A Lady in the Smoke (16 page)

I unstoppered the bottle and held it against the light. It was more than half-f. 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.

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.”

With a jolt, I realized that now, given what Paul had told me, I might know more than Mr. Turleigh did about our railway shares. But I kept that to myself.

“Aunt, do
you
have any idea what's gone wrong?”

She shook her head. “Not specifically. But I'm sure Mr. Turleigh will explain it all to James.”

“I didn't know anything until the night of the ball,” I said. “When did you learn of it?”

Two furrows appeared between her dark brows. “The day after. A friend told me that she'd heard that some of your father's investments were failing.”

“Did your friend mention where she had heard the rumor? I would love to know how the gossip started in the first place.”

She shrugged matter-of-factly and plucked at the fabric on the arm of the chair. “How do people in our circles find out anything? They talk. What matters now is how it changes things for you. And the unfortunate truth is that these rumors will cause your”—she hesitated—“your choices to diminish.”

I gave a snort. “Yes. I'm a failing investment myself.”

Her expression became annoyed. “Don't be absurd.”

“I'm not being absurd, Aunt,” I insisted softly. “I'm trying to be practical. Mama has already warned me that I may have missed my chance to become engaged. And she reminded me recently that I have a home at Kellham Park only so long as she lives, after which…” I let my whisper fade, and in the quiet, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the table. The sound felt uncomfortably apt.

My aunt pursed her lips. “Well, you'll always have a home with us. You know that.” She tucked the blanket more firmly over her lap. “But given the situation, wouldn't it be sensible to engage yourself to someone you
know
—someone whose family you know—rather than waiting until you are left with little or no choice?”

“But there's no one who cares for me—or whom I care for in that way,” I protested. “And affection can't be ordered, like a side of beef from the butcher. Surely
you
understand—you and Uncle John love each other.”

A faint smile. “Yes, we do. But that grew over time, after we were married. Quite often, that's the way it happens.”

Her words led my thoughts straight back to my mother, my father, and my uncle's letter.

It occurred to me, suddenly, that my aunt was probably one of the few people in the world who knew the truth about my parents' marriage; and she couldn't have given me an easier opening. But I knew not to appear overly eager; I made my tone as offhand as I could manage: “Is that what people thought would happen with my parents?”

In her eyes—blue, Fraser eyes—I saw surprise, followed by a kind of speculative wariness.

Very quietly, I asked my next question: “Is it true that Mama was once engaged to Uncle Charles?”

She blinked several times and her lips parted; for a moment her expression held dismay and something that looked almost like guilt. But then her usual cool mask returned. “Oh, Elizabeth.” She waved a hand dismissively. “That was over twenty years ago.”

My heart jumped. Despite my uncle's letter, I hadn't expected her to confirm it.

“So they
were
engaged,” I whispered.

“No—not really.” But her eyes skidded away from mine.

“So far as I understand it, one either is engaged or isn't
.
”

The fine lines around my aunt's mouth grew deeper with annoyance. But I was determined to compel her to tell me what she knew. Somehow, the fact that I had gone my whole life without knowing this—and that I would have gone on not knowing, save for stumbling upon the letter—made me feel as if a rug had been pulled out from under my feet.

I leaned forward, so I could keep my voice the softest whisper. “Please, Aunt, tell me what happened. Was there a quarrel? A misunderstanding?”

“Oh, Elizabeth. Don't make more of it than there was.” I sat back and waited expectantly, and she capitulated with a sigh. “When your mother and Charles first met, they were quite mad about each other, and it did seem for a while as if they were serious. There was even a rumor that they'd made some sort of private promise to each other. But after a few months, their feelings diminished.” She shrugged. “That first infatuation is powerful—especially because your mother had been very sheltered. But those initial avid feelings aren't enough. Marriage must be a practical arrangement, too. You know how Charles turned out.”

But he might have turned out better married to Mama
.

She shifted in her chair. “Your mother's marriage to Samuel was best for everyone.”

“How can you say that? Her marriage to Father wasn't
happy
. I don't know how they were before I was born. But I never saw him be affectionate to her, or ask her what she thought, or how she felt—”

My aunt's expression instantly shuttered. “This is not an appropriate topic of conversation.”

“But it's the truth,” I insisted.

“Be that as it may, he was my brother and your father.” Her chin came up and her eyes sparked, much as my father's used to when he was angry. “There is no point in digging up the past or speaking ill of the dead. It's unkind and disrespectful—and it accomplishes nothing. It's certainly not going to help your mother get well.” She stood up abruptly, the blanket falling to the floor. “I'm very tired. If you're staying, I'm going to bed. Check on your mother every half hour or so, and wake Jane when you get sleepy.” She looked down at me, her expression disapproving. “If you're so full of ideas about marriage, maybe you should spend some time considering what you hope to accomplish with your own.”

Then she went to the door, closing it with exaggerated care.

And I sat back in my chair to think.

So Charles's claim that he and my mother had been engaged was in all likelihood true. But based on what his letter said, my aunt was mistaken. His feelings hadn't simply faded away after a few months; there'd been a misunderstanding. I'd always been told my uncle was a bitter person. My mother certainly was.

Was this what had made them so?

I picked up the blanket from the floor, wrapped it around myself, and went to stand by my mother's bed.

To my relief, her face was no longer that grim mask it had been yesterday. But she looked frail. And vulnerable. And alone.

And suddenly, I felt pity for her, startling and stinging as a crop on bare skin.