Lady of Ashes (25 page)

Victoria wondered how long she could stay sequestered here at Osborne House. Eventually her ministers would expect something from her, but what did they know about tragic loss? How was she supposed to make decisions without Albert’s wisdom and guidance? How would marriage alliances be formed for their children? Who else would craft such cleverly written missives to international friends and enemies alike?

It was too much to bear.

She trailed throughout her apartment, picking up and holding porcelain figurines, carved boxes, and other trinkets. Each one held a memory of some sort, whether it had been a loving gift between spouses or something Albert had specifically ordered for Osborne House. She paused by each painting in the room, putting her fingertips to the frames. Albert had a hand in every little detail of this home, his labor of love.

She collapsed into an upholstered rocking chair and let the movement soothe her. It was of comfort for about five minutes. The table next to the chair contained another assortment of objets d’art. Her gaze caught a highly polished mahogany jewel casket. Albert gave it to her on their eleventh wedding anniversary and had placed a necklace of plump alabaster pearls inside. She reached for the casket and opened it. Ah yes, the necklace had long since been removed and placed in safekeeping with her other jewelry.

Victoria closed the lid and ran her hand down the length of it. Was this what Albert’s coffin looked like? So smooth and perfectly carved, with a padded interior. Did he rest there in St. George’s Chapel, wearing an angelic smile to outshine any of the priceless jewels in her collection?

She sighed and replaced the casket on the table. What had transpired at Albert’s funeral? Did it go well? No one at Windsor had sent any reports about it, and Bertie was resolutely silent on the matter. Arthur was too young to have anything intelligent to say.

Would knowing the details of her husband’s funeral help her? Would she rest easier knowing that Albert rested peacefully? Clutching to the idea like one of the tattered life preservers dangling from the sides of the bathing machines, she scrawled off a note to be delivered right away to Mr. Rowland.

 

 

 

Finding his hotel room stuffy and claustrophobic after several hours of song and merriment with Violet Morgan, Samuel retreated to a nearby public house to nurse his unease over a pint of bitters at a table in the rear of the taproom.

He found British ale stronger than the beer favored in America, but at least it was plentiful here. The armies of both sides were already purchasing the stuff by barrels to use as an inexpensive but soothing tonic for soldiers far from home. The more they consumed, the cheaper the quality would undoubtedly become.

He took a long draw from his glass and returned to the letter he was writing to his father.

Samuel finished his pint and ordered another as he contemplated whether to tell his father what was really on his mind.

Samuel folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket for posting the next day. What a soft old fool he was becoming, allowing a woman—and a married one, at that—to affect his good sense. No grit to him at all.

 

Christmas was a torturous affair for Graham. After leaving home, he’d sought out Fletcher, who was otherwise occupied at his home with some giggling redheaded woman. As his brother was disinclined to leave his snug and entertaining surroundings, Graham prowled about awhile, then, cold and bored, walked home. As he was about to cross the street to the Morgan residence, he looked up at the bright light shining out from the dining room.

What he saw heated his skin in a slow, fiery burn as though he were tied to a stake. Why was Mr. Harper carrying on with his wife like that? The two of them were laughing and singing, with the servants no less. Graham recognized the look in Harper’s eyes, and it wasn’t that of a disinterested visitor.

Did Violet share the man’s feelings? Was she encouraging him? The flames licked a little higher. Was Mr. Harper dragging out their negotiations in order to have time to seduce his wife? Treacherous American. Graham should have known something like this was possible. He’d warned Fletcher, hadn’t he? Americans were the scourge of the earth and couldn’t be trusted under any circumstances.

The heat rose higher, the flames encircling his heart and causing it to pound erratically. He should burst in right now and roundly thump the man before Violet’s eyes. It would teach them both. Yet Graham stayed rooted to his spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the cozy domestic scene going on inside. Violet offered the man a cup, which Harper took with a subtle touch of her hand. The little brat was taking Harper’s hand and dragging him to see something. She’d never taken Graham’s hand before. He’d given her a roof over her head, and now the spoilt girl was showing preference for this stranger?

The stranger who wouldn’t commit to their contract with even a pittance of silver.

Yes, he would fling open the door and physically throw Harper onto the cold, dirty pavement, then deal with Violet.

Of course, it would mean the end of their deal. Mr. Harper would report back to the Confederate government, and they would move on to another merchant. Not only would Fletcher be furious, but everything Graham had worked for would be for naught. Ignoring the tiny voice that wondered if this trade was worth losing his wife, Graham knew that he had to remain silent as to what he saw playing out before him.

The thought paralyzed him, permitting the fire to consume Graham’s entire body. He fought the urge to thrash wildly in the street. Wouldn’t do for any neighbors to happen to peer outside and witness him; he’d be permanently ostracized from what little advancement he’d made in society.

He had to do something. In his fit of anger, he ran to the front door and ripped down the garlands that Violet had so painstakingly hung around it. He remembered the look in her eyes when she’d shown them to him. She’d wanted approval for her domestic efforts, and for certain he was glad now that he hadn’t given it to her.

Graham ripped apart the branches and tore off the spruce needles, their pungent scent filling his head with memories of a Christmas at some time in the past, he couldn’t remember when, that he’d actually been happy. Having destroyed the garlands beyond recognition, he stomped on the debris several times, knowing he was behaving like a child whose toy horse has been taken away, but too far gone in rage to care.

His meager revenge complete, he slid into the shadows to wait for Harper’s departure. Once he knew the invader had left his home, he planned to spend the night elsewhere. Let Violet wonder where he was. The door finally opened, but Harper seemed to have difficulty leaving the little nest he’d created. Graham burned once again, but was mollified when, after Harper moved on into the night, Violet saw his handiwork.

The look of dismay on her face was well worth it.

M
rs. Porter had already swept away the garland debris the next morning, and asked Violet over breakfast whether she wanted to replace them.

“No, I think not. If there’s a ruffian in the neighborhood, he’ll just tear it down again.”

“I noticed that it was only the garlands on this house that were torn down, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Yes, well, who can understand the mind of a brute? Susanna, please use a knife on your sausage, don’t cut it with a spoon. Where was I? Anyway, what time did Mr. Morgan return last night?”

“Can’t say as I know, ma’am. Mr. Porter laid out his brown suit, but it’s still there. His bedclothes are still in place.”

Violet was nearly beyond caring how Graham spent his time, except that his actions were so utterly disrespectful of her and he was neglecting his duties at the shop. Bless Mrs. Porter for her studied oblivion about what was happening between husband and wife.

“Very well, thank you. Susanna, dear, come, we must hurry or we’ll be late opening the shop.”

Almost immediately upon entering the shop, Violet was immersed in problems surrounding the transport of a body from Cambridge back to London—the railroad having misplaced it somewhere between Royston and Stevenage—and she promptly forgot about Graham and his wanderings.

Maybe if she spent every waking moment at Morgan Undertaking, she might forget he even existed.

 

Samuel was just exiting the Langham one morning when Morgan accosted him once again.

“Harper!” the man said sharply. Morgan was unshaven and his eyes were red and rheumy. Samuel made the mistake of breathing in, and was overwhelmed by the fumes of liquor wafting off the man.

“Morgan,” he replied evenly. “I trust you had a pleasant Christmas.”

“It’s none of your business. No doubt you had a delightful one.”

“I did. I came by your home to see you, but you weren’t there, yet your charming wife allowed a poor bachelor to linger and sing carols with the family.”

“A woman, two servants, and a vagrant child hardly make a family.”

“For a lonely man they do, Morgan. You would be wise to appreciate what you have.” How had this man ever secured Mrs. Morgan’s affections?

“I know what I
don’t
have, and that is a commitment from you.” Graham held up a hand. “Wait, before you assault me with more excuses, I have news for you. Your compatriots, Mason and Slidell, have finally made it to London. I read about it in this morning’s paper.”

“And?”

“
And
presumably they now carry great esteem and clout since their public abduction by the Northern miscreants. They’re here to negotiate Confederate recognition, aren’t they? What better than to demonstrate our commitment to helping the South by providing valuable goods that will slip past the blockade at great risk to British souls? I want you to set up a meeting with them to discuss it. Perhaps those gentlemen have a little more authority than the man originally designated to handle things.”

This was something Samuel never expected Morgan would attempt. The man bordered on derangement, but he was clever. How should he get a handle on this? Pretend to set up a meeting? It would enrage Morgan further, and who knew what he might do in retaliation? Samuel had little fear for himself—Morgan was no more than a roaring black bear like the ones he’d captured and killed many times in the forest behind his father’s farm—but it did give him pause to think that Morgan could be dangerous to others in his household.

For an animal like Graham Morgan, it was best to be aggressive right back. “Although a sound idea, my friend, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. I’ve just had word from Virginia that the Confederacy has decided to obtain its merchandise elsewhere.” Samuel opened his jacket and pulled out the letter he’d been holding for some time.

Morgan snatched the letter before Samuel had a chance to open it. He snapped it open and read, his bloodshot eyes quickly scanning the pages. He crumpled it up and threw it to the ground.

“Elsewhere?” Graham didn’t so much shout as explode. “How could they possibly know of anywhere else to go? Haven’t you been their agent, working exclusively with my brother and me?”

Samuel shrugged. “It appears they hired other agents to work in London.”

“I don’t believe you. I haven’t heard of any other agents seeking traders, and I make it a point to stay informed.”

“You’re obviously not that well informed, Mr. Morgan.”

“I know what I’m talking about. You’ve been rolling a ball of string before my brother and me, just out of paws’ reach, in order to suit your own nefarious purposes, haven’t you? What is it that you
really
intend to do?”

“You’re a madman, Morgan.”

“And you’re a no-good, lying coward, not worth a shilling of horse dung.”

“Watch yourself,” Samuel growled.

“Watch myself? All I’ve done for weeks, no, for months, is watch, watch, watch and wait while you stumble about making promises and agreements you don’t intend to keep. You’re a feckless braggart, Harper, and I know you have designs on my wife, making you a conniving trickster, as well.”

“That’s enough,” Samuel roared. Without a care as to who witnessed it, he pulled back and punched Graham in the face. The man flew backward onto the filthy, slushy pavement and slid along the ice. Samuel followed him. Graham put a hand to his nose, but blood was already pouring out between his fingers.

“If it weren’t illegal, I’d call you out,” he mumbled from behind his hand.

“I’d accept, legal or not.”

“That just proves that everything I’ve said about you is true,” Graham said.

“No,” Samuel replied, bending over to speak quietly in Graham’s ear. “It just proves that you’re a shyster playing in a game whose rules you do not understand.”

 

“What happened to you?” Fletcher asked when he opened the door.

“Shut up,” Graham said as he brushed past his brother. “I need some rags and a basin of water.”

After cleaning up and assuring himself in a mirror that his nose was not broken, he told his brother what had transpired between himself and Samuel Harper. Instead of the rage he expected from a sympathetic brother, Fletcher merely pursed his lips, as though considering things.

Why did every confounded person in his life have to behave in a totally unexpected—and abominable—manner?

“Well, I suppose that ends our dream of quick riches through Mr. Harper, doesn’t it? I’m disappointed, of course, but it’s not wholly unexpected. I’m sure we can find something else. For tonight, let’s head over to the Three Hulls and drown our sorrows. Then tomorrow we can—”

“Have you lost your sense, Fletcher? This is not a temporary setback; we’re ruined. Everything I’ve invested, gone. Oh, right, you don’t have as much invested as I do, so it’s of little matter to you, isn’t it?”

“You’re wrong, Graham. I made the trial run at my own expense, remember? Your problem is that you think every setback is a personal affront to your dignity. Perhaps Mr. Harper lost his backing and didn’t want to admit it. Perhaps he’s holding out for more favorable terms. In any case, standing around quarreling about it doesn’t move us toward another profitable enterprise. We’re best served to forget him and make new plans.”

“New plans? After months sacrificed on this one? You’re the one who assured me this was a perfect scheme because it would help me avenge Grandfather’s death as well as bring us untold wealth. It would catapult me further up into society, you said. Now you casually shrug your shoulders as though you’ve merely lost a pair of theater tickets.”

“No, Graham, I am a realist who understands that in any great undertaking, there are many steps along the way. Some will be successful, some won’t. We don’t know that Mr. Harper is no longer useful to us, just that a single door has closed. There are plenty of other ways to profit from the American war—and provide you with your precious revenge—if we just sit down and consider it. Instead, you run in here like a madman.”

“That’s the second time today I’ve been called that. I tolerated it from Harper, but I won’t tolerate it from my brother.”

“All right, I’m sorry. We have to discuss this rationally, Graham. There’s no sense in—”

“You’re a fool, Fletcher, but I’m not. While you’ve been waiting for Harper like a lovesick calf, I’ve been making my own inquiries. He’s not the only man willing to help us. Trust me, brother, I will have satisfaction out of this.”

 

Graham waited again for Harper, this time inside a public house across the street. As soon as he saw Harper step outside and head south, he threw down some coins to pay for his drink and went outside to follow him. It was time to discover who Harper was meeting with and what London contacts he had.

Graham followed him on a circuitous route down to Oxford Street, then west a few blocks and back north and around Cavendish Square. Harper turned east on Cavendish Place, strolling along as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

You’ll care once I’m finished with you,
Graham thought.

Another left and they were back at Portland Place. Where was he headed? Graham’s quarry stopped at an elegant residence and rang the bell. A uniformed servant answered, listened to instruction from Harper, then retreated back inside. When the door opened again, Graham was struck by the familiarity of the man standing there.

Where had he seen him before? Perhaps he’d not seen the man himself, but an ambrotype or an engraving of him. But where? Who was he?

In a sickening rush, Graham realized everything. He remembered where he’d seen the man before, and who he was. Moreover, he understood Harper’s relationship with the man and exactly what game Harper was playing.

And Graham knew what he had to do.

 

“Sorry to force you to the door,” Samuel said, “but my little English friend has been following me, and I decided it was time to take care of him once and for all.”

“So you wanted him to see me, eh?”

“Yes. I also brought him here circuitously, in order to confuse him a bit as to whom I was seeing.”

“The game is afoot, then? Care to stay for some port until we go out to our meeting? I’ve just purchased a case of fine—”

“No need to convince me. I’d be happy to drink your port.”

“You always were a good sport, Mr. Harper.”

 

Graham rushed home blindly, his rage rendering him incapable of complete thought as he stumbled and shoved his way past people in the street. The interior of the house was dark and he called out, “Violet? Mr. Porter? Mrs. Porter?”

No one home. Violet must be at the shop with the girl, and the servants were on some kind of errands, he supposed. He was blessedly alone.

He took the staircase two steps at a time up to his study. He yanked open a drawer of his desk. The steel contraption lay there, its oiled barrel gleaming and seductive. For one moment, he reflected back to the time that Violet stood here next to him, consoling him over his sorrow for his grandfather. He’d felt then as though she really loved him. Maybe she still did. What he was about to do might have grave consequences for her, but there was no time to think about it now.

The image of the treacherous Samuel Harper loomed up in his mind once more, and he realized he was a fool if he thought Violet cared anymore. No longer caring a whit about what might happen to Violet, he searched another drawer for ammunition, tucked everything back into his coat pocket, and rushed back out of his house to Portland Place.

To wait.

 

When Violet and Susanna returned home from the shop, the house was dark. She’d given the Porters the day off, and naturally Graham was nowhere to be found.

After finding adequate leftovers in the kitchen, she and Susanna shared supper, then Violet suggested they play with the dollhouse together. The house was still in the drawing room where Violet had allowed it to sit since before Christmas. Perhaps she should leave it there, since it was becoming its own piece of furniture and Susanna loved it so. It was a joy to watch the girl rearrange the rooms of furniture.

With their skirts spread out around them, they opened up the front of the white Regency-style dollhouse. Violet went to work on the dining room, turning the scale-sized table at a ninety-degree angle, and rearranging the chairs and other room furniture to go with it, while Susanna began rearranging one of the other living areas into an approximate replica of the Morgan house drawing room. Soon there were as many pieces on the floor around them as there were in the dollhouse. Mrs. Softpaws stepped daintily through them, occasionally batting one over.

So absorbed were they in their play that they both jumped in terror when Graham burst through the front door.

“Graham, honestly, must you be so noisy? We were just—”

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Violet by the hand and pulling her up. She heard a piece of miniature furniture snap beneath her shoe as she struggled to gain her balance.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

“No time. Get upstairs.” He pushed her along in front of him.

Violet saw fear on Susanna’s face, but called to her from the stairs, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”

Graham jostled her all the way up to their bedroom, or, rather, her bedroom, as it had been for several months. What was his intent? Surely he didn’t plan to . . .

He thrust her onto the bed and slammed the door. She sat rigid, her mind whirling as to what she would do if he attempted to force her to anything.