Lady of Ashes (8 page)

With one foot, he pushed out the chair opposite him, an invitation for any of the workers to join him. Most ignored him, except for the owner, who had been eyeing Samuel warily from behind the counter as he served whisky and ale to the workers.

Soon the owner emerged from where he had been pouring refreshment for the shipyard workers and approached Samuel’s table, wiping his hands on his dirty apron.

“Don’t ken ye, do I?” the man asked.

“No, I am a visitor here. I’m hoping to find someone who will help me with a shipping endeavor.”

The owner’s eyes narrowed. “Dinna like the sound of your accent. Where’re ye from?”

“America. Specifically, Virginia.”

The Highland Mary’s proprietor wasn’t impressed. “Ye sound foolish. An ill-faur’d limmer, are ye?”

Samuel had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was probably Samuel’s best hope of finding a contact. Using his best American negotiating technique, he offered the man a gold sovereign to tell him where he could find a ship owner willing to take on a special project.

As it turned out, the American negotiating technique was understood in Great Britain, even if Samuel’s accent wasn’t.

 

Violet hadn’t spoken to Graham in days. He slept on his sofa each night and left before she arose each morning. He ignored her in the shop—no easy feat inside their small quarters—and in the evenings he disappeared for destinations unknown.

Mrs. Scrope, bless her heart, pretended nothing was amiss, although she was no longer asking what the master might like for dessert.

Tired of the chilly atmosphere at the shop and the even more frigid temperature at home, Violet made a visit to Mary Overfelt for some cheerful company.

The Overfelt Mourning Dressmakers shop was as much a catastrophe as it was when Violet had helped to clean it up just a few weeks ago. She swept a hand around the room. “Mary, what happened?”

The older woman shook her head. “I know, dearest. I don’t seem to be able to stay on top of things. I’m just so busy with new commissions—not that I’m complaining, mind you—that the condition of this place simply gets away from me.”

“You need a maid to help you.” Violet could only imagine what Mary’s quarters above the shop looked like.

“I’m not sure there’s enough to do here on a daily basis for a live-in.”

“Why not day help? Better yet, I could probably spare Mrs. Scrope for a few hours each week. She’s been a marvel at our home. She’d have you set to rights in no time.”

“A generous offer, Violet. Perhaps I’ll take you up on it. But enough about my appalling condition. Come to the back room, and if we can actually find a place to sit, we’ll have tea and get caught up with one another.”

Violet told her friend about her parents’ visit and about all of the improvements Mrs. Scrope had made to their townhome. She avoided discussion of Graham, and for a brief hour, she nearly forgot that her husband was ignoring her as though she were a street urchin tugging at his jacket, seeking a penny.

It was only after she left that she realized Mary hadn’t even asked her about Graham, almost as if she instinctively knew something was wrong.

When she returned home, there was a note from Mrs. Scrope, stating that she had gone to see about a chimney sweep and to run other errands. She would return in plenty of time to make dinner.

At least Mrs. Scrope signed her note.

Violet trudged upstairs to take a nap and resolved to herself before drifting off that she would attempt to make amends with Graham the next time she saw him.

She’d hardly gone to sleep when the letter carrier’s distinctive double rap on the door with his baton told her that mail had been delivered through the door slot. Awake once again, she decided to pick it up herself rather than waiting for Mrs. Scrope to do so.

Ah, a letter from Mother. Tossing aside the other envelopes and periodicals, she read the correspondence from her mother, who was back in Brighton once again. She chatted gaily about their visit to Leicester, inquired about Graham, then came to the point. Who was the manufacturer of her silver cutlery?

Violet smiled. Mother had admired Violet’s simple but elegant fiddle and thread patterned set while she was at dinner, but thought it would be in poor taste to ask for purchase details in front of the Morgans. Mother knew everything about social etiquette and managing a home. She was the perfect wife and mother.

Although Mrs. Scrope probably knew the answer without having to look at the silver, Violet decided not to wait for Mrs. Scrope to return to answer the question, but to instead take on this task for her mother herself. She went back to her room and removed the key ring that was kept hidden beneath a drawer in her dressing room table and went back downstairs to the dining room to open the silver chest. Forks, knives, and the like were kept in a mahogany chest specially designed to hold them, whereas larger serving pieces were locked behind a large serving cabinet. She lifted her skirts and knelt before the chest, inserting the key and lifting the lid to view its contents.

Something wasn’t right.

There were stacks of lobster forks, round bowl soup spoons, and luncheon knives in their correct slots, yet . . .

She picked up a stack of salad forks and counted them. There were nine. Shouldn’t there be twelve of everything? She lifted the dinner forks. Ten of them. Eight consommé spoons. Nine butter knives.

How had she not noticed this before?

Please, God, no, it just couldn’t be.

She rose and went to the serving cabinet. With dread, she opened both doors, and her fears were confirmed. The ice pitcher, usually wrapped in felt on the lower shelf, was gone, as were one of the fruit stands and a pickle caster. Graham had been so proud when they were able to afford these elegant silver serving pieces.

She heard a noise outside. Parting the layers of dining room draperies, she saw Mrs. Scrope descending the stairs to the basement entrance, carrying a bundle of goods, including a wrapped package of fish.

How Violet would miss the woman’s fish pie.

She went to the top of the servants’ staircase and called down, “Mrs. Scrope, can you come up to the dining room, please?”

The assembly of packages went down with a thud on the kitchen worktable as Mrs. Scrope loudly sighed to do her mistress’s bidding.

This was why the dead were so much more pleasant to work with than the living.

Violet stepped back into the dining room and waited, the key dangling on its tasseled ring before her. Mrs. Scrope entered with a “Mrs. Morgan, I have to—” and stopped.

Violet had to give the woman credit. It took Mrs. Scrope a mere second to ascertain everything. “So you noticed some of the plate is not there? Yes, there were some tarnished spots I couldn’t get out on my own, so I sent it all out to—”

“Mrs. Scrope, I may be an absentminded mistress, but I am not a foolish one. It’s not just to the rag-and-bone man that you’re giving our goods, is it? If I begin opening other drawers around my home, what else will I find missing? Is my tea caddy empty?”

“Mrs. Morgan, you impugn my integrity—” The housekeeper was wheezing now.

“You impugn your own integrity by treating this household as your own personal trading shop. You are dismissed, Mrs. Scrope.”

“You can’t do this to me. Madam, I meant no harm. I was just supplementing my meager wages with a little extra. I have an ailing cousin down in Exeter and I was saving for a train fare back home and—”

“Meager!” Violet exploded. “You demanded eighteen pounds per year in wages, nearly double what I paid the last girl considering your extra allowances, which I gladly gave because I had such high hopes in you.”

“She was a young chit and shouldn’t have earned as much as me. Anyway, ’tweren’t enough for all the duties I had to do. A house this size should have a cook, a parlor maid, and a housemaid. I was doing everything myself, wasn’t I? Most mistresses at least help with turning mattresses, or hanging laundry to dry, but you’ve no care for the place. A little pinch and a nick here and there wouldn’t hurt you and the master none, and made it so I could improve my own status.”

“I didn’t hire you to improve your status. I needed you to improve my home so my husband wouldn’t—” Now it was Violet’s turn to stop. “I needed you to keep our home to a good standard. That standard includes not thieving me into destitution.”

“Instead,
I’ll
be the one who’s destitute.”

“Your own doing, Mrs. Scrope. Be off the premises within the hour.”

The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll need a good character from you.”

“You’ll get no reference from me. Good day, Mrs. Scrope.”

“Good riddance to you as well, madam. The stink downstairs is intolerable anyway, and you’ve not seen fit to do anything about it.”

Mrs. Scrope stomped back down the stairs. Violet stood at the dining room window, waiting until she finally saw the woman who she’d thought was a godsend exit from the basement door, a worn tapestry bag in each hand, containing all of her belongings.

Were the bags gifts from a previous mistress, or items Mrs. Scrope thought her employer could do without? Violet knew she should insist on searching the bags, but was anxious for the whole sordid mess to be finished.

Mrs. Scrope paused outside, unsure where to go, then finally marched down Grafton Terrace, out of Violet’s life forever.

Violet put her forehead to the windowpane. Not again. Not another round of referrals, advertisements, and interviews to find an honest servant. She’d have to try something different this time. She had no idea what to do about her servant problem, although one thing was certain: Violet wouldn’t be sending Edith Scrope to Mary Overfelt.

She turned to more immediate matters in the kitchen. Everything Mrs. Scrope had purchased had to be put away. Well, at least the woman had thoroughly organized everything, making it easy to figure out where it all went. Violet stored the purchases away, except for one last item that sat on the table. There was nowhere to put it; it had to be prepared and eaten right away, for it would spoil quickly.

Good Lord, would she have to prepare the fish herself?

 

Luckily for her, Graham was in more of a mood for reconciliation than she was and came home that evening with a gift, a cameo pin surrounded by tiny seed pearls. He apologized for his boorish behavior and begged Violet’s forgiveness.

She in turn kissed him, apologized herself, then told him the sorry news of Mrs. Scrope’s departure.

Graham merely shook his head and smiled. “My wife has the worst luck with domestics. I’ll miss her stewed veal, but it’s not worth having the place cleaned out, is it?”

“You’re not angry with me for making such a poor hiring choice?”

“Servants are difficult in the best of circumstances. I leave it to your care how to hire the next one.”

He didn’t even complain that the turbot fillets were still raw in the center and that the peas hadn’t soaked nearly long enough to be cooked properly, merely raising his glass of wine to her in a salute and forcing down his inedible meal.

How mercurial Graham had become, but she liked this side of his twin-sided temperament. If only she could figure out what mischief he and Fletcher were up to behind her back, for surely there was more to his new trading arrangements than mere funerary supplies.

 

This time, Violet placed an advertisement herself and was rewarded with several applicants. After weeding through them all, including one woman whom she rejected for simply looking too much like Mrs. Scrope, Violet settled on an unusual choice: an older couple named Walter and Hazel Porter.

Graham raised an eyebrow at the thought of having a male servant, since typically only the largest homes had them, and even then in the form of personal valets or footmen, neither of which they needed in their stylish, yet still middle-class, home.

But he shrugged and told her to do whatever she wished.

Having learned too many lessons over the past few years, Violet did a thorough interview of the couple, asking them detailed questions about their knowledge and experience in managing a household.

Mrs. Porter usually did cooking and laundry, while Mr. Porter performed household repairs and heavy cleaning jobs, such as hauling carpets outdoors so his wife could beat them. The pair had been together since working together in a country estate in Berkshire. In his youth, Walter burned to be his own man, and so convinced a young Hazel to elope with him to London, where he then opened a barber’s shop. It failed miserably within two years, and together they returned to service, working in various homes and ending up in the household of an eccentric widowed woman who kept a menagerie of parakeets, spaniels, and even rabbits inside her home.

The widow had recently died, bequeathing them a small inheritance, but not enough to allow them to retire. The Porters vowed to stay together in service and sought a home with a bit less chaos than the screeching, barking, and dander cleanup that went on twenty-four hours a day at their previous location.

Violet’s heart wanted to soar over the Porters, but she knew better than to get too excited yet. While Graham managed the shop by himself, she visited as many of the Porters’ previous employers as she could, including the menagerie woman’s grown daughter, who knew the couple and gave them a glowing reference.

When there was no investigation left to do, Violet took a deep breath and offered them employment, promising that she would have the attic converted into a small apartment for them, since the small bedroom off the kitchen would never do for two people. Along with their quarters, she offered them forty pounds per year with no extra allowances.