A Lady in the Smoke Read Online Free

just outside our door came a querulous voice: “First I be bringin’ these linens to number thirteen,
then
I be fetchin’ water up for number eight, and
then
I’ll see to their bloody fire! How many more’s going to come? We be almost full to the rafters as it is—”
    “Hush, Lucy!” came a firm voice. “We’ll take in as many as we can. It’s our duty as Christians. And they aren’t only coming to us. The railway is sending people anywhere that can hold them. The Polk Hotel is taking them too.”
    “I’m just sayin’ I cain’t be everywhere doin’ everything, that’s all.” The voice went plaintive. “Miz Mowbray, I been on my feet since half past five this mornin’, and—”
    “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” The unseen Mrs. Mowbray lost her patience. “We’ve
all
been up since dawn. Here, give me that pitcher. I’ll take the water to number eight myself—and then I’ve got to see if I can find someone to help that poor doctor.” A pause, and then, somewhat dryly: “I don’t suppose you’d want to do that instead of fetching things up and down stairs.”
    An audible gasp. “Oh, no, ma’am! I ain’t goin’ in there with all that blood and those screeching folks!”
    “I thought not. Now, take the linens up, and see to the fire, and don’t waste your breath in complaining.”
    “Yes’m.”
    What time was it? I pushed myself up from the floor and went to the window to draw the curtains apart. The lamp, low as it was, turned the glass into a mirror with nothing but darkness beyond. It must be well into the night. I put my hand up to shield my eyes and brought my face close to the pane, so I could look out.
    Our room was on an upper floor of an establishment that faced what appeared to be a main street. Above was a flat, black, starless sky. Below, the gas lamps shone fuzzily upon cobblestones still wet with rain. There were shops across the way, their plate-glass windows glinting. Most nights the street was probably empty at this hour, but not tonight. Half a dozen hansom cabs, their lanterns dangling beside the coachman’s boxes, stood in front of the hotel, and two wagons were stopped farther down, in front of what looked like a third-rate boardinghouse.
    I let the curtains swing back in place.
    In the lamplight, I caught sight of my hands. If they hadn’t been at the end of my own arms, I wouldn’t have recognized them, blotched as they were with grime, and with crescents of more dirt—or something else—under my nails. I looked down at my clothes and saw smears of mud, or blood, around the hem of my dress. Where was my traveling cloak? My eyes swept the room. Someone—I wondered whom—had taken it off me and hung it over the single wooden chair. I drew my skirts back to see my feet in their stockings, which still looked fairly intact. Where were my boots? Carefully, I crouched down to look under the chair. Someone had placed them neatly next to each other; I pulled them out and laced them on.
    A mirror with blackened corners hung on the wall above the washstand. My skin was filthy as a coal man’s, and the left side of my face was splotched with dried blood. I picked up the pitcher on the washstand and felt the slosh of water. I sniffed to be sure it wasn’t foul, then wet a bit of flannel that had been left for a towel and wiped at my face, being careful of my bandage and my jaw, which was bruised and slightly swollen. I combed my hair through with my fingers and twisted it back into a braid, studying my reflection in the mirror. Better—though my eyes, usually blue, looked as black as if I’d been taking Mama’s laudanum.
    After a quick glance to be sure Mama was still asleep, I slipped out the door and closed it behind me. The hallway was just wide enough for two people to pass and lit only by candles and sconces. The walls were painted an ugly green, with trim that had once probably been white. There were eight or ten doors, mostly open, and I watched a maid go from one