Lady of Ashes (11 page)

“C
ertainly, I don’t mind being Fletcher’s dinner partner,” Mary said, pouring Violet another cup of tea. “You say he and Graham are entering a new business proposition with this Mr. Harper?”

“Yes, to ship funerary supplies to America, to serve the accumulating war dead there.”

“So their war won’t be ending anytime soon?”

Violet lifted the steaming cup to her lips and gently blew on it. “Not likely. I read that the Confederacy’s president, Jefferson Davis, is sending a delegation to Europe to represent their interests. They hope to buy war supplies from Britain, France, and Spain.”

“Perhaps they have need of my ready-mades, too?”

“Perhaps. You can ask Mr. Harper yourself during dinner.”

“Will he be bringing his wife?”

“I don’t know. Graham tells me so little and gets irritated when I ask for these details. The table balance will be upset if Mr. Harper is by himself, and then Graham will be cross yet again. I suppose Mrs. Porter will just have to be prepared to make an extra place setting at the last moment.”

Mary shook her head sympathetically and changed the subject.

“I finished the last installment of
Great Expectations
. I must say, I enjoyed
A Tale of Two Cities
much more. It really made one think about how we are sometimes no better here than the French revolutionaries.”

Violet nodded. “Yes. At least Mr. Dickens is no longer slighting undertakers, as he did in
Oliver Twist
. It’s a wonder I’m not spat upon in the streets, what with the ongoing popularity of that novel. Which reminds me, I need to order a new top hat from you for one of my mourners to replace one that was trampled on by a horse during a particularly windy funeral procession.”

The women discussed a variety of funerary orders while they finished their tea, then Violet headed back to the shop.

She opened the door of Morgan Undertaking and was struck by the stillness. Will and Harry were out grooming the horses, but where was Graham? He knew she’d be gone a couple of hours to visit Mary; why in heaven’s name would he stroll off, leaving the shop open and unattended?

She sighed. She would never understand her husband.

She heard a rustling coming from the coffin display area. What was it? Pray God they didn’t have mice chewing and nesting inside the muslin lining of their coffins. She lit an additional gas lamp. Even at noon it was shadowy in the shop, usually a preferable situation when dealing with the grieving, who were calmed by the low lighting.

Violet carried the lamp with her to inspect which coffin had acquired furry new tenants. Some coffins were displayed open and some with their lids down to better exhibit the brass plates that could be affixed to them.

She heard the rustling again, coming from an open coffin to her left. She nearly dropped the lamp. Was that a flash of an elbow?

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice sharp in her own ears as she struggled against rising fear.

Receiving no response, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I can see you, you know.”

Gripping the lamp as a weapon that might somehow save her from whatever was burrowed in the coffin, she walked the walk of the damned toward it and cautiously peered inside, hoping she wasn’t about to be strangled by some madman lying in wait for her.

A waif of a girl, probably not yet a teenager although it was impossible to tell because she was so emaciated, lay curled up inside, both hands tucked under one cheek. She’d look almost angelically asleep with her halo of blond curls, were it not for the filth that covered her body and the rag of a dress she was wearing. Her bare feet were nearly black from dirt.

Still holding the lamp, Violet reached in and put a hand to the child’s shoulder, gently shaking her. The girl’s eyes flew open and she scrambled into a seated position on the wool mattress, panting heavily in fear as she stared at Violet. She looked like a corpse springing to life, reminding Violet of Mrs. Herbert’s greatest fear for her husband.

Violet stepped back and put the lamp down atop another nearby coffin. She held up both hands. “Be calm, little one. I won’t hurt you. Who
are
you?”

The girl knotted her fists and refused to answer. Blue eyes sparked in defiance like fireworks underneath the grime that covered her face.

“Are you going to bite me if I come closer?” Violet asked. “Scratch me? Kick me?”

The girl shook her head. Was that a hint of a smile on her lips?

“Will you tell me what you’re doing in my shop?”

No response.

“How about at least telling me your name? I’m Mrs. Morgan, and it’s my shop you have trespassed.”

The girl crossed her knotted fists in front of her.

“Child, do I not have enough troubles of my own? How am I supposed to return you to your home if you won’t speak to me?” Violet rubbed her eyes. What would Graham say if he walked in on this little scene?

This seemed to strengthen the girl’s resolve not to say anything.

“Right then. How about a biscuit? You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she bit her lip.

“Don’t move. I’ll get you something to eat.”

When Violet returned with the contents of the lunch box Mrs. Porter had prepared that day for her and Graham, the girl had, indeed, not moved. Not a single inch. Violet rummaged inside the box and pulled out a plum, which the child devoured in three bites, juices shooting out all over her face and tattered old dress.

As well as on the inside of the coffin lining. If it wasn’t ruined before, it certainly was now. Well, she’d contend with that later.

Violet produced a cheddar scone and a potato pasty, which were also gobbled up in quick order, crumbs and gravy going everywhere. In all her days, she’d never witnessed someone eat a meal from inside a coffin. She laughed aloud, wishing Mr. Laroche were here to capture the scene. A fine
carte-de-visite
it would make.

The girl reached out a sticky hand and patted Violet on the shoulder. Violet’s heart swelled at the gesture, but she wasn’t sure why it would do so for this grubby mute who had somehow gotten lost or been abandoned.

“All right, little miss. You’ve had a nap and your tummy is full at my expense, so now it’s time for you to do something for me. I want you to let me inspect your clothing and body for lice or other little crawling beasts.”

The girl frowned, but reluctantly climbed out of the coffin to stand before Violet with sorrowful eyes, like a lamb waiting its turn in line, resigned to its fate before the blade.

Violet laughed again, earning another frown of disapproval. “Now, since you won’t—or can’t—talk to me, let’s see what we can find out about you from your dress. I’d say the first thing we can determine is that you’ve never had the privilege of an Overfelt-made dress. This thing is a rag. Why, one sleeve is noticeably larger than the other. In fact, it’s a different fabric altogether. What kind of foolish alteration is this?”

Violet visually inspected the girl’s body as she spoke. There appeared to be no signs of lice, nor the telltale red bumps of fleas. Just a couple of bites here and there that anyone might have.

She slowly reached out a hand to the girl’s collar. The child cut her eyes over to watch Violet, but did not resist. Lifting the knotted mass of hair from the girl’s neck, she examined the interior of the dress for some kind of identification. Nothing.

Violet lifted her own skirts and knelt before the girl. “I’m going to lift your hem,” she said, and began examining the threadbare cloth for something—anything—that would give her a clue as to where this girl was from.

Ah, there was a label stitched inside the back of the dress, behind the child’s thighs.

“Good Lord! You escaped from a workhouse!” Destitute people went to workhouses voluntarily to work in exchange for rations and accommodations until they could find their own jobs and living quarters. Life in a workhouse was intended to be bleak, so as not to encourage its residents to stay long, but Violet had no idea how bleak that life must be.

The girl shook her head violently.
No
.

Violet cocked her head to one side. “Is your name Susanna?”

The girl slowly nodded.

“And do you belong to St. Giles?”

The violent head shaking again.

Violet sat back and considered the girl. She really was filthy. A good scrubbing couldn’t hurt while she figured out where the workhouse was located and how to get the child back there without a struggle.

Doubtful that it could be accomplished without a struggle, though. Maybe Mrs. Porter would have an idea.

“You win for now, Susanna. How about if I take you home for a bath, some fresh clothing, and dinner, while I figure out what to do with you?”

Violet was rewarded with a winsome smile, revealing teeth that were a tad overcrowded, but white with no sign of decay. Miraculous.

 

“You say she was in one o’yer coffins, Mrs. Morgan?” asked Mrs. Porter, who worked without question to help feed, bathe, and dress Susanna in one of Violet’s nightgowns by tearing off the hem and rolling up the sleeves on the girl’s painfully thin arms. Susanna was now asleep on the bed in Mrs. Scrope’s old room off the kitchen.

“Yes. Sleeping like the dead, so to speak. Her name is Susanna Sweeney, and I think she fled St. Giles for some reason. Looking at her condition, I can assume her situation there was less than ideal.”

“She can’t possibly weigh more than five stone. She needs plumping up. Why would a young girl be at a workhouse by herself, without her mother?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the mother abandoned her there. Or maybe the mother is in residence there, too. She might be looking for Susanna as we speak. What if she’s sought help and the constables are looking for her right now? I could be charged with kidnapping. Or worse—training her up to be a pickpocket!”

Mrs. Porter shook her head. “Tsk, Mrs. Morgan, you’re reading too much o’that
Oliver Twist
. Let’s not get a flight o’fancy.”

“You’re right. I need a good night of sleep myself, then in the morning I’ll simply have to take her back, no matter how she protests. I don’t want to risk being arrested for a crime. Besides, what am I to do with a child?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know the answer to that, Mrs. Morgan! Every woman knows what to do with a child.”

“No child should be surrounded by the dead, especially not a young girl. Good night, Mrs. Porter.”

 

Mrs. Porter had already taken Susanna well in hand. By the time Violet was up and dressed, she found the girl seated at the dining room table eating a breakfast of pork cheese, fried rashers of bacon, and poached eggs. Her hair was smartly combed up in a bow, and she wore appropriate girls’ clothing.

Leaving her to her meal, Violet went to the kitchen to find Mrs. Porter.

“How did you manage to find clothing to fit her overnight?”

“I gave Mr. Porter some measurements and sent him out last night to visit the servants in some of the grand households we know. He came back with discards that were going to go to servants of the children, but they willingly donated them for a child in worse straits than they were.”

“You mean she’s wearing cast-off clothing?”

“They fit her proper, don’t they? And it’s just until you deliver her back to the workhouse. That moth-eaten sack she had wasn’t fit for a mule saddle. I burned it last night.”

“You’re right, of course. The workhouse will appreciate it that I brought her back in better condition than I found her. Did she say anything to you this morning, perchance?”

“Not a word. Expressive face this one has, though. You can read her thoughts without her uttering a thing.”

“What of Mr. Morgan? Did he see Susanna this morning?”

“No, madam. I heard the front door shut just as I was getting up myself. He has no idea she’s here.”

“It’s just as well that he continues to have no idea. Why stir a pot that has yet to be placed over a fire? Which reminds me, Mr. Morgan and I are planning for three guests Thursday evening next. Perhaps you could make your roasted duck for us?”

 

Violet discovered that the joint parishes of St. Giles-in-the-Fields and St. George had erected a parish workhouse in Holton, at the junction of Endell Street and Short’s Gardens, quite a distance from Paddington. How had the child ever traveled such a long distance?

Without lying outright to Susanna about their destination, Violet managed to get her to the entrance of St. Giles without the girl going into hysterics. However, once Susanna realized where they were, she fought wildly like Boudicca against the Romans, as if content to go to her death to avoid capture.

Violet reasoned, cajoled, and threatened, to no avail. Susanna was determined not to enter the workhouse.

Finally, Violet struck a bargain with her. “Listen to me. I
must
take you in there, lest I be arrested for stealing you. It would hardly be of benefit to either of us if I’m imprisoned. If, as you insist, you don’t belong there, I’ll find somewhere else to take you. Are we agreed?”

Susanna considered this. Violet could practically see the girl rolling it around in her mind. Finally, Susanna nodded once and took Violet’s hand, clutching it like a life preserver.

St. Giles looked as though it had begun its life as one building, and then slowly started incorporating whatever house, tavern, and shop lay in its path in all directions.