lace—into my hand. “Try to stop crying, and let's get you into bed. Come on, now.”

Obediently, I stood up and let her get me out of my undergarments, into a nightdress, and under the sheets.

She began to turn down the lamp as usual.

“No, Sally, leave it on,” I said quickly, my voice still choked with tears.

Her lips parted in surprise, but after a moment, she adjusted the lamp to burn with its smallest flame and picked up my untouched tray. “Now, go to sleep,” she said gently. “Everything'll be better in the morning. I'm sartin of it.”

But I saw her expression as she closed the door behind her. She didn't look certain at all; she looked unsettled and anxious, as if, for the first time, she didn't quite know what to make of me.