A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  A second fire had sprung from a carriage in the rear, and all up and down the train, people still clambered and crawled out of doors and windows, the well-bodied helping the wounded, carrying them out on their backs and on makeshift stretchers. Near the front of the train, a woman jumped from a carriage, her dress in flames, and began to run; a man chased after her, but she raced on, her mouth open in a cry I couldn’t hear. Suddenly I thought of Miss Rush, riding in one of the forward carriages because I’d kept her from joining us.

  Out of the wave of guilt and shame came a desperate prayer that she was all right.

  And then I heard the shrieks of terrified horses, shrill and piercing, sounding so much like my black mare Athena that I had a panicked second before I remembered she was safe at home. I strained my eyes to find the animals amidst the smoke, plunging and struggling against their handlers—but there were none.

  It took a moment for me to realize what was happening.

  The horses were burning alive in the stock cars.

  The thought of them, tortured by the sparks on their skin, pounding the doors with their hooves and screaming in terror, brought hot tears to my eyes.

  I put my fists to my mouth to keep from screaming myself.

  Finally, the water-trucks arrived, the workhorses balking in the traces until the drivers used their whips to drive them toward the burning wreck. Men in shirtsleeves pumped furiously while others directed hoses toward the worst of the blaze until at last the flames began to subside.

  All around us people crowded, sitting in the dirt or on a few scattered rocks: old men and young, the landed gentry side by side with peasants, foreigners beside English folk, well-dressed ladies next to women in ragged shawls. The disaster made no distinctions. A low, savage cry made me look up. A man limped by, passing close enough for me to touch, holding a child to his chest as tenderly as if she were asleep and he were carrying her to bed. But her brown hair was singed short—her light blue dress was blackened and in shreds around her thin legs—and her arm—

  I could no longer look or listen. With a sob, I put my head down, clasped my hands over my ears, and shut my eyes tight.

  —

  How long had it been? Two hours, maybe three. It was growing dark. A light rain had fallen briefly, and we were drenched. The burning carriages had become black smoldering ruins against the gray sky, with stubborn bits of fire showing like darts amidst the wreckage. A chilling breeze still gusted across the field. Wagons and carriages had begun to appear, rolling amongst the crowd, making their own paths to retrieve friends and relations. Wheels creaked and scraped over the uneven ground, lanterns swung in yellow arcs, and voices cried out names. But thus far no one had called out for us.

  Our backs to the stone, Mama and I remained seated in the dirt. My head throbbed if I moved it, so I wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my right temple on my forearm. The cut on my head had stopped bleeding, but the left side of my face and neck was sticky with blood. Mama was unconscious, slumped against my shoulder, but she was breathing normally, so I let her be. For once I was glad for laudanum’s soporific effect. It was better that she wasn’t awake for this. I wished I didn’t have to be, and I had never been so cold.

  Then I heard a man’s voice, close to my ear, and felt a warm hand on my shoulder: “Are you all right?” A pause. “Miss, I’m a surgeon. I’d like to help you, if I may.”

  I needed to respond, to move, to say something. But my whole body was achingly stiff.

  “Miss, can you hear me?”

  I lifted my head to see a man kneeling at my side. He looked to be only a few years older than myself. His dark hair was wet from the rain, and there were flecks of mud on his face. His eyes darted to my forehead.

  He bent toward me. “You’ve a nasty cut on your head. May I help you? And is this your mother?” His voice, kind and steady, had a trace of an accent that I couldn’t place. Welsh, maybe. Or Scottish.

  “Miss, can you speak?” he asked insistently.

  “Yes.” It came out like a croak.

  He looked relieved. “Good. Are you hurt anywhere else, besides your head?”

  “No. But I’m not sure about my mother.” My throat felt raw, but I forced the words out: “She fainted.”

  He reached inside his coat and drew out a stethoscope. “Don’t worry. It’s quite usual in railway accidents. She probably just needs to get warm and take some stimulant. There’s a wagon nearby, come to remove people to a hotel at Travers. I’d like to get you both on it.”

  “Travers?” I repeated. “But that’s not on the railway line.”

  “No. You’re just a few miles north of Holmsted. But Travers is the closest town with lodging.”

  His stethoscope was different than the one our old family doctor used; his had only one earpiece whereas this man’s had two. Quickly, he placed one in each ear. With his right hand, he supported Mama’s shoulders, and with the other he applied the round end of the stethoscope to her chest. Deftly his fingers felt for her wrist, his lips moving faintly. His expression revealed neither relief nor anxiety, though I had the impression that he was practiced at keeping his face calm. It was a handsome face, with high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and a full mouth, though his dark hair was too long to be fashionable, and it was clear he’d once broken his nose. The shoulders of his coat were stained dark from the rain, and his trousers were smeared with mud. I wondered how long he’d been out here.

  He tucked the stethoscope back inside his coat. “Have you tried to rouse her?”

  I shook my head. “I think she hurt her leg. I had to drag her most of the way here.”

  “You did a good thing, getting her away from the fire. The smoke can be poisonous.” He moved his hands to her ankles, felt them gently.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She has a bad sprain on her left ankle, but nothing’s broken so far as I can tell.” He looked again at my forehead. “I’d like to take care of that cut for you, so no infection sets in.”

  I reached up for my forehead, but he caught my hand at the wrist.

  “Don’t touch it.”

  I stared, alarmed. “Is it bad?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “A few stitches’ worth.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. It won’t take long. Can you lie back?” He took a towel from his bag and folded it into a rough square. “Put your head here.”

  Watching him uncertainly, I rolled slowly to the ground, resting my head on the towel. But lying flat made me sick again, worse than before, and I turned away from him, retching into the grass. Mortified, I stayed turned away, even when I’d finished.

  “Take this.” Around my shoulder came his hand, proffering a damp handkerchief. “It’s all right. We’ll get you to Travers, and you’ll be fine.”

  I wiped my mouth and lay back, sweating and trembling.

  “I’m going to give you something that will make this easier.” He placed some cotton in a little paper cone and dribbled some clear liquid out of a green bottle. It smelled sweet, and dangerous, like Mama’s laudanum.

  “What is it?” Panicking, I tried to sit up again. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a spirit, called chloroform,” he said patiently. “You breathe it in, and it’ll make you fall into a light sleep. As soon as I’m finished stitching—it should only take a minute or two—I’ll take it away and you’ll wake up. I’ve poured only the smallest dose.”

  He held the cone, waiting, but made no move to force it upon me.

  The idea of letting a stranger put me to sleep should have terrified me. But I looked into his face and saw both compassion and intelligence. And then he gave a smile, brief but reassuring. “Truly, I’m a surgeon, not some madman. If you’d prefer, you can wait ’til you arrive at the hotel. But I’m afraid there won’t be a doctor to help you.” He glanced over the field, taking a measure of the suffering around him. “I expect to be here for a while.”

  I nodded and lay back.

&n
bsp; He placed the cone gently over my nose. “Now breath in and count backward from ten for me,” he said, taking my hand at the wrist.

  The first breath was bitter and sweet at once, and then the smell faded. I closed my eyes obediently. “Ten, nine, eight…”

  And when I woke, his hand was on my wrist, his face close, but blurred. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered and tried to sit up, but my limbs wouldn’t move.

  “Lie still. Your head will clear in a few minutes. Take some deep breaths.”

  The air was cold and stank of oily smoke, but I could also smell the wet earth underneath me, loamy and rich. He was right. With each breath, the fog in my head lifted, my limbs regained feeling, and the world came back into focus. I watched him pack up his bag, stowing his needle in a little case and winding the unused suturing material into a tidy loop. When he finished he turned back to me and smiled. “How are you feeling now?”

  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.

  Chapter 3

  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.