A Lady in the Smoke (3 page)

I pushed myself to sitting. “All right, I think.” Gingerly, I reached up and felt a strip of bandage and some plaster.

He jerked his head over his shoulder. “The wagon's right there. I don't want you to miss it. There may not be another for a while.”

The wagon and the horse were indeed only a few yards away. My head still ached, but I told him that I was fine, truly, that I could walk.

He looked skeptical. “I'll take your mother first and come back for you.”

“No. I'm all right.” I rubbed my hands against my cloak, bracing myself to stand.

He helped me up and waited until I assured him that I was steady. Then he bent down, scooped Mama into his arms, and carried her toward the back of the wagon, where victims were being settled against bales of hay. I began making my way behind him, but I'd only taken a few steps when white stars sparked in front of my eyes, the earth seemed to tilt sideways, an odd ringing began in my ears, and I crumpled to the ground.

The pillowcase under my cheek was coarse and smelled of lye soap instead of the lavender I was used to. Confused, I tried to sit up and immediately felt a dull throbbing near my left temple and an ache in my shoulder. A lamp burned low on a table beside me, and gradually I made out a small, plain room with two beds, mine and another, pushed against opposite walls. By the flickering light, I saw my mother's hand, the broad gold ring on her third finger. But this certainly wasn't a room at my cousin's house in London. Where were we?

Through the door came murmurs and cries, heavy footsteps up and down an uncarpeted hallway, the clank of crockery on trays, doors opening and shutting.

A hotel?

A hotel.
Someone had spoken those words recently. Then I remembered. The doctor had said we'd be taken to a hotel at Travers.

The accident. The fire. The field. The afternoon's horror came flooding back. My own pain vanished, and I scrambled out of the covers and leaned over her bed. “Mama?”

She lay still.

I put my ear to her chest and heard her heartbeat, faint but steady. Her face was calm, remarkably peaceful in sleep. The lines of worry that usually etched her mouth were softened. I felt her forehead to check for a fever, but it was cool, as was her hand. She seemed absolutely fine. Thank god. My own hand trembling, I tucked hers under the counterpane, and then, my back against the door, I slid to the floor, to give my heartbeat a chance to return to normal.

Cautiously, I felt again for the patch of plaster and the cloth bandage. My head ached less now than it had in the field, and though my shoulder was sore, we were safe and dry, and we'd be fine, thanks to the doctor.

From just outside our door came a querulous voice: “First I be bringin' these linens to number thirteen,
then
I be fetchin' water up for number eight, and
then
I'll see to their bloody fire! How many more's going to come? We be almost full to the rafters as it is—”

“Hush, Lucy!” came a firm voice. “We'll take in as many as we can. It's our duty as Christians. And they aren't only coming to us. The railway is sending people anywhere that can hold them. The Polk Hotel is taking them too.”

“I'm just sayin' I cain't be everywhere doin' everything, that's all.” The voice went plaintive. “Miz Mowbray, I been on my feet since half past five this mornin', and—”

“Oh, for goodness' sake.” The unseen Mrs. Mowbray lost her patience. “We've
all
been up since dawn. Here, give me that pitcher. I'll take the water to number eight myself—and then I've got to see if I can find someone to help that poor doctor.” A pause, and then, somewhat dryly: “I don't suppose you'd want to do that instead of fetching things up and down stairs.”

An audible gasp. “Oh, no, ma'am! I ain't goin' in there with all that blood and those screeching folks!”

“I thought not. Now, take the linens up, and see to the fire, and don't waste your breath in complaining.”

“Yes'm.”

What time was it? I pushed myself up from the floor and went to the window to draw the curtains apart. The lamp, low as it was, turned the glass into a mirror with nothing but darkness beyond. It must be well into the night. I put my hand up to shield my eyes and brought my face close to the pane, so I could look out.

Our room was on an upper floor of an establishment that faced what appeared to be a main street. Above was a flat, black, starless sky. Below, the gas lamps shone fuzzily upon cobblestones still wet with rain. There were shops across the way, their plate-glass windows glinting. Most nights the street was probably empty at this hour, but not tonight. Half a dozen hansom cabs, their lanterns dangling beside the coachman's boxes, stood in front of the hotel, and two wagons were stopped farther down, in front of what looked like a third-rate boardinghouse.

I let the curtains swing back in place.

In the lamplight, I caught sight of my hands. If they hadn't been at the end of my own arms, I wouldn't have recognized them, blotched as they were with grime, and with crescents of more dirt—or something else—under my nails. I looked down at my clothes and saw smears of mud, or blood, around the hem of my dress. Where was my traveling cloak? My eyes swept the room. Someone—I wondered whom—had taken it off me and hung it over the single wooden chair. I drew my skirts back to see my feet in their stockings, which still looked fairly intact. Where were my boots? Carefully, I crouched down to look under the chair. Someone had placed them neatly next to each other; I pulled them out and laced them on.

A mirror with blackened corners hung on the wall above the washstand. My skin was filthy as a coal man's, and the left side of my face was splotched with dried blood. I picked up the pitcher on the washstand and felt the slosh of water. I sniffed to be sure it wasn't foul, then wet a bit of flannel that had been left for a towel and wiped at my face, being careful of my bandage and my jaw, which was bruised and slightly swollen. I combed my hair through with my fingers and twisted it back into a braid, studying my reflection in the mirror. Better—though my eyes, usually blue, looked as black as if I'd been taking Mama's laudanum.

After a quick glance to be sure Mama was still asleep, I slipped out the door and closed it behind me. The hallway was just wide enough for two people to pass and lit only by candles and sconces. The walls were painted an ugly green, with trim that had once probably been white. There were eight or ten doors, mostly open, and I watched a maid go from one room to the next delivering towels. I shrank back against the wall to be out of the way of another maid who was carrying an armful of blankets. Behind her shuffled yet another, her face sour as turned milk. She was bearing a tray with three bowls of broth.

“Excuse me.” I stopped her. “Is the doctor here?”

She jerked her head toward the stairs at the end of the hall. “ 'E's down in the scull'ry, tendin' to those poor souls,” she replied shortly. Her eyes went to my forehead. “What d'you be needin' with 'im? 'E's already seen to
you
.”

I bristled. “I was merely asking.”

She shot a disparaging look at my silk skirts. “Lady like yerself best be staying in yer bed. Pale as a ghost ye are.” She turned away, muttering, “ 'Allways be crowded enough without people wanderin' 'bout bloody worse 'n useless.”

I felt the sting of annoyance as I watched her disappear into one of the rooms. I wasn't bloody worse than useless when it came to wounds. But never mind.

I took the back staircase down to the first floor, where a narrow passage led toward the center hallway and the front door. To the right was another staircase, presumably leading down to the kitchen; from the left came the murmur of voices. I followed the sound down the hall and peered into a large dining room full of people who seemed able-bodied but were clearly taking refuge from the accident. On the opposite side of the hallway was a narrow room that was dark and empty; at the front of the hotel was a more spacious parlor whose windows looked out onto the street.

I returned to the back stairs and descended. The smells of cheap tallow candles, burnt pastry, and boiled onions rose to meet me, along with the scents of singed oil and scorched metal, and as I reached the bottom I realized why. On the floor of the passageway were nearly a dozen injured men and women. Some were sitting up; others were sprawled flat; many had makeshift bandages around their limbs; most appeared to be in pain, although no one made much noise. At the end of the passage were two doors, both closed. No doubt one led to the scullery and the other to the kitchen. I stepped carefully so as not to kick anyone, but when I reached the doors, I paused, suddenly uncertain.

The maid was right. Lady Elizabeth Fraser, only daughter of Lady Margaret Fraser, The Dowager Countess of Kellham, probably belonged back in her room. Except as I stood there, my fingertips feeling the rough grain of the wood under the paint, I had the strangest feeling, and, though unfamiliar, it wasn't wholly unpleasant. Tonight, at this hotel, I was just another injured passenger. I turned to look at the people in the hallway. No one was paying the least bit of attention to me. Indeed, no one here even knew me but my mother, and she was fast asleep. For once in my life, I could behave as I chose.

I pushed gently at the door until the crack was wide enough that I could look in. As I suspected, this was the scullery half of a large split kitchen. Two broad windows near the ceiling would have let in the sunlight had it been day, but now the room was illuminated only by a few lamps whose sallow light caught the metallic shine of cookware on a rack overhead and left the corners in shadow. The tin clock above the twin sinks told that it was nearly one in the morning. The stove was still lit, with a copper pot on the cooking surface, and the air was warm and damp. A young maid was filling a second pot at the sink. Through vents that led to the room next door came the voices of several maids and the clatter of dishes being put on trays.

I pushed the door open a bit farther. Now I could see that more injured people were lying on the stone floor, towels under their heads like makeshift pillows. Some of them were groaning, others were silent. The maid turned toward me, her eyes large and frightened.

In the middle of the room stood a large wooden table much like the one we had at home, where our scullery maids piled the dishes for washing and stacked the clean ones to be put away. Tonight, this table had become a place to lay the patients.

The doctor from the field was bent over the table, stitching an ugly gash in a man's shoulder by the light of a lantern. He was wholly absorbed in the task, and I remained very still, not wanting to distract him. He'd stripped to his white shirt, undone his collar, and rolled the sleeves above his elbows to work. His hands moved skillfully over the wound, the muscles in his forearm shifting under his skin, his fingers making tiny repetitive movements, the silver needle catching bits of light.

The patient was a large man, with a thick mane of dark hair and a cruel cut across his forehead in addition to the one across his shoulder. He groaned and muttered a few words in French. The doctor murmured,
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, vous allez être bien,”
groped for the cone that had slipped sideways off the man's nose, and replaced it. Then he picked up the lantern, held it near the shoulder for a moment, put it down, made a few more stitches, and then picked up the lamp once more to study the gash.

The cone on the patient's nose began to slip sideways again.

He'd told the man,
Allez être bien.
But everything didn't look fine to me.

I pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside, my hand already reaching to replace the cone. “May I help you?”

He glanced up, and it took a moment before he recognized me. He bent over the man's bloody shoulder again. “Are you prone to fainting?” His voice was pleasant, but dubious.

A fair question, considering that the last time he saw me I'd fallen unconscious at his feet. But I'd helped our groom Martin stitch up our horses many times—and Athena had gashes worse than this when she came to us.

“Not usually, no,” I said evenly.

Without looking up, he said, “Good. Can you hold the light here, and keep the chloroform on?”

I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the lantern and carefully adjusted the cone. I watched his hands; even Martin's fingers didn't move so nimbly with a needle.

“Bring the light this way, please.”

I lifted it so it hung above the wounded man's shoulder.

That's when I saw the patient's face. It was the man who'd helped Mama and me off the train.

I let out a gasp before I could stop myself, and the doctor looked up. “You're all right?”

“I'm fine. It's just—this man—he helped us off the train. And then ran to another carriage. He must have been going to help them too.”

“Yes, well. That's probably why he ended up here.”

I bit my lip and prayed that he'd recover.

Ten or twelve more quick stitches, a knot.

“That's enough chloroform for now. Thank you.”

I removed the cone and watched as he twirled the needle and thread into a small efficient loop like he'd done after stitching my wound. He barely glanced in my direction as he handed me a square of cloth. “Can you hold this to his head while I check his leg?”

I did as he directed.

Together, we worked through the long night.

The pale gray light of dawn was filtering through the scullery windows by the time we'd finished. The clock had chimed half past five, and the doctor had stitched nearly two dozen wounds and set three bones, tying them up with bandages ripped from the hotel's white sheets. The proprietress, Mrs. Mowbray, had called to us through the closed door to offer them, but she had not brought them in herself. Instead, she sent a maid, who entered with her eyes screwed tight. She thrust the linens at me and left again before I could thank her. Despite the wretchedness of the situation, I'd almost smiled. The maid from upstairs wasn't the only one who couldn't bear the sight of blood.

The doctor sighed and arched his back, rolling his head from side to side. My back and shoulders ached too, but there was also a feeling of satisfaction; every patient had been cared for and removed to a bed upstairs. The room was empty except for the two of us. Even the maid who had been boiling water for us all night had left.

The doctor and I washed our hands with a bit of lye soap from the wooden dish between the two sinks. As he bent over, a chain, with something round and gold—a pendant?—fell out from his shirt collar. He tucked it back inside absently before drying his hands on a towel. Then he stoked the fire in the stove and put some water into a small, clean pot.

“I wonder if there is any coffee,” he said, breaking the silence. But a quick search revealed none, so he made tea instead, while I found two cups and saucers in a cupboard.