Lady of Ashes (45 page)

She closed with wishes for his health and safety and her hopes that he would reply soon.

There, that was much better.

 

 

Soon Violet was summoned back to Windsor for Albert’s reinterment at Frogmore. Frogmore House was located a half mile east from Windsor Castle, and the newly constructed mausoleum was located across the expansive lawns from the house.

The queen would easily be able to gaze upon her beloved whenever she was here.

Mr. Rowland showed Violet and Susanna the mausoleum, a copper-roofed Gothic structure he said was inspired by one built by Albert’s uncle, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, as a teahouse for his beloved wife, Princess Charlotte, Victoria’s cousin. After her untimely death in childbirth at age twenty-one, it became a shrine to her. How appropriate that the queen would copy such a structure to hold her own husband’s remains.

They moved carefully through the new plantings surrounding the mausoleum, then went up the wide expanse of steps leading to the entrance, which was marked by three archways. The exterior of the building was granite, which Mr. Rowland observed had been imported from Aberdeen, Devon, Cornwall, and Guernsey, alongside stone from Portland.

Inside the building, workers were furiously working on walls and floors, although they would leave the interior thoroughly cleaned prior to the prince’s reinterment. The chipping, tapping, and screeching of hydraulic jacks lifting sheets of carved marble up along the walls was deafening.

“It will be at least five to ten years before the decoration is finished,” Mr. Rowland shouted above the noise. “The marbles you see have been imported from all over the world: Italy, Greece, France, Portugal, Africa, and America. The Portuguese red marble is a gift from the King of Portugal, a cousin to both Her Majesty and His Highness.”

Even though the interior was largely incomplete, it was obvious what the architect’s intent was. The floors and walls were being covered in the red marble, with inlaid decoration provided with all of the other colored marbles, in green, white, yellow, and other light shades. Insets along the walls were obviously intended for future statuary. It was like a colossal Roman mosaic being built on a sumptuous scale the ancients could have never imagined, but without the dark and somber effects of most burial sites.

What was complete, though, was the tomb that lay in the center of the mausoleum, a mammoth structure currently covered by canvas drapings.

“Once the workers are finished today and all of the dust is removed, we’ll come back and I’ll show you the tomb. Seen enough for now?”

Violet nodded, her hands over her ears.

It was truly the most fantastical mausoleum Violet had ever seen in all her years of undertaking. The prince’s mausoleum at St. George’s Chapel was like a pauper’s grave compared to this.

Mr. Rowland escorted them back to Windsor Castle, where Susanna was once again sent off to play with the royal dogs, to her utter delight, while Violet was ushered into the queen’s presence.

“Ah, Mrs. Morgan, we presume you’ve seen our dear prince’s mausoleum?”

“Your Majesty, it is beyond what I could have ever imagined from the newspaper drawings. It is both beautiful and cheerful.”

“Yes, we are most pleased with the progress. Now the nation’s most illustrious prince will have a resting place befitting his good soul, and we can rest next to him one day.”

Violet hoped that once Albert was reinterred, the queen would be less fixated on him. Disturbing newspaper articles reported that even a year after his death, Victoria was taking little interest in the affairs of state, and the public was noticing.

“I am honored to be working with Mr. Rowland again, Your Majesty.”

The three of them spent an hour discussing the details of the prince’s second funeral. The queen wished an even simpler affair than what occurred at Windsor. No foreign dignitaries whatsoever, just family and a few invited guests.

A question arose as to whether the queen herself could be a member of the procession. Although a sitting monarch was not permitted to attend a funeral, this was not a funeral per se, just a relocation. After debates back and forth over the propriety of the Queen of England riding behind a funeral hearse, the queen finally decided that she wouldn’t place herself in the cortege, but that she would arrive in a carriage just after Albert’s placement in the tomb, so that she could visit her “darling husband.”

Thus agreed, Violet and Mr. Rowland set to work on arrangements while the teams of workers scrubbed the dusty walls and floors to a sparkling condition. Once the cleaning was finished, Mr. Rowland swept the canvas cloth from the tomb, revealing the spectacularly carved effigies of Albert and Victoria in delicate white marble covering the sarcophagus below. Even Susanna gasped at the beauty.

Susanna was a great help to them, willingly running errands and delivering messages as required. Violet would have to remember to tell Sam this in her next letter, although thus far she’d received no replies to any of her correspondence. Surely that was because he was difficult to find, and not because anything had happened to him.

Windsor Chapel’s dean, Gerald Wellesley, performed a small ceremony to consecrate the new mausoleum, and the next day the funeral was held. The air was nippy but still and the sun shone bright, as if lending itself to the success of the day. Guards were posted at intervals along the route between Windsor Castle and Frogmore as witnesses to the prince’s final journey. Mr. Rowland positioned himself at Windsor Chapel to oversee the removal of the prince from his existing tomb, while Violet was ready for the prince’s arrival at Frogmore. The queen awaited a messenger who would be sent galloping at high speed to Windsor Castle the moment the prince was sealed inside his new resting place.

In her tall hat banded in flowing crape, Violet watched from inside Frogmore’s entrance as the funeral procession approached. So far, all appeared to be well. The carriage bearing the prince slowed to a stop outside the mausoleum, and pallbearers slid the prince’s remains out of the carriage, carrying him carefully up the steps into the mausoleum. Violet intentionally sniffed the air as the coffin went past her to be placed on a cloth-covered bier. Enough decay had occurred in the past year that the odor had been reduced to something mildly unpleasant, like a cigar burning from across the room. She was relieved that this time the lilies inside the mausoleum were merely decorative, not necessary.

Reverend Wellesley gave a homily once again, prayers were said, then everyone was ushered outside while Mr. Rowland saw to the workers, who would use a system of ropes and pulleys to remove the sarcophagus lid, place the coffin inside, then carefully seal the lid down again to await its next occupant one day.

Violet and Susanna slipped outside and down the steps as quickly as possible. Mr. Rowland and Violet had worked out a prearranged signal he would give from that side entrance, from which she would instruct the messenger to go to Windsor. She had no difficulty in finding the messenger, as he was one of few people sitting on horseback. Having secured his location, she and Susanna moved toward the assembly of guests outside, all of whom wanted to wait for the queen to pay their respects to her.

Lords Russell and Palmerston were there and acknowledged Violet with tips of their hats. Surprisingly, the Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James, Charles Francis Adams, was milling about with his son, Henry, who had the most perpetually ink-stained fingers she’d ever seen.

Dare she break protocol and approach the minister? Maybe he knew something about Sam’s whereabouts. Doubtful, she thought—why would he be apprised of individual troop movements?—but worth a try.

“Susanna,” she said. “Wait near the messenger and look for Mr. Rowland’s signal. You remember it, right? I’ll return shortly.” Susanna nodded and did as she was told. Violet approached Adams from behind, where he was in a bored conversation with some Member of Parliament.

“Your Excellency?” she asked quietly. Adams turned around and greeted her warmly.

“Ah, the indomitable Mrs. Morgan. No surprise to find you here today, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“You remember my son, Henry?”

From the corner of her eye, Violet saw Mr. Rowland appear in the side doorway and wave his hands. Seconds later the messenger was galloping out of Frogmore.

“Yes, sir, a pleasure to meet you again, although it always seems to be under awkward circumstances.”

They exchanged pleasantries for several minutes as Violet dredged up the nerve to ask what she really wanted to know. Meanwhile, the queen’s own carriage arrived, and the guests parted respectfully to let her walk through. Victoria wore a new dress of ebony with a touch of ivory lace at the collar the only dash of color, topped by a long black cloak. She was draped in her usual strands of jet beads, which clicked together as she climbed the stairs to visit her husband. Once the doors were closed behind the queen, people once again strolled about the lawns and conversations resumed. Everyone would remain until the queen departed.

“I was wondering, Your Excellency, if you’ve perhaps heard anything from Mr. Harper since he left to join your army. Has he . . . seen battle, to your knowledge?”

Adams frowned. “You don’t know? I’m surprised his father hasn’t written you.”

That familiar knot of dread, such a familiar friend to Violet, started to moan low and deep inside her. “Know what?”

“Harper joined the Twenty-eighth Massachusetts Infantry Regiment and was at the assault on Marye’s Heights during the battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia. It was a terrible time for our troops, as the Confederates had a very well-defended position there. What was General Burnside thinking to throw his men into such a slaughterhouse? At least the president fired him as commander of the Army of the Potomac. Anyway, I’m afraid to have to tell you that Harper was among those brave souls who knew what he was up against and still threw himself against the hill.”

“Pardon me? What are you saying?”

“Harper was listed among the casualties that day.”

“I see.” The minister’s face was receding from her as she imagined what horrors Sam had endured. And was enduring no longer.

“Mrs. Morgan? Are you quite all right?” Adams asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to impart such news.”

“No, I’m grateful. Thank you, sir, for your trouble.” Violet stumbled away from Adams and his son, back up the stairs to the entrance of the mausoleum. Mr. Rowland would severely chastise her later for such a breach in etiquette, but for the moment she wanted to be inside its echoing confines.

How appropriate that she was at a funeral the very day she learned that Samuel was dead. For once, she shared the queen’s overwhelming grief. She stood inside the entrance with her back to the door and let tears stream unchecked down her face.

Inside the mausoleum, the queen knelt before the tomb, her back to Violet as she prayed, the words unintelligible from the distance. The queen had been provided two opportunities to formally grieve her husband, first at Windsor and now here at Frogmore.

Meanwhile, Violet had no final resolutions to her anguish. For Graham she only had a memorial service to conclude his memory, and now Sam was gone forever without a chance to say good-bye.

“Mrs. Morgan?”

Mortified, Violet realized that the queen had noticed her and was now walking toward her. “Your Majesty, please forgive me, I—”

“Don’t worry, we understand your grieving. Your devotion to the prince consort is admirable. It is the reason we esteem you so well. Please, join us at his side.” The queen led Violet over to the tomb and urged the undertaker to kneel next to her.

Violet didn’t dare explain her real sorrow and instead followed the queen’s actions, praying quietly. Soon, though, she gave herself over to the pain of Sam’s loss. She folded her arms against Albert’s marble legs, put her head down, and sobbed.

“There, there, my dear,” the queen said, patting her back. “You must remember that we will all be reunited one day with Albert and live in great happiness together with Christ and His saints.”

Violet didn’t want to be reunited later; she wanted Sam back
now
.

When she was finally spent, she glanced up in embarrassment at the queen, who was actually genuinely smiling for the first time since Violet had met her. “All better?” Violet’s sovereign asked.

“Your Majesty, again I must apologize for my unseemly behavior—”

“Nonsense. Now take this handkerchief. Dry your eyes before you go. Your daughter will be wondering where you are.”

“Yes, madam.” Violet took the proffered lace-edged cloth with the Hanoverian seal embroidered at one corner. As she left the mausoleum, she hoped that one day far in the future she’d be able to look back fondly that the Queen of England consoled
her
during the prince consort’s reburial.

 

V
iolet brushed back a loose tendril of hair that had escaped its comb. She glanced into the mirror above her drawing room fireplace. Were those strands of gray winking at her? She sighed. She was a thirty-year-old widow; what did it matter?

Susanna came bouncing down the stairs from her bedroom, ready to start another day at the shop. She’d left behind her coltish awkwardness and blossomed into a beauty Violet hardly recognized from the pitifully thin orphan she’d discovered two years ago.

Young men noticed Susanna, too, with her dancing blue eyes, ready laugh, and the aura of mystery surrounding her family’s profession. If they only knew that Susanna had refused to speak for months upon her arrival in Violet’s household and then suffered the horror of a kidnapping. Susanna had somehow found the strength to only look forward and never back, a skill Violet had not quite mastered.

The two never spoke of that wretched time, nor of Samuel Harper, but Violet sometimes felt Susanna’s sharp eyes on her from an upper-story window when she went outside to pluck a rose from her bush, which had grown into a wild and tangled mess that she refused to prune.

Susanna also didn’t miss Violet’s perusals of the newspapers and the way she lingered over any news that came from the United States. Violet avidly tracked the progress of their civil war and reacted with as much delight as the rest of her countrymen when the U.S. president issued his Emancipation Proclamation in January, which declared slaves in rebellious states free. Consequently, Violet and the rest of England were also horrified by the continued carnage. Just in the month of May was a battle in Chancellorsville, Virginia, with more than 30,000 recorded deaths, followed by the start of an ongoing siege campaign in Vicksburg, Mississippi, where the Union General Grant was attempting to starve Confederate forces from that city.

Violet clipped articles on both events and added them to the many others she’d cut out and saved in a scrapbook that she kept under her bed. She didn’t think Susanna knew about the scrapbook, although Susanna did watch Violet pensively every time she took her pair of snips out of a drawer.

No, they never visited the past, but instead worked together toward a future. Business had continued thriving after Catherine Wilson’s death, and in just a few months Morgan Undertaking took over the empty shop next door, as well as purchasing two more funeral carriages and hiring another young assistant, Benjamin Maddox. Susanna was progressing by leaps and bounds, even though she had several more years of apprenticeship left. There was little Violet didn’t trust her to do.

Earlier in the summer, Violet and Susanna took the train to Brighton—avoiding the excursion train—to spend time with her parents. They referred to Susanna as their granddaughter, which always made her eyes sparkle in happiness. It made Violet happy, too, since she was now ending her third decade and it was unlikely that she’d ever marry again and have children.

“So,” she said. “Are you ready to face Mrs. Bingham today?” Mrs. Bingham was a particularly difficult customer whose parents had died within hours of each other from cholera. Violet hoped that there wasn’t to be an outbreak, and it would only be confined to these two. Mrs. Bingham changed her mind every hour or so on what she wanted done for her parents’ joint funeral, and routinely sent messengers around with new instructions.

“We’ll face her together, Mother, although I’m thinking of carrying my scalpel on a chatelaine around my waist as a warning to her.”

“Susanna!”

Animated laughter spirited around the room. “Mother, you know I’m just teasing. Mrs. Bingham’s exterior is made of elephant hide, so my scalpel could never cut through it.”

Violet shook her head. How proud Mrs. Sweeney would be to see how her lovely child turned out.

 

Mrs. Bingham was the least of their problems that day. Two more customers came to the shop with relatives who had also died of cholera. Violet sent Benjamin, her newest assistant, out to alert nearby hospitals that London might be facing an outbreak. She asked Susanna to inventory all supplies on hand and place an order to increase everything five-fold, especially winding cloth, which they would need to thoroughly protect others from those who died of cholera.

“Will, I’m afraid you will have to help me deal with Mrs. Bingham today. Harry, please see to our new customers and take very careful notes.” The owner and employees of Morgan Undertaking all went their separate ways to accomplish their tasks, hoping they were not facing an eruption of death.

 

Unfortunately, they were. Days blended with nights and back into mornings as the five workers at Morgan Undertaking worked constantly to manage the influx of burials needed. Every undertaker in London was overwhelmed by the endless succession of funerals, especially since these bodies needed to be buried quickly. Church bells clanged night and day.

The disease knew no preference, whisking away infants, the elderly, and anyone in between for whom it had an affinity. There was no time to consider whether or not she, Susanna, and their other employees were risking contagion—they simply hoped for the best.

Except for Benjamin. After two weeks of dealing with relentless death, he stalked away, vowing that he’d had enough of the sunken eyes and shriveled skin that resulted from cholera’s dehydrating effects. So they were down to four able bodies to do work that required at least a dozen people. Still they continued on, determined not to collapse from exhaustion.

Mary Overfelt, too, was fatigued from both the outbreak and the accompanying rush orders for gowns that flooded her shop. She hired a second assistant, but it was of little help against the tidal wave of work. Poor Mary was further distressed when George disappeared on her, leaving behind a brief note that he was ill-equipped to handle the bedlam in London and was headed across the channel to France to wait it out. Besides, he added, he would just be in Mary’s way while she worked.

Violet shook her head, hugged her friend, and murmured a word of sympathy, but there was little time to spend on it.

More people were dying.

The lurking exhaustion at Morgan Undertaking was replaced with utter horror when Benjamin’s parents came by, their eyes swollen and red-rimmed. Their Benji, just twenty years old, was a victim of cholera and they needed an undertaker for him.

So it went, day after endless day, until Violet was certain she was losing her grip on sanity. Susanna was pale and lifeless, while Will and Harry were not only unwashed and rumpled, but bickered with each other constantly. When would it all end?

It did end, though, in seemingly a matter of moments. As though the sun had disappeared behind the moon, causing black shadows to fall upon the earth, then reappeared again in full force as though there had never been a dark moment, the cases of cholera completely stopped.

Within another week or so, Morgan Undertaking and other funeral men had concluded whatever funerals were left, and London was left to stand up, dust itself off, and continue in the aftermath of disaster as it had done countless times through the centuries.

How many more times would Violet face disease outbreaks in an inexorable march through her lonely life toward her own death?

 

 

“Father, momentous news.”

Charles Francis Adams looked up from his correspondence as Henry entered the room. “What news?”

“The Union has won a decisive victory at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Guess how I know this?” Henry handed his father a letter from Charles Francis Jr. “He was there himself, Father.”

Hands shaking from the double announcement that his son had been in a major battle and had also survived, Charles Francis opened the envelope.

Charles Francis wiped away a tear as he looked up at Henry. “Perhaps I’m turning into a sappy old man, son, but I have to tell you how proud I am of you and your brother. You’ve both made your marks on the Adams name, and I hope to do the same in my remaining time as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. Provided we hold together as a nation and such a position continues to exist.”

 

 

 

Although his ministers in England and France, Charles Francis Adams and William Dayton, were working hard to influence those respective governments in favor of the Union cause, the president felt a need to appeal to the average workingman in Britain. Neither Adams nor Dayton had the proper weight of impact to do so.

No,
thought Lincoln,
I’ll need to craft messages myself.

He scrawled out the first of many messages that he hoped would convince Britons of the moral imperative of their struggle. Once understood, surely they would sympathize with the North’s cause and pressure their government to turn against the South.

He nodded gravely. A good first endeavor.

His commanders assured him that with the victory at Gettysburg, it was no longer possible for the Confederacy to win the war. The only potential for the Union’s defeat lay in the hearts of its people. As long as they remained confident, victory was a certainty. Hopefully his own writings would bring Britain to their side, thus encouraging the people as his commanders suggested.

Lincoln rubbed his chin. His wife, Mary, had complained lately that he wasn’t eating enough and that his cheeks were too hollow. Perhaps, perhaps. Maybe he’d find a bigger appetite if he could be confident that the Union was indeed on a solid path to victory and that Great Britain would applaud them with formal recognition of their cause.

Until those things came to pass, he was afraid he would have no stomach for more than the sparsest diet.

 

 

Lords Palmerston and Russell sat before the queen, attempting to draw her into a political conversation with the hope of engaging her once again in the running of her country. Since Albert’s death a year and a half ago, she’d shown no interest in being head of state and had only been marginally revived when her son, Bertie, married Alexandra of Denmark back in March.

The country needed its monarch to show her face to the people.

These days she only showed her face to her ladies and to that rough hewn Scot
ghillie,
or outdoor servant, John Brown. The man needed a bath and a set of manners, not necessarily in that order. He was entirely too informal with the queen’s person, and his quarters were so close to the queen’s it was scandalous.

Palmerston brought up the issue currently bothering him. “You know the Confederacy has expelled all foreign consuls, including our own, for advising subjects to refuse to serve in combat against the United States.”

A small yipping dog, belonging to one of the queen’s ladies, jumped into Her Majesty’s lap, twirling around to get comfortable. “Now, Jasper, you mustn’t be so naughty, else we’ll send you off to your mistress with no supper whatsoever.”

Palmerston sighed. “Again, madam, about the Confederacy. As you know, Britain has adopted—and maintained—a strict policy of neutrality with foreign squabbles, hence all of the dustup with the Americans over the
Trent
Affair a couple of years ago.”

“We remember. That was just before our dear Albert died.”

“Yes, it was just before that tragic event. We’ve met informally with the Confederates but have always withheld diplomatic recognition. We’ve never even sent a formal diplomat to Richmond, whereas we’ve installed Lord Lyons in Washington City.”

“Of course, we remember.”

Lord Russell sat forward in his chair to emphasize Palmerston’s point. “Yet we’ve turned a blind eye to some of the Confederacy’s illegal activities. For example, we permitted the building of CSS
Alabama,
knowing that she would end up a combatant ship.”

The queen blinked as she continued stroking the dog.

“Your Majesty, it seems impertinent of the Confederacy to expel us, given that we have secretly given them aid,” Palmerston said.