A Lady in the Smoke (15 page)

Upon publication of the story, Lord Reynolds had wanted to expose Felix and assert the truth publicly, but Philip had flatly refused. For weeks after the
Courier
article was published, their home was thick with seething, bitter silences broken only by shouting fights that forced Anne's mother to take to her bed and caused Anne and her younger brother Francis to flee to Venwell, their estate in Scotland.

Anne was tracing the embroidered patterns on the arm of her chair. “Did you see Felix at Lady Lorry's ball? He was there.”

“Not that I remember, but he might have been in one of the card rooms.” I thought back to the morning at the railway station. “I didn't see him on the railway platform either.” I frowned. “I wonder why Mrs. Ellsworth didn't mention him. When I wrote to her the morning after the accident, I asked if anyone we knew had been killed. Even if she didn't know him personally, I would think she'd have heard the news from someone at your house.”

“Except that Felix was probably still alive when she wrote to you. He survived the accident.”

“He did? So he must have been taken to Travers. I wonder where he stayed.”

She shook her head. “He wasn't in Travers. He died at home, in London.”

I winced, imagining Philip's anguish when he heard. “How did Philip find out? It wasn't in the papers, was it?”

Her brown eyes grew dark with unhappiness. “No. My father heard the news from someone. As you can imagine, he took a horrid sort of pleasure in telling Philip. He said it was a triumph of God's justice, a case of Felix getting exactly what he deserved.”

I gave a small groan.

“I know.” She closed her eyes, put her fingers to her temples, and rubbed gently. “I had no idea of any of this—I hadn't even heard of Felix's death—until I arrived home last night. Mary told me all of it before dinner, while she was helping me dress.”

“Oh, Anne.” I sighed. “How is Philip now?”

She dropped her hands into her lap and met my gaze. “Just what you'd imagine. He was wretched after that
Courier
business, but this is infinitely worse.”

“Because now there's no possibility he and Felix can ever be reconciled,” I said slowly.

She nodded. “Last night after dinner, I went to his room to see him. He isn't eating—or even sleeping. All he's doing is drinking Scotch. He was curled up on his bed, and he wouldn't move. The only thing he said was that I should leave him alone.” Her voice was choked. “I can't help thinking this is what Father wanted to happen, when he told him.”

The pain in her face made me long to offer a less brutal possibility. “Maybe your father thought that news of Felix's death would—at least eventually—convince Philip to get on with his life.”

She shook her head, her expression bleak. “I don't think so. Father
loathes
him. This morning, I went past Philip's room on my way downstairs. I could hear Father inside, shouting that it was my first morning home, that he'd given Philip enough time to mope about, and that Philip
had
to come to breakfast. That it was his duty as the first son to act like a grown man instead of a spoiled child. Philip must have said no—I couldn't hear him—and that's when Father said he wished Philip had never been born. That the only thing he'd ever contributed to the family was heartache.” Her eyes were wet. “Then Philip screamed at him that he hadn't asked to be born, and if he had, he'd never choose to be a first son in a family like ours. He said that his life wasn't worth living, and if my father were to kill him, it would be the only kind thing my father had ever done.”

My heart went out to her, but I couldn't say a word.

“I know it sounds like something out of one of those horrible melodramas at the Adelphi,” she continued, tears falling onto her cheeks. “But it's my family, Elizabeth. And I'm so frightened. I truly think Philip doesn't care what happens to himself. He could vanish, or do something reckless, and I might very well never see him again.”

“What if you could get him away? What if you were to take him to Scotland?” I asked. “At least it would be a change of scene. It's certainly been good for you.”

“Maybe.” She sighed. “If I could get Philip away from my father and out of doors….”

We sat together in silence for several minutes, and finally she gave a wan smile. “If there's one thing I learned while I was gone, it's that we all get so caught up in the lives we've led thus far that we can't imagine anything else for ourselves. But the truth is that the world is large enough to get away—even for people like us. From the minute I arrived at Venwell, I felt
free
. Free to walk about the village, or sit on top of a hill and paint for hours, and no one paid me any mind. Francis and I didn't hear a word about London, or the scandal, or the stupid
Courier
the entire time.”

With a jolt, I realized I knew what she meant; it was how I'd felt in Travers. “It's a relief, isn't it?”

“Francis is staying a few more weeks. He says it's for the shooting, but he'd probably remain there indefinitely.” She shrugged. “I can hardly blame him for not wanting to come home. I'd have stayed myself, if it weren't for you.”

“Thank you for coming back early,” I said.

The clock struck half-past.

She glanced toward the mantel, gave my hand a squeeze, and released it. “I should go. Mother will be looking for me.”

I walked her to the front door. “I'll come see you tomorrow, so long as Mama's not worse.”

She shook her head. “Better not tomorrow. I'm going to talk to Philip, try to get him to come outside for a walk. And Monday, the doctor's seeing Mother about her headaches. But come the day after, as early as you'd like.”

The next morning, the village church bells were chiming for early services when James himself drove to fetch Mr. Wilcox from the station.

I waited on the second-story window seat that looked out over the porte-cochere, my heart jumping and my stomach knotting at every noise that could be the wheels of the covered fly on the gravel.

At last I saw it, rounding the thick growth of elms by the far gate. Duchess and Barnaby were trotting, and they stopped in front of the portico. James jumped out first, then Mr. Wilcox. He didn't look up.

My stomach clenched anew. What sort of person draws up to a house such as this without even glancing up? But I knew the answer to that question: the sort of person who guessed I'd be watching from a window and wanted to put off seeing me as long as possible—perhaps even avoid me altogether.

But that wasn't going to do for me.

I went swiftly to my mother's room to tell my aunt and Jane that James and the doctor were on their way up. Then I found a place in the corner, next to my mother's wooden curio cabinet, so that I would be out of the way.

Paul came in a few moments later, alone, dressed in his usual coat—it looked shabbier than I remembered, here in this elegant bedroom—and carrying his familiar black bag.

Although I was in shadow, standing perfectly still, his eyes found me immediately and then darted away. After that he focused his entire attention on my mother, examining her exactly the way he had done in Travers. When he was finished, he gave Jane a small vial, his instructions spoken too quietly for me to catch. Then he turned for the door. I pushed away from the cabinet and, uninvited, followed my aunt and Paul down to the parlor. They took seats facing each other on the two couches; I hesitated, unsure where I should settle myself. In the end, I perched on the edge of the closest chair.

“Thank you for coming,” my aunt said to Paul. “We wouldn't have called except that her condition changed so dramatically from what it was Friday night. When she arrived here, she seemed almost her usual self.”

“She was well on the way to recovery when she left Travers,” Paul said. “I'm still not clear what brought on this change. Your son told me that she woke up terrified yesterday morning but that most of what she said was incoherent.”

My aunt glanced at me, her mouth tight and disapproving. “My first thought was that she was frightened because my niece had gone out riding. Since my brother died, we keep all mention of horses from her. All of the servants know, but there is a new upstairs maid, and I thought she might have let something slip. However, Jane suggested this morning that Lady Fraser might have been thinking of her husband.”

I stared. That hadn't even occurred to me.

My aunt leaned toward Mr. Wilcox confidingly. “The anniversary of his death is only a week from now, and it was a rainy day, like yesterday was. His horse slipped in the mud and threw him.”

“Mama asked if I'd seen anyone,” I added, “and if ‘he' was on his way here. She was very insistent. Perhaps she
was
referring to Father. But it's strange she'd be so confused as to think he was alive.”

Paul looked at me for the first time. “Did she seem to recognize you?”

I hesitated, remembering the expression on my mother's face. “I don't know. Her eyes were on me, but it almost seemed as if she were looking
through
me.”

Paul nodded. “This isn't uncommon. In the aftermath of railway accidents, sometimes a patient's mind will combine experiences from the distant past and recent present when they have common elements—particularly frightening ones. Then, given this distorted frame of mind, other experiences can take on additional meanings.”

My aunt looked skeptical, but I thought I understood.

“So a railway accident and a riding accident, near the same time of year, both in the rain….,” I began.

“Can turn an event which is quite ordinary—such as you leaving for an hour or two—into something terrifying,” Paul finished.

Agnes appeared at the door and nodded to my aunt. “Beg pardon, mum. A telegram is just come from Mr. Isslin. The man's to wait for a reply, he said, to send back to London.”

No doubt my uncle wanted to know how my mother was.

My aunt rose. “Please excuse me.”

She'd never have left the room if she knew how desperately I wanted her to. But once Paul and I were alone, I felt the weight of all I wished to say and, in consequence, could utter none of it. The silence was becoming oppressive—but then he broke it:

“I want to ask you something.”

I readied myself. “All right.”

“On the way here, your cousin told me a bit about your father's accident. Were you at home that day?”

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 deception 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…