Through the Smoke

Fleetingly, Rachel wondered if it pained him. Any scarring would be a pity, considering it blemished a manly form as close to perfection as she had ever seen. Maybe Druridge’s face was a bit too exaggerated in its planes and angles, a bit too hard-edged to be considered handsome. But a woman could never complain about the rest of him. Thanks to his broad shoulders, lean waist and long legs, she couldn’t help feeling a bit… dazzled in spite of her feelings where he was concerned. It didn’t help that he wore his expensive clothing—a calf-length, green cape, beige trousers and a black coat with matching waistcoat—with an indifferent air that suggested he’d just as soon be garbed in something simple as something so obviously rich. His physique, and how fluidly he moved, set him apart from any other man she’d ever met, especially when she compared him to the stooped miners that comprised the better part of the village.

“No.” Ignoring the raw magnetism that emanated from him like steam rising from a lake, she crossed her arms in a decisive manner. “My mother will be fine. She merely needs her rest.”

“Certainly the three of you will rest easier once Dr. Jacobsen has taken a look at her.…”

Not if Jillian knew what she had to trade for the visit. And her mother would guess at first sight of a gentleman doctor. Accepting help from the earl, the one man Jillian blamed for the death of her eldest son and, less directly, her husband, would be enough to send her to the grave. Besides, after all Rachel had secretly done to unite the coal workers against Druridge, her sense of honor wouldn’t tolerate any kind of alliance with him.

“You have received my answer. She will recover,” she said and prayed she spoke the truth.

The earl studied her for several seconds. Then he said, “I will allow you some time to think about my offer. I ask only that you answer a few questions in exchange for Dr. Jacobsen’s visit.” He gave her a stiff, mocking bow. “I hope you will reconsider before it’s too late,” he added. Then he strode through the door and disappeared into the dark interior of his large coach.

Rachel hovered over her mother’s bed. “How do you feel?” she whispered.

The wasted figure that was Jillian McTavish nodded weakly. Her skin was as waxy and pale as a yellow moon; her eyes looked like huge pits in her sunken face. “Well enough, daughter.”

“I’ll see ye in the mornin’,” called a soft feminine voice from the other room, and Rachel realized that she hadn’t said good-bye to Mrs. Tate, the neighbor who sat with her mother and younger brother while she minded the shop.

She caught the older woman as she was stepping outside. “Thank you. I know it’s not an easy thing,” she said, her voice faltering.

“’Tis better me watchin’ it than ye,” Mrs. Tate responded. “You’re sufferin’ right along with ’er, that ye are.”

A tear trickled down Rachel’s face, but she swiped at it. “We cannot always choose what happens to us. But we can choose how we handle what does.” She echoed her mother’s oft-repeated words with more conviction than she felt. At the moment, she wondered if she could bear to be alone with Jillian. Surely it was only a matter of time. How much longer could her mother cling to that gossamer strand of life that kept her among the living?

Mrs. Tate lowered her voice as she clasped Rachel’s hands in her own. “She will likely pass tonight. Ye need to be prepared, luv. She’s been like this for nearly a week.”

“Part of me prays that she can be released from the pain,” Rachel whispered. “Watching her suffer is… it’s so terrible. But the other part…” She hesitated, and Mrs. Tate spared her the effort of continuing.

“I know. We’ll all miss ’er. She’s been a pillar of strength to this village for years, teachin’ so many of us our letters.” The rotund woman shook her head and, with a squeeze of Rachel’s hands, let go. “You should know that Geordie tried to wait up for ye, but sleep got the better of ’im, poor lad.”

She’d seen her brother curled up in his bed by the far wall; they all slept in the same room. “I had some accounts I had to go over at the shop. My mother has always taken care of the books, and I’m having a devil of a time trying to figure out what she’s done.”

“Ye can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Rachel? Is that you?” her mother called from the other room.

“Go to ’er before she wakes Geordie,” Mrs. Tate said.

Rachel felt little concern that she’d disturb Geordie. He slept too deeply. But she didn’t want to put her mother to a lot of effort. “I’m on my way.”

“Let me know if ye need anythin’, child,” Mrs. Tate said as she left.

Rachel forced a brief smile before closing the door and hurrying to the bedroom. Dipping her hands into the bowl of cool water on the washstand, she brought up the rag that floated inside and wrung it out so she could dab away the beads of sweat that glistened on her mother’s forehead.

“I can’t take much more.” As Jillian tossed on the sweat-soaked sheets, a spasm gripped her frail frame, and Rachel held a bowl while she vomited a clear liquid flecked with blood.

The Earl of Druridge and the physician he’d offered came immediately to mind. Could this Jacobsen help? Or was Rachel, tired of carrying the heavy burden of her mother’s illness alone, turning coward?

Eventually Jillian sank back on the bed and lay without moving, leaving Rachel to stew in frightened indecision. Was Mrs. Tate right? Would her mother die this night? Or was the worst of it over?

She glanced at Geordie, sleeping peacefully in his bed. Maybe their mother would begin to improve.…

Rachel embraced that last glimmer of hope as the long hand of the mantel clock swept inexorably toward midnight. The welcome respite of sleep washed over her soon after, but she dreamed of her father’s funeral: the wooden coffin, the overpowering scent of roses, the aging church, the weed-strewn graveyard.

The clock chimed one, waking her with a start. The wind had come up. Outside, tree branches clawed at the house, creating an eerie sound. A flurry of snowflakes fell, those close enough to the window luminescent in the light of the tallow candle that sat, flickering, on the pane.

Rachel shivered. Tomorrow all the world would be white and cold… but hopefully not so cold as now. She rose to draw the drapes and stir the dying embers of the fire in the hearth. She had been raised in this small, two-room, wooden house. Still, late at night it could be a foreboding, lonely place.