A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden Page A

gratifying. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who wanted company tonight.
    He lowered his head again and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
    I rose and stood beside his chair. “Mr. Wilcox, have you slept at all since the accident? Have you eaten?”
    His voice—muffled: “I don’t know. That is—I don’t think so.”
    “Stay here. I’ll be back.” I went into the kitchen where I found a woman kneading dough for the next morning. With my best smile, I introduced myself and asked whether she was Cally.
    “I am,” she said, not taking her eyes off the white mass under her hands.
    “I know it’s late, but could you put together a light supper? With some wine and coffee?”
    She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, kneading all the while. “Ain’t you already ’ad summat? We got enough to do without makin’ up special meals for folks who cain’t be bothered coming to the dining room with ever’body else—”
    “It’s not for me,” I interrupted, keeping my voice pleasant. “It’s for Mr. Wilcox. He’s just returned.”
    She looked up, the annoyance fading from her face. “Where is ’e?”
    “In the sitting room next to the parlor. Surely he’s worked hard enough the past twenty-four hours that he deserves something to eat.”
    “Well, ’course ’e does!” She wiped her hands on her apron and set them on her broad hips. “I don’t s’pose you’d be offerin’ to bring it to ’im?”
    “I’m happy to, unless you’d rather,” I replied somewhat tartly. “And you needn’t put anything extra on the tray for me. I’m still full from that extraordinarily robust cup of soup.”
    She pursed her lips again—to hide her grudging amusement?—then turned away. I watched silently as she moved around the kitchen with brisk efficiency; in a matter of minutes, she assembled a tray that held not only a pitcher of hot coffee but also a few thick slices of bread, some cake, some preserves, a hunk of cheese, and a fair-sized piece of cold ham.
    I came forward to pick it up.
    “I di’n’t say it was ready,” she snapped, waving my hand away. Carefully she placed a knife, a fork, and a napkin beside the plate. Then she added a glass and a decanter of wine—and, after a moment’s hesitation, a second glass, a napkin, and silver, muttering, “You might be a lady, but nobody can say you ain’t done your share, same as the rest of us.”
    “Thank you,” I said, surprised. But apparently I’d received my day’s allotment of kindness from Cally. She grunted and turned away, which I took as permission to take up the meal and be gone.
    Mr. Wilcox glanced up as I put the tray on the table but made no move toward it. Clearly, he was too tired to fix himself anything, so I put a wedge of the pale yellow cheese and a slab of ham between two slices of bread and put it on the plate. Then I poured wine for each of us and placed a glass in his left hand. His fingers were freezing cold.
    Unsure of what more I could do, I pulled my chair back to the table, sat back, and waited.
    The inn was quieter now, and the firelight was working a peculiar magic on the ugly little room. The flickering gold softened the colors in the carpet, imparted a silvery sparkle to the clouded mirror, and etched our shadows delicately on the wall behind. I sat still, but my every nerve felt alive to the taste of the wine, the warmth of the fire, and the movements of his hands as he unfolded the napkin and turned his attention to the food.
    He managed to drink some of the wine and choke down most of the sandwich. Some color returned to his face, but it still bore the heavy lines of fatigue and anxiety. There was part of me that longed to ask what was worrying him, as if I hadn’t overheard Tom this morning. But the question would have felt disingenuous, and I’d have been asking just as much to satisfy my own inexcusable curiosity as to be kind to Mr. Wilcox. So instead, I sought for something to pull him out of his dark