Free A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden Page A

“And how are you feeling?”
    “I’m fine. I cut myself on something during the crash.”
    “May I look?” she asked.
    I sat down on the bed and she carefully removed the bandage. Her eyes widened slightly. “Goodness, child. And you’ve no idea what you cut it on?”
    “No. Those few minutes are all a bit muddled, honestly.”
    “Well, your surgeon knows his business. That’s a tidy bit of stitching, and there’s no sign of infection.” She began to replace the bandage. “I spoke with Mrs. Mowbray on the way in. She said breakfast is served for another half an hour. Why don’t you go down? It’ll no doubt be good for you to be out of this room for a bit, don’t you think?”
    I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I was so grateful she was here that I would have done anything she asked.
    —
    Although the dining room was crowded, I was able to sit at the same table that I’d taken the previous night, and now I could see more than a dark street and some gas lamps. The sky was a whitish-gray, like sheets in the barrel on wash-day, and though it was no longer raining, people carried umbrellas under their arms and stepped carefully to avoid the street-filth and puddles among the cobblestones.
    Travers was several times larger than our town of Levlinshire, and this main street was longer and more interesting than ours, crowded with a variety of shops we didn’t have. If I craned my neck both ways, I could see a haberdasher, two bakeries (one for cakes, one for plainer fare), a butcher, an apothecary shop, and two public houses. In the street, costermongers shouted the prices of radishes and potatoes, a small gang of boys darted around the carriages, a woman hurried along with two chickens in a cage, a man whirled by on a velocipede, and a thin lone dog lurked hopefully near the butcher shop. And then I saw Mr. Wilcox across the street, walking toward the hotel with the same man—Tom—who’d come to the hotel yesterday morning. Tom was talking so energetically that he half-kicked, half-stumbled over a grocer’s box and all but ran into a woman who spun about afterward with an angry look on her face. He didn’t even notice.
    The two men crossed the street, dodging the horses and carriages, and I leaned close to the window, wishing I could read their lips. Mr. Wilcox listened attentively and then spoke for several minutes; Tom’s expression was skeptical. But finally he shrugged and nodded, abruptly turned on his heel, and walked back the way they’d come.
    My heart quickened as the front door opened. A few moments later, Mr. Wilcox entered the dining room and scanned the tables, searching for someone. Though his eyes met mine, and he gave a brief smile, I clearly wasn’t the person he wanted. It was a man—lean and pale, with a pocked face and a reddish birthmark over his right brow—hunkered in a chair by the far wall. Mr. Wilcox put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and spoke a few words, then handed him a slip of paper. The man looked up at him with a grateful, relieved expression.
    My curiosity—which I’d successfully squelched last night—returned with a vengeance, and I couldn’t help staring. Was that Michael, the man who needed to be kept safe? He certainly had a furtive, anxious look about him. And was that Mr. Wilcox’s London address on the paper?
    The man opened a worn brown wallet and placed the slip inside. Then he stood up and put on his coat, and Mr. Wilcox led him out of the dining room without a glance in my direction.
    And I was left with a smile fading from my lips, feeling stupid and absurdly bereft.
    I let the cold toast drop onto my plate and stared out the window, seeing nothing. What an idiot I’d been. In the bright light of day, the prosaic truth was obvious. Mr. Wilcox was the sort who was kind and concerned about everyone—not just about me. The belief that we’d done something unusual and meaningful together in the scullery, and the sympathetic understanding I’d felt