Lady of Ashes (46 page)

“Quite impertinent. Is it of such great moment?”

At least she wondered about it. “It is a statement by the Confederacy that they do not respect our international policy of neutrality, and is therefore an insult to our national honor. To permit them to do this is to allow all countries to assume they can trample all over Great Britain. It is why we had to take such a strong position against the United States over the
Trent
Affair. Else we would have been overrun by other nations like a plague epidemic.”

“Ah, that reminds us of something. We wonder how our dear Mrs. Morgan is. The cholera outbreak must have kept her busy. Such a dear woman. She was quite inconsolable at Albert’s reinterment, you know.”

“Yes, madam.”

“We read in the papers several months ago that she and an American friend were responsible for capturing that dreadful Catherine Wilson, the woman poisoning all of her employers. Awful to think that a Briton would do such a thing.”

“Yes, madam.”

“It seems the Americans deserve our thanks for such a thing, doesn’t it?”

Finally, something to which Lord Palmerston could grasp with both hands. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I agree. It’s not yet politically feasible to formally recognize the United States’ position that the Confederacy is illegitimate, yet it appears as though the tide of the war has turned their way, so we want to remain in their good graces. I recommend that we do so implicitly through congratulations over that country’s aid in ridding us of a terrible criminal. Meanwhile, we shall ignore the South and halt all attempts at mediation between the belligerents.”

“Do whatever you think is best. And now we feel a bit tired. We should like to have Mr. Brown sent in to read to us.”

Lords Palmerston and Russell left from their brief audience with the queen. “What do you say?” Russell asked. “Is the queen coming round?”

“Hardly. I’m afraid the American conflict is in our hands. Pray we can continue our successful maneuvering through it until they’re done spilling blood.”

 

V
iolet and Susanna had just finished supper after a long day at the shop and were discussing whether to read quietly together or play a game of dominoes when the bell rang.

“Who could that be?” Violet asked.

“I’ll answer it.” Susanna leapt to her feet and went downstairs. Violet heard the front door open, then the house was filled with the sound of Susanna’s scream.

Violet jumped up and ran to the top of the stairs, fearing that some new criminal had entered their lives to wreak havoc upon them. Her own scream joined Susanna’s.

“Of all the greetings I imagined, this was not one of them.” At the door stood Samuel Harper. A thinner, nearly gaunt Sam, but him nonetheless. He was clean-shaven now, and had deep lines around his eyes that spoke of untold pain. Was he standing in an awkward position? Violet remained at the top of the flight of stairs, her hand gripping the walnut newel. It was difficult to absorb the idea that he was here and staring up at her.

He broke eye contact when Susanna stopped shouting and launched herself into his arms, nearly toppling him. That was when Violet realized he carried a limp, as he struggled to maintain his balance.

“Mother! Mr. Harper’s here. Come in, come in.” Susanna pulled him in and shut the door behind him, leading him up the stairs. Violet backed away, still in shock, until she nearly collided with the fireplace mantel.

Sam looked around as if searching for something. “Are you . . . alone here?”

“Yes,” was all she managed to squeak out.

“I mean, are you . . . unattached?”

Violet nodded.

He relaxed visibly. “I sort of figured a woman like you would have men lining up in gold-plated carriages for her hand. I’m happy to see you didn’t go off with anyone. May I be so bold as to inquire as to whether you are, well, pleased to see me?” Sam almost looked embarrassed. Was that a scar above his right eye, cutting through his eyebrow?

Violet tried to speak. “I thought you were—the minister told me—how did you—I never got responses to my letters, so I assumed—” What was this babble tumbling from her mouth?

“Were you informed of my demise? Yes, government efficiency at its best. I imagine you’d like to know what happened. May we sit down? I find that I can no longer stand for extended periods of time.”

The three of them sat, Violet and Sam in the chairs they’d used so often during their discussions over Susanna’s kidnapping, and sixteen-year-old Susanna on the settee, her skirts prettily spread around her.

“What did you hear about me?”

“Only that you were killed at the Battle of Fredericksburg while attempting to take a Confederate position,” Violet said.

He nodded. “That’s almost the truth. There was another fellow named Harper in my regiment, and it was he who was killed, although an army clerk misidentified him as me. Even my father thought I was dead.

“The error remained because I had already been captured and sent to Libby Prison in Richmond. I won’t tell you what that was like, except to say that I frequently wished for death, and it nearly came at my guards’ hands on more than one occasion. The men who died at Marye’s Heights may have had the better end of things.”

“We also know about your president’s assassination. I am so sorry.” She did not express shock, though, as the president had come to the same end as their own King Charles I. Civil wars always seemed to end with the execution of one side’s leader.

“Yes, it has been a terrible time, but President Johnson is in charge now and we hope for the best. Lincoln’s assassin had intended to kill the vice president at the same time, so I guess we came out lucky.”

Lucky indeed. President Lincoln had written many missives to the British people that were widely published in newspapers and had stirred some agitators into calling for universal suffrage for all British men, but his efforts had never coalesced Britons into overwhelming support for the North’s cause. Nevertheless, the North had prevailed.

“Were you frightened in prison?” Susanna asked, breathless and fascinated.

“Frightened? I don’t know if that is the right word for it. It may be hard for you to understand at your age—although it looks like you’re practically a woman now—but living under such dismal conditions with your fellow countrymen and never knowing when the sword might come down, a man has to retreat inside himself in order to survive. He has to find sanctuary in his wishes and dreams. His hopes,” he said with a look toward Violet.

“I was released a few months ago and found myself aboard a train for Washington City, where I was taken to Armory Square Hospital. I was in considerable pain from multiple . . . injuries I’d received. Once I’d shown some progress in healing and had put on some weight, I was declared recovered and released from the hospital.”

“Are you saying you were thinner than this?” Violet said.

“Yes, and still I was among the lucky because I didn’t actually die of starvation.”

“His Excellency told me you were dead. Did he know you were really alive?”

“No, it took the army nearly two years just to realize their mistake. I went home to Massachusetts to get my affairs back in order once again and to see my father, who acted as though I were a specter come back to life. I guess I was, in a way.”

“I had the same thought when I saw you at the door.”

Sam grinned. “My gait hardly qualifies for the gliding around required by ghosts and spirits.”

“What happened to your leg?”

Sam glanced at Susanna. “Susanna, leave us for a few moments, will you?” Sam said.

Susanna nodded knowingly and went upstairs.

Sam’s smile disappeared. “I’d rather not discuss prison. I’ll only say that dissenters like me were taught not to complain about anything.”

“Is it a permanent limp?”

“Probably. Tell me, Violet, do you think less of me?” His voice broke, but he took a deep breath and continued. “Is it difficult for you to look at me? I have other scars on me. The limp is the least of it. If that bothers you, you’ll be repulsed by the rest of it. Besides, wondering if you were already married or had forgotten me was more torture than what any prison guard could render.”

“You’re alive, that’s all that matters.”

“I came all the way across the Atlantic instead of just writing to you because I thought it was important that you know the extent of my injuries.” He stood, shrugged out of his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I don’t care about your injuries. You’re living. Breathing.” She got up to retrieve his jacket from the floor, folding it neatly and draping it over the back of his chair. When she faced him again, he was standing bare-chested before her.

His torso looked as though someone had drawn battle plans on it, so scarred and marked with depressions and lumps was it. Violet reached out and gently put a finger on a particularly nasty-looking red welt. “This must have been a terrible moment for you.”

He didn’t respond, but simply allowed her to examine him. Some of the wounds overlapped one another, and some looked as though they’d been reopened after healing. Sam’s eyes were closed and he breathed heavily, but still he didn’t touch her. Instead, he turned around. His back was covered with white, jagged stripes.

Violet ran her finger down the center of his spine. “How many times were you lashed?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Sam.” She put her arms around his pitifully thin waist and her cheek against his trampled back. He covered her arms with his own. Together they stood there, each lost in thoughts and memories of the past three years.

“Do you think I’m perfect?” Violet said, unfastening the row of buttons at her wrist. “As long as we are revealing our individual battle wounds, you have a right to see mine.” She pushed up the tight-fitting sleeve as far as she could and presented her arm to him.

He nodded in understanding. “The train crash.”

“I’m fortunate it wasn’t worse. I saw terrible things that day, Sam.”

“So we’re both war veterans,” he said as he dressed himself again while Violet readjusted her sleeve. “I said that I went home to get my affairs in order. I love my country, Violet, but I’ve decided that I’ve given enough of myself to the preservation of North and South. I want a new start.”

“Does that mean you’re moving to London?”

“No. I’ve decided to leave my law practice entirely in the hands of my partner and start again out in the Colorado Territory. There’s a great influx of settlers there, and I believe it will be prosperous.”

“You mean in the American West? That’s even farther from London than Massachusetts. I’ve read about it. It’s a dangerous frontier, full of lawless criminals.”

“So even the newspapers here sensationalize it?” He took one of her hands and kissed it, but didn’t let it go. “Some of it is dangerous, yes, but don’t you have unsafe places right here in London?”

“Yes, that’s true. I’ll worry for your safety, though, while you’re so far away.”

“There’s no need for you to fret about me if you’re with me. Violet, I once told you I’d never again ask you to move to the United States. I’ll hold to that promise, which means you’ll have to tell me you want to accompany me, to be my wife and the Colorado Territory’s most proficient undertaker.”

An undertaker in Colorado? She imagined living in a flea-infested tent and having to scrounge for basic necessities, like food.

“Are there . . . conveniences . . . in Colorado?” she asked.

Sam laughed. “Yes, Violet Morgan. There are conveniences. I’ll build you a sturdy brick home, fill it with good furniture, send you to dressmakers, and we can even attend the theater together. What you’ll be missing are London’s filthy air, ridiculous aristocracy, and its monarch.”

No monarch. No Queen Victoria. It seemed impossible to live in a place where all men claimed to be equal, even going so far as to fight a war to prove it.

“But my shop . . .”

“Sell it. I’m sure Will and Harry would be interested in taking it over. Remember, embalming is becoming a common practice in the States. You could put your skills to good use.”

Ah, Sam knows my weakness
. What an opportunity it would be to practice undertaking the way she believed it should be, preserving loved ones as long as possible to make the grieving process easier. Still, she’d sworn after Graham’s perfidy that she’d never give up her business for any reason.

But was moving to America to be an undertaker really giving it up?

Violet said nothing as she contemplated the enormity of the thought. Would her assistants really be interested in purchasing the shop? Probably. How difficult would it be to build her reputation in America the way she’d done here? Of course, that reputation had seen bouts of tarnish, hadn’t it?

What of her parents? What would they say about their daughter moving across the ocean? What of Mary Overfelt? George had returned after the cholera crisis was over, but he was sure to cause her more distress and anxiety over time. Eventually he would prove himself to be a mere opportunist, not a successful businessman.

Maybe Mary would then like to emigrate to America and join Violet.

“I’m afraid there’s one great impediment.”

“Which is?”

“Susanna. She’s blossomed into a woman, Sam, and already has suitors. I don’t think she’d like to be swept away like that.”

“May I suggest that we ask Susanna herself?” He called out for her to join them.

Susanna’s eyes lit up upon seeing Violet and Sam hand in hand. “Yes?”

“Miss Susanna, your mother is contemplating whether or not to ask me if the two of you can accompany me back to America, but she’s not sure you will approve the idea.”

“America? Truly? What about Mrs. Softpaws?”

“I see no reason why she can’t travel along.”

She frowned. “Will Mother have to stop undertaking?”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking her to stop. Colorado needs her skills.”

“Colorado? Isn’t that in the West? How exciting. I could learn how to ride a horse. But what does it mean for Mother? Will you marry her?”

“I’m waiting for her to tell me to ask her.”

Susanna rolled her eyes. “You’re both quite ridiculous. So, if you’re married, what does that mean for me? Will you be my father?”

“I’d be honored.”

“Then I’m going upstairs to tell Mrs. Softpaws that we have some packing to do. Mother, don’t be all night about it. London has never meant anything but pain and misfortune for us both. America just might give us life and happiness.”

Susanna wrapped her arms around both Violet and Sam before returning upstairs to give them privacy.

Sam dropped Violet’s hand and slid both his arms around her waist. “Violet Morgan, I want you to give up Morgan Undertaking and start Harper Undertaking.”

“Samuel Harper, I want to be your wife. Whither thou goest, I go.”

His kiss picked up directly where he’d left off three years earlier. Indeed, wherever Sam went meant life and happiness.

 

The next few weeks were a flurry of activity as Violet prepared to hand over Morgan Undertaking to her assistants, who were giddy at the notion of having it fall into their laps. There was also the sale of most of her personal belongings to manage, and saying farewell to everyone she loved. Eliza and Arthur Sinclair rushed up from Brighton, clutching both Violet and Susanna in their arms, wishing them Godspeed on their journey, and even suggesting following them over to America.

All of Violet’s old black mourning dresses went to the charity box, along with any other personal effects that reminded her too much of London. She did keep one of her old calling cards, the one with both her and Graham on it, just so she wouldn’t forget him. Despite everything, he deserved to be remembered by someone.