Lady of Ashes (30 page)

“He is right now among the greatest kings and queens that have ruled England, madam.”

“Which is entirely unsuitable for our dearest Albert. He needs quiet and calm, not to be placed under the floor where he’ll be trod over by millions of feet over the years. It’s unthinkable. No, the prince must rest in a place befitting his greatness. It is in this mausoleum that we shall join him one day, to rest in eternal glory together.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Which brings us to the second reason for your presence. When the mausoleum is finished, we may require you again to assist. Albert did, after all, mention you by name.”

So far from a dismissal, she was to be summoned again for the reinterment. What a fantastic piece of luck. If only she could enjoy so much good fortune until that time.

 

V
iolet tried to organize receipts and bills, but she was distracted.

Graham had now been gone two months with no word forthcoming from him. Violet despised the purgatory he’d left her in, still viewed with suspicion by her neighbors and without any idea as to whether she was married, a widow, or simply abandoned.

If Graham came back, perhaps she should ensure her own widowhood.

At least none of her supplies were going missing anymore, which told her exactly who had been stealing them. She imagined he’d used them to hide weapons, to be used by Southerners for killing Northerners. What an incomprehensible use of funerary equipment.

She shook her head. It no longer bore thinking about.

What of Samuel Harper and the cold way they’d parted? Did that bear further thought?

She finished what she was doing and called out to Susanna, who was now flourishing. All of Violet’s efforts in teaching her to read, write, and do sums were paying off. Violet would watch, bemused, as the girl painstakingly entered customer names and payments into their giant brown-leather journal. Susanna always frowned in concentration as she struggled to enter everything in without making mistakes.

In fact, it was quite remarkable the advances the girl was making. Violet commented on it once, and Susanna told her that her mother had spent some time teaching her things, but when Violet inquired further, Susanna clamped her lips together and refused to talk about her early home life.

At the moment, Susanna was bent down behind the counter, rearranging empty mourning brooches in their tray, while Will and Harry were off on errands. The girl had an affinity not only for recordkeeping, but for the artful arrangement of the shop’s displays. Graham had never appreciated the girl’s natural talent for this business. Perhaps tonight she should talk to Susanna about a formal apprenticeship.

Together they closed up the shop and went home, where Violet was startled to find Samuel Harper waiting for her in the drawing room. “Mrs. Porter let me in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Susanna bounded right over to him as he stood to greet them. “Mr. Harper, you didn’t forget us. Have you another present for me?”

“Susanna! You can’t speak to our guest that way.”

“It’s fine, Violet. Actually, Susanna, I’m afraid I only have something small for you.” He reached down to the sofa where he’d been sitting. Violet’s copy of
Silas Marner
lay open next to another wrapped package. He handed the gift to Susanna, who tore it open to find a miniature carriage and two horses, with a driver behind the reins. It was exquisite.

“The driver is removable, in case you have other work for him to do.” Samuel plucked the driver from his seat to demonstrate before giving it back to her. “I thought the empty room in the basement would be perfect for a mews.”

Susanna darted over to her dollhouse, which now held a permanent place atop a table in the center of the drawing room. Violet sincerely doubted she’d be hosting any further social events that would make obvious her lack of propriety in domestic matters.

Samuel cleared his throat.

“My primary reason for coming by was to talk to you, Violet. May I still call you Violet?”

She nodded.

“First, I’d like to offer my apologies for what happened last time we met. I’m afraid my temper ran away with me.”

“I’m fairly certain it ran away with Graham at least once, too.”

His ears turned pink. “Yes, well, I come with a gift of peace.” Reaching back over to the sofa, he picked up another gift, cradled in tissue with a tiny golden bow around it. It was a yellow rose.

“I’m sure you cast the other one in the sewer, so I brought you this one in hopes of starting our friendship over. I am truly sorry for suggesting that you flee London and your life here. I’ll never ask again.”

Violet took the rose and smiled. “I wish I had a gift to offer you in return as an apology. I had no right to shriek like a harpy at you. It made me look exactly as the newspapers have portrayed me.” She laid the rose on top of the piano. “Here it can be a reminder of our Christmas sing-along, before life was torn asunder. Do you remember?”

“I do. In fact—” Sam pulled a small tin instrument from his pocket. “I brought this along to share with Miss Susanna. My harmonica always reminds me of home.” He cupped the harmonica in his hands and blew against one side of it. It made a wheezy sound. After several puffs he began to sing, once again adopting his false Southern accent.

Violet and Susanna clapped along. At the end, Susanna said, “The song is about me!”

“Indeed. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, sing it again, Mr. Harper.”

He smiled. “Maybe later. I need to talk more with your mother. Which brings up the other reason I’m here,” Samuel said, turning his attention back to Violet. “With Mr. Adams’s assistance, we’ve convinced Lord Palmerston that you have been unfairly tormented by Parliament’s questioning and the resultant blot on your name, so he agreed to write a letter that formally clears you of any wrongdoing in the case of your husband’s criminal activity.” He pulled a sealed letter from his jacket for Violet to read.

In flowery language, it apologized for Violet’s inconveniences without actually apologizing for Parliament’s hostile questioning.

“Are politics in Washington City as scheming as they are in Great Britain?”

“They’re probably worse. Just two years ago we were engulfed in a scandal when a congressman from New York shot and killed the district attorney of Washington City when he found out the district attorney was having an affair with his wife. Naturally, he was acquitted of any crime since he was prominent and influential.”

“So politicians are the same the world over.”

He laughed. “It would seem so.”

“Tell me, Sam, have you or Mr. Adams heard anything about Graham?”

“I’m sorry, no. Although I have to be honest, we’re beginning to assume he’s gone.”

“Gone? You mean hidden himself beyond finding?”

“No, Violet, I mean
gone
.”

Violet’s stomach lurched despite all of her stored anger toward Graham. “That can’t be true, can it, Sam?”

He shrugged. “No ship has discovered him on the seas between here and the United States, and agents sent to both French and British holdings in the Caribbean haven’t found him, nor has he been found trying to slip past the blockade in Hampton Roads.”

She nodded. “I understand. I do believe I will avoid asking about him again.”

Susanna reappeared between them to drag Samuel over to the dollhouse to see what she’d done with the horse and carriage. After several minutes of Susanna chattering about the Orange Peel family and their trip to the countryside in their new carriage, Samuel turned back to Violet.

“Now that we’ve made amends, I must confess that I am having a serious yearning for more ice cream, and was hoping you and Miss Susanna would like to accompany me.”

“Ice cream?” Susanna asked.

“Please don’t tell me your mother has never treated you to this wonderful concoction of cream and sugar.”

Susanna shook her head.

“Impossible! Obviously it has merely slipped her mind that everyone needs a taste of this treat at least once in his lifetime.”

The trio went out into the cold, where Samuel hired a hack to take them to the same shop where he and Violet had shared ice cream before. Susanna declared the treat “perfect” and asked if they could return every day. Violet slipped into the comfort of chatting amiably with Samuel, with time passing in such a rush that it was pitch black outside when they were finished.

It didn’t seem frightening to go outside with Sam at her side.

It was good to be friends again.

 

At Samuel’s urging, Violet published Lord Palmerston’s letter in several newspapers. It had the desired effect, for business almost immediately began to improve; hence she and Susanna were now at the residence of Mrs. Saunders, who ran a boardinghouse in Lambeth. Mrs. Saunders, an elderly woman with bulging eyes and hair an unfortunate shade of red, greeted her at the door, wringing her hands and chattering nervously.

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. Mr. Atkinson asked me to take care of this for him and I’m not sure how he expects this to be my responsibility when it’s his wife and all, and I’ve already had so much to endure what with the police and all and I—”

“Excuse me, did you say the police have been here?”

“Yes, but I suppose it’s nothing for you to worry over. Poor Mrs. Atkinson passed on, then a thief broke in during the night and robbed her of all her money and jewelry, if you can imagine such an un-Christian and uncharitable thing to do to the poor lady. The scallywag swiped several items from my other boarders while they slept, too. Mrs. Bainbridge lost a tortoiseshell comb that was a gift from her grandmother, and Mr. Devon says his silver-tipped walking cane is missing, and then there’s poor Mrs. Wilson, who shared a room with Mrs. Atkinson—they were great friends, you know—and she not only lost her friend but a—”

“So you say the police have investigated the matter?”

“Yes, yes, both the police and Dr. Beasley. The police say they’re investigating the matter, although it seems to me that nowhere in London is safe anymore, what with the hooligans hiding in the smoky vapors swirling in the streets and leaving us women open to attacks. I take a kitchen knife with me everywhere these days just so I—”

“A very sad state of affairs, indeed.” Violet shook her head in sympathy. “About Dr. Beasley . . .”

“He came to visit poor Mrs. Atkinson, but he said it looked as though she’d died peacefully, perhaps some unknown heart trouble or something. Is your girl going upstairs with you? Doesn’t seem proper, does it?”

When Violet ignored the comment, Mrs. Saunders followed her and Susanna up to the third floor where Mrs. Atkinson had lodged, still nattering on.

“I think Mrs. Atkinson and her husband were having troubles, if you understand my meaning, else why would she have come to London from Lincolnshire—or wait, was it Yorkshire—to stay with her friend? Mrs. Wilson is simply devastated, too. She sleeps in my room, won’t eat a thing and paces the streets for hours at a time. I tell her it’s dangerous to do it, but—”

Violet tapped her undertaker’s bag. “I believe we have all we require, Mrs. Saunders. We shan’t be long.”

“Oh, of course, right. I’ll be downstairs if you need me. I’ll brew up a nice pot of tea and—”

Violet quietly shut the door to Mrs. Atkinson’s room and Mrs. Saunders’s voice faded. The room was dark, although Violet could make out the shape of two beds, with one of them containing a prone form.

“Susanna, open the curtains, will you?”

Light flooded the room, despite the fog outside. Without having to be asked, Susanna dragged a chair over to Mrs. Atkinson’s bedside, then went to the other side and knelt next to the dead woman.

Violet set her bag on the chair before examining Mrs. Atkinson. She was of indeterminate age—perhaps in her early forties?—and her teeth were grossly stained and pitted, a condition which had carried over to her lips. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Atkinson, I’ll take care of putting your lips together so that no one ever need know what’s inside. A little tinted salve for your lips will brighten your entire appearance. I know you’ll want to look pretty when your husband arrives.”

The blanket covering Mrs. Atkinson was entirely too thin for the season and looked as though moths had enjoyed a great feast on it. Was this the best Mrs. Saunders could do?

Susanna was now stroking Mrs. Atkinson’s hair, which lay long and loose under her, away from her face. The girl began humming.

Violet continued her inspection of Mrs. Atkinson in order to decide what supplies she would need. The woman’s complexion was extremely sallow and would be difficult to improve with her cosmetic massages. If only embalming were more accepted in England, she could bring this woman’s features nearly to life.

The unbidden thought of Samuel’s suggestion to move to Washington City reared up, and she quickly swatted it away.

Violet ran her hands down the woman’s arms, both of which lay outside the blanket. Mrs. Atkinson’s right hand had tiny blotches that had been eaten away, almost as if the moths had included the deceased woman in their feast.

“Susanna, look at this,” she said. Susanna gently took the woman’s hand from her to view it. With a gasp, she dropped Mrs. Atkinson’s arm, which landed on her body with a thump and rolled off to loll listlessly from the side of the bed.

“Susanna, that’s no way to treat Mrs. Atkinson. What’s wrong with you?” Violet asked of the girl, whose shocked eyes were the only thing visible from where she now cowered in a corner.

“No—nothing.”

“There’s no need to be frightened. Mrs. Atkinson just had some kind of odd skin condition that we’ll have to cover. Come, you can’t insult her by sitting there chattering your teeth.”

“Mama, I don’t feel well. I’ll wait here while you finish.”