Lady of Ashes (2 page)

“No, madam.”

“Tell me, what sort of cof—resting place—would my husband have?”

“An exceptional one, made of inch-thick elm, covered in black and lined with fine, ruffled cambric; a wool bed mattress; and the finest brass and lead fittings on the coffin. Its quality would be nearly that of an aristocrat’s. See here.” Violet flipped to a page containing a line drawing representing the coffin she was suggesting.

Mrs. Stanley nodded. “A beautiful resting place for my Edward.”

“Very elegant, I agree. Now, Mrs. Stanley, do the Stanleys have a plot or mausoleum?”

“His family is at Kensal Green.”

“Perfect. A lovely garden cemetery.” It truly was. It had attracted many prestigious families and even some royalty. Augustus Frederick, the Duke of Sussex, as well as Princess Sophia, uncle and aunt to Queen Victoria, were both buried there. The princess rested in a magnificent sarcophagus.

“But they’re in the crypt under the chapel. We never thought about purchasing a mausoleum in a better section. We never imagined anything would happen to him,” Mrs. Stanley said in explanation for why the newly wealthy Stanleys were not in a more exclusive part of the cemetery.

“Please don’t fret over it, Mrs. Stanley. Take your time purchasing a location and we can move your husband later.”

Violet steeled herself for the next question she must ask. “Mrs. Stanley, tell me, do you wish to have your husband embalmed?”

The look of horror that passed over Mrs. Stanley’s face was a familiar sight. “Heavens me, no! What an un-Christian-like thing to suggest,” the widow said, a hand across her heart.

“My apologies, I have no wish to offend. It’s just that Mr. Stanley would be . . . available . . . longer if he was embalmed, and you could therefore have more visitors.”

Violet hardly had the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Stanley was emphatically shaking her head. “Absolutely not. My husband will be buried naturally, as all respectable people are.”

Embalming was a new concept in England. Although the practice had been around for centuries, with the ancient Egyptians routinely employing it as one of their many types of funeral practices, it had been mostly limited to royalty in Europe, and even then not frequently. The Americans whom Graham despised so much were already making use of it for their battlefield dead, and the French had written extensively on the merits of the practice, but, thus far, Morgan Undertaking had only performed it on a handful of corpses. Most people were still suspicious of doing something so unnatural to a body that would shortly be committed to the ground.

Violet, in particular, ran into difficulties with families who found it unseemly that a woman would be desecrating a newly deceased person by making cuts, draining blood, and injecting fluids to prolong the freshness of the corpse. Putrefaction typically started within twenty-four hours of death, requiring profusions of flowers and candles around the coffin during visitation, as well as a quick interment.

Violet jotted notes in a small ledger tucked at the rear of the book. “Very good, madam. We have a cooling table that we can place under the coffin to keep him comfortably set during visitation. I’ll arrange for your husband’s placement and will direct the procession to the cemetery personally. And may I make a few suggestions regarding other accoutrements that might aid you during this difficult time?”

For the next hour, the women discussed further purchases, including black crape for draping across the front of the house, photography of Mr. Stanley in repose, memorial cards, and mourning stationery.

Finally, Violet pulled out her tray of mourning jewelry, made mostly from jet, a popular material derived from driftwood that had been subjected to heat, pressure, and chemical action while resting on the ocean floor. “These pieces are made in one of the finest workshops in Whitby, Yorkshire, Mrs. Stanley. You’ll find no better than what I have here.”

The new widow picked out a glittering necklace and earrings for herself, both intricately carved, as well as simpler pieces for her two adult daughters, who would be arriving from Surrey in time for the funeral. Violet noted the purchases in her ledger.

Shutting the ledger and putting everything away, Violet addressed their final matter. “I would like to see Mr. Stanley now.”

Fresh tears welled up in his wife’s eyes. “Yes, of course, this way, please. Two of my maids have already washed him.”

Family members or servants frequently handled the initial preparation of the deceased, and in poorer families they might handle all details regarding attendance on the body to save money.

Clutching her bag, Violet followed Mrs. Stanley up a wide staircase in the center hall of their townhome to the next floor of the four-story home. From the top of the landing they walked to the rear of the townhome to a shut door. Mrs. Stanley took a deep breath before opening it and entering, with Violet at her heels.

The room did not yet even have a musty odor to it, despite the heat. Given Mr. Stanley’s large figure prone on the bed, she guessed he must have only been dead less than a day. The more corpulent the deceased, the quicker the decay. She glanced at a mantel clock in the room, which was stopped at four twenty-three, confirming that he had just died the previous afternoon. Clocks were traditionally stopped at the time of death to mark the deceased’s departure from this current life and into the next. Tradition held that to permit time to continue was to invite the deceased’s spirit to remain in the home instead of moving on.

Violet waited near a window while Mrs. Stanley went to her husband, who appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully under a coverlet, kissed his brow, and said, “My dear, the lady undertaker is here. I called for her because I thought she would be most tender with you. I hope you aren’t angry with me for not hiring a gentleman undertaker.”

She kissed her husband on the cheek this time and patted his chest, then nodded silently to Violet as she slipped out of the room, still teary-eyed, and let the door gently click shut behind her.

This was the part Violet both revered and dreaded, for her almost indescribably heavy responsibility toward both the deceased and his family.

She approached the body and set her bag down on a large table along the wall across from the bed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanley, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, opening the bag once again and pulling out an array of bottles and a wooden box containing her tools. She arranged her bottles in the order they would be used.

Transferring the box of tools to the bed, she pressed the latch to open it. In what would have been seen as a bizarre gesture by the outside world, Graham had given her this set of Sheffield-made tools to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary three years ago. Each time she opened the box now, she was reminded of how glorious their married life had initially been.

Graham and his brother, Fletcher, had been trained by their father, known as old Mr. Morgan, to take over the family undertaking business, which had been established by their grandfather in 1816. But Fletcher had a taste for the sea and eventually set himself up as a trader, taking tea to Jamaica, picking up sugar from that country, selling it in Boston to be made into rum, and returning with barrels of finished rum for sale to the Englishmen who craved it.

When old Mr. Morgan died, therefore, Fletcher was happy to let Graham buy out his share of the business. Soon after, Violet met Graham at a church social and was immediately fascinated by the work he did.

For his part, Graham seemed fascinated by a woman who was not repulsed by an undertaker.

Violet reached over and gently squeezed the deceased’s hand. Rigor mortis, the chemical change in the muscles that caused the limbs to become temporarily stiff and immovable, had not yet set in, much to her relief, else she’d need to return the following day to finish her preparations, creating undue anxiety for his widow.

Her and Graham’s relationship developed amid explanations of coffin ornaments, funeral hospitality, and the care of the dead. Within a year, twenty-year-old Violet Sinclair and twenty-three-year-old Graham Morgan were married, and took up residence with his mother, who remained in her own home after her son and daughter-in-law eventually moved to their more upscale lodgings. Together Graham and Violet rode in each day to their working premises on Queen’s Road in Paddington, joyful in their death profession as only two young people in love could possibly be.

Violet sighed as she took out several jars of Kalon Cream. If only her life had remained so happy.

“Now, Mr. Stanley, this might look a bit frightening, but let me assure you that it won’t hurt a bit. I promise to be gentle and to fix everything so that your wife will hardly notice that I have had to muddle about with you.” Graham had taught her that talking to the deceased helped wash away the dread of working with a dead body. Many customers also talked to the deceased, and those who did, like Mrs. Stanley, seemed to adjust better to their losses.

She examined the contents of each jar, finally deciding that “light flesh” was the right shade. She scooped out some of the cosmetic, a dense covering cream that she rubbed into Mr. Stanley’s face and hands. A corpse naturally paled as blood pooled downward, so cosmetic massage creams helped bring a more lifelike appearance back to the body.

After wiping her hands on a cloth, she used a paintbrush to apply a pale rouge to the man’s cheeks and lips, thus further enhancing a living appearance. Once she was satisfied with his visage, she unrolled a length of narrow tan cloth and snipped off about a foot of it. She threaded a special needle, then sewed one end of the cloth to the skin behind one ear. Next, she pulled the cloth tightly under his chin, then sewed the other end behind his other ear.

The cloth would prevent Mr. Stanley’s mouth from dropping open accidentally during his visitation and frightening dear Aunt Mollie or Grandma Jane as she was bent over whispering last words to him. Sometimes, instead of this method, she used a small prop under the chin, later covered by the deceased’s burial clothes. Every undertaker had his own methods for preparing a body, and those methods were trade secrets.

“All finished, Mr. Stanley. I trust it wasn’t too uncomfortable for you. We’ll need to get you arranged in the parlor for visitation, then you’ll have a journey of great fanfare to the cemetery. But first we must get you properly attired.”

She’d forgotten to ask Mrs. Stanley to provide her with burial clothes. Well, there was no help for it, she couldn’t possibly ask the woman back in here now, with her husband in such condition. Violet went to the enormous mahogany armoire that loomed in one corner of the room and searched until she found what she assumed was Mr. Stanley’s finest set of clothes. She selected a shirt with the highest collar possible to cover the jaw cloth.

Dressing a dead body was exceedingly difficult to do alone, making Violet wish she had Will or Harry, the shop’s muscular young assistants, with her. However, Graham had them busy on other assignments, so it couldn’t be helped.

Trying not to grunt aloud, Violet pushed and pulled Mr. Stanley’s limbs and torso as she struggled to undress him and place him in his finery. Once he was dressed and his hands positioned decorously on his chest, Violet packed up her bag and straightened out the bedclothes, ensuring no evidence of her work was left behind. That was something else Graham had taught her. An undertaker must be like a housemaid: all work performed invisibly and with as little inconvenience to the family as possible.

She returned to the parlor, where Mrs. Stanley was pacing back and forth, worrying the handkerchief Violet had given her between her fingers. “How is my Edward?”

“Resting quite comfortably, Mrs. Stanley. I think he would be quite pleased with how you’ve provided for him.”

Violet assured Mrs. Stanley that she would accompany the coffin, along with a bier, for setup in the parlor the following day. “May I recommend that you perhaps go visit a close friend tomorrow and allow me to escort Mr. Stanley to the parlor privately with one of our assistants?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Whatever you say. You’ll be careful with my husband, won’t you?”

“Madam, I will treat him as if he were my own husband.”

Perhaps she should quit using that turn of phrase, since lately Graham’s behavior would have made her more than happy to see him trade places with Mr. Stanley.

Violet dropped her
carte-de-visite,
or calling card, which offered her compliments on one side and the Morgan Undertaking address on the other, on the silver salver in the hallway on her way out, pleased with how this customer visit had transpired and anxious over what mood Graham might be in when she returned.

“W
here have you been?” Graham asked as she untied her hat, combed out the tails with her fingers, and hung it on its stand in the back room. She tossed her black gloves on a nearby shelf.

“At the Stanley residence near Belgravia. Our commission from Mr. Edward Stanley’s funeral should enable you to buy a marble bust or two for your collection.”

“Belgravia, you say? Not bad, although I don’t think it’s that much more prestigious an address than ours.”

“Their blue-and-white collection is antique.”

Graham was momentarily silenced. He didn’t pursue that line of thought. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving. I was worried.”

“I’ve returned, so there’s no more need for worry. What did you do while I was out?” Violet heaved her laden bag onto the counter and removed her paintbrush, setting it aside for cleaning later.

Graham picked up the paintbrush. “I’ll take care of this. No customers called. Fletcher stopped in for a visit.”

“Back again with a shipment of rum?” She stowed her bag behind the display counter, making a mental note to refill her bottles of embalming fluid ingredients before her next appointment, in case a customer should actually request the service.

“Yes, he thinks his profits will soon exceed ours.”

Violet laughed. “People may or may not always drink themselves insensible. They will certainly always die. It isn’t a contest between you two, is it?”

She immediately regretted her words. Graham and Fletcher were close, and it wasn’t fair to taunt him this way.

Something else must have been on his mind, for he ignored her comment.

“He showed me this.” Graham proffered her Fletcher’s
carte-de-visite,
a tinted ambrotype of his brother standing next to a crate marked “Felton’s New England Rum” and holding a conical sugar loaf wrapped in paper. Beneath it were these words:

On the rear of the card was his ship’s docking location at St. Katharine Docks, as well as assurance that his ship,
Lillian Rose,
was insured by Lloyd’s. In smaller type was the name of the image maker, “Martin Laroche, Daguerreotype Artist, Oxford Street.”

“What do you think?” Graham asked.

Violet returned the card to him. “Impressive. It makes Fletcher appear much more serious about his business.”

“I agree. It elevates him above others. Which is why I think we should have one done.”

She laughed again. “Will you stare into the camera holding a bottle of embalming fluid and a syringe? I believe that will drive away our customers.”

“I’m serious about this. We’ll appear in the picture together, wearing our undertaker’s garb and standing behind a wreath of lilies. It will elevate our standing.”

Violet had to agree. “Shall I call on Mr. Laroche to arrange the sitting?”

“Yes, do that. Very good.” He kissed her cheek, but she felt that it implied approval, not affection.

Graham had more to discuss. “I also want to talk about Annie. I’m most displeased with her cleaning work, and what she calls roasted lamb is no better than boiled leather. Really, Violet, we should have a separate housemaid and cook. I’d like you to terminate her and find someone more suitable. I was also most unhappy with the new rug you had put down in my study—”

Ah, the same exhausting tirade was commencing anew. Graham was perpetually unhappy with Violet’s household management, from her selection of servants—they’d been through five maids in two years—to the shade of wallpaper in each room (“too green,” “not red enough,” “all-around ghastly”).

When they were first married, Graham adored Violet for being consumed with their undertaking business and considering everything else a distraction. With her efforts unburdening his time, he had the luxury of becoming fixated on his increasing social status. His passion was with their new townhome, recently theirs on a seven-year lease at fifty pounds per year. She had to admit that their home did reflect their prosperous status. Not only was there both a large dining room and a spacious drawing room—appropriate masculine and feminine spaces—on the first floor, but such separation was evident on the second floor, with Graham having his own study and Violet possessing a dressing room off their bedroom.

Even more impressive was their lavatory, installed with one of Mr. Crapper’s brand-new water closet mechanisms that promised “a certain flush with every pull.” Graham was almost as proud of this contraption as he was of his profession. The only concern Violet had was that the basement had a strange odor to it, which she attributed to the water closet’s pipes somehow leaking fumes down into the walls.

Nevertheless, it was a fine home and she enjoyed living there. She just didn’t particularly care for managing it. She pushed aside the nagging thought that Graham might eventually demand that she focus all of her energies there and leave undertaking to him and their assistants. Surely Graham still remembered the contented days of their marriage when they worked together so closely.

Violet knew she was a mediocre mistress of her own household, but she was a faultless undertaker. Clean coal grates and chintz bed hangings simply held no interest as compared to the care of the dead and their grieving families. Graham used to think the same way, but his attitude was changing. Whereas he once gave her a box of embalming tools as a gift, his most recent offering was a copy of Mrs. Beeton’s
Book of Household Management,
a tiresome volume full of domestic instruction for good Englishwomen, from cookery to management of servants to proper visiting etiquette.

Violet had tried many times to absorb the thousand pages of detailed lessons, but, honestly, who cared what kind of tea leaves should be strewn on a carpet to absorb dust and odors before sweeping it? Was it important to know the recipe for furniture polish—linseed oil, turpentine, vinegar, and wine spirits—when one could simply buy a jar of Stephenson’s furniture cream? Although she had to admit the section offering treatments for burns, congestion, and other medical problems offered some interest.

Violet nodded noncommittally at her husband concerning Annie and went about other duties, taking care of details for Mr. Stanley’s funeral. She also headed out again later in the day, this time to pay a visit to the director of Kensal Green Cemetery. He showed her the Stanley family crypt beneath the Anglican chapel. The chapel was a magnificent structure in the center of the cemetery. With its imposing Doric columns and white stone façade, it resembled a Roman temple more than a building of the Church of England.

Beneath the chapel lay a series of crypts, at least part of which was dedicated to the Stanley family. Most wealthy families had stone mausoleums above ground for their families, as large as they could afford as testaments to the value of their loved ones. Once Mrs. Stanley had selected a plot and erected a suitable mausoleum, generations of Stanleys could be interred together for all to see. The poor, however, were consigned to common graves that usually lay at least four deep.

After concluding arrangements at Kensal Green, Violet took an omnibus to Oxford Street to visit Mr. Laroche’s studio. She was greeted by the photographer’s assistant, who assured her that his employer could come to Morgan Undertaking with his portable developing tent in two weeks’ time.

Exhausted from the day’s activities, she headed home, where a tearful Annie struggled past her in the street, lugging an old leather portmanteau, and Graham waited for her in his study . . . with an astonishing declaration.