Free A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden Page B

during our dinner last night, were on my side alone. I was merely someone who had conveniently and perhaps not unpleasantly crossed his path these past two nights. This morning, he was sufficient unto himself.
    A voice above me said, “Well, the plaster isn’t exactly elegant—but at least you’re up and about.”
    I turned in astonishment. My cousin James stood next to my table, his spectacles slightly fogged from the warmth, his expression both exasperated and relieved. “I finally found you. This is the third place I’ve been.”
    I couldn’t help but smile; it was lovely to see a familiar face. “I’m glad you persisted. Did you come up from London?”
    “Of course.” He gave me his usual swift kiss on the cheek, laid his spectacles on the table, and began to take off his coat.
    Although I’ve always called James and his younger brother, Anthony, cousins, they’re not blood relations. My father, Samuel, was one of three children; his brother, Charles, four years his junior, had left England for good when he was twenty-one. I was very young at the time, and no one ever spoke of him, so all I knew was that he lived what my aunt referred to as “a debauched existence on the Continent” until he died several years ago. In between my father and Uncle Charles was my aunt Catherine; she had married a wealthy tea tradesman who died of cholera in India and left her a young widow. Shortly after she returned to England, she met and married John Isslin, a Member of Parliament in the House of Commons, whose first wife had died, leaving him with two sons, James and Anthony. The boys began spending their summers at Kellham Park when James was thirteen and Anthony was eight. Anthony—being only a year older than I—was my playmate; we rode horses or boated or found hiding places under trees, where Anthony would lie idle or drowse while I devoured my books. James loved to read too, but he preferred to be in the library with his long legs draped over the arm of a chair. In truth, he was rather a self-righteous prig back then, rolling his eyes when Anthony and I sneaked up the servants’ stair to hide our scrapes and torn clothes from Aunt Catherine’s watchful eye. Now twenty-one, Anthony was at university, studying economics; James, just twenty-six, was already one of London’s rising barristers, reputedly fair-minded, forthright, clever, and, lately, willing to acknowledge that he was only
almost
always right about everything.
    He sat down opposite me and unfolded his napkin, grimacing at the dingy cloth. “Mother sent me a telegram as soon as your letter arrived at Kellham Park yesterday, so I took the early express. I can’t stay long as I have appointments later. But I had to see for myself that you were all right. How are you managing in this lovely establishment?”
    “I’m fine, James. People have been very kind.”
    He lifted the lid off the pot of tea, frowned at the contents, and put the lid back on. “I had no idea you were taking that train home on Friday. Weren’t you supposed to stay in London until Wednesday next?”
    “Mama wanted to leave immediately after the ball.”
    From the look that flashed across his face, I had a feeling he knew something about why; but he merely smoothed his napkin before asking, “And how
is
Aunt Margaret? Can I see her?”
    I hesitated. “She’s all right, I think. Or she will be. The doctor saw her first thing yesterday and said she needs to stay very quiet, so it’s probably best we let her rest.” I fiddled with my spoon. “She seems to be in a fog or half-asleep most of the time. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to wake up. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to think about what happened.” I sipped at my tea, which had cooled to lukewarm. “And then there’s the laudanum.”
    “Hm.” James’s lips tightened. He wholly disapproved of my mother’s habit. “What about it?”
    “Well, apparently it does something to the nerves that makes them more