A Lady in the Smoke (34 page)

“Elizabeth? Are you in here?”

James's silhouette appeared in the doorway. After dinner, I'd come to the library to be alone, and I'd left the lamps unlit. The embers were burning low in the fireplace, shedding a shallow light that came nowhere near the corner where I sat. But after all he'd done, James certainly deserved better than me hiding from him.

I drew my shawl close about me and came out from the shadows. “Here I am.”

We met in front of the hearth. “I didn't mean to disturb you,” he said. “But I'm taking the evening express from Bonwell, and I wanted to see you before I left.” He gazed around the room, a wistful expression on his face as he scanned the bookshelves. “I spent a lot of time in here when we were young. While you and Anthony were out of doors, running around and getting into scrapes.”

“Yes.” I gave a small laugh. “You loved your books.”

“Well, it's not as though I'd have been welcome with the two of you. I was too serious.” He forced a smile. “No doubt you thought I was patronizing back then too.”

“Oh, James.” I reached out and touched his arm. “The other night when we were on the train, I was angry—and defensive—and—well—”

“I
can
be patronizing,” he broke in.

I had to smile. “Yes, you can. But you are also honest and clever and resourceful and ethical.” I paused. “I want to thank you again, for everything you did for Mr. Wilcox. He never would have been acquitted if he'd had someone less capable to represent him.”

His shoulders shifted. “He might have. The truth has a way of coming out more often than not. But he's going to have a hard time regaining his footing, even with the acquittal, and he knows it.”

“There may still be a chance,” I said.

“Yes. I know Flynn's hoping that if he can prove that this trial was just a means to silence Wilcox, it will help.” He dropped his hands into his pockets. “The laudanum business—” He stopped abruptly, gave me a sharp look. “Did you know about it?”

I winced. It was yet another thing I'd withheld from him.

“So you did,” he said with a sigh. “Well, Wilcox had told me too, so at least it wasn't a surprise when Morris brought it up.”

“He told me—that is, it was in the context of—of something else,” I floundered. “I would have told you if I'd had any idea it would come up in the trial. Truly, I would.”

He nodded absently, and his eyes dropped to the carpet between us.

An awkward silence fell, and belatedly it dawned on me that he seemed ill at ease. In fact, his manner was almost painfully constrained.

“Elizabeth.” He looked up at me at last, and his voice was resolute. “I know that you care for Wilcox. But as you said yourself in the courtroom, you can't marry him.”

That hadn't been quite what I said, but I nodded anyway.

“And I—well—” He flinched, and then the words came out with a rush. “I know it's been a wretched few weeks for you, and the matter of the railway is still unresolved. But I have to go up to Manchester for the rest of the month, and before I leave, I have to tell you—that is, I
want
to tell you—that I've grown very fond of you. Beyond the affection of cousins.”

I could only stare at him, my mind struggling to take in his meaning.

“Indeed, I don't even know how it came about,” he continued. “But the day I heard you were in the railway disaster—that you'd been on a train you were never supposed to have taken, and that people had
died
—I realized how very unhappy I'd be if something happened to you.” He stepped forward, touching my elbow with tentative fingers. “And I didn't want to leave tonight without telling you, so that you'd have time to consider whether, when I come back, you might accept a proposal from me.”

He dropped his hand away and waited for my reply.

But I couldn't speak. My mind was jolting over the weeks since the accident, reinterpreting his words and actions: his train ride to Travers to check on me; his willingness to talk with Mr. Turleigh on my behalf; the pleasure on his face when I'd asked if I could help with the case; the pain in his voice when he asked whether I was in love with Mr. Flynn; his grim certainty when he confronted me about my feelings for Paul.

“You're looking quite stunned,” he said.

My eyes jerked to his face. “James, I'm afraid I didn't anticipate this at all. Perhaps I should have, but—”

He took my right hand from where it clutched my shawl and closed his warm fingers over mine. “It's unexpected, I know. But although this idea of me as a suitor is new, your knowledge of my character is not. Besides, don't you see? This would take care of everything. Your mother would be pleased; so would mine. And you needn't worry about your dowry or railway stocks or any of it anymore. I'd be glad to have you with nothing at all. I've plenty for both of us. We could spend some of our time in London, and some here.” An odd smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Athena could come with us, of course, and you could visit Anne whenever you liked.”

I looked down at my hand, where it lay limply in his. He was right: marrying him would take care of everything—if only I could find it in me to love him that way. Thinking of all he'd done for me the past few weeks, and knowing how patient he was being with me right now, I wondered if perhaps I could convince myself.

I closed my eyes and was back in a second to the sitting room at the Travers Inn, with Paul's face before me.

A genuine shock of panic kicked through me, and my eyes flew open.

Gently, I withdrew my hand from his. “James, I will certainly think about all you've said. But—I can't promise more than that. At the moment, I don't know how I feel about anything.”

Disappointment dropped like a curtain over his face. But he made an effort to smile. “I understand.”

I swallowed. “Have you said anything about this to anyone? To your mother?”

He gave a faint shrug. “My mother knows about my feelings for you, yes.” I must have looked troubled, for he added, “But I made her promise not to say anything to you, and not to try to influence you in any way.”

But how could she not? He was her son, and she wanted him happy.

“I should go. The trains are back to running almost on time now, so I can't be late.” He held me by the shoulders and bent toward me, kissing my forehead. “Take care of yourself, my dear. Get some rest.”

I had turned it over and over in my head, and the one person I felt I could ask about my father's death was Martin.

The next morning, I went looking for him at the barn, but Timothy told me he'd gone to town to see about some new harnesses and wouldn't be back until at least two o'clock. So after luncheon, I set out to find him again. He wasn't in the barn or in the near paddock, so I walked out to the far one where Athena was always put out to graze until sunset. As I came down the path, I saw them both: Athena, with her nose deep in the grass; and Martin, who appeared to be replacing a hasp on the gate.

I felt a wave of affection for this man who, in his unobtrusive way, always seemed to be mending something. It had been he who had tried to save my father; he who had patiently nursed all of our horses through their various wounds and illnesses; he whose sturdy kindness had comforted me when, as a child, I'd sought solace in the barn.

He nodded as I approached. “M'lady.”

I made my voice more cheerful than I felt. “Hello, Martin. Is something wrong with the fence?”

“Just fixing this latch.” He drew two loose nails out of the wood, then took two larger nails from his pocket and hammered them into place. “That should do.” He gestured toward Athena, who still had her nose buried deep in the grass. “Time was, the sound of a hammer would've set her running. Come a long way from that, ha'n't she?”

I smiled. “She's lovely. Plenty of thanks to you.”

He grunted noncommittally and balanced his tools on the middle rail. For several minutes we stood together watching Athena.

Finally, I broke the silence. “Martin, I have something I need to ask you.”

“Yes, m'lady. I've been expecting you might.”

Surprised, I turned to face him. “Why do you say that?”

His eyes were still on Athena. “Sally told me you'd been asking about your father, and I figured it warn't long 'afore you come to ask me about it too.”

“Oh.” I rested my forearms on the fence. “Well, it's not only because of what Sally told me, I'm afraid.” I took a deep breath. “I saw Lord Shaw at the courthouse after the trial. We only spoke for a few minutes, but he was very unpleasant. Frightening, even. And he said something that I can't get out of my mind. He said that we are all victims of fraud and betrayals at some point in our lives. But sometimes the world deals out justice more fairly than the courts do.” I saw a faint tightening around Martin's mouth. “I think he was talking about my father's death,” I added quietly. “He still hates him.”

“Aye. He would.”

“Martin, what did you see the day my father died?”

He rubbed a rough hand over his face before answering. “No one else knows this. Not even Sally.”

“And you don't want me to tell her.”

“Nae. We tell each other most everything, but I don't want anyone else knowing this, m'lady.” His eyes met mine. “So far as I see it, no one has a right to know but you.”

My mouth went dry. “I won't tell anyone. I promise.”

He leaned over, plucked a long spear of grass, and began to knot it. He always spoke slowly, but I could tell he was choosing his words with especial care. “D'you know where I found your father that day?”

“No.” I thought back. “In fact, I don't remember anyone saying. I always assumed he was on one of the trails beyond the river.”

“Aye, that's where he liked to ride mostly. But that day he was riding in the back acres.” A flush came into his cheek, and he kept his eyes on the knots he was making. “The part nearest Lord Shaw's property.”

So he knew about my father's infidelity.

“You think Father was on his way to see Lady Shaw,” I said steadily.

He made a rough sound in the back of his throat that approximated a dissent. “ 'Twas a rainy day, and hoofprints in the mud showed he was comin' home.” His fingers turned the grass into a neat loop. “Except might be he didn't only see Lady Shaw that afternoon. Might be he saw Lord Shaw, who'd come back from Scotland three days earlier than he was s'posed to.” He met my gaze, his expression pained. “You know your father was one of the best riders in this part of England. He could stick a horse flying over the moon. He'd never just fall off a horse he owned, going over land he knew—not unless something mighty unusual happened.”

Hesitantly, I spoke the words he seemed unwilling to utter: “You don't think it was an accident, do you? You think Lord Shaw came back early and found them together, and he—he”—I choked on the word—“killed Father on his way home.”

I half-expected Martin to deny it, or hedge, or scoff at me for being melodramatic. He did none of those things. He merely shook his head unhappily. “Mind ye, there's nowt to say for absolute sartin, and there's no way to prove it, leastwise anymore.”

My trembling fingers picked at a splinter on the fence. “What do you mean,
anymore
?”

With a sigh, he flung aside the piece of grass and turned to face me. “Jupiter'd come back to the stables on his own that afternoon, all in a lather, and with a bad gash on his left fore. Soon as I saw him, I got Timothy, and we went out looking for your father. When we finally found him, I didn't look around, being that all I cared about was getting him home as quick as I could. But later, I went back because it didn't seem right, your father fallin' off a horse—'specially Jupiter, who was sure-footed as they come in the mud.”

“I remember,” I said. “That's why Father liked him so much for hunting. He never rode any other horse if it might rain.”

He nodded. “Then I got to thinking. The doctor said it looked there was a bit of tree bark in your father's hair where the cut was. 'Cept there warn't a tree where I found him—leastwise not near enough for Jupiter to have throwed him into, or for him to hit his head on. So I went back and looked careful-like at the ground, thinking maybe I'd find a branch lyin' there. I didn't find a branch. But there were hoofprints. From a horse heavier than Jupiter.”

My breath caught.

“Now, I could see how, if your father fell off, Jupiter might get spooked and come home in a lather like he did. Mebbe he'd even cut himself on something. But seeing those other hoof-prints in the dirt made me wonder. So I went back to the barn and took a better look at the cut on Jupiter's left fore. It had been made by something sharp. Could've been a horseshoe. And then I heard from the groom over at Shadwell Manor that Lord Shaw's stallion came back that afternoon with a cut like this”—he curved the fingers of his left hand into the shape of a
C
—“on his withers.”

A new picture flashed into my head then—of two horses whirling on each other—Lord Shaw confronting my father—wielding a branch hastily snatched from somewhere between the house and the field—

I felt cold prickles over my entire body. All of me recoiled at the thought of it—

For whether it had been a blow struck in the heat of the moment or something even more calculated, if Martin was right, Lord Shaw had killed my father and concealed his role in his death. My heart was beating with hard, heavy thuds. It was almost too much for me to take in, and Martin must have known, for he let me be for a long time. Finally, I looked up at him. His face was furrowed with sorrow.

“M'lady, I'm not telling you this to cause you more heartache, god knows. And there's no way to say for sartin that Lord Shaw went out there,
meaning
to kill him. But Lady Fraser—your mother—”

My hand clutched at his arm. “My god, she knew? That Lord Shaw had killed Father?”

“More than that,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.

I could only stare.

“What could've brung Lord Shaw back from Scotland three days early, m'lady?”

Bewildered, I cast about for a reasonable answer. “Well—maybe—something to attend to, I imagine.”

“What about a letter,” he said. “Mebbe from someone who knew how your father was carryin' on.”

There could be only one reason for the pity I found in his gaze.

“My mother.” It came out in a whisper.

He nodded. “Old Mr. Roberts don't collect so many letters that he can't remember who sent what. He saw a letter from Kellham Park marked to Lord Shaw in Scotland. He took 'special note of it, he told me, because the address was writ so ill, he had to study it to figure where to send it.”

My fingers wrapped around the rough wood of the rail.

So Mama sent a letter to Lord Shaw, and he came back early. Had she hoped that Lord Shaw would confront my father and shame him into behaving properly? Or shame his wife into abandoning my father? Or—

Or had her hope been for exactly what happened?

I let out a low cry and dropped my forehead onto the backs of my hands.

“Nae,” Martin said, his soft voice drawing out the syllable. “I doubt she could'a seen what might come from her sending it. I think she was just a young missus, trying to change summat, the only way she knew how. She wanted your father away from that woman and back in his own house. That's all.”

I felt Athena's warm breath on my ear. Startled, I raised my head, and she lipped at my hand for a treat.

“Sorry,” I whispered, showing her my empty hands.

Disgruntled, Athena nudged at Martin's shirtfront, and he pulled a bit of apple out of his pocket. She crunched it up, and his large hand stroked her nose absently. “I know Lady Fraser had her share o' troubles when she was young. But the trouble she brung about on her own, that's a worse sort to bear. To have that letter on her conscience, to know what happened because she sent it, and to keep it a secret from every other living soul…” He was quiet for a moment, and I heard Athena snorting. “I'm thinking, if she's been troubled since your father died—well, it has nowt to do with you.”

A heavy silence fell between us. At last he asked, “M'lady, was I wrong to tell you?”

Sally had asked me the same question. I saw Martin's worried face and realized that I had to reassure him. I'd come out here looking for the truth, and he'd given me what I'd asked for. “No, Martin. I needed to know.”

“It's a hard thing, telling something like that,” he said. “Like a bell once rung, it cain't be undone. But I kept comin' back to thinking you're not a child anymore, like when it first happened. You've a right to know the truth.”

I managed a nod. “Thank you. Now I just need some time to think about it.”

“Aye.” He opened his mouth as if to say something else and shut it again. With his face full of sympathy, he gave my arm a clumsy pat, gathered up his tools, and left.

My thoughts were catching on fragments of memories, like a leaf snagged on one rock and then another in a stream.

What had my mother said that first morning we were home, when I had come in from riding Athena?
“I sent for him—oh, god—I sent for him—you need to find him—warn him—”

I finally understood. They'd been two different men—one she had sent for and one she wanted to warn.

My poor mama.

I uncurled my palms from the rail, and my fingers tingled painfully as the blood returned to them. The sun was beginning to drop behind the trees, and I shivered.

But it was not only the air that chilled me. The initial shock had worn off, and I was beginning to think about what I'd learned and what it meant, not only for the past but for the present. Lord Shaw was a deceitful man, certainly, and embittered; but he was a dangerous one too, capable of murder when he felt thwarted and angry.

And what had the trial done but made him feel that all over again?

Mr. Flynn and I had been thinking all along that Hayes was the unscrupulous mastermind behind the railway scheme—that it was
he
who'd had no compunction about having Mr. Palmer thrown from a train and Mr. Griffin killed and Mr. Flynn threatened. But what if Lord Shaw was complicit—or even the instigator?

Hayes might be in custody for questioning, but Lord Shaw was not, and surely he suspected that Mr. Flynn was close to uncovering the railway scheme. Infuriated as he was by the outcome of the trial, he might have no qualms about ordering him killed. Just as he'd had no qualms about seeing Paul imprisoned for manslaughter.

It was Wednesday afternoon; the Parliamentary meeting was on Friday morning; if anything were to happen, it would be in the next thirty-six hours.

I needed to get word to Mr. Flynn tonight.

I pushed myself away from the fence with a suddenness that made Athena jump. Picking up my skirts, I ran for the stables. Martin wasn't there, but Timothy was, mucking out one of the stalls.

“Timothy, I need a telegram sent,” I said breathlessly. “I know you have chores, but can you go?”

He looked at me in surprise, his two hands on the pitchfork. “Of course, m'lady. Should I finish here first?”

“No, it's important. I'll explain to Martin why you've left.” I bit my lip. “Do you have paper and pencil?”

He leaned the pitchfork against the wall, went to the table where Martin kept his records, and found both for me. As I thanked him, I could feel him gazing at me curiously. I knew I looked flushed and disheveled. But all he said was, “You write it out, m'lady, while I saddle up.”

My palms were so damp that the pencil slid in my grasp. I wiped my hand on my skirt and marshaled my thoughts to compose a message with a warning that I hoped Mr. Flynn would take seriously. Timothy didn't even glance at what I'd written; he merely folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and left immediately.

Only then did I go back to the house.