Lady of Ashes (19 page)

 

Albert went to Sandhurst, but it had little good effect on his health. The day of his visit it poured rain and he returned to Windsor drenched and complaining of exhaustion and rheumatic pains. He went to bed, and Victoria sat by his side for a day until he felt better.

So much better did he feel, that he decided to visit the Prince of Wales at Madingley, Bertie’s residence at Cambridge University, for a personal interview as a follow-up to his unanswered letter. The day of his visit was chilly and stormy, yet father and son took a long walk together for private discussion away from prying eyes and ears.

Back at Windsor, Albert grew worse, complaining of pains in his back and legs, weariness, and weakness. He had to take frequent rests.

“Don’t worry, my love,” Victoria told him. “I’ve sent for Dr. Clark. He’ll make you well again.”

She had complete confidence that this would be so. Victoria’s commands were always followed.

 

Henry Adams reported the latest news from home to his father. “Everyone at home is jubilant over this situation regarding the
Trent
Affair. Every newspaper I can find applauds it, the House of Representatives passed a resolution commending the captain of the USS
San Jacinto,
and worse, Navy Secretary Welles called the captain a hero.”

“Have anyone in the British government read about this?”

“Presumably so.”

Charles Francis turned to the window inside the study of his rented residence and peered down at the busy traffic scene below. Horses and carriages competed with pedestrians and street vendors in a chaotic melee that would put New York to shame. London was a bustling, frenzied city, full of paradoxes. Relief societies worked tirelessly to cure hunger and homelessness, while crime and prostitution went on unchecked in parts of London. Yet she was a fiercely proud city. News of his country’s apparent hostility would not be taken well by a country used to being in command of the high seas.

When Lords Russell and Palmerston discovered the North’s perfidy, what would happen to their accommodation of his stealthy stalking of commerce raider builders? They might find themselves dispatched on a fishing trawler to find their own way home.

Charles Francis sighed. Nothing ever occurred simply or as expected in matters of diplomacy. “Is there anything else?”

“Just a letter from Uncle Henry.” His son handed him the envelope.

If Charles Francis hoped to be encouraged by a friendly missive from his brother, he was sorely mistaken. The letter was no enthusiastic cheer over a perceived Northern victory in the capture of Mason and Slidell, the Confederate diplomats taken from
Trent
and jailed. Instead, it was a rant over what he saw as a criminal act by the United States. Seizing the two men was, in his opinion, no better than the search and impressment that the British Navy had always conducted—a practice that the United States had opposed since its founding.

Worse, he thought Charles Francis was complicit in the whole thing.

“Surely our government will release the men and issue an apology to Britain, Father. If for no reason than a recognition of long-standing international law.”

“I’m not so sure, son. Britons can be stubbornly proud, and we are even worse. If my brother’s opinion is that our actions constituted an act of impressment and were dishonorable, then American minds will be changed over it. If we continue to crow and beat our chests over it, I believe we are in for a very difficult situation with Britain.”

“Are you suggesting they might want to go to war with us?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

Henry blanched before him, and Charles Francis was certain his own face was the same shade of white.

“Father, how can we ever hope to win our war with the South if Britain sends her warships to our shores to do battle with us?”

“We can’t. We’ll be lost and the nation divided forever, each side ripe for the plucking by other predatory nations.”

Henry picked up writing supplies from a desk and poised himself, as if ready to go to battle with pen and paper. “What shall we do, then?”

“We’ll have to seek royal interference, I believe.”

“The prince is laid low by illness right now.”

“I’m afraid that in this case, the prince will have to rally himself out of bed. Britain’s security—and ours—depends upon it.”

A
ccepting Mary’s invitation to go shopping along Oxford Street, Violet and Susanna walked to the dressmaker’s shop, and together they walked to their destination, spending an afternoon in and out of different shops. Violet noticed signs tacked up on buildings and in windows, reading, “Outrage on the British Flag!” and “Release Mason and Slidell!”

The papers were whipping up public enthusiasm for an attack on the United States for its unprovoked harassment against Britain by boarding one of its ships. Between
The Times
and Graham, she was sick to death of the entire subject.

Mary purchased several pairs of scissors at an ironmonger’s, while Violet finally visited a doll shop to browse for more playthings for Susanna. Sometimes the girl was so much older than her age, and at other times she reverted back to a mere child. Since the train accident, Susanna had been a quiet, reserved adult. Today, Violet planned to bring out the child.

The C. Laurent Fashion Dolls shop was run by a tall, elderly woman with an almost regal bearing, as if selling dolls were the equivalent of hosting a diplomatic reception.

That bearing, though, belied her very gentle, soft-spoken nature. “How may I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Laurent?”

“No, that was my mother. She passed away about twenty-five years ago. I’m Elizabeth Greycliffe Peters. Pleased to meet you.” The women shook hands.

“It looks as though your daughter is quite enamored with the dollhouse in the window.” Susanna was poking around inside a miniature house that reminded Violet of the sparkling stone Regency townhomes of Brighton. “That’s our Barclay House model, and we have many furniture pieces that will fit it, as well as a set of dolls in society clothing that are appropriate to the model.”

Susanna’s face was so suffused with joy over the assortment of sofas, tables, beds, and lamps she could move around from room to room and floor to floor that Violet was powerless to keep from buying the house, the doll family, and every stick of furniture the shop owner recommended. Mrs. Peters promised to deliver everything the following day.

They left the doll shop and stopped for tea. They nibbled on sweets and sipped cups of Earl Grey at their table next to a window overlooking the street. Violet and Mary discussed the purchases of the day, while Susanna was entirely preoccupied with her almond scone.

They were not to be left in peace, however, as a group of old jack-tars—notable by their leathery, wrinkled skin that had surely seen too many years of sun while at sea—marched past their restaurant, shouting obscenities and waving fists in a fury over the slight the Royal Navy had suffered because of the U.S. boarding of
Trent
. Their ages made no difference to their physiques, as most of them were still barrel-chested and powerfully built from years of climbing up masts. They all wore their uniforms of white pants, shirt, and cap, with dark kerchiefs tied around their shoulders.

One of the men, even more intimidating than the rest with a shock of snow white hair on his head, stopped the others and pointed at the restaurant before parting from his mates and entering the establishment. The maitre d’ hurried to the front of the restaurant to confront the sailor. A muted argument ensued, with the sailor pointing out to his friends and back to the restaurant, and the maitre d’ waving his hands “no” in front of the man.

Finally throwing up his hands in disgust, the sailor stomped out of the restaurant to rejoin his compatriots.

Violet breathed a sigh of relief. At least there would be no violent altercations to ruin their meal.

Moments later, glass exploded next to them as a brick came hurtling through a nearby window. It missed Susanna’s head by mere inches as it found its landing spot on an empty table near them.

Violet jumped up, trembling, as she brushed shards out of her hair and off her dress. “Mary, Susanna, are you all right?” They both nodded, their eyes wide in shock. The restaurant was pandemonium as patrons rose, shouting and pointing as they fled through the rear of the building. The maitre d’ was helpless in controlling the situation.

Violet felt bile rising in her throat.

Enough.

Enough of men brutishly throwing tantrums. Enough of the flying fur over what the Americans were doing.

Especially enough where it concerned any harm coming to Susanna.

“Excuse me,” she said to the still-dazed Mary and Susanna.

Violet marched through the chaos of the restaurant and out the front door, where the sailors were laughing at what they’d done. She didn’t stop until she was eye to eye with the grizzled man who had earlier barged into the restaurant.

Rather, she stood eye to chest with him. He was taller and wider than he’d seemed from inside the restaurant. She was too angry to care.

“How dare you. You and your, your
friends
. You think your outrage over some perceived slight against Her Majesty’s Navy, your pride, or your oafish ideals entitles you to attack innocent women—”

“Madam, we didn’t mean it against you—”

“—and children who are peaceably minding—”

“We just wanted the owner to be patriotic and offer a few old tars a meal—”

“—their own business. Sir, you are a bully and a disgrace to Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“Madam, we are not—”

“So I suggest that you and your fellow tars mind your own business, stop worrying about other countries, and retire to your own tavern wherever it is that you live.”

Violet knew she was causing a worse scene than the jack-tars were, but it was too late to do anything about it. Honestly, all of this posturing about what was happening across the Atlantic was ridiculous.

The sailor and his friends gaped at her for several seconds, nonplussed at the unexpected outrage from a restaurant patron, but Violet maintained her hard stare at the man who could have killed Susanna with his recklessness. Two near misses were all she would tolerate.

The man swallowed and blinked. “We meant no offense, madam. Good day.” He nodded at her and shuffled off with his friends.

She rejoined Mary and Susanna back inside the restaurant, where they stood, open-mouthed at her exchange with the sailors. Before they left, the maitre d’ approached them, inviting madam back for a complimentary meal at any time of her choosing.

The trio returned home silently, each lost in her own thoughts about the day’s events, the dollhouse forgotten.

 

Henry was right about the prince, Charles Francis thought, observing the man’s gray pallor. He was also subject to bouts of sweating, which he attempted to ignore by casually pouring glasses of water from a carafe, but a servant was refilling the carafe with alarming frequency.

Charles Francis had to admire Prince Albert, though, for his dedication to his work. A true servant to his country, the man was. Albert sat behind a desk inside Windsor Castle with Charles Francis, Henry, and Lord Russell gathered around to discuss the British reaction to the
Trent
Affair.

“Palmerston is beside himself,” Lord Russell said. “He assembled his cabinet and told us, ‘You may stand for this, but damned if I will!’ which drew cheers from many. I must tell you, gentlemen, that he asked me to draft a message to Lord Lyons, our minister to the United States, directing him to demand an apology from the Lincoln administration for its violation of international law, as well as to demand the immediate release of Mason and Slidell to British custody.”

“Or else . . . ?” Charles Francis asked.

Lord Russell casually poured his own glass of water from the carafe on the desk. “Or else Britain will cut off diplomatic ties with the United States.”

Henry’s glance surely reflected his own disappointment in things.

“I see,” Charles Francis said, waiting to see if there was more. There was.

“In addition, our Atlantic fleet has been put on alert, and plans are being made to send eight thousand troops to Canada. I’m afraid we may have war between our countries.”

The worst of news.

Prince Albert spoke, his voice quiet but commanding. “However, at my behest, the queen included in the dispatch her hope that the captain of the USS San
Jacinto
acted without the knowledge or approval of your government or military superiors, and that she presumed the United States had not intended to insult us.”

Charles Francis sat back in his leather chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Thereby giving us the opportunity to apologize for the misunderstanding, while saving face diplomatically.”

“Precisely. I can also inform you that Prime Minister Palmerston accepted these changes, despite his great anger. I believe a more softened position will benefit both of our nations.” The prince opened a desk drawer and pulled out a packet, withdrawing a letter from it. “This is the final letter, and we would like your endorsement by writing a separate letter to accompany it to President Lincoln, expressing your support for this solution.”

Charles Francis addressed his next statement to Lord Russell. “Presumably my other activities will not be interfered with as a result of my cooperation.”

“What activities are those?” Russell asked.

“Your discretion is appreciated, sir.”

They agreed that Henry would draft his father’s dictation that very day, to ensure quick dispatch of Britain’s official position on the
Trent
Affair.

The prince downed a final glass of water. “And now, I believe I shall take a small rest. Negotiations can be quite exhausting.” Albert rose, signaling that their meeting was over.

Charles Francis smiled. He would have sent such a letter without the implied threat, for he, too, wanted all to remain well between their countries. An assurance that he would be left alone to pursue commerce raiders was a sweet extra.

 

“Those swanky new steam-powered ships have nothing on a good sail when the wind is right, eh?” Fletcher grinned through the rivulets of sweat coursing down his face despite the cool fall weather. “And they have to constantly stop for re-coaling.”

Graham grunted as he shoved a coffin farther inside the hold. “You may be faster under a brisk wind, but it’s of no advantage if the wind dies down for even an hour. Nor if you run into a recently re-coaled steam ship. Let’s just hope our sample run works.”

“It will, brother, it will.”

Graham hoped so. They were loading coffins and a variety of other funerary supplies aboard
Lillian Rose
. One coffin, made easily accessible, was filled with muslin wrapped tightly around a wax figure obtained from Madame Tussauds. The remaining coffins were stacked tightly together, in hopes that, if stopped, authorities would find it too onerous to check the remaining boxes.

“What do you hear from Mr. Harper?” Graham asked.

“Nothing much.”

Graham rapped his knuckles in frustration against the side of a coffin. “Doesn’t it strike you as a bit strange that Mr. Harper seems to be avoiding us? It’s taking too long for this deal to come to conclusion.”

“I couldn’t disagree more. He’s understandably cautious, since he’s representing a fledgling country. I believe he trusts us, though. We just need to be patient.”

“Patient! The man is incomprehensible, and my patience with him would impress Job himself. Do I have to erupt in boils all over my body before Harper makes a decision?”

“Peace, brother. Dealings like this aren’t the same as a family relying on you to see a body committed to the ground in three days’ time. It takes time and a building of trust. All will be well, I assure you.”

Fletcher then changed the subject. “Has Violet made any further inquiries into our work?”

“No.”

“She’s not the least bit curious? She’s always struck me as bright and inquisitive.”

“Don’t worry about my wife.”

“Of course I’m not worried, just wondering—”

Graham gritted his teeth. “As you say, ‘peace, brother.’ Can we speak of other things? Such as how you intend to explain a wax figure if someone stops your ship and does more than a cursory inspection of the cargo?”

Fletcher grinned. “I’ll think of something. I crave such challenges and hope to have such an encounter at some point. A whole herd of Yankees are no match for wits with even one of Her Majesty’s humble subjects.”

“Fletcher, sometimes I wonder how an idiot like you was born my brother.”

“And I wonder how a prig such as yourself ever became mine. Peace, Brother?” He stuck out his hand.

Graham shook it. “Peace. Against my better judgment.”

In Graham’s judgment, they needed more sources than Samuel Harper. If Fletcher didn’t think so, very well, but it wouldn’t stop Graham from moving plans forward while Fletcher took this trial cargo across the Atlantic.