Stolen Remains (7 page)

Poor Will. His marriage was probably as unhappy as hers with Graham had become. Time to change the subject and let the man be.

“Yes, well, I’ve been asked to manage a funeral for the queen, and naturally I wish to hire Morgan Undertaking for all of the equipage.”

Will looked puzzled. “You came all the way from America to bury someone for the queen? Why didn’t she just use the royal undertaker?”

“A rather interesting question. She seems to have a soft spot for me since I stepped in and handled last-minute details of the prince consort’s burial. Sam and I have been in Brighton the last month visiting my parents, and the queen reached me there.”

“Newspapers say she continues to grieve him and stays locked away at Windsor as much as possible.”

“I’m afraid that’s true. She isn’t interested in much, although this particular funeral situation seems to have roused her. It’s ironic, I suppose, that death is what enlivens her.”

Will shrugged. “Same is true with us. How can we help you?”

In a typical arrangement with a grieving relative, Violet would retrieve her bulging book full of coffin drawings, suggested funeral plans according to the deceased’s social class, and price lists, and have the relative make selections. As it was, she merely ticked items off on her fingers.

“I want an elm burl coffin with your best brass fittings, a wool mattress, and lined with the finest cambric. Something like what we did for Admiral Herbert, remember? Also, a large silver plate on top, engraved ‘Anthony Fairmont, the Viscount Raybourn, Perfect Father and Friend.’ Have a broken column engraved on either side.”

A broken column symbolized the death of the family patriarch.

“Simple mourning cards with a quarter-inch line of black around them. Black-edged stationery for the new Lord Raybourn. Twelve pots of lilies for the home in Park Street. Enough black bunting for twelve windows. A card for placement beneath the doorbell announcing ‘No Visitors.’ A half dozen black armbands.” Violet continued detailing the items she had discussed with Stephen and Katherine.

“What about a postmortem photograph?”

“Absolutely not,” Violet said. “The deceased is in no condition for it.”

“Shall we post an obituary? When and where will Lord Raybourn be buried?” Will asked as he once again dipped his pen in an inkwell and wrote furiously to keep up with Violet.

“An obituary, yes. Make sure it also states that the family isn’t accepting visitors. We shan’t announce his burial just yet.”

“What? An important lord dies and the family doesn’t want society to know about the planned funeral route?”

“It’s just a temporary delay.”

Will shook his head. “I presume the family would like the finest of services?”

He meant the large glass carriage with velvet curtains inside, four horses, each wearing ostrich plumes, more plumes on the four corners of the carriage, multiple professional mourners, and a long travel route to the cemetery.

“I’m sure they will eventually wish to have these things.”

“Eventually? When is eventually? How odd, Mrs. Harper.”

“Please, don’t ask me any more for the moment. Right now I just need to see Lord Raybourn comfortably ensconced in an elegant coffin and to make sure the lying-in is done properly.”

“As you wish, of course. And now, ahem, if you don’t mind my asking since you are not our typical customer—will they pay?”

Violet understood his question. Aristocrats frequently pretended bills didn’t exist, especially those aristocrats living beyond their means. A death was a prominent way of showing off class and wealth to the community, since carriage size, number of mourners, and the like indicated the relative position of the family. Therefore, some aristocrats would order funerals they could ill afford to ensure society was assured they were as prosperous as ever and also to ensure the newspapers would write glowing accounts of the services.

Such public accounts would enable the aristocrats to gain more credit, thus enabling them to spend more.

“I think so. My father worked for the family long ago, and so I believe the new master of the house will endeavor to keep his debt clear with me. In any case, I shall keep an eye on it.”

“Very good.” Will wiped his pen on a cloth and set it down, capping his inkwell.

Violet stood. “Now I’m off to see Mary Cooke. Is she also still in the same location?”

“Indeed she is.”

Another reunion awaited her at Mary Cooke’s mourning dressmaking shop in Bayswater Road. “Violet, dearest! How happy I am to see you. How is Susanna? And Sam? What of Colorado? Is it as wild and majestic as I read about in magazines?” Mary fluttered about, removing piles of fabrics and notions from a chair next to where she worked and adding them to an already precarious stack on the sewing table.

“I see you still work in complete disarray, my friend.” Violet wasn’t much of a housekeeper herself, but her workplace was always pristine.

Mary wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I am too old now to be taught how to be tidy.” Mary was indeed nearly twenty years older than Violet, but looked far younger, despite her wayward husband, George, whose squat, pig-eyed expression was a total contradiction to his wife’s sweet countenance. This was a second marriage for Mary, and much less happy than her first. Although presumably faithful to his wife, George had the annoying habit of disappearing for days or weeks on end whenever life served him a helping of difficult or unpleasant circumstances. Unfortunately for Mary, she could never predict what situations would send her husband running.

Violet and Mary became close not only because their relevant shops were located near each other, but because they had shared in intrigue and tragedy together.

Violet sat in the cleared chair, hopeful that none of the other heaps in the shop would fall on top of her. Her own messiness was a mere anthill to Mary’s Pike’s Peak. “What happened to your assistant?”

“She decided she didn’t like making mourning wear day in and day out. Wanted to fashion ball gowns. Honestly, I think she just didn’t like dealing with the grieving customers. It’s not for everyone.”

Violet nodded. “I see you’ve finally installed gas lighting.”

“George convinced me to spend the money. I admit I was quite nervous about it. In fact, I was certain the shop would explode from a gas leak. Was this the last shop in London using candles?”

“I’m sure there are others, but I’m glad Mr. Cooke talked you into it. Is he . . . here?”

“Yes. Today he is out at the tailor’s, having some pants made. Silly bear refuses to let me do it for him; says he doesn’t want to waste my time on it when I could be doing paid work. I’m sure he’ll be back soon and would love to see you.”

“Perhaps another time. I’ve had a terribly long day and want only to entomb myself in blankets right now. I’m only in London for a short time before Sam and I return to America. I’m helping the queen with a funeral.”

Mary gave her the same dumbstruck look that Will had. “How . . . interesting.”

Violet sketched out briefly what was happening, asking that Mary visit Raybourn House as quickly as possible to outfit the women. “I was also hoping, though, that we could reacquaint our friendship for however long I will be here. I’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve missed you.” Mary impulsively leapt out of her chair to grab Violet’s hand, jostling her table and sending the tottering pile of supplies tumbling down against Violet and all over the floor.

Violet loved Colorado, but it was good to be back in London, too.

After promising to visit Mary again soon, Violet took her leave and hired a hack to return her to St. James’s Palace. She fell into an exhausted sleep inside the carriage, despite the incessant clattering of the coach’s wheels and its tired springs that would have jostled a corpse back to life.

Violet awoke as the carriage came to a stop before the Tudor-fronted tower entry of the palace. Her brief nap had been refreshing, but she realized how hungry she was. How did one find food inside a palace? Or would she need to search the streets for good dining?

Heaven forbid she should be left to her own devices to cook. She might well starve to death.

A liveried footman opened the grand entry doors to the palace, then another servant escorted her to her rooms. All thought of hunger pains disappeared as she entered her apartment, for there was Sam, rumpled from travel, sprawled on a settee with his bad leg dangling over and propped up on a footstool.

He opened one eye sleepily. “You know I’ll never be able to afford something like this for you on a lawyer’s wages.”

Violet removed her hat and tossed it onto her dressing table without a care as to straightening out the tails. “I didn’t expect you to follow me here. What a lovely surprise. How did you know where I was staying?”

“I went to Windsor and talked to the master of the household.” Sam struggled to his feet, reaching for the eagle-headed cane he’d started using since his Civil War injuries, claiming to be grateful that such accoutrements were fashionable. He held out a hand. “You’ve been gone mere hours and already I’m starving for the sight of you.”

Violet went to him to be folded in his free arm. She inhaled deeply of her husband, a habit she’d never broken since the day he’d shown up unexpectedly on her doorstep following the war. She gazed up into his face, one that was etched almost like a map from everything he had suffered during the war that ended in America just a few years ago. A scar cutting through his right eyebrow was the least of his bodily dents and abrasions. They were a perfectly matched pair of cracked vases, though, since Violet herself had suffered severe burns on her right arm during a train crash several years ago. The hideous mass of scars had faded some, but she would always have them. More troublesome was the periodic tightening she felt in the arm, and the lack of full use of it.

“More like you were starving to get away from our recovering patient. Was Mother terribly distraught that I left?”

“Not nearly as distraught as your father and I were. Actually, you departed in such a swirling vortex of activity that there was no time for her to realize what your leaving would mean to her. More importantly, this came in the post as soon as I returned from taking you to the train station.” Sam pulled a letter from inside his jacket.

“From Colorado?” Violet said. “Oh, a letter from Susanna.” She opened the letter and quickly read the contents.

Susanna went on with some newsy tidbits about the townsfolk, then signed off with her typical curlicue signature. Violet never knew how much a signature could make her long for home.

Except that England was home, too.

Violet lifted the letter to her nose and sniffed. It smelled faintly of the jasmine perfume Susanna favored.

“Would it surprise you to know that I received a separate post from Benjamin about his ‘pressing client matters’?” Sam said.

“Is it . . . ?”

“Indeed it is. He wants my permission to marry Susanna. Shall I give it?”

“Sam, be serious, of course you should. Oh, this is terrible. My mother is improving, but now we’re bound here in England until Lord Raybourn is buried.”

“Surely that will be within the week?”

“Maybe. But then there is all of that horrid travel back to Colorado.”

“A steamer ship followed by a train ride?” Sam smiled and kissed her forehead.

“And all of that bone-jarring wagon travel. Let’s not forget that. And near shipwrecks. And miscreants on railways. I do so hate trains. I don’t look forward to another perilous journey, but I do want to hold Susanna in my arms again.”

“You’ll soon have a son-in-law to hold, too, and there are wedding preparations to undergo.”

“True. I just hope my responsibilities here don’t extend more than a few days. You don’t think they would marry without us there, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Oh, I just had a wonderful idea for a wedding present. I wonder if that doll shop I used to visit with Susanna is still in operation.”

“I remember it. I bought her a miniature coach and four horses there once.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun to purchase something for her dollhouse to decorate it as if for a wedding?”

Sam shook his head. “You two and that dollhouse. Still playing with it even though Susanna is an adult. Now, tell me what is happening with the queen.”

They were interrupted by a palace servant rolling in a tray of covered plates and a bottle of sherry.

“I didn’t request this,” Violet said.

The liveried footman snapped open a crisply ironed white tablecloth and covered a nearby round table. He then uncovered the dishes to reveal pheasant cooked in bacon, onion, and tomatoes; macaroni in a butter and cream sauce; sliced carrots; and a molded pudding. He transferred them to the table and moved two chairs to sit directly opposite each other across the table. His movements were deliberate and precise, as though he were giving a performance.

“The master of the household says it’s the queen’s orders, ma’am, to make sure you are well provided for while you’re here.”