Lady of Ashes (17 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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

BOOK: Lady of Ashes
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Mary Overfelt clutched Violet and Susanna in suffocating embraces, promising to immediately make dresses as replacements for all of their clothing lost in the crash.
Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair wrote, volunteering to return to London to help their daughter, but Violet demurred. She wanted life to get back to normal quickly, or back to whatever normal was with her husband and with the doe-eyed Susanna, who wasn’t her daughter but occupied a bizarre, daughter-like role in her life.
It was all strange, but when had Violet’s life not been strange, since the day she’d first picked up her undertaking bag?
The next few weeks went by in a blur for Violet. As skeptical as the stationmaster was, he did indeed have Violet summoned to Victoria station after some of the recovered bodies were brought to London for examination, sorting, and return to families after an initial stop in Sussex to drop off those deceased persons who had already been identified as having lived south of London. For those remaining victims whose families lived in London, Violet offered her services for free.
Violet relished the work, which enabled her to forget about her eye, which was healing at an agonizingly slow pace, although thankfully without any apparent permanent damage. It also gave her an opportunity to uphold her promise to those who perished in the crash.
News of the crash spread through England with a speed that beat any train. A highly publicized inquest was held, revealing that a first train had cleared the Clayton Tunnel just before Violet’s train entered the tunnel. There was confusion between the two signalmen, one of whom thought the “all clear” signal meant that Violet’s train had already passed through the tunnel as well, even though it hadn’t, and he therefore gave the clear for the impact train. Violet’s train stopped when the engineer then assumed the first train was still in the tunnel, then further signal confusion caused it to back up, directly into the great steaming beast that had run over the rear end of Violet’s car.
The final count was twenty-three dead, most of them from Violet’s carriage. She shuddered, remembering once again the engine car ramping up on the rear of the carriage, and the look of terror in other passengers’ eyes, the howls of agony around her, and the awful heat.
What a miracle that she and Susanna were spared. Violet’s every glimpse at the girl who had stayed attached to her side throughout her hospital ordeal resulted in a tiny swelling of her heart. Soon it would burst through her chest.
Withdrawn and subdued at first, Susanna conveyed her own struggle over the train wreck with her eyes, as Violet could almost see Susanna replaying the entire incident over and over in the depths of her blue orbs. Soon, though, Susanna compensated for her restraint by clinging fiercely to Violet, refusing to let her surrogate mother out of her sight except to sleep.
“I know,” Violet whispered to Susanna one evening as she hugged the girl prior to bed. “But we have to make the best of what has happened to us and look for the blessing in it. I know what my blessing was.”
Susanna wrapped her arms around Violet, who felt hot tears against the front of her nightgown. Sometimes Susanna carried herself with the dignity of a mature woman, and sometimes Violet was starkly reminded that Susanna was still only a girl who had suffered a greater share of tragedy than most women did in a lifetime.
 
Mrs. Porter let Violet know privately that Mr. Morgan had invited that Mr. Harper over again for the evening, so Violet was prepared when he arrived, sweeping down the stairs to greet him before Graham could do so.
Mr. Harper lit up noticeably at the sight of her, removing his hat and handing it to Mrs. Porter, who disappeared with it. “Mr. Harper, welcome back,” she said, offering him her hand. Fortunately, her disfigurement didn’t extend to her fingers, and with Mary’s help she’d added dresses to her wardrobe with poufed sleeves reaching below her wrist, completely covering the evidence of the train wreck. “I presume you and my husband have further business to discuss?”
He had the good grace to redden. “It was the source of your husband’s invitation, but I confess I have been concerned about your well-being since hearing about the Clayton crash. However, you look as radiant as ever, Mrs. Morgan, so my worries were misplaced. May I inquire as to Miss Susanna’s health?”
Like an apparition who has been summoned at the sound of her name, Susanna entered the room unbidden, standing safely next to Violet but studying the visitor.
Mr. Harper nodded his head. “Miss Susanna, I am Samuel Harper. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Susanna smiled and turned her face to Violet, something unfathomable in her eyes.
“Mr. Harper had the remedy for your digestive pains when you first arrived. Do you remember how it cured you?”
Susanna nodded.
“I’m gratified that it brought you to the bloom of health, Miss Susanna,” Mr. Harper said. “I trust the train accident had no lasting effect on you, either?”
Susanna put her head on Violet’s shoulder. How had she shot up in such a short time?
“Forgive Susanna, Mr. Harper, she is very quiet these days.”
Graham entered the room at that moment, preventing Violet from asking any one of the thousand questions that filled her mind. Susanna fled to the servants’ stairs.
Graham greeted Mr. Harper and invited him to the dining room to share a bottle of port and discuss business. Violet understood this was her cue to depart. “Mr. Harper, good evening.” She retreated toward the main staircase without a glance at Graham. As her foot touched the bottom stair, Mr. Harper called out, “Mrs. Morgan?”
She turned back. “Yes?”
“It was indeed a delight to see you this evening. To see you feeling well, that is. I trust I might have the pleasure of another dinner invitation soon?”
Violet glanced at Graham. “Perhaps, Mr. Harper, depending upon my husband’s schedule and inclinations, of course. Good night.”
 
 
October 1861
 
Where was Susanna?
Violet had slipped into the back room for a mere fifteen minutes or so. “Susanna?” she called into the shop. Nothing.
How curious. Susanna typically stayed molded to her side as tight as a piece of boning. It wasn’t like her to wander off.
Where would she go, anyway? Perhaps she’d just gone down to the candy seller for a piece of licorice. Violet would reprimand her when she returned.
She sat down to make a list of tasks. Her arm had healed to the point that writing caused only minor discomfort. She needed to send a note canceling one of the professional mourners for the Griffin funeral. Oh, and Will really needed to thoroughly scrub the small glass carriage again. It was covered in smuts and not acceptable for a society funeral. She continued filling out her considerable list.
. . . Visit Messers. Hooper & Co in Covent Garden
about their wreaths and wreath cases.
New draperies for interior of society carriage. New color?
Write to Whitby Jet Works for more stock of earrings.
See to memorial cards for Mrs. Watson, Mr. Watson
wishes angel with weeping willow design.
Look through mourning stationery for samples of most recent styles.
Which reminded her, she needed to inventory their closets. She went first to the chemicals closet, where Morgan Undertaking kept not only embalming preparations, but fragrances, makeup, clean brushes, and cleaning supplies, as well as other miscellaneous items. She opened the door to examine the shelves, making counts against a chart she kept tacked behind the door, enabling her to know when they were running low on anything to ensure she reordered long before anything ran out. It would never do to tell a family that a funeral couldn’t proceed for lack of medium beige number four.
She glanced at a clock on a table outside the closet. Another half hour Susanna had been gone. What was she up to?
I’ll wait fifteen more minutes, then go into the street and search for her myself.
Her attention was diverted by what was on the shelves. Or, rather, what wasn’t on them. She distinctly remembered storing a selection of coffin samples on this lower shelf. Only two were left. Where were the others?
Coffinmakers frequently provided undertakers with miniature versions of their wares, replete with whatever linings, handles, and brass commemorative plates would be included. Shelley & May, a large and reputable manufacturer in Birmingham, had recently sent a collection of new designs, so Violet stored the previous styles in the linen closet, thinking they might have some other use one day.
Had she found a use for them and forgotten about it in all of the tumult of the train crash and caring for Susanna?
Maybe.
She moved next to the linen closet to inspect their store of fabrics. Hmm, this was curious, too. Violet was certain she’d ordered a considerable amount of winding sheet linen, as well as some fine white silk for pall cloths that would be used on children’s coffins. Children’s funerals were always white, as opposed to the severe black used for adults. She’d only coordinated a handful of children’s funerals lately, including that of the poor child in the tunnel. Not enough to have decimated their stock.
She flipped to the page in her chart detailing their fabric holdings. There should be at least twenty yards of white silk in here.
Did the train crash completely addle my mind?
She decided to ask Graham about it at the first opportunity.
Violet was distracted by the sound of someone entering the shop. Quickly returning her chart back to its place, she went out to the front of the shop. Susanna had Mrs. Softpaws in her arms, but her fur was filthy and matted.
“Susanna! Where in the world have you been?”
The girl shrugged.
“Did you go to the candy store? To see Mrs. Overfelt? Somewhere else?”
Another shrug.
“Perhaps you and Mrs. Softpaws were somewhere you shouldn’t have been? Like playing in street puddles?”
Susanna lowered her head, slowly nodding it once.
For the first time, Violet was irritated by Susanna’s inability to talk. “I’ll not have you acting like a hoyden. It’s dangerous for a young woman to traipse the streets of London alone, and who could possibly know if you were in distress, since you can’t shout for help? Do not
ever
run off like that again, do you understand me?”
Susanna set her lips in a stubborn line, her eyes narrowed, but she nodded.
Violet took a breath. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that you were in that horrible wreck, too, and surely you were more affected than I was. However, I can’t be made to worry myself into a deranged state because you want to go off somewhere alone to play. You’ll have to find your amusements with Mrs. Softpaws at home.”
Susanna acknowledged nothing, but put the cat down and started straightening up the mourning card samples kept in a silver tray on the counter.
Violet had no idea children could be so frustrating. More so than husbands, except that she found she couldn’t
stay
mad at Susanna. Her heart wouldn’t allow it.
 
Much as she detested household work, the experience with Mrs. Scrope had taught Violet not to let the silver out of her sight. So when it showed a desperate need for polishing, she knew that, despite her growing trust in the Porters, she would have to be involved in the cleaning.
She and Mr. Porter washed the silver together in the scullery with Susanna helping while Mrs. Porter was busy in the kitchen with the week’s laundry. After sifting through the stored pieces to pull out those that were tarnished, Violet and Walter Porter sat at the long table in the scullery with the silver heaped in the center of it and several basins before them.
Susanna sorted through the pile and pulled pieces to be cleaned, starting with the largest pieces first. She would hand a bowl or carafe to Mr. Porter, who dipped it into his bowl of potash water and washed it, then dipped it into a secondary tub of clean water to rinse it. He then handed the piece off to Violet, who immersed it in her own solution of salt, alum, saltpeter, and water for several minutes to remove tarnish. She then returned the piece to Susanna, who polished it dry with a piece of chamois leather.
They worked their way through a variety of bowls, candelabra, serving pieces and, finally, silverware. As they neared the end of their task, everyone’s hands were chapped and sore. They took a cup of tea with Mrs. Porter in the kitchen, then carried the cleaned silver inside crates back up to the dining room.
Violet was replacing a decorative punch bowl when Graham burst into the house, brandishing a newspaper. Perhaps now she could ask him about the missing coffins and fabric, provided he would speak to her.
“Graham, did you—”
“Have you seen
The Times
today?”
“No, the household has been busy polish—”
He held up a hand. “Mr. Porter, can you see to my jacket? It has a stain here on the lapel.”
“Of course, Mr. Morgan, right away.” Mr. Porter helped Graham out of the offending coat and left the room, Susanna trailing behind him.
Graham resumed what he was saying. “Today’s headline proves what I’ve been saying about the Americans all along. Look.”
Violet took the paper and studied the article he stabbed at with his finger. All thought of missing supplies fled as she read the news.
It requires a strong effort of self-restraint to discuss with coolness the intelligence we publish today. An English mail steamer, sailing under the British flag, and carrying letters and passengers from a Spanish port to England, has been stopped on the high seas and overhauled. Four of the passengers have been taken out and carried off as prisoners, claiming and vainly claiming, as they were being forced away, the protection of the flag of Great Britain. These are the naked facts.
. . . When such tremendous interests are at stake we feel deeply the responsibility of discussing a question like this. Our first duty is to calm—certainly not to inflame—the general indignation which will be felt in these islands as the news is told. We cannot yet believe, although the evidence is strong, that it is the fixed determination of the Government of the Northern States to force a quarrel upon the Powers of Europe. We hope therefore that our people will not meet this provocation with an outburst of passion, or rush to resentment without full consideration of all the bearings of the case. On the other hand, we appeal to reasonable men of the Federal States—and they have some reasonable men among them—not to provoke war by such acts as these....

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