Lady of Ashes (13 page)

“ ‘Special acquisitions,’ Mr. Harper?” Violet said. “I suppose funerary supplies are indeed special, although I don’t understand why—”

Graham cut her off. “Mr. Harper, Fletcher here trades rum with Boston. It’s a fine job they do with it, meaning no disrespect to your side.”

“None taken, sir.”

“Have any of the Southern states considered dealings in spirits with England? Surely your soldiers would appreciate some good British ale. Or we could take care of bringing round some rum through the blockade for you.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. I know doctors are already prescribing spirits for melancholia. The men miss their families, and a dram or two helps take the edge off their pain.” Mr. Harper held his fork in his left hand, cut with the knife in his right hand, then laid the knife down and switched the fork to his right hand to pick up the morsel he’d just cut.

How inefficient it all was, Violet thought, as she maintained her fork in her left hand the entire time, as was proper English etiquette.

The conversation was interrupted by a thin, childish wail piercing through the dining room wall from the basement at the back of the house.

Mr. Harper cocked his head to one side. “Sounds like your daughter is unhappy, ma’am.”

“She’s not our daughter, just a visitor,” Graham said.

Why did Graham have to behave as though Susanna were some criminal invader in their home?

“Mr. Harper,” Violet said, “Susanna is an orphaned child in my care. I’m afraid I’m not used to having a child around, and she doesn’t have the ability—or perhaps the will—to speak, so it is difficult to know what’s bothering her.”

“It sounds like she’s suffering a digestive upset.”

“Possibly. She’s not eaten well in who knows how long, so we’re finding that she doesn’t always react well to what Mrs. Porter prepares.”

“If I’m not intruding too far into your domain, Mrs. Morgan, may I make a recommendation? When I was a boy, my grandmother used a remedy of a spoonful of ashes stirred in cider. It always calmed my intestinal woes. May I recommend it for your Susanna?”

He said it without a hint of malice over the child’s crying. For a brief moment, Violet didn’t resent the presence of a man who was surely involved in something questionable with her husband.

“Thank you, Mr. Harper. I will indeed see to the preparation right away, if you would be so kind as to excuse me.”

Mr. Harper nodded as Violet moved her chair away from the table, but she was frozen by Graham’s stare.

“Darling,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to wait until our meal is concluded.”

“But Susanna . . . I should at least give the recipe to Mrs. Porter.”

“It can wait.” Graham stabbed at his asparagus spears and lifted one young stalk to his mouth.

Violet pulled back to the table, angry and humiliated. Blood roared in her ears.

She kept her head down for the remainder of the meal to hide her resentment while Graham discussed the current events of the war in America, asking for Mr. Harper’s valuable opinion every minute or so.

Violet looked up at her husband through hooded eyes, ignoring Mary’s sympathetic gaze and Fletcher’s forced laughter.

 

The moment she was released so the men could have their business discussion over stronger libations, Violet fled to the kitchens, with Mary right behind her, to tell Mrs. Porter the ingredients for Mr. Harper’s tonic. The housekeeper quickly assembled the curative while Violet and Mary went to see Susanna in her room, the one once occupied by Mrs. Scrope.

The forbidden kitten lay curled up on the bed, while Susanna sat next to it, tears streaming down her face. Violet felt another slash in her heart, but this one was longer, and accompanied by a twinge of fear and protectiveness.

Mary tried to coax words out of the girl, mostly by praising the little black-and-white ball of fluff that Susanna was petting. Mary was no more successful than Violet or Mr. and Mrs. Porter had been.

After Susanna willingly drank down the potion, they waited anxiously to see what would happen. In just a few minutes, the girl was smiling happily again.

Violet put her hands on her hips, assuming a sternness she did not feel. “You know the kitten will have to have a name, don’t you? Let’s see.” Violet reached out and stroked the kitten’s fur, which was already luxurious despite the animal’s youth. The kitten rolled over and reached a paw up to Violet, who clasped it in her own hand. “How about Mrs. Softpaws?”

Susanna smiled and picked up the kitten, burying her face in its fur while nodding.

“Then that’s settled. Good evening, Susanna and Mrs. Softpaws.” It would be far from settled when Graham realized there was a cat living in the household. Maybe she’d prove to be a good mouser.

Violet and Mary returned to the drawing room to converse quietly and wait for the men to conclude. After a light conversation about the latest books in Mr. Hatcha rd’s window and Susanna’s condition, the subject turned back to their earlier dinner.

“What do you think of Mr. Harper?” Mary asked.

“He understands medicinal preparations, and for that I’m grateful. I needn’t ask what you think, Mary Overfelt, what with all of your simpering and eye-batting.”

“I’ve never batted an eye in my life. I just appreciate his well-formed looks, is all.”

Violet smiled. “You’ve never appreciated Fletcher’s well-formed looks as much.”

“Ah, Fletcher. A sweet boy but flighty.” Mary shook her head.

“What am I saying? Both must be fifteen years younger than me, and neither could live up to the memory of Matthew.”

“Maybe you’re simply opening yourself up to the idea of love once more. A man would be proud to call you his wife, Mary.”

“No, there’s no one on this side of heaven f r me except Matthew. He was my dearest heart, my friend, and my business partner. I wouldn’t even try to replace him.”

Graham was Violet’s business partner, too. She supposed they were still friends, as well, but was he really her dearest heart anymore?

Mary interrupted her reverie. “Susanna is a lovely child, although painfully thin. With this new tonic, hopefully she’ll be able to eat more and fill out. What are your plans for her?”

“I don’t know. It seems heartless to turn her over to an orphanage, which would be no better than the workhouse, yet Graham is less than enthused about her presence here.”

“A solution will present itself, I’m sure of it.” Violet could always rely on Mary for a word of encouragement.

Soon Mary was trying to disguise her yawns, so Violet told her friend that she herself was exhausted and wanted to retire if Mary had no objections.

Her friend didn’t seem to mind, so after Mary’s departure, Violet settled back down in the drawing room with a copy of
Silas Marner
by George Eliot, which had just come by post the previous day. Her attention to the words flagged and she dozed, only to be awakened by laughter as her husband, brother-in-law, and their guest came out of the dining room. She tucked her lace ribbon in the book to mark her place and put it aside to stand and extend a farewell to Mr. Harper.

He looked her directly in the eye and shook her hand warmly, as though she were a long-lost friend of his.

“My thanks to you, Mrs. Morgan, for a fine meal, although I must skedaddle now. May I ask how little Susanna is faring?”

“Your restorative worked wonders, sir. She sleeps like the dead.”

“With whom you are well acquainted. I would be most interested in hearing tales about your profession one day, should your husband see fit to invite me over again. I’d also like to meet Susanna.”

Graham’s broad grin suggested that Mr. Harper could move in as far as he was concerned.

“It would be our honor to have you for dinner again, Mr. Harper.”

The tips of Harper’s ears were tinged with red. “I will look forward to your invitation. Good evening, ma’am.”

After Mr. Harper’s departure, Graham and Fletcher retreated back to the dining room for more discussion. Graham firmly pulled shut the draperies between the dining room and drawing room, an unmistakable commentary on Violet’s undesirability in their conversation. Refusing to stay up waiting for her husband another moment, she put her book back on its shelf and headed out the drawing room’s rear door toward the stairs, but her attention was piqued by the brothers’ muffled, but raised, voices in the dining room. What were they arguing about? Risking Graham’s ire, she unbuttoned her boots and walked as quietly as possible in her stockinged feet to the dining room wall. It was no easy task, for even though their wood floors were new, they creaked under any weight not buffered by carpets.

She put her ear to the wall, ashamed of what she was doing but too curious to do anything else. Violet had never spied on Graham—or on anyone, for that matter—before. She felt like she was in a Wilkie Collins novel.

“—will not do, Graham. If we’re to fully profit from this venture, we cannot be supplying top quality.”

“I purchased this last batch at an excellent price.”

“A price you’ll never receive again. Think, brother, not like an undertaker, but as a new sort of businessman.”

“Don’t condescend to me, Fletcher. Remember that I have invested far more money in this little venture than you have.”

“I do remember.” Fletcher’s voice was soothing now. “And with Mr. Harper’s generosity, we’re on the verge of great success. I just want that success to be far greater than anything we could have ever imagined. Remember your own personal aspirations in this, too.”

“As though I could forget. By the way, did you bring the—”

“Of course. Here.”

There was a rustling noise Violet couldn’t identify.

Graham’s laugh was low and throaty. “Excellent work, brother.”

“I always keep my promises, don’t I?”

“When it suits you.” More rustling and the laughter of collusion ensued.

Violet’s stomach sank. Graham was up to something very, very troubling. What kind of disaster would it bring upon their house? Upon poor little Susanna, sleeping downstairs and relying on Violet to erase the specter of tragedy from her life?

“—must be going now. Remember Mr. Harper wants to . . .”

At the sound of their footsteps, Violet raced upstairs in her stockinged feet, tossed her boots under the bed, and hurriedly changed into her nightclothes while Graham said good-bye to Fletcher. Without bothering with a brush, she stuffed her hair under a nightcap and jumped into bed.

She hardly had time to arrange the covers and prop up the pillows behind her when Graham entered the bedroom, whistling.

“You’re still awake, good. Tonight was a resounding success, don’t you think, despite the child’s crying? Harper was enthusiastic about purchasing our goods, and Mrs. Porter’s meal was perfection. I doubt they eat so well in Virginia.”

“Mr. Harper’s remedy worked wonders for Susanna.”

Graham examined his face in Violet’s vanity mirror while loosening his cravat. “Do you think I could carry off Harper’s long side whiskers?”

“No. Tell me, did Fletcher have anything of interest to say after Mr. Harper left?”

“Not really.” His cravat discarded and his shirt loosened beneath his jacket, Graham came and sat on the edge of the bed next to Violet.

“I see. Is there a point at which you will give me insight into what, exactly, all of these business arrangements are, Graham?”

“You already know. We’re shipping funerary supplies to the Southern American states. Coffins, wreath stands, and the like. Mr. Harper is our intermediary with the Confederate government. We’ll be rich, and I can have the satisfaction—” He stopped.

“The satisfaction of what?”

“The satisfaction of knowing that Morgan Undertaking has become an international concern.” He looked away as he said this.

Violet climbed her way out of the opposite side of the bed and stood, arms crossed and glaring. She knew she looked absolutely ridiculous going on the attack in her filmy nightgown, but she was beyond caring.

Graham stood as well. The bed lay between them like a battlefield.

“Graham Morgan, you are a liar. Somehow I suspect you are a cheat, too; I just don’t know how.”

“Mind your business, Violet. This is no concern of yours. Your only worry will be new frocks and hats. You can even buy them for the girl.”

“My only worry right now is Susanna. The child has been through enough, not that you’ve asked about her enough to know that her mother probably died before her eyes, and that she—”

“That’s enough. There’s no need to waste my time on her tale of woe.”

“Right. Anything that doesn’t concern you and your highly suspect business dealings is an utter waste of time. Are you planning some sort of high seas adventure with Fletcher? Intend to plunder the Caribbean like a couple of pirates on your way to Virginia?”

“You know nothing, and I’m nearly at the end of my patience with you. Why can’t you be a good wife? I just want a home that can be a source of pride and a wife who admires her husband. What do I have instead? A shrew who cares more about a grimy street urchin than her husband, and who couldn’t keep a servant if her life depended upon it doing so, and who doesn’t understand proper dinner conversation. Your only competence is in funerals, something I can hardly brag about to friends and neighbors.”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten how much you once appreciated my talent in undertaking. You told me I was your idea of perfection because I understood the delicacy of this business and could work side by side with you forever.”

“I was younger then, and much more foolish. Mother warned me about you being too independent-minded, and she was right. If I had the opportunity to do it over, I would
never
have chosen you.”