A Lady in the Smoke (14 page)

It was an anxious day.

By tea-time, Mama seemed no worse, but no better. The house was muted, with everyone going about his or her business quietly. I was resting in my room, per my aunt's orders, when Agnes came to tell me that Miss Anne was downstairs in our parlor.

Oh, thank god,
I thought, feeling a wave of gratitude and relief. Two days early and not soon enough.

I hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping in my haste, my heart lifting with each step. As I crossed the threshold, Anne rose from her chair.

Before I could stop myself, my fingers flew to my lips, and I halted in surprise.

Anne had always been small and slender. Not fragile exactly, but delicate. And in the months after the
Courier
story was published, she had become ill with worry, whittled down so cruelly that her collarbones showed beneath her skin and hollows appeared in her cheeks. Her joints had ached so badly that she couldn't hold a paintbrush.

But now? Her face, once thin and sallow, was, if not plump, healthful; her cheeks were pink; and though her expression was worried, her eyes were lustrous and bright.

Her chin went up, and I saw a wry humor in her eyes—and a faint curve to her lip. “Close up your mouth, Lizzie, or you'll get bugs in it.”

“Anne, you look wonderful!” I reached out and embraced her. “I'm so glad to see you—but you weren't due home until Monday!”

She drew back, her hands holding mine, and her eyes darted up to the bit of plaster that still covered my stitches. “I changed my plans as soon as I heard you'd been on the train. You didn't receive my letter in Travers?”

“No, I received nothing at all! Where did you address it?”

“I sent it care of the Polk. It was the only hotel I knew.”

“We were at the Travers Inn, but even if you'd addressed it there, I'm not sure I would have received it. Everything was such a muddle.”

Her face was sympathetic. “I can only imagine.”

I looked down at her bare hands in mine. There were flecks of green and yellow around her nails, and I smiled. She'd been painting again. And she could
paint
. Not like I used to, inept schoolgirl studies, my flowers looking like pale blobs on top of sticks.

I drew her to the couch beside me. “Tell me, how is everyone at home? How is Philip?”

She shook her head. “I want to hear about
you
first. You haven't written a word since you were in London—and your last letter didn't sound very happy.”

“I suppose it didn't.” I sighed. “And London only got worse. Have you heard any of the rumors about us?”

Her mouth twisted. “Well, you know how much credence
I'm
going to give rumors. But yes, Francis had a letter from a friend who'd heard something ridiculous.”

I braced myself. “What was it?”

“That you were privately engaged to someone, but he was thinking of breaking his promise because your fortune was diminished due to some failed investments in America.”

I couldn't help but snort. “I'm not engaged—you'd have been the first to know—and American 31

investments?” I shook my head. “I've no idea where that came from.”

She shrugged dismissively. “I figured as much.”

“But one piece of gossip may be partially correct,” I added more soberly. “It looks like we might be losing at least part of our fortune through some bad investments here in England.”

“Why, Elizabeth! Are you certain?”

I nodded. “I think it has to do with some railway shares that Father acquired before he died.”

“But surely they're not a significant portion of the estate's income,” she objected.

“I'm not certain. Apparently the railway shares do make up a fair portion of
something,
and it might be my dowry. James is asking Mr. Turleigh for the particulars.”

She looked dubious. “I don't suppose your mother could tell you.”

“No. I asked her the night of the ball. But I didn't get much of an answer. Mostly she just tore into me for squandering my three Seasons and not finding a husband.”

Anne winced and gave my hand a squeeze. “And then on top of all that, you were in the accident. It must have been awful. Every newspaper account I read said it was horrifying beyond description. I'm almost grateful I didn't know you were on that train until later. I'd have been frantic.”

“How did you find out?”

“Mrs. Ellsworth told our housekeeper, who wrote to me that you'd gotten out safely, so I didn't have to worry.” She paused and added gently, “Although I have to say, you look thin and tired. Are you all right?”

I got up to close the doors. Then I came back to the couch and told her everything that had happened, beginning with the railway accident, and brushing as lightly as I could over the parts involving Mr. Wilcox. There was a part of me that longed to speak his name and tell Anne everything about him—and another part of me that didn't want to reveal how I'd deceived him—so inevitably I stumbled at parts. However, Anne listened attentively throughout, and I ended with Mr. Flynn's suspicions about the Great Southeastern.

“Which brings me to something I need to ask you,” I admitted. “About a rather delicate matter.”

She tipped her head. “My goodness, you look so worried! You know I won't be offended by anything you ask. What is it?”

“Mr. Flynn said that the railway tried to buy land west of Trevington Forest so they could move the track off the riverbank. Apparently, their offer was accepted, but then the seller changed his mind. Of course I said nothing at all about your family—but last year, when your father was considering selling some of his land…” I hesitated. “Was he selling it to the railway?”

She looked surprised. “No. It was his friend Lord Dalhousie who offered to purchase some of our pasture. But they couldn't agree on a price.”

So there'd be no reason for Mr. Flynn to look at the Reynolds family.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips. “You don't happen to know of anyone who
did
sell land thereabouts, say, in the past year?”

Furrows appeared between her brows. “Well, yes, in fact. Mr. Pinsley sold some land last fall.”

“Mr. Pinsley?” I repeated. The name wasn't familiar.

“You remember. He bought the Wallburtons' estate. New money—from up north somewhere.” She waved a hand. “He didn't sell to the railway, though. He sold to a man named Hayes. I remember because Mr. Pinsley brought Hayes to the house, to introduce him to Father.”

“You've met him, then?”

She nodded. “A few weeks or so before I left for Scotland.”

Anne had left almost four months ago; that would be about the right time. “What sort of man is Hayes?”

“An investor of some kind.” She paused, considering. “He struck me as clever, but rather coarse and not particularly amiable.”

“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.