A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden

when you woke. Lucy said you didn’t even stir.”
    “Thank you so much. It’s a relief to be in clean clothes.”
    “I daresay.” She peered past my shoulder, her expression concerned. “Mary said she’s been helping you shift your mother. Is she any better?”
    I hesitated. “She’s still not talking. But I don’t think she’s worse.”
    “I never did get a chance to thank you for helping the doctor. I couldn’t have done it myself. I’m quite squalmish, you see, can’t bear the sight of blood.” Mrs. Mowbray looked over my shoulder again. “I can sit with her for a while, so you can get yourself a bite. Dinner’s past, but Cally’s still in the kitchen, and I’m sure they can find you something.”
    I smiled with relief. “Mrs. Mowbray, that’s very good of you. I
am
hungry, but I didn’t want to leave Mama.”
    “Well, go on then.” She came into the room and sat down in the chair. “I brought some mending with me, and I’ve an hour or so I can spare before bed. ’Twill be good to be off my feet.”
    I knew she was being kind; surely she could be off her feet elsewhere, perhaps in her own comfortable room with a warm fire and a cup of tea. But I sensed she wanted to help me without my making a fuss about it. So I only said, “I’m sure you deserve more than an hour with your feet up. Your hotel has been turned upside-down since last night.”
    “ ’Tis no matter,” she said practically with a shake of her head. “It’ll all be to rights again in a few days.” Then she smiled and waved me off.
    I went down to the dining room, which was nearly empty, took a small table by one of the windows, and looked out. Gone was the bustle of the night before; there were a few cabs and some pedestrians, but aside from the gas lamps, the street was dark and quiet. One of the maids brought me a bowl of soup with meat and potatoes—a small portion, but at least it was something heartier than that awful broth. She also gave me a hunk of bread and some tea, plunking it onto the table with poor grace. But I thanked her and forced myself to eat slowly.
    When I finished, I was still hungry, but I dared not ask for anything else. Still, I didn’t want to go back to my room just yet. Instead, I went across the hall into the sitting room, dragged a chair nearer the hearth, and sat down. The fire had burnt down low but was still warm. The room was quiet, but the sounds of the hotel—the thumps of footsteps overhead, some voices raised in laughter, the chiming of the clock in the next room—created a feeling of loneliness that threatened to engulf me. It was absurd, really. I was used to being alone. Then I sighed and gave myself a mental shake. It was only because this morning, I’d had something better than a fire for company. I wedged myself more closely into the chair and watched the play of flames among the coals.
    Over the sound of the clock striking half-past, I heard the front door open.
    A series of slow footsteps, and then Mr. Wilcox’s black-coated figure paused in the doorway. He came into the room, sank into the other chair, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. He hadn’t seen me. My chair was turned away, and he hadn’t even cast a glance in my direction. But before his head dropped, I caught a glimpse of the bleak expression on his face.
    I couldn’t help thinking of what I’d overheard that morning. How much of his despair stemmed from worry about his patients here in Travers, and how much of it was due to what Tom had told him?
    “Mr. Wilcox,” I said softly, leaning forward so he could see me.
    His head jerked up.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    He sat, still not saying a word, his eyes on mine, his face pale to the lips.
    “Would you like the room to yourself?”
    He stretched a hand toward me, to keep me there. “No. No, Miss Fraser. Not at all.” There was a note of desperation in his voice that pained me—and yet, in an odd way, was