A Lady in the Smoke (13 page)

I woke to the feeling of a heavy weight pressing the breath out of my chest.

The lamp at my bedside had burnt out and the room was dark as pitch. The bedsheets were hot and tangled around my legs. I clawed my way out of them and slid off the bed, relieved to feel the carpet under my bare feet. The room's cold air chilled the sweat on the back of my neck as I groped my way toward the dressing table where I knew there was a matchbox and another lamp. Three times I scraped a match to light the wick before my trembling hands managed it. With the lamp at full brightness, I went to the washstand, dropped my hands into the water, and brought it to my face. The dry towel smelled of lavender, and I took deep breaths in, trying to dispel the pictures still in my head.

I'd dreamt I was caught in a house on fire, with half a dozen horses. I was trying to get one of them out the door and down the steps, but I couldn't even fit through the opening myself. The door was getting smaller and smaller—my skirts kept catching and ripping on the edge—and the horse was screaming. Then it was Athena, fighting me. My hands slipped on the bridle, my arms were weak as bird wings; no matter what words I used and how hard I pulled, she wouldn't come. And then I fell, and I was on the floor, and she was half on top of me, and I couldn't breathe—

I shook my head to clear it and set aside the towel.

I knew from experience the only way I could stop a nightmare from coming back was to leave the light on and read for a while. I went to my shelf and chose Dickens's
Pickwick Papers;
there was no horror in the adventures of the Misters Pickwick, Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman. But when I opened the book, the words were only black shapes on the page. I couldn't take them in, and after attempting to read the same passage half a dozen times, I shut the book and jerked open the curtains. The black of night was giving way to the darkest blue at the horizon. I fixed my eyes on it, waiting until the sky grew light enough to cast shadows over our back hundred acres. When the clock in the hall chimed its soft six, I put on my riding habit, and went down the servants' stair. I heard the morning kitchen noises—the thump of the oven door closing, the scrape of a metal spoon against a bowl—but I slipped past the doorway without greeting anyone and headed down the flagstone path toward the stables.

The sky was a pearly gray, but it didn't look like it would rain until later. The air was cool and fresh, and the dew was still unbroken by footprints, so neither Martin nor Timothy had been here yet. I gave a soft whistle before I rolled the wooden door aside, so I wouldn't startle the horses. The heads of Duchess and Barnaby, our matched bays, appeared over the tops of their stall doors; and the familiar, earthy smell of the animals came at me in a wave.

When he inherited the estate, my father razed the old enclosure and designed this one, with high ceilings, windows set at just the right angle for ventilation, and large boxes. He always kept more than a dozen horses, though he frequently changed them, always with an eye to improving his stable. My mother, on the other hand, had always hated horses, even before my father was killed riding; once he was gone, we sold all but the pair that we used for driving and a gray mare for me, and from that time on, I never mentioned my riding and always made sure I was changed out of my habit before she saw me.

Duchess and Barnaby gave soft whickers of welcome. I stroked their soft noses, and then went toward the large stall built for birthing. But Athena merely turned her shining black round backside toward me. I couldn't help but laugh. “You silly filly,” I said affectionately. “Don't be sulky. I missed you too, the whole time I was in London.”

Her ears flicked toward me, but she kept her head stubbornly turned away.

“It's all right, Athena. You take your time. I've nowhere to be this morning. Nowhere but here.”

She snorted and rolled an eye at me. I stayed where I was, my arm resting along the top of the stall door, and thought about the day—nearly a year ago now—when Martin had fetched Athena home from the Houghs' barn. We'd heard for months about her mistreatment by the elder son, and when Martin heard they were willing to sell her for a nominal amount, he suggested we purchase her. My gray mare had died the previous year, and he won Mama over to the idea of a new horse by promising to train Athena to draw the gig.

It had taken Martin and two other grooms to get her into the stall. Her dark coat was muddy and matted; her eyes showed their whites; and her mane was knotted with spears of hay. We would have left her out in a pasture to calm down except that there was a long bloody gash on her right fore and a nasty scrape on her neck from that stupid Daniel Hough jabbing her repeatedly with his crop. After we got her on the ground with laudanum, Martin and I stitched up her leg while Timothy, our stable hand, held her head. For a good month or so after that, she kicked at any of us when we came near. She'd have kicked the whole world if she could.

The wounds on her leg and neck cleared in a matter of weeks. As soon as we removed the bandages—another delicate undertaking—I began doing all the things I'd seen Martin and my father do when training a young or nervous horse—approaching quietly, a carrot in my hand, talking softly, repeating her name. I'd have run my hands over her if she'd let me, but she still skittered away whenever I came near. And though I knew training required patience, after weeks of this behavior, I'd felt discouraged.

Then, one morning Martin told me not to go into the paddock. We perched on the top rails of the fence and watched Athena together. She grazed, her fine black nose down among the dewy grass, her delicate ears scissoring back and forth, the skin of her neck twitching when a fly landed. If it were any other horse, I'd have said she was content. But I knew that every nerve in her body was taut as one of the upper strings on a harp, and wholly attuned to us.

Martin plucked an overgrown cat-o-nine-tails and rolled it gently between his fingers. “You know,” he said, his eyes on Athena, “for nine horses out of ten, you'd be doing everything right.”

“But not with her.”

He kept his eyes on Athena and didn't answer.

My heart sank. “I don't want to ruin her. If you think I'm doing something I shouldn't—”

“Nae.” His gentle voice drew the monosyllable out long. “
You're
all right. But she's a queer one, queer and mighty clever. I seen how you been so far, tryin' to prove you mean no harm.” He took a deep breath in and blew it out in a soft whistle. “Fact is, some horses can't have things proved to 'em. She's one of 'em that needs to be doin' it on her terms, more 'r less.”

“You mean I should let her be in control?” I asked doubtfully.

“Nae. She has to listen to you. But sometimes you got to let her talk while
you
listen.
That's
what's goin' to make 'er trust you.” He tossed the cat-o-nine-tails aside and turned toward me. “See, I had a horse once, seemed he was just plain ornery. He'd fight against everything. Some days 'twas all I could do to get his saddle on. But eventually, I figured that if I let him do things
when
he wanted to do 'em, more times than not he'd do 'em the
way
I wanted. Like a partnership, fair and equal.”

“But how do I let her know I'm listening?”

“Stand here by the fence for a few days. See if she comes to you, 'nd let
her
decide when. Like I said, she's a clever one. She knows she's got to stay in this paddock, but she needs to feel like she's got a choice in summat.” He gave me a shrewd look. “You understand that, maybe better than anybody.”

His comparison caught my by surprise. But Martin had known me since I was born, and though he always spoke slowly, his words rounded and country-smooth, he was the sort who noticed things.

He climbed off the rails then, and I did as he said. I stood by the fence, my back to one of the posts, and waited.

The first day nothing happened. Nor the second. Nor the third. Nor the fourth.

On the fifth morning, Athena ignored me, as usual, staking out her territory twenty feet away. Eventually, I closed my eyes. The sun warmed my face, and the air was dense with the odors of wet hay and the nutty bark of the trees. The magpies were out, calling, ch-ch-ch. I remembered the old magpie song that Sally used to sing.
How many magpies do you see? What does life hold in store for thee? One means sorrow, two means mirth, three for death, four for birth—

The church bells in the village chimed half past nine. Mama would be expecting me.

I sighed and opened my eyes.

And there she was.

Athena's head was no more than a yard from mine. I almost flinched in surprise, but I held myself motionless, and she stayed with me. Her dark eyes moved nervously in their sockets; a muscle on her cheek twitched at a fly.

I held very still.
Let her talk,
I told myself, and waited.

She took one step and another and then I felt her warm breath on my left cheek and ear, as if she were whispering a secret, just for me.

That day was six months ago, and if I knew anything about my horse, it was that Athena needed to do things in her own time. So I waited, and finally she turned and shoved her nose against my hand. That was my cue to open the door and go inside. I ran my hand under her mane, brushing lightly over the scar that was hidden there, and buried my face in her neck. She smelled of oats and hay and sweat. “My sweet girl,” I murmured.

I fetched her saddle and bridle, all the while telling her about London and the accident, about Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Flynn and the railway, and how Mama had been ill and recovered, and how Jane would be staying with us for a while. It wasn't the words that mattered, of course, just the sound of my voice, and when I paused, she shoved her nose at me to continue.

It was a relief to be in the saddle. For over two hours, we followed the forest trails, one of which took us past the path that led to Reynolds Hall. I knew from Anne's last letter that she was due back Monday evening; that meant in three days I could not only ask her about the land business but also pour out my heart to someone who'd understand everything. I'd send a note tomorrow, so it would be waiting for her when she arrived.

Athena and I crested Cobbley's Knob and kept on until we reached a flat area where the farmers pastured their cows. But instead of grazing, most of the beasts were lying down, which at this time of day usually meant rain. I glanced up at the sky and saw it was grayer than when we'd started out. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Athena jittered sideways. “Don't worry. We'll head back,” I said and turned her down the hill. She was better than I at picking her way among the clumps of silver creeping thistle, purple knapwood, and yellow gorse, so I gave her her head. As we reached the copse, the breeze rose, twisting the leaves to show their dusky undersides, and a cool rain began to fall. But I didn't mind. Between our ride and the knowledge that Anne would be home soon, I felt a sense of something—if not quite happiness, or freedom, at least a tentative peace.

My boots were muddy, so I entered through the back door and took the servants' staircase up. As I reached the first landing, our housemaid Nora was coming down. I greeted her as usual, and she bobbed awkwardly and moved against the wall to keep her bucket of blacking and coarse brushes away from my damp skirts.

But as I passed, she said, tentatively, “M'lady?” Her face was anxious. “Did they find you then?”

Surprised, I turned back. “Was someone looking for me?”

“Oh, m'lady.” Her eyes grew round and she shifted her grip on the bucket uneasily. “Begging your pardon, but I thought that's why you looked like you was hurrying.”

“
Who
is looking for me, Nora?”

“Why, Mr. James sent two of the footmen—”

“James? He's here?”

“Yes, m'lady. He arrived about half an hour ago, on the early train, and they're all with Lady Fraser because she woke up crying and screaming, like she was in one of her old deliriums—”

I gasped.
“What?”

She hurried on: “—so they sent someone down to the stables to find you.”

“Mama knew I was riding?” That would upset her very much.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Leastwise, I don't
think
anybody'd tell her that. Besides, nobody knew where you was. I think they just thought that was most likely.”

I gave a soft groan. “I should have told someone where I was going. Is Mama all right now? Is Jane with her?”

“Jane's with her. And Mrs. Ellsworth too.” She bit her lip. “But Lady Fraser—well, she isn't right, leastwise not yet.”

I felt a pang of fear. “Thank you, Nora. If anyone asks, I'm changing and I'll go to her straightaway.”

“Begging your pardon, m'lady, but do you want me to send Sally to you?”

I was already hurrying up the rest of the stairs. “Yes, please,” I called over my shoulder, undoing the buttons to my riding coat as I went. I reached my room, flung it on a chair, removed my boots, and snatched a pale green dress from my armoire. My fingers were cold, and I wished for the hundredth time that it was the fashion for day dresses to button up the front.

“Here I am, m'lady.” Sally shut the door behind her.

“I need to hurry,” I said.

“I know.” Her hands were already at my back, looping the buttons into their holes.

“For god's sake, what happened?” I asked.

“I still don't rightly know. One minute, I was downstairs with Jane, having a cup o' tea, and Mrs. Ellsworth was sitting with your mother. And the next thing we knowed, Nora's at the kitchen door, saying her ladyship was turrible upset, and we had to come right away. Jane and I were upstairs in a minute, and Mrs. Ellsworth was already trying to calm her down. But her ladyship was crying and carrying on like folks do when they're asleep. They warn't words, really, just sounds. Until she called out for you.”

I stared at Sally in the mirror. “For
me
? Are you sure?”

“She called out ‘Elizabeth,' twice, clear as a bell, m'lady.” She finished the top button. “And then she went all quiet like, and that's when your aunt and Mr. James came in, and he told me to look for you in the house, and he sent two of the footmen out of doors. They didn't find you, then?”

I shook my head. “I just left Athena at the barn. I'm not sure how I missed them.”

“Well, no matter. You're here now. P'rhaps she just needs to see you to be sure you're all right.” She took a towel from the washstand and folded it around the damp ends of my hair.

I sat down at the dressing table. “You needn't brush it all the way through. Just pull it back and tie a ribbon. That'll do for now.”

She had it done in a minute.

I looked at my reflection. My skin was flushed and slightly damp, but otherwise I looked almost normal—except for the anxiety written across my face. That wouldn't do. I smoothed my brow with my fingertips and took a deep breath.

Then I stood up and hurried down the hallway toward my mother's room.

I half-expected to hear my mother's querulous voice, but there was only silence. Gently, I pushed at the door and peered in. Jane was putting away the laudanum bottle and wiping a spoon, a troubled look on her face; my aunt and James were both bent over Mama, who was sitting in an armchair close to the fire, a blanket tucked around her legs. They both looked up at me as I opened the door farther, my aunt with relief on her countenance, James with worry and exasperation on his.

He strode toward me and pushed me back into the hallway, shutting the door behind us. “Here you are, finally! What's the matter with you?”

I bristled. “There's nothing the matter, and don't bark at me. I was out riding. What's the matter with Mama?”

He sniffed and grimaced. “You smell like horses. Here's hoping she doesn't notice.” He gave my arm a small shake, his mouth pursed tightly. “For Christ's sake, we had no
bloody
idea where you were! We couldn't even send someone out after you!” He glanced at the bit of bandage on my head. “And you're still hurt. You shouldn't be riding anyway.”

“Yes, I should,” I said, pulling my arm away. “I've been days in that hotel in Travers. I needed to be out of doors.” I pushed the door open again. Mama was still sitting motionless in her chair. “Sally said she was asking for me.”

“Yes, she did. You shouldn't have left.”

I laughed shortly. “In all the years she's been sick my mother has
never
asked for me. When we were in Travers, she didn't even want me in the room. Why would I expect she'd want me this morning?”

He shrugged. “I'm sure I don't know—but she did, and you weren't here.”

I sighed. “What else did she say?”

“You'll have to ask Jane,” he said. “Apparently when she came upstairs, your mother's eyes were open, and she was speaking, which is why Jane didn't realize at first that she was in some sort of delusion. Your mother cried out your name—that much was clear—but the rest was mostly mumbling. Then she became so agitated that she threw herself out of bed, and it was all Jane could do to get her into that chair. And now she's sitting there still as a stone. She hasn't said a word since I arrived.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked. “You don't usually pay flying visits. Did you see Mr. Turleigh?”

He shook his head. “He's away from London for another few days. I left a message for him.”

My heart sank a bit. “Thank you.”

“Apparently your mother doesn't like the new medical man here. So I'm going to send for the one from Travers. Jane said he seemed to understand her condition perfectly.”

The medical man from Travers.

“What was his name?” James continued. “Wilson—no, Wilcox—”

The hallway suddenly seemed darker.

“Elizabeth!” James shook my arm again. “What's wrong with you? You've gone white as a sheet. Is that a bad idea, to fetch him? Is there something wrong with him? Is he a quack?”

“No,” I said faintly. “He's a good surgeon. He'll know what to do.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

I pulled my arm away again. “I'm fine. I need to see Mama.”

James opened his mouth to say something, then rolled his eyes in annoyance, and strode down the hall away from me.

I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, my eyes closed.

Mr. Wilcox. Here in this house.

Thinking of him made me feel as hollow as one of Cook's huge copper pots.

I pushed the thought of him out of my head and went in. The curtains were drawn against the morning light, but I could hear the rain against the windows. The fire burned brightly, illuminating all but the farthest corners of her beautiful room—the pale blue walls, the gilt-edged mirrors and paintings, the tables and cabinets cluttered with elegant bibelots, shining candlesticks, and trinkets of all sorts under glass domes.

My aunt rose from the ottoman near Mama's chair and came toward me. “We finally gave her an extra bit of laudanum,” she whispered. “Jane hated to do it, but your mother became absolutely distraught. Maybe now that you're here, she'll get into bed.”

Mama's eyes didn't meet mine, even when I knelt before her. The fire, piled with coals, was almost uncomfortably warm to me, but she was trembling as if with an unbearable chill. The change in her since the previous day was astonishing and horrible. Whereas she'd come home from Travers almost like her normal self, stepping down from the carriage with assistance and speaking calmly, now she looked haggard, terrified, and ten years older. Her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated; she had bitten her lips until they bled; her face was waxy, the skin stretched tightly across her cheekbones.

Was this truly because she had wanted me, or been worried about me? Given her usual coldness toward me, I never would have believed it, but—

I took her hands; they were like frozen claws. “I'm so sorry, Mama. I didn't mean to go far,” I said soothingly. “But I'm fine. You see?”

To my surprise, my touch and voice roused her. Her body was stiffly immobile, but her eyes found and held mine. In a ragged voice she asked, “Did you see him? Is he coming?”

My perplexity at her calling out my name gave way to a different kind of mystification. Clearly she was fearful, and her anxiety wasn't for me. But whom was I supposed to have seen?

Her fingers dug into mine, and her voice was a broken cry. “I sent for him—oh, god—I sent for him—but I never meant—” Her voice rose to a higher pitch: “You need to find him—warn him—”

I glanced up at my aunt and Jane, who were hovering behind my mother's chair. They both looked bewildered. Over my mother's head, my aunt mouthed, “Whom does she mean?”

I shook my head, having no idea. I squeezed my mother's hands very gently. “Mama, I didn't see anyone. No one at all.”

A spasm of grief—or relief—it was too quick for me to tell—and then a sudden consciousness of the present moment seemed to cross her face. She blinked several times, sat back, and withdrew her hand from mine. She said nothing, however, and minutes ticked by while the laudanum took effect. Her eyelids began to droop, her shoulders softened from their rigid pose, and finally she went docilely with Jane to bed and settled down to sleep. Jane hovered around her, adjusting the bedclothes, while my aunt drew me to the other side of the room.

“Have you any idea what she meant?” she whispered.

“None at all.” I could think of no one who would have stirred Mama to such animated feeling.

“Did something happen in Travers? Or in London, perhaps?”

“Nothing that corresponds with what she's saying. The only man she saw in Travers was Mr. Wilcox, the doctor.”

“Maybe she wants him to come,” my aunt said dubiously.

“But she never sent for him,” I objected. “And what would she need to warn him about?”

My aunt sighed and gave a shrug. “God knows.” She looked over at the bed. “She seems quiet now.”

To me, Mama seemed even smaller and frailer than she'd looked in Travers. But I kept that uneasy thought to myself.

“Is there anything I can do?” I whispered.

My aunt's hand came to my forehead, and she frowned. “Yes. Get yourself into a hot bath before I have two patients on my hands.”

I started for the door.

“And for goodness' sake,” she added in a sharp undertone, “don't go anywhere.”