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Authors: Christine Trent

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical

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BOOK: Lady of Ashes
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“May I have one of those?” She indicated his lanterns. “I need to find my daughter.”
He looked at her doubtfully, as though he already counted her for dead and didn’t want to waste anything valuable on her. “Sorry, madam, I need it to search for the living, although I admit you’re the first one I’ve found.”
“But the screaming . . .”
He shrugged. “Most of those are being shepherded along by the Grim Reaper. I’m hoping to find a doctor while we wait for rescue. The signalmen have alerted a nearby hospital and fire department.”
“I’m an undertaker, so my best help will be with the dead.”
“Sorry?” he said, staring at her in disbelief.
“Nothing. Please, give me one of your lanterns. I can help you search for the living.”
The man gave her one, although she could see he had serious misgivings about the wisdom of doing so.
Maybe I
will
die, sir, but not before I find Susanna
.
She lurched off with the lantern, determined to locate Susanna alive and well. The railway worker went off in another direction to continue his own search. She soon saw multiple lanterns swinging through the tunnel as more workers joined the hunt.
Violet was more than accustomed to death, but heat, noise, and stench inside the tunnel made her feel that she had quite possibly entered a war zone. An image of what Graham’s grandfather’s experiences must have been flashed through her mind.
Surely it couldn’t have been worse than this.
The engine that had demolished her car was still on fire as it remained dangling from the tunnel entrance, although some shouts and a loud hissing told her that firemen were now on the scene, working to put it out. Maybe soon there would be relief from the scorching temperature, although no amount of fire extinguishing would relieve her own scalded arm.
The first victim she came across was missing an ear, part of his scalp, and an arm, and was, thankfully, quite dead. She knelt and studied the young man more closely. He was younger than she was. Someone’s husband? A beloved son? Was he headed to London to seek his fortune?
She rose again, once more feeling herself sway ominously. She made her way to the wall of the tunnel and leaned against it, breathing heavily. Holding the lantern out, she looked down at her dress. It was bloodied—whether from her own blood or that of others she couldn’t tell—and several buttons were torn off the bodice. It was ripped in multiple places and stained with grease, plant matter, and who knew what else.
But she was alive. And, hopefully, so was Susanna.
The thought of Susanna lying somewhere, desperately injured, or worse, strengthened Violet’s resolve. She moved from prone figure to figure, trying to find Susanna as well as fulfilling her mission to discover who might be living. Or living and a doctor. A distant hope, that.
The cries of the dying diminished as she continued on with her gruesome work of inspecting bodies, hoping that one might have a flicker of life. The carnage was revolting, even for her well-trained senses. People were sliced in half, their entrails spread in a horrifying mess around them. Others were bloodied and battered beyond any sort of recognition, with flies already having discovered this fresh buffet tucked away in the brick tunnel. Most of them had massive scalding on their bodies, making Violet realize how fortunate she was. No amount of makeup or prosthesis would ever make these poor people look whole again. They needed immediate burial.
Where is Susanna?
Another woman of indeterminate age came strolling by, singing a baby’s lullaby. Violet lifted the lantern to alert the woman to her presence, but she didn’t seem to notice Violet, continuing to sing and stare vacantly toward the end of the tunnel.
“Madam, do you need—” At that moment Violet realized the woman needed nothing. Her arm was shredded from who knew what encounter she’d had on the train, with bone and tendon alike dangling openly from her shoulder and blood flowing profusely from her side. Before Violet could offer a word of encouragement, the woman dropped to her knees, then fell facedown in the gravel. Violet went to offer her assistance, but knew it was for naught. The poor woman was gone.
With a mental apology to the railway worker, Violet knew she had to stop inspecting bodies and focus on locating Susanna. Gathering whatever reserve of energy she still had, she called the girl’s name out softly as she walked, and called out louder and louder the farther she moved into the tunnel. On the other side of the rail bed, she saw the glow of more lanterns as other people were joining the search on the opposite side of the wreck.
She lifted the lantern again. What was that? A slender, blond-haired girl, lying with her face against the tunnel, her legs twisted at unnatural angles.
No, it can’t be. I won’t let it be.
Violet felt her insides heaving and tears streamed down her face, even leaking past the swollen knot of her damaged eye. She approached the body, tripping and nearly losing her balance over a twisted chunk of metal. Kneeling down for what felt like the hundredth time, she set the lantern down, took a deep breath, put her left hand on the figure’s shoulder, and turned the girl toward her.
She blinked in disbelief.
It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Susanna. Violet laughed, the demented echo bouncing against the curved walls of the tunnel.
Immediately regretting her instinctive reaction, she whispered to the girl, “You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure you’re given a dignified burial. That’s my promise to you.”
Violet continued on her search for Susanna, resolving to volunteer to help with preparations for the dead, providing she could find someone with the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway who would accept her help. And providing she could see to the healing of her own injured arm.
What if I am damaged beyond repair? I’ll have to give up undertaking altogether. I’d be forced to be the
maîtresse de maison
Graham so mightily desires. Or would he simply find a way to divorce me?
She firmly pushed all of the self-pitying thoughts aside. There would be plenty of time for that later.
A movement inside some of the wreckage on the rail grabbed Violet’s attention and she made her way to it, climbing up the raised bed on both knees and ignoring the sharp pain of the stones in the rail bed against them.
She raised the lantern to peer over an overturned bench and nearly burst into tears once again.
It was Susanna, sitting next to the curled-up figure of a woman. Susanna held the woman’s right hand in one of her own and gently stroked the woman’s matted brown hair with her other hand.
“Oh, child,” Violet said, unable to say more. Susanna looked up, as filthy and bedraggled as she was the first day she’d sat up in Violet’s coffin, but unhurt and completely unfazed by the horror that had occurred.
“Is this lady dead?” Violet asked, putting the lantern down.
Susanna nodded and returned to stroking the woman’s hair.
“You were with her when she died, weren’t you?”
She nodded again without looking up.
“Susanna, you did a kind thing by staying with her in her last moments, and I’m proud of you. But listen to me.” Susanna stilled. “We have to get help. I promise you we will help her more, but for now we need to get out of this tunnel. Come, take my hand. You’ll need to carry this lantern. My other arm is quite useless.”
Susanna considered Violet’s outstretched hand, looking back and forth between it and the dead woman. Finally, she stopped stroking the blood-soaked hair and pointed at Violet’s eye.
“I’ve been hurt, but I’ll be fine, provided I get you home safely.”
Susanna patted the woman a final time, grabbed Violet’s hand, and took up the lantern. Together they made their way to the opposite end of the tunnel, where harried policemen, railwaymen, and hospital workers were assembling survivors into some sort of logical groups. As they waited for further instruction, Violet thought of something else.
“Did you ever see Mrs. Barrett after the accident?”
Susanna shook her head. Violet looked, but couldn’t find her among the survivors, either.
Another victim of the crash.
Railway taxis waited to take passengers either to the next station to resume their journey back to London, or to the Sussex County Hospital. Violet found a carriage bound for the hospital with room for her and Susanna, but before boarding, Violet went to the stationmaster to offer her services as an undertaker for the victims.
The stationmaster looked at her curiously, but took down the information about Morgan Undertaking.
 
By the time Violet was declared well enough to return to London, she was certain she had passed through Dante’s nine circles of hell. A doctor washed and examined her eye, which he pronounced to have no apparent damage. He then worked tirelessly to mend her arm, but it meant cutting off and peeling away as much of her sleeve as possible, a pain so exquisite she lapsed in and out of consciousness several times during the process, despite his application of salves and ointments to try to loosen the fabric and minimize her torment.
Her now-bloodied arm was washed with a solution that must have contained salt, as she found herself screaming uncontrollably as the doctor pressed on her arm with moistened cloths. Not that it mattered, as her own screams were lost among all of the others in the ward where she lay with dozens of other beds.
The only bright spot was Susanna, who knelt steadfastly next to Violet on the other side of the bed, cooing and stroking her head. The doctor tried several times to shoo her out of the way, but the girl refused to budge.
Thank God for this little mercy
. Violet kept her eyes focused on Susanna’s blond curls, a golden halo of hope in the midst of her anguish and distress.
Once the doctor completed his brutal work, he said, “You’ll survive and probably regain use of your arm, but it will be forever disfigured. However, you are alive and should be quite grateful,” he added before moving on to his next patient.
As tears ran down Violet’s face, a mix of relief that he was finished with her, fear over whether he was right about her arm, and discomfort over the continued throbbing from what he had done to help her, Susanna climbed onto the bed and threw an arm around Violet’s waist, hugging her tightly.
Now Violet’s tears were all gratitude.
The Times
Tuesday, August 27, 1861
 
THE TERRIBLE ACCIDENT ON THE
LONDON AND BRIGHTON RAILWAY.
Latest Particulars.
 
BRIGHTON, Monday Evening.
 
The number of deaths by the terrible accident of yesterday has, we regret to say, not been over-estimated. The following are the names of those killed: Mrs. Ellen LOWER of Brighton. Mr. INGLEDE of Brighton. Mr. George WEST-COTT of Brighton. An infant child of the above. Mr. Edward CHARLWOOD, otherwise known as SIMPSON, of Brighton. Mrs. Catherine BARNARD of Brighton. Mrs. TILLETT of Wanstead, Essex. Mrs. Christianna MAINS-THORP of Brighton. Mr. John GREENFIELD, 5, Montpelier-place, Brighton. Mr. John WHEELER of Brighton. Elizabeth WHEELER, wife of the above. David WHEELER, son of the above. Mr. George GARDENER of Pentonville. Miss BARCLAY, recently staying in Brighton. Mrs. Maria EDWIN of London. Mrs. Jane Elizabeth BEDEN of Brighton. John LOCKSTEAD of London. Agnes PARKER of Brighton. Mary Ann PARKER, sister of Agnes. Mr. William HUBBARD, lately staying in Brighton. Henry Hayward HUBBARD, grandson of Mr. Hubbard.
The body still requiring identification is that of a woman.
With regard to the injured, the latest information obtained by our reporter at the Sussex County Hospital, where they lie, led to the belief that no further deaths would ensue.
This morning, a female child, about three years old, suffering from fracture of both legs and severe scalds and bruises, was recognized by her father, who came from London; and to add to the melancholy character of this case, he identified the body of his wife among the killed. The child is in a very bad state, and but faint hopes are entertained of her recovery. With respect to the other sufferers in the hospital, Mr. J. S. ELLIS, the acting house-surgeon, reports that no serious symptoms have presented themselves.
The railway was fortunate to have aboard an undertaker, Mrs. Violet MORGAN of London, who submitted an offer for caring for the dead at no charge to the families. We are encouraged to see these selfless actions, which may do much to burnish the tarnished reputation of predatory and depraved undertakers.
Poor Mrs. Barrett. She must have been the unidentified woman found.
After Violet’s initial excruciating treatment, she continued the gradual healing process on her own. Each night she unwrapped her bandages, applied a mix of noxious ointments, and rewrapped the bandages again. Although the pain dissipated and she slowly recovered use of her arm, it was clear that the doctor was right. Her arm was a railway map of scars and ridges that would never go away.
Graham’s initial concern over her was tremendous, making Violet doubt her years of trepidation.
“My God, darling, what if I’d lost you?” he moaned, pulling him to her in the privacy of her dressing room for kisses and caresses. “I couldn’t bear it. What would life be without you?”
Yet Violet couldn’t help but notice the look of revulsion on his face when he finally saw what was beneath the bandages on her arm. A look that wasn’t replaced with tenderness and concern. Nevertheless, they seemed to have another brief truce, and Violet used it to move Susanna into one of their guest rooms. Graham didn’t object, even if he pretended Susanna didn’t exist, and for a while husband and wife regained a semblance of harmony between them.
Mrs. Porter fussed over Violet and Susanna with a constant stream of pastries and treats, whereas Mr. Porter could hardly stand to have Susanna leave the house to go on undertaking rounds with Violet.
BOOK: Lady of Ashes
13.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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