Lady of Ashes (44 page)

 

“I
’m returning to the United States,” Sam said, his brown eyes sorrowful as he and Violet sat inside his favorite confectionary.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry, Violet, I truly am, but duty awaits me at home.”

“I thought your duty was here, working for the minister.” Violet knew she sounded petulant, but her shock left her less than composed.

“Much of that work is complete, as Slade and Cubby have been arrested for their financing of illegal blockade runners, which has dispersed many other ship owners hoping to use their, er, services, to develop their illegal trading schemes.”

“I see. Surely there is more diplomatic work for you to do here. It must be dangerous back home for you, with a war raging on.” She stared down at the table at the yellow rose he’d given her earlier, its petals of warmth and sunshine now mocking her earlier joy at receiving it.

Sam took her hand and held it between both of his. “That’s just it. I’m going home
because
there is a war raging on. My country needs me, and I intend to enlist in an army infantry regiment. They organized in August of last year, but they’re in need of men. I’ve already written to my father and my law partner to expect me before the end of October, although I’ll almost immediately be leaving for a place called Falmouth, Virginia.”

Violet blinked, unsure what to say. Obviously he didn’t belong here and would one day have to return home. She had no hold on Samuel Harper, they were no more than friends. Yet . . .

“I’m almost out of full mourning,” she said, pointing to her high collar of gray accenting her black dress. She’d put away all of the jet except for a pair of earrings.

He smiled wanly. “I know. We seem to have frightful timing. What is Longfellow’s saying about ships in the night?”

“But . . . Susanna will be inconsolable when she hears this news.”

“Is she the only one who will be inconsolable?”

“No, I . . . I believe I—” Violet withdrew her hand from between his. “You know, speaking of Susanna, I really should return home for supper.”

Sam nodded, the light going out of his eyes. “Of course. I’ll be happy to accompany you back.”

Sam asked permission to tell Susanna himself, which Violet granted. The three of them stood in the drawing room while Sam told Susanna that he was shortly leaving for the United States. Susanna’s reaction was swifter and more feral than Violet expected.

“No!” she cried, launching herself into Sam’s arms. “You can’t go! Mr. and Mrs. Orange Peel will hate you. I’ll hate you. So will Mrs. Softpaws.”

“Susanna!” Violet said.

Sam folded his arms around the girl and kissed the top of her head. “Nothing for you to worry over. It’s perfectly understandable that you would hate a Yankee rascal like me.”

“When will you be back?” Susanna asked, her voice muffled against his chest.

Sam put Susanna out at arm’s length. “I honestly don’t know. We thought this war was just going to last a few weeks or months, but now there seems to be no end in sight.”

Susanna rubbed her scarlet nose. “Will you be killed?”

Violet’s heart lurched. When had the child ever not known death and destruction? Would this be another instance of it?

Sam laughed. “Do you think a pack of Confederate ditch diggers can whip up on a Northern lawyer? Not likely. Listen to me, Susanna. You’ll have to take very good care of your mother. She means the world to both of us, doesn’t she?”

Susanna snuffled and nodded.

“And you’ll need to concentrate on helping out in the shop, not worrying about me. I’ll just be living in tents and slogging through mud, I expect.”

“Will you come back?”

“Only God knows that. But I have to know that you’ll be looking out for your mother. Promise me that you will.”

“I promise,” Susanna said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Now, you should probably go share the news with the Orange Peels.”

Susanna obediently went upstairs. Sam turned his full focus onto Violet. “Will you write to me?” he said.

“Where?”

“My father’s farm. He’ll figure out where I am and forward them on to me.”

“You don’t know where you’ll be?”

“Battles have been fought in South Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, and Louisiana. It’s hard to say where the war’s front will be.”

A vision of Sam lying dead on the battlefield, with a surgeon crouched over him with a bottle of embalming fluid, rose up like a specter, causing Violet to gasp.

“Truly, I promise he will get letters to me somehow through the army,” Sam said.

“No, it’s not that. I just . . . am worried that you’ll be cold as winter sets in. I hear winters are difficult in the North.”

He smiled. “Well, I’ll be warm enough when I remember that you’ll be worried about me.” Sam reached out a hand and cupped her face. “I can’t imagine life without you, Violet Morgan. There’s so much I’d like to say, but it no longer seems appropriate. I hope you find happiness once again, even though it cannot be with me.”

“Sam . . .”

He reached his other hand to her waist and pulled her close. He smelled as though he himself was freshly laundered, clean and crisp, with the undertones of a spicy cologne. She closed her eyes to inhale him, to imprint his scent on her memory.

She felt Sam slip his hand from her face to around her neck, and he brought his lips down upon hers, gently and hesitantly. When Violet didn’t resist, he drew her right against him and increased the pressure and intensity of the kiss. Suddenly his scent completely enveloped her and she felt dizzy from the delight of it. She circled her arms around his neck, determined to not ever release him.

Had she ever been kissed like this before?

When Sam reluctantly broke off their embrace and held her head against his chest, she heard his heart hammering as violently as hers. With her arms still around his neck, she tangled her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. This unleashed an unexpected, primitive reaction in him and he sought her mouth again, this time as though he himself were a caged lion waiting to spring out.

It was delicious and heady and nearly too much for Violet, who had never known such ardor. This time it was she who broke it off, so overwhelmed by it that she feared she might lose all control to him.

“I can hardly bear this,” he said, his voice ragged. “What will I do without you?”

“I suppose the first item on your list of things to do is to avoid injury, since I won’t be there to protect you.”

He smiled halfheartedly. “Yes, it will be most difficult without your protection. The rebels would be foolhardy indeed to go up against the ferocious little undertaker.”

They stood in silence together, Sam’s arms now around her waist as he rocked her gently back and forth. Neither was willing to let go and break the atmosphere of the moment.

When Sam did speak aloud, it was with a sadness that reflected Violet’s own splintering heart. “I must leave. The minister wants to have several meetings before I depart, and I need to make a statement at Whitehall Place about Cubby and Slade.”

“You’ll come back once more before your ship departs?”

“No, I can’t bear to part from you again. Good-bye, Violet.” With a final kiss to the tip of her nose, he walked away quickly, nearly running down the stairs and out the door before Violet could even catch her breath and protest.

She was standing completely alone in her drawing room, which had felt like paradise five minutes ago and now just seemed tiny, hot, and suffocating.

 

Violet gradually returned her focus to her work, much to Will’s and Harry’s relief. Even Susanna expressed delight in joining Violet at the shop again, making Violet realize that the combination of her imprisonment and Sam’s departure had created nearly unbearable uncertainty for Susanna.

So even though her heart raced daily across the ocean and back, she learned to be content in her situation, if she couldn’t be outright happy. Her plagued thoughts of how things might have turned out differently if she’d heeded Sam’s initial call to go to the United States were eventually replaced by a periodic throb of regret. It was nothing that couldn’t be managed as she succumbed to the daily routine of body preparation, consoling grieving family members, and arranging tasteful funerals.

Susanna, too, recovered from her ordeal and Sam’s loss as Violet handed over to her more tasks that her other assistants didn’t care to do, such as writing out orders for various salesmen and checking the orders for accuracy when they were delivered.

How resilient children were.

Violet’s only surrender to Sam’s memory was the planting of a yellow rosebush in the miniscule patch of garden behind her home. It seemed appropriate to have an explosion of golden exuberance in an otherwise desolate plot of ground, just as her life was colored in shades of gray except for the memory of Sam’s presence.

A memory she hoped would dim.

Each morning she went to the bush and clipped a stem, bringing it back inside and placing it in a vase atop her dressing table. She had no idea why she was torturing herself like this, yet she was compelled to keep a single bloom adorning her bedroom.

Ironically, as Violet’s heartbeat was ebbing, her business was booming. The public’s fascination with Catherine Wilson did not immediately abate after her execution. Instead, people found it even more enthralling that the woman undertaker, so recently under her own cloud of suspicion, was the one to uncover Catherine’s deeds. All of fashionable London now sought custom with Violet, to know that their dearly departed ones would be sent off to St. Peter via a funeral arranged personally by Violet Morgan.

Funeral arrangements took on a different tone, as now not only did Violet interview family members about their wishes, but they also peppered her with questions, such as “What is it like to look into the eyes of a female killer?” and “Can you tell me how you managed to escape from the lions’ den?” and “Did she truly try to poison you with sulfuric acid?”

Violet and Susanna returned to Newgate one final time when they read that Catherine’s death mask had been made. In an alcove near the main entrance were shelves protected by glass. On the shelves were death masks of notorious prisoners who had been executed at Newgate. Among the infamous were John Bellingham, assassin of British prime minister Spencer Perceval in 1812, as well as Arthur Thistlewood, who instigated the 1820 Cato Street Conspiracy. Now Catherine Wilson’s mask had joined the infamous display of murderers, robbers, and traitors.

They looked at the plaster-cast mask, which was taken from the body soon after execution and then painted for realism. Violet and Susanna shuddered in unison. Catherine’s mocking expression was as evident in death as it had been in life.

When she found spare time, Violet sat at her dressing table to write Sam letters while letting the fragrance of the day’s picked rose waft around her. She wrote about her experiences with the macabre public that now embraced her, trying to keep her tone light, but sometimes she couldn’t help injecting her worries at the end.

After one such gloomy composition, Violet frowned at her letter. Did it sound overly apprehensive? She crumpled it up and took out a new sheet of writing paper. This time she purposefully wrote a happy letter, full of anecdotes about Susanna’s ongoing growth, both in that she was nearly as tall as Violet with a coltish awkwardness in her movements as she prepared for womanhood, and in her training at Morgan Undertaking. Susanna was now learning Violet’s various formula preparations and had even assisted with a recent embalming.

Sam would be pleased to know Susanna was doing so well.