Lady of Ashes (20 page)

F
letcher hadn’t agreed with the idea no matter how many times Graham proposed it, but Graham Morgan was going ahead with it. Fletcher claimed not to be solely focused on profit, but when Graham suggested any alteration to their plans that might benefit Graham’s personal plans against America, Fletcher always balked.

If they were partners, why was everything Fletcher’s decision?

Mr. Harper, for all of his enthusiasm, had yet to produce a single shilling as a good-faith deposit for their risky work. Fletcher continued imploring Graham to be patient, since Mr. Harper would have many arrangements to make to ensure their transactions were unnoticeable.

Graham pulled his hat farther down on his head as he waited irritably on the bench outside Mr. Adams’s office. Some clerk told him to please wait while he went to see if the minister was available.

Available? For an irresistible offer to provide great assistance to the United States? From a reliable trader already known for importing sugar to Boston? To be sure, Americans from either side were unable to act in their own best interests, Mr. Harper with his delaying tactics, and now the Northerner not sure if he had time for Graham.

The door opened and the clerk motioned him inside. They were in an anteroom, sparsely furnished with a couple of chairs, a table with a lamp on it, and a small correspondence desk heaped high with sorted papers on it tucked away in a corner. The door leading to what must be the minister’s office was tightly shut.

The clerk sat down in one of the chairs, inviting Graham to join him. The man’s fingers were heavily blackened with ink. The minister must have him writing letters night and day. “Now, Mr. Morgan, you say you have an opportunity for Mr. Adams?”

What, now he had to explain it again? Well, he wouldn’t, not without the man himself in attendance.

“I do. Will he be joining us presently?”

“Perhaps. He is very busy on diplomatic calls, as you can imagine. If I could assist you . . .”

“No, I’ll speak directly to the minister.”

The clerk tapped his ink-stained fingers together. “I am not entirely without the resources to respond to your request, Mr. Morgan.”

Graham had had enough of intermediaries. “Sir, I will wait here until next week if necessary, but I will present my proposal only to Mr. Adams.”

Graham didn’t like the smirk on the other man’s face.

At that moment, a distinguished, balding man with a chin curtain beard cut thin and close and looking like a horseshoe draped under the chin from one ear to the other entered the room, unbuttoning his frock coat as he tossed some more papers on the correspondence desk.

Graham jumped up. “Your Excellency, I’ve been waiting to speak to you, sir, I—”

Without a glance at Graham, the man spoke to his clerk. “Henry, please step into my office when you’re finished here, as I have an important letter to dictate.”

“Right away, sir.”

The minister ignored Graham’s outstretched hand and entered his office, shutting the door behind him.

Aflame with embarrassment, Graham let his hand drop to his side. How dare the man ignore his good English manners in such a blatant way. Obviously Mr. Harper was an exception to American rudeness. The rest were like Minister Adams and perfectly fit the description his grandfather had painted for him so many years ago.

Suddenly, the combined plagues of Violet’s nagging, Mr. Harper’s reluctance to finalize their deal, Fletcher’s inability to join Graham’s cause, and the strain of their financial difficulties coalesced into a single ball of wrath in his abdomen.

I
will
have things go my way.

He nodded curtly to the clerk and departed without another word.

 

As Graham left the building, Charles Francis came back out of his office. “Is he the one?”

“He’s one of the two Morgan brothers.”

“Daring of him to seek an audience with me.”

“Criminals usually are, Father, when they believe they have a foolproof enterprise.”

 

 

 

The queen rubbed her hands together nervously. “What is it, Sir James?” she asked as the doctor exited Windsor’s Blue Room to meet with her. The Blue Room was Albert’s favorite room in the castle, and he spent more and more time there now.

The aging physician held up his hands. “I’m honestly not quite sure yet. The prince consort displays a variety of symptoms that could mean any number of illnesses. I shall take a wait-and-see approach.”

This was becoming a tiresome answer. Victoria had been distressed by the brown color and dryness of her husband’s tongue two nights ago. He’d had a restless sleep that night, too, though his tongue was much improved the next morning. They sent for Sir James Clark, the royal physician-in-ordinary and their principal doctor for over twenty years. Albert had other doctors in attendance as well, but Victoria had always placed utmost faith in Dr. Clark. However, Albert’s ongoing illness was worrisome. She wasn’t sure a “wait-and-see” attitude was correct in this case.

“Has the apothecary brought more of his elixir? It relieves him so.”

“Yes, madam, we gave the prince some ether and Hoffman’s drops, and the apothecary will be back again in the morning to see if His Highness requires any other medicines. In addition, I will confer with Dr. Jenner over his condition.”

William Jenner had been hired on in February as a physician extraordinary. Unlike the queen’s highly esteemed physicians-in-ordinary, he was a second-tier doctor and would hope to one day be promoted to physician-in-ordinary. Dr. Clark’s manner had always been so reassuring, so kind, but Dr. Jenner was also a competent and sympathetic physician. Yes, it might be time for his additional opinion.

First, though, she had to address a particularly grating letter from Lord Palmerston, who insisted that His Royal Highness have additional medical advice from a Dr. Watson, as well as from Sir Henry Holland, another physician-in-ordinary, whom she didn’t trust as much as she did Clark and Jenner. Not because Palmerston cared about her darling Albert, of course, but because he had all of that pesky business with the Americans he wanted the prince involved in. Could Lord Palmerston not understand that her dearest heart was suffering? That his constitution was weak and she had to protect him at all costs from further doctors, who would simply convince him he was dying?

The man had no decorum.

She checked once more on Albert, who was sprawled listlessly on a sofa in his dressing gown. She whispered, “Take some soup and a little brown bread, will you, darling?” before kissing him and heading off to put Lord Palmerston firmly in his place, certain that she’d left the room before Albert saw the tears running down her face.

 

“So, Mr. Harper, you’ve seen our ship, you’ve inspected our proposed goods, and you’ve met with us repeatedly. Are you finally ready to conclude our negotiations?” Graham saw Fletcher’s cautionary look, but he was beyond caring. The three men sat inside the Three Hulls, speaking in low tones over port glasses while a chilly rain drilled against the roof and slid along the windows in sheets.

“Actually, Mr. Morgan, I do have a few more questions.” Samuel Harper removed a small pad and pencil from his jacket pocket. “My superiors are, of course, concerned that these shipments not be discovered by any passing ship protecting the blockade. No sense in spending a spectacular fortune in merchandise only to have it fall into your enemy’s hands.”

Graham clenched his teeth. Now what?

“Can you describe for me what your exact routing is for your ship, and at what point you can slip past the North’s blockade? Obviously, we are having a terrible time of it.”

“Yet you made it here, Mr. Harper,” Graham said.

Fletcher spoke up so smoothly that Graham barely caught the warning note in his voice. “For which we are most grateful. And if you would like us to create a nautical chart of our routes, we are happy to do so. I assume this is the final concern you have?”

Mr. Harper put away his pencil and paper. “Why, yes, I think such a map would conclude our negotiations. In fact, it is my hope that we can see our first shipment delivered before Christmas, which would be a fine present for President Davis.”

“Then you won’t mind committing to a specific purchase today, contingent on providing you with a shipping map?” Graham asked.

“Surely you understand that although I have given you the highest recommendation, it is imperative that I prove that you are a discreet, experienced operation.”

Fletcher broke in again. “We are happy to accommodate you in this, Mr. Harper. Shall we meet again in, say, a week’s time to finalize everything?”

“That would be fine.” The three stood up to shake hands—why, Graham would never know, since it never meant they were agreed on anything—when Mr. Harper paused, as though a thought had just occurred to him.

“One more thing, how is your wife coming along since her accident?” he said to Graham.

“Violet? She’s well. Fully immersed back into undertaking.”

“And the girl, Susanna? She was growing into quite the young lady the last time I visited.”

Graham shrugged.

“Well, then, please extend my Christmas felicitations to Mrs. Morgan and Susanna.” Mr. Harper put on his hat and they all braced themselves to face the dreary weather as they went on their separate ways.

It was an innocent enough statement, but it struck Graham that if Mr. Harper was not planning to be honorable in his dealings with the Morgan brothers, then he might not be so honorable in his intentions toward Violet. The tips of the man’s ears went suspiciously red when mentioning Violet’s name, too.

It would bear watching.

 

Violet wrinkled her nose at the bundle of evergreen branches in her hand as she surveyed the boxes of dried fruit, pinecones, and ribbons scattered around the drawing room.

“How will we ever turn this into a set of pretty garlands and wreaths, Susanna?” she asked. “Perhaps we should ask—” Graham came through the door at that moment, water sluicing down the back of his jacket. Mr. Porter rushed to the front door to take his hat and coat away.

“Good evening,” she said, but Graham appeared too distressed to even notice that his wife had destroyed the interior of their home with all manner of Christmas decorations.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing for you to worry about. What does Mrs. Porter have planned for dinner?”

“Roasted pork loin, I think. Here, would you like to help string some popcorn with us?” She offered him a tin of supplies, but he turned away.

“I have serious business concerns and you want me to play with silly bits of greenery and string? Unlikely. Send Mr. Porter for me when my meal is ready.” And with that, he went upstairs, presumably to nurse whatever irritation was crawling about under his skin.

Hiding her own irritation that her husband gave no recognition whatsoever of her efforts to decorate their home for the season, Violet smiled and said, “Well, then, I suppose that’s all the more popcorn garlands for you and me to make.”

While Graham might try to make the atmosphere impossible in their home, Violet intended to try her best to make it a joyful Christmas for Susanna.

 

 

Lord Palmerston opened the letter, marked “Confidential.” The queen had put him off in strong terms, but he had his allies in the palace who reported to him regularly. He scanned it quickly.

He had hardly finished that missive when a clerk tapped on the door to deliver another one.

A prickle of fear coursed through Palmerston. Gastric fever was typically a euphemism for typhoid fever. Although the doctors appeared to have—finally—diagnosed the prince, it sounded as though the queen was becoming unstable. This was cause for concern in the event the prince did not recover.