A Lady in the Smoke (18 page)

“But when he was sent for, he came home. Was that when he found out?”

She nodded. “Your grandmother warn't wantin' to go to heaven with that secret weighing on her soul, so she called him to her bedside and told him everything. After that, he and your father fought it out in the library so loud we all heard it.”

“What did they say?”

Her expression turned sorrowful. “Oh, child. Words like that don't bear repeating. The boys being only a few years apart, they'd fought over things since they was children. Being younger, Mr. Kellham always said his brother got the best of everything, and I could see where he'd say so. And now his brother had tricked him, in such a turrible way. When Mr. Kellham saw Miss Meg was—was a mother, you see, and carrying a child that could'a been his—” She stopped then, her head tipped to the side. “Do you remember your uncle's visit, m'lady? You prob'ly don't. You weren't but three or four years old.”

“I remember it,” I said definitely. “I didn't hear the fight he and Father had, but I'm fairly sure I saw him come out of Grandmother's room one time. He looked absolutely furious. I remember feeling frightened of him.”

She shook her head regretfully. “He warn't always furious and frightening, m'lady. I wish you'd known him back before all this trouble. He was high-spirited for sartin, but so good-hearted and generous, and he could make anyone laugh. He used to bring me little presents. I still have a tea caddy he brought me. You know it. The one with dancers on the lid.”

I nodded. I'd seen it in her room since I was a child.

“It held bergamot.” A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth then vanished. “Silly to keep it, I suppose, but he knew 'twas alwus my favorite kind.”

I came back to the settee and sat down. “Sally, when Uncle Charles heard what had happened—was he—was he angry with Mama?”

“Angry with her? Laws, no!” She looked appalled. “He knew she'd been tricked, too. No, he
loved
her. In fact, what made your uncle most angry was he didn't think Lord Kellham loved her like she deserved. That's one of the things he said that morning, in the library—only,” she added hastily, “he warn't so polite with his words.”

“Did Mama hear that argument?”

She shook her head again. “Mr. Kellham made sure she was away when he spoke to your father. He didn't want her upset. Not with the baby.”

So, angry as my uncle was, Mama's health had been his first concern. The thought gave me an ache in the soft place under my ribs.

“And then your uncle left,” Sally concluded, “and—well, you know. He never came back after that.”

I looked down at my lap and made my voice matter-of-fact. “When did Father start hating her?”

“Oh, m'lady.” Her voice was gently reproving. “I don't think he ever
hated
her. Their marriage was a patched-up affair from the start—and like as not, the cracks would come out at some point. But he didn't hate her.”

“Perhaps not at first,” I said stubbornly. “But you
know
how he was with her by the end.”

She conceded with a sigh. “To my mind, the real troubles began after your brother died. Your father was grieved as turrible as she was to lose him, and then the doctor said your mama couldn't have”—she glanced away, a flush coming to her cheeks—“relations with your father anymore. Maybe he could 'a stood it, and maybe they would've got on, like folks do. But then Lord Shaw and his missus came home from abroad that winter.” She shook her head, her face unhappy. “It's all about men and women in this world, m'lady. Two men love a woman, and she's like a wishbone, being pulled between 'em. Only one can have the biggest piece of her. The other gets left with the short end, and he still wants her, and that wanting just grows inside him, wild as a creeping thistle.”

It took a long moment before I managed to choke out, “
Lady Shaw?
Father fell in love with
Lady Shaw
?”

“Oh, 'twarn't like they just met!” she corrected me hurriedly. “They'd knowed each other since they was children. She was Lady Hester Farnsworth then. If'n it warn't for your grandmother changing everything to suit herself, he'd probably have married her.”

I felt as though the breath had been kicked out of me. “
Married
her?”

“Yes, m'lady. But her dowry warn't half of what Miss Meg's was, you see? I think he tried to work it out with his mother so somehow he could marry his choice, but maybe Lady Hester felt like he warn't trying hard enough, or p'rhaps she was feeling too proud to wait, so she up and married Lord Shaw. To my mind, she regretted it straightaway after, but by then…” She shrugged.

“So what happened after the Shaws came home from abroad?”

She looked away, a flush blotching her cheeks. Her voice was low: “Your father started finding ways and means to see her.”

Oh dear god. My poor mother.

“That's despicable,” I said, my voice shaking.

She nodded mutely.

“But, Sally, if Lord Shaw was the one who was being wronged—terribly wronged—why was Father always so hateful about him? Surely he didn't blame Lord Shaw for marrying her.”

A look of compassion came over her face, and she reached her plump hand for mine again. This time I let her take it. “Oh, child. It's like that sometimes, the way things get twisted 'round in folks' heads. I 'spect your father couldn't bear the thought that it was his fault for not standing up to his mother all those years ago, and how that's what lost him Lady Hester. He couldn't blame his own mother, her bein' dead—so he blamed Lord Shaw for taking her away.”

I tried to pull my scattered thoughts into line. “Did Mama know—about Father and Lady Shaw?”

“I'm not sure if she knew, or just suspected. But…” She hesitated. “I daresay she knew your father didn't feel very kindly toward her anymore.”

“And Lord Shaw?”

“That, I don't know, but if I had to guess, I'd say not. His mother's estate in Scotland warn't doing well, so he'd be gone for weeks, even months, at a time.”

Which gave my father plenty of opportunity to see his wife.

She sighed wearily. “And then your father had his accident, and none of it mattered anymore.”

“And Lady Shaw died a few years later,” I said, remembering her funeral. “It was pneumonia, wasn't it?”

“Yes, she'd always been consumptive. 'Twas all very sad.”

In the quiet moment that followed, the clock struck half-past, making me jump; after a glance at it, Sally rose, startled. “Oh, laws! Your aunt asked me to come to her straight after I'd finished helping you, and that was nigh an hour ago—and you're not even dressed!”

“It's no matter, Sally. I'm going to stay in my room today. If I'm hungry later, I can always ask for a tray.”

She looked at me anxiously. “You look so upset, m'lady. Was I wrong to tell you?”

“No, Sally. I'm upset—and—and angry—but not at you. I just wish I'd known all this before.”

Sally's face screwed up in distress. “But there was naught you could do. You were so young. It sartinly warn't something a child should hear.”

“But I'm not a child anymore,” I reminded her. “My aunt should have told me when I was old enough to understand.”

She winced. “Well, I s'pose so, but such things ain't easy to say. After all, it's her mother what did the most harm, and the Frasers are clannish.”

“Was Aunt Catherine part of it?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “Did she help trick my mother?”

Sally shook her head. “I've often wondered that—but I think your grandmother kept this to herself. I 'spect she knew the unhappiness she was sowing.” She glanced at the clock again, and her expression was rueful. “M'lady—”

“I'm sorry. Thank you, Sally. Truly. And don't worry. I'm all right.”

She left me then.

The moment she vanished, I dropped my head into my hands.

For the first time in my life, I felt I could begin to understand why my mother was so difficult and resentful and angry. She'd loved and lost—not once, but twice—and had been betrayed again and again.

I felt cold to my very bones. I went to my armoire for my warmest blue shawl, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders. Then I lay down, resting my head against the arm of the settee, trying to imagine how she must have felt.

What would it be like, to be in a house of strangers, believing that the man I married loved me and was loyal to me—to take for granted that my place was rightfully at his side—and then, slowly, over time, to feel that he didn't return my love; to watch his affection wane and his resentment begin? Would I believe I was at fault? Would I try to win him back, perhaps many times, before realizing it was futile? What if I understood belatedly that he had never really loved me at all, that I'd merely been a means to secure his estate?

I took Uncle Charles's letter out from where I'd hidden it in a drawer, and reread it. When did Mama receive this? It couldn't have been when Uncle Charles first wrote it, or everything would have ended differently. So she must have come by it later. What must she have felt when she read it, knowing that Charles had been faithful all along, and she'd been told lies? How would she have gone on living in this house, once she understood what her husband and his mother had done to her?

No wonder she'd needed the laudanum. God knows what I would have done in her position.

I thought again about what she'd said to me the night of the ball. How I was lucky to have had more than one Season. How I was lucky to have had choices, with no one secretly steering my fate. The words meant something different now.

I sat there for a very long time, the letter in my lap. When Sally eventually returned to my room to help me dress for dinner, I told her I wasn't feeling well, that I had a headache.

She got a stricken look on her face, and I could see that she regretted telling me. But I insisted it wasn't her fault, and she left, promising to send up a light supper.

It was only after Nora had set the fire for the night that I realized with a jolt what else I'd learned:

Mr. Flynn had guessed wrong. Clearly, the enmity between my father and Lord Shaw had begun years
before
the Great Southeastern took over the London-Redfield, not after.

Remembering what he had said about the stakes involved in the railway purchase, I could imagine a dozen possibilities for why the conflict between Lord Shaw and my father might have escalated.

What if Lord Shaw was still nursing his anger toward my family?

I went to the window and looked out into the darkness. If it had been day, I would have been able to see our back fields, a pattern-work of green and gray, that extended over a mile before it reached the line of trees that divided our estate from that of Lord Shaw.

I thought again of what Mr. Flynn had asked back in Travers, about whether I could speak to Lord Shaw myself. Certainly I
could
. Common civility would require that he accept a visit from me. But what reason could I give? Could I simply call upon him to ask what he remembered about the London-Redfield, meanwhile taking a measure of his feelings toward my family?

The more I considered, the more I began to wonder if I should.

I laid my hand on the cold pane. The rivulets of rain on the glass caught the light from the fire, then lost it, over and over again.

I had promised Anne I'd visit on Tuesday, and, longing to see her, I woke up and breakfasted early.

The skies were clear, so by ten o'clock I was on my way to Reynolds Hall in the gig, the morning air cool and pleasant. I hadn't been there in several months, since before Anne left for Scotland, and I was struck anew by how exquisite the grounds were. The long straight drive leading up to the courtyard, underneath pairs of oak trees, looked as if it had been raked that morning; the trees were trimmed to their usual elegant shapeliness; and the lawn was as green as jade. The groom, Mr. Jakes, was pleasant as usual when he met me to take Athena; but the butler, Mr. Warner, greeted me dourly, and I felt acutely the contrast between the beauty of the grounds and the air of unease in the house.

I went upstairs, as I always did, and entered Anne's bedroom. She greeted me with an expectant smile, but I saw the anxiety in her face, and she probably saw the same in mine. However, my eyes were drawn almost immediately to the canvas resting on an easel.

“Is that one of the paintings your brought home?” I asked as I approached it.

She nodded and came to stand beside me.

Although it was clearly Anne's work, it was different from her usual paintings. Until now, she'd always worked in miniature, on exquisitely detailed scenes. But this canvas was nearly four feet across, with bold strokes of color. In the background were expansive waves of green, dotted with white sheep; in the foreground were a young girl and her mother who appeared to have just finished a frugal picnic. The mother was sitting under a tree; her face was not pretty but plain; and her hands were occupied with some ordinary-looking mending. The child was racing down a gentle slope with her arms flung out awkwardly and what looked like a smear of jam on her cheek. There was no sense of danger; and although the girl wasn't comely, she radiated joy and fearlessness. The mother's eyes followed her in amusement, indulgence, even approval.

“You like it,” Anne said.

“Of course I do!” I breathed, my eyes still on the girl. “It's beautiful. It's perhaps the best thing you've ever done. Not that your others aren't—it's just this is…” I stepped backward. “It feels true.”

She gave a soft laugh. “That's partly what I meant when I said I felt free there. For perhaps the first time ever, I believed that the truth—however plain or imperfect—was enough.”

I nodded, my eyes still on the girl.

“Here.” Anne handed me another canvas. “This is the other one I brought home.”

This canvas was smaller but had the same sort of glow and vibrancy. It depicted a boy with a flock of white and brownish-gray sheep; but instead of watching them, he was sitting on a stone wall, whittling a bit of wood. Some of the sheep were wandering off, but there were no predators lurking in the trees, nothing to threaten their safety. I glanced from this painting to the other; both made me feel light of heart—and yet—

The maid entered with a tray, and after she left, I set the painting aside and sat on the window seat beside Anne. “How is Philip? Have you managed to get him outside for a walk?”

“No. He did let me open his window to let in some fresh air. I suppose that's a start.” She made a wry face. “He's still wretched, of course. But the doctor came yesterday and prescribed a tonic. Afterward, Philip ate something, and he's talking to me, at least.” She settled against the cushions. “How is your mother?”

“Still resting. Mr. Wilcox gave her some new medicine which seems to be helping.”

“Was it very awful, seeing him?”

“Yes.” I sighed. “But it wasn't his fault. He was perfectly civil.”

She touched my hand. “Well, I'm sure he cares for you. He wouldn't mind the lie nearly so much if he didn't.”

Anne poured tea for both of us while I dropped sugar in our cups and put scones on our plates.

“What are you thinking?” she asked. “You have an odd look on your face.”

I stirred the tea slowly, watching the sugar dissolve. “I heard something yesterday about my mother that shocked me, although I suppose it shouldn't have.”

She looked at me expectantly.

I set down the spoon on the saucer. “Had you ever heard that my mother nearly married my uncle Charles instead of my father?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Is that another false rumor? Or are you saying it's true?”

“So far as I can tell, it's true,” I replied. “Mama was seventeen, and apparently they were in love.” Anne listened silently as I told her about my uncle's letter and Sally's explanation. The only part I left out was about my father's affair with Lady Shaw. Anne was my dearest friend, but that part of the story made me shrink with disgust.

At the end of my tale, Anne looked troubled. “My goodness, your grandmother was ruthless. Your poor mother. And I have to say, I even feel sorry for your father.”

“But he wronged Mama,” I said. “I just think about her wondering all those years what she'd done to lose his love—when the problem was she'd never really had it to begin with.”

A sudden consciousness came to Anne's expression.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just the way you said it. It's terribly sad. I've always resented her unkindness to you—but it does put things in a different light, doesn't it?”

“Yes. I feel sorry for her too.”

Anne broke off a piece of her scone. “Are you going to tell Mr. Flynn?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet anyway. Although I did tell Paul to tell him about Mr. Hayes.”

“And I asked Father about the purchase. He said that Mr. Pinsley
had
received an offer from the railway, but Mr. Hayes stepped in with ready money, so he sold it to him. Does that help you?”

So Mr. Hayes had scooped the land out from under the railway's nose.

“I think so,” I said. “Did your father tell you Mr. Hayes's first name?”

“Marcus.” She pointed to the table beside me. “Pass me that sketchbook, would you?”

I gave it to her, and she flipped some pages, then handed it back to me. “Here. I made this for you yesterday. He has a memorable face.”

I studied the portrait. He was not unattractive—a strong jaw, intelligent dark eyes, and a well-formed mouth. But there was something uncompromising and impatient about his expression.

“How old would you say he is?” I asked.

“About forty, I'd say, or a bit less; he's quite tall, but he's the sort of man who will probably be stout in ten years.” She carefully tore out the page and put it in a pasteboard portfolio. “Now, you should eat something. You're beginning to look as brittle as I used to feel.”

On my way home, I calculated. There were only seventeen days left until Parliament would decide the fate of the railway. Given that I'd passed along the names of Hayes and Pinsley, I was fairly sure that Mr. Flynn, with his resources, would have found out by now who they were; but he might not yet know how Hayes managed to buy the land the railway wanted. And he certainly didn't know the reasons for the enmity between my father and Lord Shaw. I wouldn't tell Mr. Flynn everything, of course, but I could tell him enough.

At the telegraph office, I spent twenty minutes scribbling and scratching out several messages, trying to figure out how to phrase my message in a way that Mr. Flynn would understand, but wouldn't give anything away to the telegraph operator. I had no desire to be the source of more gossip. Finally, hoping that Mr. Flynn would remember our conversation in Travers, I settled on this:

LADY LOVED AND LOST MARRIED AS IN 1852. STOP. H TRUMPED GSE, PURCHASED P LAND EST FOUR MONTHS AGO READY MONEY. STOP. ELIZABETH.

I pushed the form through the window to the operator, waited for him to count my words and calculate the charge, and paid for the telegram with shillings from my purse. Then, feeling as if a weight had been lifted, I got back into the gig, with no plan other than to go straight home.

But the road from the telegraph station crossed the lane that led to Shadwell Manor.

Impulsively, I tugged on the reins and turned Athena onto it.