Lady of Ashes (14 page)

Violet froze, overcome by a chill at Graham’s words. Even Graham himself seemed shocked by what he’d just said. He had the good grace to redden in embarrassment.

“I believe we’ve said enough to one another,” he said quietly.

Violet nodded, still unable to speak.

He removed his jacket, tucked it over one arm, and headed for the door.

“Will you be sleeping in your study again?”

“I think it’s for the best, don’t you?”

As her husband walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance, she knew with a certainty that he would never seek to reenter it again. She gasped as her heart split completely in half, with no less force than the rending of the temple in Jerusalem after Christ’s death.

 

Samuel breathed in the night air. It was no cleaner than the day air, and he coughed at the dirt irritating his throat. He decided to walk part of the way back to his hotel before hailing a hack, in order to clear his mind.

Discussions with the Morgan brothers had been successful, beyond his wildest dreams. Their deal should be concluded soon and matters could go from there. His superiors would be pleased with how quickly and easily he had accomplished his mission.

Mrs. Morgan, however, was a different story, and a disconcerting one. There was trouble between her and her husband, for certain. Her eyes had blazed with undisguised fury at Graham Morgan, despite her best efforts to hide her feelings.

Samuel’s grandmother would have called her an unbroken Arabian mare. Samuel would agree. Violet Morgan was slim, long-legged, and spirited, with a bold disposition and an intelligence that outweighed all of those other traits.

Graham Morgan, though, was a horse’s rear. How could he treat a woman like that with such contempt?

Moreover, did Samuel’s dealings with Mrs. Morgan’s husband mean that he, too, resembled a horse’s posterior? She obviously knew nothing about what they were doing, yet the potential ramifications . . . well, Violet Morgan would not escape any resulting danger.

A twinge of regret crept its way into his mind, an unusual reaction for this lawyer who knew no fear and had happily accepted this assignment from his government.

He found a hack to take him the rest of the way to his hotel. He wondered whether perhaps he should be pulling the carriage himself.

At the hotel, Samuel tossed restlessly in bed. Giving up on the idea of slumber, he decided to finish some correspondence.

Samuel’s loyalty was unwavering and he knew that his work here was justified. If he could just get the picture of Violet Morgan’s exquisite face out of his mind, he might actually be able to sleep.

 

Violet never dreamed that her marriage would crumble into a stony silence, although it was preferable to the bickering and accusations.

Ironically, Susanna’s silence was of comfort. The girl followed Violet everywhere, even refusing to be left behind when Violet went to visit customers or work at the shop. Because she was so quiet and reticent, most people hardly noticed her. Violet found herself chatting one-sidedly with Susanna, discussing funeral arrangements with her as if she were speaking to another adult, albeit a silent one. The girl nodded, shrugged, and motioned with her hands enough that it became a good replication of actual speech.

Susanna had a natural affinity for the dead, an odd quality for the normal public, but quite gratifying to Violet. Susanna studied deceased faces, at first with wonder in her large eyes, and eventually with an understanding that Violet couldn’t quite fathom. Sometimes she would even pat the hands of the dead, as though to comfort them.

Violet and Graham managed to coordinate funerals together, also with no spoken communication, merely leaving notes for one another on pertinent details for various upcoming funerals. At least she had no worries that Graham would attempt to bar her from the business. Much as he resented her unconventional wifely manners, he couldn’t possibly run this business without her. And finding someone else who would be as skilled as she was would be nearly impossible.

At home, Mr. and Mrs. Porter went about their duties, pretending there was nothing wrong in the Morgan household. Violet took to eating in the kitchen with Susanna and the Porters, while Graham continued to use the dining room. It was a symbol of his disregard that he made no comment that his wife was dining with servants.

Mr. Porter, already a bluff and hearty man, was exaggeratedly so around Susanna, always trying to charm a smile from her and expressing the hope that one day she would speak to him. Mrs. Porter loved everyone through the liberal applications of pastries and pies. If Violet wasn’t careful, she’d be visiting Mary for a new wardrobe herself.

Mary was a frequent guest in the Morgan kitchens, now, too, enjoying the camaraderie that went on long into the night. Mrs. Softpaws, now growing and becoming ganglier by the week, romped and skittered through the basement, happily chasing bugs and feet before tiring and jumping onto Susanna’s lap for a quick nap before starting over.

Even the periodic odd smells from the toilet—a convenience that fascinated Susanna, who couldn’t flush it frequently enough while gaping at its operation—weren’t sufficient to dampen the exuberance belowstairs. It was easy for Violet to forget Graham’s sour countenance and cutting words when surrounded by others who loved her.

Violet’s London family was now an odd mix of servants, undertaker, best friend, and mute orphan. However, as much as she was growing attached to them, the situation caused her to miss her parents dreadfully.

It was time to visit them in Brighton.

 

Charles Francis and his son sat across the table from Russell and Palmerston, gratified by the uncomfortable expressions on the British lords’ faces.

“You say you’ve intercepted correspondence to support your assertion?” Lord Palmerston’s face was ashen.

Charles Francis pushed the open document over for the two men to examine. Palmerston slowly scratched one side of his sideburns, the longest and curliest Charles Francis had ever seen, literally starting from the top of his head and combed forward apart from the rest of his hair. How did this man develop such a reputation with ladies?

A look passed between Palmerston and Russell that Charles Francis couldn’t interpret. Russell spoke up first. “Naturally, our position of neutrality doesn’t enable us to overlook criminal activity. We will have this seen to immediately, and pick up all of the parties for questioning.”

Charles Francis pulled the letter back. “Actually, my lords, we wish to proceed on this ourselves, with your kind permission, thus leaving your hands clean and giving us the satisfaction of stopping these wretched criminals working to destroy the United States.”

Charles Francis saw another look between the two men, but this one was obviously relief. For certain, it would be better for Palmerston’s government if the matter could be cleared up quietly and without British intervention.

“Of course. Obviously, we wish to be kept well informed.”

“And the queen and prince consort?”

Lord Russell answered this time. “The prince is occupied with other, more pressing matters, so perhaps it is best if our accord is maintained privately. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, my lord. My son and I understand your position perfectly.” Next to him, Henry nodded solemnly.

As they left Palmerston’s offices, Charles Francis clapped his son on the back. “The noose is tightening, son, and our enemies aren’t even aware of it. Now to see whether we can have them all sent back to the United States to punishment there.”

“Will the prime minister allow it?”

“If not, perhaps we can see to a swift and subtle punishment conducted here.”

 

 

As surprised as they were to see Violet trailing along a young girl, the Sinclairs welcomed Susanna as though she were a long-lost grandchild. Which she may as well have been, given that there was likely to be no issue between Violet and Graham.

Violet stayed secreted with her mother for hours on end, finally unburdening herself in the ageless confines of a mother-daughter relationship. Eliza Sinclair provided the embraces and murmuring words of comfort that Violet needed.

Meanwhile, Arthur Sinclair took Susanna out to run and play in a way that she couldn’t enjoy within the restrictions of London life. The girl’s face was practically ruddy with joy after her first visit to a bathing hut, which gave her a taste of plunging into the English Channel in a bathing costume. Violet’s father insisted that she had even laughed aloud when he presented her with a stick of candy floss, the spun-sugar treat sold by street vendors and at fairs. He took it upon himself to teach Susanna her sums, contending then that her quick progress proved the girl was naturally brilliant, since she was learning without uttering a word.

Mr. Sinclair himself seemed to drop years from his face in the presence of the mute girl. Susanna did have that effect on most people.

As a foursome they sauntered through the streets of Brighton, rambling past the Royal Pavilion, the sprawling Moorish concoction built by George IV nearly half a century ago. Its spires and turrets rose above the gleaming white Bath stone, reminding Violet of an exotically decorated cake.

They also promenaded out onto Chain Pier, as well as strolling past landmarks like the Bedford Hotel and the new Brighton School of Art. German oompah bands and traveling minstrels provided entertainment aplenty. Brighton was expanding and developing at a breathtaking pace.

After two weeks of complete isolation from her normal life in London—two weeks without a single communication from Graham—Violet finally decided it was time to take the early-morning excursion train from Brighton back to London. The excursion trains ran on a faster schedule than ordinary trains, and Violet was anxious to return home. It was time to return home to her normal world. Truthfully, she missed the work of helping the grieving say good-bye to their loved ones. She hadn’t held a length of black crape in far too long.

Susanna didn’t resist their departure that Sunday morning, but merely stood in the room they shared, single tears rolling down each cheek, as Violet tried fruitlessly to repack their things, a collection of items nearly doubled thanks to her father’s purchases of dolls, toys, and primer books for Susanna.

The Italianate-style train station was built on an awkward site on the northern edge of Brighton, at least seventy feet above the shore. The unfortunate siting of the station meant there were only a limited number of platforms for the trains. The growing volume of traffic from popular Brighton was poorly handled by the station, evidenced by the crowds jamming the platforms even at eight o’clock in the morning.

Susanna was unfazed by the hum of the crowds and the acrid smoke emanating from the coal-powered trains, obsessed as she was with the curly-haired doll Violet’s father had given her as a going-away present. Violet made a mental note to visit a doll shop in London for more playthings for Susanna.

The station was run by finely uniformed men whose jackets and hats were trimmed in a confusing array of gold braid and brass buttons, each pattern denoting the man’s position with the railway, whether a luggage porter, lamp porter, station clerk, booking clerk, ticket collector, dining car attendant, fireman, or any other of dozens of railway positions. At least some men wore embroidered patches on their collars identifying them.

Standing next to their heavy luggage that the driver of the railway-operated taxi had unceremoniously heaped inside the station, Violet looked around among the London and Brighton Railway employees rushing in and about among passengers for someone who could help her.

A man with an embroidered collar patch reading “Guard” approached.

“Excuse me, please, can you help me with my luggage?” she asked.

The man stared at her, aghast. He tapped his collar. “I’m a guard. I don’t move bags.” Off he went without an offer to find someone to help her.

Another man came by. “Are you a luggage porter?” she asked.

“No, I’m a ticket collector.” He was gone.

Finally a porter came by, enabling her to visit the booking office to purchase their fares while he transported luggage behind them. After a long wait in line, she was handed their numbered third-class tickets and they made their way to the correct platform to wait. How Graham would have disapproved of her not spending extra for first-class tickets.

Within a few minutes several trains rushed into the station, quickly spewed passengers and swallowed more, and then raced back out of the station in a cacophony of screeching wheels, high-pitched whistles, and belching clouds of smoke from their coal-powered steam engines.

Finally, though, their train arrived and they settled down in their car, the last one on this particular train except for the guard’s van, a small, open carriage containing yet another uniformed man whose job was to look alternately down either side of the train to note any signs that anything was wrong with the train’s operation.

Their third-class seats, facing the rear, were comfortable enough despite being wood benches, although the carriage lacked the oil lamps, foot warmers, clerestory windows in the roof, and other amenities of first class. It was mostly like an open-air carriage with a roof covering.

Almost immediately, Susanna curled up across Violet’s lap to sleep, while Violet opened a copy of
The Times
she’d purchased at the last minute from the W. H. Smith newsboy.