A Lady in the Smoke (9 page)

“And the railway wants that to be as short as possible,” I guessed. “Because they'll lose money every day.”

“Exactly,” Paul said. “But even before the accident, Palmer was going to press for an extended report into the railway. He felt the problems were systemic and serious.”

“That's why he was killed,” Mr. Flynn said.

“It's why we're so worried about Griffin,” Paul added. “He is planning to testify in favor of an extended report too.”

“But the accident
has
to tip the scales in favor of an extended one,” I objected.

“You'd think so,” Mr. Flynn said. “But there are some MPs who will still want to limit it.”

“Because they oppose government regulation, or because they have a financial stake in the railway?” I asked.

Mr. Flynn gave me a shrewd look. “Well, you're not naïve; I'll give you that. Except I'm beginning to believe the Great Southeastern isn't at fault—for the accident you were in, anyway.”

“What?” Paul broke in. “You've always thought they ignored the reports.”

“I found out last night that both of Griffin's reports were definitely given to the Commission for Safety—there's a record of their receipts in a log—but I've talked to Norton—he's on the board for the Great Southeastern, and he's the only one who would talk to me—and he says he never saw either of them.”

“What about Palmer's report?” Paul asked.

“I don't know anyone at the Bureau, so I haven't been able to find out if they logged his.”

“You think Norton is telling the truth?” Paul asked.

Mr. Flynn shrugged. “Seems so. Norton's a decent sort. You should have seen his face when I was talking to him. He went completely white. Looked like he was going to be sick. It took me a while to convince him that I wasn't making it all up.”

“So neither report was ever passed along to the railway,” I said slowly.

Mr. Flynn nodded. “At least so far as Norton knew.”

Paul's voice was tight: “Who held them back, and why?”

Mr. Flynn spread his hands. “Hell if I know.” A brooding look came over his face. “What worries me most right now is Griffin. I wonder where the devil he's got to.”

Paul bit at his lower lip. “He has a good friend who lives in Lambeth. Maybe he went there. God, I hope so.”

“Does he have a family?” I asked. “Maybe he felt safer staying with them.”

“He has a brother who lives outside Bletchley.” Paul's face was sober. “But the last thing he'd do is lead anyone there.”

My breath caught. “Would they hurt him?”

“ 'Course they would. And if they even threaten to, he won't appear,” Mr. Flynn said bluntly. “That's what they want.”

“Are you still going to Malverton tomorrow?” Paul asked.

Mr. Flynn nodded. “First thing. Blackstone is coming up early.”

“What's at Malverton?” I asked, almost dreading the answer.

Instead of answering me, Paul looked at Mr. Flynn. “Do you have your map?”

Mr. Flynn reached into his breast pocket, drew out a paper, and unfolded it onto the table. Paul pulled over a wooden chair for Mr. Flynn, and we all gathered around. The map showed a sprawl of green, with boundaries and
X
's marking the hills, blue lines for roads, and a spindly black line of railway track running from the bottom to the top with two branches that ran off the left edge. With a jolt, I realized that the map showed the River Lyle and the stretch of country from just south of Travers to the hills north of Malverton. A few more inches on the right side of the map and Kellham Park would have been on it.

“This”—Paul pointed to the black line with hatch-marks—“is the railway. You see how the railway runs beside the river near Malverton, just like at Holmsted?”

“Yes, but…” I hesitated, not wanting to ask a stupid question. “Why do they do that in the first place? Build railways on riverbanks?”

“That's often where property boundaries are,” Paul replied. “Owners would rather sell off a tract of land at the edge of their property than in the middle. And twenty years ago, it probably seemed safe enough. People didn't understand erosion patterns under railway tracks the way they do now.”

“And this man Blackstone who is going with you to Malverton—who is he?” I asked.

“A former railwayman,” Mr. Flynn said.

“And he thinks there could be erosion there, like at Holmsted?”

Mr. Flynn's eyes darted to Paul and back to me. “He thinks it might be almost exactly like Holmsted.”

I shivered. “You mean there might be another accident.”

“That's what we're trying to prevent,” Mr. Flynn said.

“But how can trains still be running up to Malverton?” I was trying to stay calm, but I could hear the shrill note creeping into my voice. “My cousin said everything north of Hartfield is closed.”

“On the main line, yes. But see?” Mr. Flynn's shortened finger traced the hatch-mark that ran off the page and connected it to the one above. “These are two branch lines that can be used to detour around the section that's closed. It rejoins the line about twenty miles south of Malverton.”

“But surely the railway understands the problems with embankments! You can't tell me that they're willfully endangering people's lives to save money.” I looked from Mr. Flynn to Paul, but neither one denied it. “Maybe all the MPs need to be dragged out to the accident to see what could happen again!”

“They've seen it, Elizabeth,” Paul said. “At least some of them have.”

“The railway knew they'd have to move the track away from the river eventually,” Mr. Flynn explained. “But Norton told me that he had no idea the situation was so urgent. They had one of their own men at Holmsted last year inspecting the line. Even though he said it would hold up for at least another five or ten years, they've already been looking at a tract of land west of Trevington Forest.”

I started.
Trevington Forest?

Mr. Flynn's eyes met mine, a question in them, and I hastily dropped my own down to the map and willed my face to stay blank.

Trevington Forest was barely ten miles from the border of our property.

Which meant that the railway was probably looking at land owned by someone I knew. It could even be Anne's family.

Mr. Flynn folded the map back into a neat square, put it in his breast pocket, and stood up. “All we can do is hope that Griffin is holed up somewhere safe tonight. I'll send Jeremy down tomorrow to look for him, instead of taking him with me. Now I'm going back to my room to get some sleep.”

Paul rose wearily from his chair and picked up his coat. “I need to fetch something from upstairs. Wait a minute, and I'll walk out with you.”

He left us alone, and Mr. Flynn sat back down, but in Paul's chair this time, directly opposite, which is why I noticed that his eyes were a peculiar shade—neither brown nor green but olive. At the moment they were fixed on me in a way that made me feel guilty, and I didn't like it, so I took refuge in questions that would keep the conversation away from me. “Have you and Mr. Wilcox known each other long, Mr. Flynn?”

“About five years.”

“How did you meet?”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Oh, I was writing some articles about the dockworkers and how they were starting to assemble unions to bargain for better conditions and wages. Some people didn't like what I said.” He shrugged. “One night they found me. Broke three of my ribs. One of them had a knife. I'd have been dead except Paul happened to be nearby. That's when I lost this”—he pulled out his right hand to show me his finger—“and when Paul got his nose broken.”

I winced at the picture that formed in my mind of the two of them fighting armed men in some horrible dark alley in London. “That must have been frightening.”

“I suppose,” he said dismissively. “Didn't think much about it, actually.” Then he got up and went to the window, peering out into the darkness.

I found myself staring. Did he not know how to be civil, or was he being rude on purpose?

Either way, I was glad to hear Paul's footsteps coming down the stairs. We both went to the hallway and Mr. Flynn immediately went to the door, but Paul turned toward me. “I'm leaving for London tomorrow morning,” he said, “but I should be back by Thursday. Friday at the latest. I'll come check on your mother then.”

“Thank you.” I desperately wished that we were alone, so that I could say out loud some of what I was feeling. That I was grateful for everything he'd done. That I'd be thinking of him. And that his safe return mattered to me.

But I could only hope my expression conveyed some of it. Perhaps it did, for he took my hand and gave me a smile so full of feeling that I swear it went straight to some heretofore unsounded place in my heart.

Mr. Flynn jerked open the door and the cold night air rushed in.

A swift hard press of my fingers to his mouth, and Paul was gone.

Three days passed, during which Mama seemed to improve in small stages under Jane's care, although she still hadn't spoken.

On Thursday morning, I returned to our room after taking my breakfast downstairs. When I opened the door, I saw a cheerful shaft of bright sunlight coming in between the curtains, and Jane was knitting some practical-looking stockings while Mama watched. My heart lifted. Until now, any light at all had agitated Mama.

“You opened the curtains,” I said.

Jane smiled. “I thought some sunlight would do her good.” She set her knitting aside, handed me
The Eustace Diamonds,
and turned to my mother. “Lady Elizabeth is going to read to you for a bit while I have breakfast, all right?”

My mother didn't look especially pleased, but after Jane left, I sat down in her chair and began. Lizzie was scheming for the attentions of her cousin Frank, but my mind was elsewhere. I'd reached the middle of chapter four when Mama made a small, restive movement with her hand. I looked up. “Do you want something, Mama?” I didn't really expect an answer.

“I don't want to hear any more of that.” The words came out scratchy but clear.

I was at her side in a moment, taking her hand. “Mama, you spoke! That's wonderful!”

She shifted irritably. “It's a horrible story. I don't like that sort of thing.”

I let go of her hand and retrieved the book from where it had fallen onto the floor. “I'm sorry, Mama. I only intended to help. The doctor said it would be a distraction.”

She plucked at the bedcovers. “Where am I? These bedclothes are dreadful. And why is Jane here? She was here yesterday too, wasn't she?”

I chose my words carefully, thinking I should avoid mentioning the accident if I could. “Yes, Mama. We've been here for several days. I'm sorry about the bed, but you couldn't be moved.” I swallowed. “I'm so glad you're talking again. Mr. Wilcox said that it would mean you're getting better.”

“Mr. Wilcox?”

“He's the doctor who saw you, several times. Do you remember him?”

Her expression was strained for a moment and then cleared. “Yes. That young man.”

I nodded, relieved. If she remembered him, maybe she wouldn't fuss at him. “He's returning from London either today or tomorrow, and he'll come see you then.” I tucked the book out of sight. “Can I bring you anything? Some tea? Or something to eat?”

She didn't answer at first, and I watched as her expression changed from puzzlement to anxiety to annoyance.

“But
where
are we?” she asked, her voice querulous. “You didn't say.”

“We're in a hotel at Travers.”

“Travers?”
Her voice rose. “What are we doing in Travers?”

“We were brought here because it was close to Holmsted,” I said hesitantly. “That was where the accident happened. Do you remember?”

A sudden consciousness came into her face, and she blinked. “The train,” she said slowly, and her fingers clawed at the edge of the blanket. “We were in a field.”

I didn't know whether it was best to let her speak of it or try to distract her.

“We were in a field,” she snapped, her eyes on mine.

“Yes, we were,” I agreed. “We sat in the field for a few hours, and then Mr. Wilcox came and helped us, and a wagon brought us here.”

Did she remember that I'd pulled her out of the train? Did she remember us huddling in that cold field, wrapped together in my cloak?

“We were coming from London. From Lady Lorry's ball.” She turned away from me and stared up at the ceiling. “We were on our way home.”

“That's right.” I made my voice encouraging. “And now that you're getting better, we'll be able to make the rest of the trip. As soon as Mr. Wilcox says it's all right, I'll make the arrangements.”

Silence for a minute. Then, sourly: “Where's Jane? I want Jane.”

I felt the words like a slap, as she intended; and with that, my resolution to be kind and cordial and cheerful vanished. “All right, Mama,” I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I'll send her to you.”

I took up my coat as I left the room. I needed to get out.

The sky was only spotted with clouds, and though the air was brisk, the sun fell brightly on the street for the first time in days. I walked down the main street, past the shops and pubs, past one of the bakeries, past a church. Where the curb turned, I followed it onto a quieter street. At the corner stood an imposing, pillared, three-story marble building that served as the law courts for all the surrounding counties during the quarterly assizes; diagonal from it, and taking up the entire block, stood the gaol—a severe-looking place made of stone and iron.

I walked until I reached a fair-sized park. It was enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, but the door was unlocked. The gardens were barren, with nothing but sticks where flowers would grow in a month or so, but the trees were budding, and the gravel paths had been swept. I made my way to the small gazebo at the center and sat down on a wooden bench in the corner, covering my face in my hands. I couldn't help it. Unhappiness was spreading inside me like an inkblot, growing large and dark in my mind.

It was wicked of me, I knew—but now that Mama was out of danger, I wanted her recovery to slow to a crawl so that we could stay here. Once we left Travers, I would be back at Kellham Park, back to the same weary routine of waking, sleeping, meals, and visits, with Anne and Athena the only bright spots in my days. Only now it would be worse because my marriage prospects were substantially diminished, and my mother's anxiety would be proportionately greater. She'd been utterly overwrought during that horrible conversation we'd had right after Lady Lorry's ball. I shuddered, remembering it.

We had come upstairs to our suite of rooms at Cousin Julia's house. Mama's cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering, her hands trembling. She was like that sometimes, when the laudanum had worn off or she should have already been in bed. But this was different. She wasn't just missing her laudanum; she was angry and ashamed, her rage springing from somewhere deep inside her.

“Mama, what has happened? I know people were talking about us—”

“Do you think I didn't notice?” Her voice was like a low cry. “All those ladies,
smirking,
and you, standing by the wall, silent and stiff as one of those marble pillars!” She jerked impatiently at her gloves, sending a button flying.

I felt my own cheeks flush. “But there's hardly anything I could do about that! If no asks me to dance, what choice do I have?”

“Precisely!” Her eyes were bright and hard as blue stones. “And now, thanks to your willfulness, you will find out what it is like to have only one choice—or perhaps none at all! You could have had your pick of anyone last Season!”

Her fury was frightening me. “But why? What have I done? They were talking about our
fortunes,
not
me,
and—”

“But our current fortunes wouldn't matter a whit if you had just
listened
to me! If you had just taken advantage of your first two Seasons—if you had taken the task at hand seriously!” My mother's hands were small white fists at her sides. “Oh, I know, you roll your eyes at the very idea of finding a husband. But the fact of the matter is that
you—need—to—marry
.” The words came out staccato, each one sharp. “And you think you're so special—so distinguished—so
clever
—that your personal charms are enough to keep you afloat until you're good and ready. Well, they're
not.
Without a dowry, no one will give you a second glance, much less offer to marry you!” Spittle was gathering at the corner of her mouth, her eyes were dark with fury, and I could do nothing but stare. “Some people don't even get a second Season, and you've had
three
! And you've had
no one
steering you toward this man or that! We came here this Season, even though I was ill; but you don't care about my suffering—because you're selfish—selfish—
selfish
beyond belief—” Her voice had risen to a shriek. “And after I die, do you know what you'll be? A charity case, Elizabeth. Nothing more than an unwanted obligation to your relations!”

And then she had snatched the fan up from her table and hurled it at me. I'd instinctively ducked, so it hit the wall instead and fell to the floor, the bits of splintered ivory and torn gray silk looking like a dead bird.

She let out a cry. Her cheeks were bright red and her hands were still in fists. Her gaze was fixed on the fan, and her breath was coming fast. This sort of excitement wasn't good for her.

“Mama, please.” My voice was trembling, and I stepped toward her with an open, placatory hand. “Don't let's fight about this right now. Please, let's just go to bed, and we'll talk in the morning. You need some rest….”

Then, quite suddenly, her face went blank, as if something had surprised her. She gave a few quick gasps; her eyes met mine; and neither of us moved for several seconds. Then she shook her head and turned away. She opened the door to her room, which adjoined mine, and walked through without another word. As she shut the door, a piece of her skirt snagged on the corner.

“Wait, Mama!” I stepped forward to open the door and release it, but I wasn't quick enough. I heard a rip, and the bit of silk went limp, a sad little flag that still hung there the next morning. That dress had cost several hundred pounds at Worth's in Paris. Now it was ruined.

A cloud crossed the sun and a cool breeze gusted through the gazebo, blowing against my face. With a shiver, I came back to the present.

I knew what the coming weeks would bring. Once we were home, and my mother had recovered sufficiently, she would review the invitations we'd received to summer house parties and select those where there might still be possibilities to meet suitors. I'd already stolen a week away from my ordinary life. I suppose I should feel lucky to have had that. But it wasn't just the freedom that I'd miss.

I felt my eyes burning with tears. I blinked them back and swallowed down the hard lump in my throat. After we left here, I'd never see Paul again. The only way he'd ever possibly come to Kellham Park would be as my mother's surgeon—a tradesman who took his fees in shillings—a man whom most of London Society would assume was a quack or a charlatan, or worse. An impossible match for an earl's daughter, whether she had a fortune or not. We were like an ill-matched pair in one of those tawdry yellow-back novels that sold for two shillings at the railway bookstore. Yes, I could retrace every conversation we'd had, every word and gesture of his, as often as I liked. I could even have conversations with him in my imagination. But the reality was, whomever my mother found for me, it wouldn't be him.

The bells from the church on the next street rang to signal the hour. Drearily, I looked up at the spire. There were clouds behind it, soft white ones scudding away, and they made it look as if the spire was falling toward me. Along the gutters perched pigeons, their fat gray bodies turning this way and that, wings fluttering. One took off and then another. It was time for me to go as well.

Reluctantly, I made my way to the hotel.

Cally stopped me in the front hall. “Oh, Miss Fraser, there you are! You've a visitor.” She jerked her head toward the front parlor and didn't trouble to lower her voice. “None too polite, neither. Cursed a blue streak when 'e 'eard you weren't 'ere.”

I stared in amazement.
Who on earth did I know who would do that?