A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  “Do you know his first name? Or where he’s from?”

  “I can ask Father, if it’s important.” She looked at me quizzically. “Do you really think that sale has something to do with your accident?”

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I’d like to tell Mr. Flynn about this, so he doesn’t go poking about your family—or anyone’s—more than necessary. I wonder if Mr. Pinsley did promise to sell to the railway and then changed his mind—and how Mr. Hayes paid him for it. Do you think your father would know?”

  She looked troubled. “I suppose I can ask. But—well—do you trust this man Flynn?”

  I understood her apprehension. “He’s not at all like Mr. Poucher. In fact, Mr. Flynn told me he knows him and thinks he’s a rotten newspaperman.” I paused, wanting to be completely truthful. “I’m not saying that I like Mr. Flynn, exactly. He’s pushy and stubborn, but I think he’s ethical.”

  Anne looked thoughtful for a moment. Finally, she said, “I don’t think there’s any harm in telling him about Mr. Pinsley. I’m sure he’d find out anyway. Nothing ever remains private for long. And I can ask Father if he knows anything else about Mr. Hayes.”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  She nodded. “But now—go on with your story. You said your mother started to recover while you were in Travers.”

  I sighed. “She did, so Mr. Wilcox told her we could go, and we brought the carriage home yesterday. Jane came with us, of course, and Mama seemed fine when we arrived last night. But then I did something stupid.”

  “Already?” She teased gently, but her smile faded as she saw my expression.

  “I went for a ride—and while I was gone, my mother asked for me. By the time I returned, she was frantic. Now she’s stopped speaking again, and James has sent for Mr. Wilcox, and”—I took a deep breath—“he may be coming here.”

  She looked at me oddly. “Don’t you want him to come?”

  I felt the blood rising to my cheeks. “I don’t know. I mean, of course I want him to help Mama—but—”

  “Why, Elizabeth, surely you don’t fancy him.”

  My expression must have told her what I couldn’t bring myself to say, for her eyes widened with astonishment. “A medical man? But you barely know him!”

  “That’s not true! At least, I know his character, as well as I know anyone’s.” She looked wholly disbelieving, and I tried to find the words to explain. “I’ve thought about this a good deal, Anne, and it’s not as surprising as it sounds. It’s partly because of the kind of person he is, and partly because the situation was so extraordinary. We didn’t come to know each other in the usual ways—introductions and parties and all. The first night, with the patients, there was simply no room for self-consciousness or shyness. And then, because he was treating Mama, I had to explain about her nervousness and the laudanum. And all sorts of other things came out as well.” My voice softened. “I told him things I’ve never told anyone before except you.”

  I could see Anne struggling to conceal her misgivings. “But what do you know about him, exactly?”

  “Well, I know what I saw for myself,” I said. “He’s clever and kind, and he works until he’s on the verge of dropping to help his patients. His mother’s father was a French lace manufacturer, which is why he speaks the language fluently, and his father was Scottish, which is why he has a trace of an accent. He went to university for a few years, but after his uncle died, he could no longer afford it, so he’s made his own way with the help of a doctor named Erichsen who became his mentor in Edinburgh. He wears his great-great-grandfather’s ring on a chain around his neck, and he jokes about how the man was a privateer, and it was only his grandfather who became a respectable merchant afterward—”

  “My goodness,” she interrupted, her voice soft and faintly amused. “That’s more than I know about some members of my own family.” Then she sobered. “But—Elizabeth—doesn’t it strike you as presumptuous, that he’d be so at ease with you? I understand the first night—given the necessity—but afterward? Surely he felt the difference in your stations.”

  “He didn’t know,” I said reluctantly. “Not until he returned from London after the hearing.”

  She gaped at me. “You didn’t tell him who you were?”

  “Oh, I told him my name, of course! But not my title.”

  “And how did he feel when he found out?”

  I just looked at her.

  “Well, what did you expect?” she asked, shaking her head. “He probably felt horribly deceived. Why on earth did you wait so long?”

  “I don’t know.” I groaned. “That first night, we didn’t even have a chance to introduce ourselves until after we’d finished with the patients. And then…”

  Her face became understanding. “You didn’t tell him because you knew he would feel the difference in your stations.”

  I nodded miserably. “And now he’s coming to see Mama, and—and it’s going to be terrible.”

  She clasped my hand, the warm pressure comforting me. “Do you want to stay out of his way?”

  “Yes,” I said immediately. “And no.”

  She gave a small laugh. “It sounds quite desperate.”

  I laughed too, a bit drearily. “So that’s my story. Now tell me about Scotland. And how are things at home?”

  The humor faded from her face, and she sighed. “Scotland was lovely, but I’m worried about Philip.”

  “Are he and your father still quarreling?”

  “Well, yes. But it’s more than that now.” Her expression became pained. “Elizabeth, Felix Benedict was on that train.”

  I felt my breath catch. “My train?”

  Anne nodded, and her voice was soft. “And he’s dead.”

  My mouth went dry, and the words came out a whisper: “Oh, Anne.”

  Aside from her, I alone knew the true story of Philip’s relationship with Felix Benedict, because Anne was Philip’s sole confidante, and I was hers. It was somewhat more complicated than the version I’d given Mr. Flynn.

  I’d met Felix myself at the Reynolds’s several years ago and seen him in society a few times since then. He and Philip had met at Oxford; Felix had traveled abroad beforehand and was three years older, a darker and more dangerous personality, clever but uninterested in study, and not particularly well regarded by his teachers. Beginning two years into their friendship, Felix would disappear for days at a time, after which he’d return to Oxford and take to his bed. Philip would bring him his meals and help him to make up his class work. Eventually it became clear to Philip that his friend wasn’t just disappearing to gamble or play billiards; Felix began to look ill and to spend more and more time alone, becoming surly when Philip tried to draw him out.

  Then, one night, after Felix had been gone for four days, word came to Philip that his friend was at one of the more notorious opium dens in London, a place famed for permitting buggery. Philip went to fetch him back to Oxford immediately, and there it might have ended, except that the Metropolitan Police had chosen that night, of all nights, to raid the place, with Mr. Poucher from the London Courier in tow. Finding both Philip and Felix within, he made his own assumptions and published them forthwith, mentioning Philip by name but—as a result of a sum of money dealt out hastily from Felix’s wealthy and indulgent mother—not Felix. After that, whether out of embarrassment or self-loathing, Felix had told Philip that he never wanted to see him again. Devastated by his friend’s betrayal and humiliated by the rumors he could not refute, Philip had abandoned his studies and cloistered himself at Reynolds Hall, remaining in his bedroom with his books and bottles of spirits.

  Upon publication of the story, Lord Reynolds had wanted to expose Felix and assert the truth publicly, but Philip had flatly refused. For weeks after the Courier article was published, their home was thick with seething, bitter silences broken only by shouting fights that forced Anne’s mother to take to her bed and caused Anne and her younger brother Francis to flee
to Venwell, their estate in Scotland.

  Anne was tracing the embroidered patterns on the arm of her chair. “Did you see Felix at Lady Lorry’s ball? He was there.”

  “Not that I remember, but he might have been in one of the card rooms.” I thought back to the morning at the railway station. “I didn’t see him on the railway platform either.” I frowned. “I wonder why Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t mention him. When I wrote to her the morning after the accident, I asked if anyone we knew had been killed. Even if she didn’t know him personally, I would think she’d have heard the news from someone at your house.”

  “Except that Felix was probably still alive when she wrote to you. He survived the accident.”

  “He did? So he must have been taken to Travers. I wonder where he stayed.”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t in Travers. He died at home, in London.”

  I winced, imagining Philip’s anguish when he heard. “How did Philip find out? It wasn’t in the papers, was it?”

  Her brown eyes grew dark with unhappiness. “No. My father heard the news from someone. As you can imagine, he took a horrid sort of pleasure in telling Philip. He said it was a triumph of God’s justice, a case of Felix getting exactly what he deserved.”

  I gave a small groan.

  “I know.” She closed her eyes, put her fingers to her temples, and rubbed gently. “I had no idea of any of this—I hadn’t even heard of Felix’s death—until I arrived home last night. Mary told me all of it before dinner, while she was helping me dress.”

  “Oh, Anne.” I sighed. “How is Philip now?”

  She dropped her hands into her lap and met my gaze. “Just what you’d imagine. He was wretched after that Courier business, but this is infinitely worse.”

  “Because now there’s no possibility he and Felix can ever be reconciled,” I said slowly.

  She nodded. “Last night after dinner, I went to his room to see him. He isn’t eating—or even sleeping. All he’s doing is drinking Scotch. He was curled up on his bed, and he wouldn’t move. The only thing he said was that I should leave him alone.” Her voice was choked. “I can’t help thinking this is what Father wanted to happen, when he told him.”

  The pain in her face made me long to offer a less brutal possibility. “Maybe your father thought that news of Felix’s death would—at least eventually—convince Philip to get on with his life.”

  She shook her head, her expression bleak. “I don’t think so. Father loathes him. This morning, I went past Philip’s room on my way downstairs. I could hear Father inside, shouting that it was my first morning home, that he’d given Philip enough time to mope about, and that Philip had to come to breakfast. That it was his duty as the first son to act like a grown man instead of a spoiled child. Philip must have said no—I couldn’t hear him—and that’s when Father said he wished Philip had never been born. That the only thing he’d ever contributed to the family was heartache.” Her eyes were wet. “Then Philip screamed at him that he hadn’t asked to be born, and if he had, he’d never choose to be a first son in a family like ours. He said that his life wasn’t worth living, and if my father were to kill him, it would be the only kind thing my father had ever done.”

  My heart went out to her, but I couldn’t say a word.

  “I know it sounds like something out of one of those horrible melodramas at the Adelphi,” she continued, tears falling onto her cheeks. “But it’s my family, Elizabeth. And I’m so frightened. I truly think Philip doesn’t care what happens to himself. He could vanish, or do something reckless, and I might very well never see him again.”

  “What if you could get him away? What if you were to take him to Scotland?” I asked. “At least it would be a change of scene. It’s certainly been good for you.”

  “Maybe.” She sighed. “If I could get Philip away from my father and out of doors….”

  We sat together in silence for several minutes, and finally she gave a wan smile. “If there’s one thing I learned while I was gone, it’s that we all get so caught up in the lives we’ve led thus far that we can’t imagine anything else for ourselves. But the truth is that the world is large enough to get away—even for people like us. From the minute I arrived at Venwell, I felt free. Free to walk about the village, or sit on top of a hill and paint for hours, and no one paid me any mind. Francis and I didn’t hear a word about London, or the scandal, or the stupid Courier the entire time.”

  With a jolt, I realized I knew what she meant; it was how I’d felt in Travers. “It’s a relief, isn’t it?”

  “Francis is staying a few more weeks. He says it’s for the shooting, but he’d probably remain there indefinitely.” She shrugged. “I can hardly blame him for not wanting to come home. I’d have stayed myself, if it weren’t for you.”

  “Thank you for coming back early,” I said.

  The clock struck half-past.

  She glanced toward the mantel, gave my hand a squeeze, and released it. “I should go. Mother will be looking for me.”

  I walked her to the front door. “I’ll come see you tomorrow, so long as Mama’s not worse.”

  She shook her head. “Better not tomorrow. I’m going to talk to Philip, try to get him to come outside for a walk. And Monday, the doctor’s seeing Mother about her headaches. But come the day after, as early as you’d like.”

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, the village church bells were chiming for early services when James himself drove to fetch Mr. Wilcox from the station.

  I waited on the second-story window seat that looked out over the porte-cochere, my heart jumping and my stomach knotting at every noise that could be the wheels of the covered fly on the gravel.

  At last I saw it, rounding the thick growth of elms by the far gate. Duchess and Barnaby were trotting, and they stopped in front of the portico. James jumped out first, then Mr. Wilcox. He didn’t look up.

  My stomach clenched anew. What sort of person draws up to a house such as this without even glancing up? But I knew the answer to that question: the sort of person who guessed I’d be watching from a window and wanted to put off seeing me as long as possible—perhaps even avoid me altogether.

  But that wasn’t going to do for me.

  I went swiftly to my mother’s room to tell my aunt and Jane that James and the doctor were on their way up. Then I found a place in the corner, next to my mother’s wooden curio cabinet, so that I would be out of the way.

  Paul came in a few moments later, alone, dressed in his usual coat—it looked shabbier than I remembered, here in this elegant bedroom—and carrying his familiar black bag.

  Although I was in shadow, standing perfectly still, his eyes found me immediately and then darted away. After that he focused his entire attention on my mother, examining her exactly the way he had done in Travers. When he was finished, he gave Jane a small vial, his instructions spoken too quietly for me to catch. Then he turned for the door. I pushed away from the cabinet and, uninvited, followed my aunt and Paul down to the parlor. They took seats facing each other on the two couches; I hesitated, unsure where I should settle myself. In the end, I perched on the edge of the closest chair.

  “Thank you for coming,” my aunt said to Paul. “We wouldn’t have called except that her condition changed so dramatically from what it was Friday night. When she arrived here, she seemed almost her usual self.”

  “She was well on the way to recovery when she left Travers,” Paul said. “I’m still not clear what brought on this change. Your son told me that she woke up terrified yesterday morning but that most of what she said was incoherent.”

  My aunt glanced at me, her mouth tight and disapproving. “My first thought was that she was frightened because my niece had gone out riding. Since my brother died, we keep all mention of horses from her. All of the servants know, but there is a new upstairs maid, and I thought she might have let something slip. However, Jane suggested this morning that Lady Fraser might have been thinking of her husban
d.”

  I stared. That hadn’t even occurred to me.

  My aunt leaned toward Mr. Wilcox confidingly. “The anniversary of his death is only a week from now, and it was a rainy day, like yesterday was. His horse slipped in the mud and threw him.”

  “Mama asked if I’d seen anyone,” I added, “and if ‘he’ was on his way here. She was very insistent. Perhaps she was referring to Father. But it’s strange she’d be so confused as to think he was alive.”

  Paul looked at me for the first time. “Did she seem to recognize you?”

  I hesitated, remembering the expression on my mother’s face. “I don’t know. Her eyes were on me, but it almost seemed as if she were looking through me.”

  Paul nodded. “This isn’t uncommon. In the aftermath of railway accidents, sometimes a patient’s mind will combine experiences from the distant past and recent present when they have common elements—particularly frightening ones. Then, given this distorted frame of mind, other experiences can take on additional meanings.”

  My aunt looked skeptical, but I thought I understood.

  “So a railway accident and a riding accident, near the same time of year, both in the rain….,” I began.

  “Can turn an event which is quite ordinary—such as you leaving for an hour or two—into something terrifying,” Paul finished.

  Agnes appeared at the door and nodded to my aunt. “Beg pardon, mum. A telegram is just come from Mr. Isslin. The man’s to wait for a reply, he said, to send back to London.”

  No doubt my uncle wanted to know how my mother was.

  My aunt rose. “Please excuse me.”

  She’d never have left the room if she knew how desperately I wanted her to. But once Paul and I were alone, I felt the weight of all I wished to say and, in consequence, could utter none of it. The silence was becoming oppressive—but then he broke it:

  “I want to ask you something.”

  I readied myself. “All right.”

  “On the way here, your cousin told me a bit about your father’s accident. Were you at home that day?”