Lady of Ashes (29 page)

 

 

Mr. Goodwyn had been ravaged by an illness and required extensive cosmetics, which reminded her that she needed to purchase more—

The bell jangled, distracting both her and Susanna, who was unpacking a box of mourning fans and arranging them in a pretty display. It was Samuel Harper.

“Why, Sam, is it true that I have still have a friend left in London?”

He entered, one hand behind his back. “I can’t speak for any other faithless scoundrels, but I am—and always will be—your devoted friend.”

“It would seem that my friends now live across the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Except your friend Mary.”

“Except her. And my family.”

“Yet, if it is true that I am your only other friend, you’ll find none truer.”

“Thank you, Sam. Is today’s visit intended solely to boost my wounded pride?”

“Er, no, I, um, was wondering if you’ve received any word from Mr. Morgan.”

“Ah, speaking of scoundrels. No, he hasn’t contacted me. I’ve no idea if he’s on a remote island somewhere, was lost at sea, or picked up by pirates.”

“You’re remarkably calm over it.”

“I’ve decided that my tears are better spent elsewhere.”

“I see.” Samuel shifted to one foot. “I brought with me a gift of friendship.” He moved his hand out from behind his back. He held a single yellow rose, its petals poised to open, and promising to be a luscious bloom when it did so.

“How lovely, Sam. Yellow is indeed the color of friendship, isn’t it?”

Samuel’s earlobes turned red again. “Yes, I came for another reason, though. I’ve read the salvos against you in the papers and saw your rebuttal advertisement, as well. How have you been faring since?”

“I’ve not seen a disastrous drop in business, even if it isn’t what it once was. As for neighboring shops and acquaintances, well, let’s just say that if I were a member of society, I would declare myself cut.”

Samuel looked puzzled.

“You see, the worst thing that could possibly happen to a society matron is to find herself snubbed in public, or cut. It’s really a tragedy beyond compare.”

“Ah. It doesn’t appear to have you too overwrought.”

“Since I don’t have the worries of being in society, it isn’t terribly devastating. I’m mostly concerned about the drop in business.” Violet laid the rose across the papers she was working on.

“You look busy enough.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. I still have some clients, but for how long? Reputation is everything in the undertaking business. After all, we deal with people in their most private moment. A blot on our character is our ruin. I cannot afford a scandal.”

“I understand. There was recently such a scandal in America.”

“You have unscrupulous funeral men there?”

“Not generally, but the war is, as you can imagine, increasing the need for them. A pair of undertakers, Hutton and Williams, set themselves up to especially care for dead soldiers before they are shipped home by train.”

“Your undertakers must be expert embalmers.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. However, the two men were recently accused of lifting bodies from the battlefield, embalming them without family permission, then refusing to release the bodies for shipment home until the families paid their outrageous fee for the embalming.”

“What were they charging?”

“Something around a hundred dollars.”

Violet drew in a sharp breath. “That’s an outrageous price.”

“The U.S. government thought so, too. Hutton and Williams were arrested and imprisoned, but a sufficient case could not be brought against them and so they were released.”

“Reputations ruined, I presume?”

“Time will tell. There’s a great need for their services right now, and we don’t have quite the penchant for ‘cutting’ as the British do.”

Violet laughed. “Perhaps I’d be much more successful in America, then.”

Susanna tossed aside the empty box from which she’d been pulling fans. Nodding in satisfaction at her countertop display, she came to where Violet stood talking to Samuel.

“Good day, Mr. Harper. Do
you
think Mama would be successful in America? I do.”

“This does bring me to my point, though, Violet, which is my recommendation that you consider moving—for your and Susanna’s protection.”

“Moving! Where?”

“To where you and Susanna both recommend yourselves . . . the United States.”

“The United States? You’re at war! How in heaven’s name would that be safe for us? Besides, my entire life is here. My parents are in Brighton, I have a home here, and presumably at some point Graham may be back.”

“The war is mostly confined to the South. The capital is safe, your honest services are desperately needed, and, quite frankly, Violet, I doubt Graham will return. Even if he did, you need protection from him as much as from anyone else.”

“This is foolish. I’m in no physical danger, from Graham or anyone else. I’m simply in a difficult situation at the moment. Susanna and I will be fine.” She stepped over to put a protective arm around the girl, who stood stiffly next to her. It wasn’t like Susanna to not immediately lean against Violet.

“I’ve no doubt about your capability to fend off the average ill-wishers and name-callers, but I’m not as convinced that they are the totality of peril to which you may be subject. I’m sure you’re aware of the anti-American sentiment here, and Mr. Morgan’s activities ensure those sentiments will extend over your own household.”

“It is probably far less than the anti-British sentiment in your country.”

“That’s not true in Washington City. There are diplomatic corps from many countries living in that city. You would be made welcome there, I’m sure of it.”

“You underestimate my ability to defend myself. Have you ever been to Washington City, Sam?”

“Of course. My law practice is situated there.”

“I thought you were from Massachusetts?”

“I am, but my law partner’s family is from Bladensburg, Maryland, near the capital, and so he is based there, while I spend most of my time in Massachusetts.”

Violet had heard details of that city. Wasn’t that where Graham’s father had fought during the War of 1812? “Mr. Dickens writes that Washington is a city of magnificent intentions, but little else. That it has spacious avenues that begin in nothing and lead to nowhere, and lack only for houses and inhabitants. I cannot believe you would recommend I go to such a place.”

Samuel shook his head. “Typical inane British reaction to all things American. You’ve never set foot in our country, yet you have the notion that we’re nothing but rustic savages who traipse about in patched-up clothing, bickering about everything in barely passable English. You Brits know nothing of how modern we are. You stay insulated inside your antiquated notion that we are still one of your humble little colonies with no wherewithal to govern ourselves.”

“You obviously have no idea what I really think of Americans.”

Samuel plowed forward. “And when I—a humbled American—offer you protective advice, your fur goes flying and your sharpened nails are ready for the attack.”

How dare Sam insult her? She’d been minding her shop, not requesting his interference in her personal life, when he strode in, telling her she needed to transplant herself across the ocean, as though he were her father. Or worse, as though he were Graham.

“Mr. Harper, how could you suggest that I flee London like some common criminal scheduled for transportation to a penal colony? In fact, how dare you suggest anything at all? I’m not your wife, we are merely friends, if you recall.” Violet picked up the rose and flourished it once before slamming it down on Mr. Goodwyn’s unfinished obituary.

“I suggest no such thing. If you don’t just beat the Dutch, Mrs. Morgan. I am merely making a recommendation for your future, out of concern for you and Susanna. You’ve already seen the elephant in your life and I am not suggesting that you do something any worse than you have already experienced.”

“Beat the Dutch? See the elephant? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You never do. Good day to you, madam.” Samuel slammed his hat on his head and banged his way out the door. The bells jangled viciously, unlike the sweet tinkle they’d made when he first entered a half hour ago.

Already Violet regretted her harsh words.

Susanna put her head on Violet’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her. “Why are you so unkind to Mr. Harper? I like him. So does Mrs. Softpaws.”

Violet sighed. “I suppose that’s the problem. Sometimes liking someone means you push them away before your feelings can cause trouble.”

“Mama, that makes no sense. It’s only words that cause trouble, not feelings.”

“I know, but there it is. Why don’t we concentrate on some more of your grammar lessons this afternoon, since the shop isn’t too busy?”

Later that evening, Violet took the rose home and spread the petals in a bowl on her vanity table, inhaling deeply of their rich fragrance and wishing life weren’t so difficult.

 

 

A new summons to see the queen, this time at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, erased Violet’s misgivings about what had happened with Samuel and replaced them with a new and different fear. What did the queen know about Graham’s activities? Had she been properly apprised of Violet’s innocence by Lord Palmerston, or had he let the queen believe whatever she read in the press?

If the queen read all of the scurrilous news about her, was this summons intended to rebuke Violet even further? If she was to be chastised by Queen Victoria, all hopes of continuing her business would evaporate, once the foxes and hounds alike were finished devouring her in the press.

Instead of the excitement she’d felt on her first journey in comfortable luxury, the trip to Osborne House filled Violet with terror, the choppy, bitterly cold ferry ride from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight adding to her trepidation. She felt as though she were seeing the sun, the rolling landscape, and the bouncing waves for the last time on the road to her own execution. All that was missing were bystanders throwing rocks and vegetables at her. As usual, the servants in their scarlet and blue livery were uncommunicative, so Violet didn’t even bother trying to get information out of them as to the purpose of the summons.

The queen had changed drastically since the death of her husband. Violet was struck by how puffed and swollen her eyes and cheeks were, as though her tears had run in an endless stream for more than three months. The queen’s mourning gown was fashionable, and jet dripped from her neck, ears, wrists, and fingers. In fact, her ensemble threatened to swallow the queen whole in her misery.

Was Dr. Jenner attending to the queen?

Violet curtsied to the queen and sat in the chair Victoria indicated.

“Mrs. Morgan, this is a singular honor for you, as we now live mostly in seclusion here at Osborne House. We join hundreds of thousands of our countrymen in remaining in mourning for the prince consort.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“We’re sure you, as an undertaker, can feel the pall that has blanketed Great Britain. We fear that the lowest bootblack struggles to fulfill his daily duties, so great is our national grief. It is as though we’ll never see our way through it, is it not, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Violet wondered if Dr. Jenner was on the premises, and, if so, could she find him?

Victoria stared blankly at the wall behind Violet for several moments before continuing. “Yet, you are wondering why we called you here today.”

Wondering, and praying she wouldn’t have cause to tell Sam he was right.

“To assuage our personal grief, and therefore giving reason for all others to lessen their own, we wish you to tell us about our dear prince’s funeral.”

“You mean . . . you wish to know about the mourners in attendance, the flowers, that sort of thing?”

“Much more than that, Mrs. Morgan. We especially want to know of the prince consort’s repose. Was he peaceful? Was his brow unfurrowed? How was he dressed? Did our son show the proper amount of respect to his father?”

Violet explained in as comprehensive a way as she could, leaving out the more—unpleasant—details. The queen constantly interrupted her with questions and for clarifications. Did the horses have black plumes on their heads? Did Bertie touch his head to his dear father’s coffin? Did Dean Wellesley read from the Psalms? How many wreaths were placed on the coffin? Who placed the violet and camellia wreath she had sent from Osborne House?

Violet was exhausted by the end, but comforted by the fact that the queen apparently had no intent of dismissing her from the royal presence and thereby giving the press an even more delectable bit of haunch into which to sink their fanged teeth.

Once the queen was satisfied that she’d wrung every pertinent detail from Violet that she could, her mind wandered to other things.

“We believe we may have told you, Mrs. Morgan, that we have decided to have a new resting place built for my husband at Frogmore, our home about a half mile away from Windsor. A glorious mausoleum is being built there. A private place where he can rest in peace and comfort away from the others buried in Windsor.”