Lady of Ashes (24 page)

“I want to know when the Confederacy will uphold her end of our bargain. We’re ready to ship and I—we—have a lot invested in this venture.”

Harper shrugged. “And I have many contacts here in London who are quite anxious to take your place, Morgan, yet I stay the course with you to suit my own purposes.”

“Which are?”

“None of your business. Although I will tell you how concerned I am over your rashness. What if a police officer were to walk by? Have you no sense whatsoever? You have always been my greatest worry in this enterprise. You are stupefyingly dim-witted and irritating, and serve as my greatest risk. I can only imagine what Mrs. Morgan must think about her stalwart and audacious husband.” Harper stared fiercely at Graham, causing him to flinch inwardly.

“What difference does Violet make?” he asked.

“None. She makes no difference whatsoever.”

“You’re a strange man, Harper. But then, aren’t all Americans?”

Harper said nothing in response, instead maintaining his powerful gaze at Graham.

“Assuredly, she is blissfully unaware of anything I’m doing. It’s none of her business.”

“See that it remains so.” Harper broke off eye contact. “You and your brother can meet me back at the Three Hulls in two days’ time. I’ll have money for you then.”

Graham slouched away, only marginally satisfied.

 

V
iolet was relieved to be home for Christmas, not the least reason being the way Susanna propelled herself into her arms. After so much depression surrounding her at Windsor, it was good to draw strength from Susanna’s innate warmth.

The remainder of her time at Windsor had been nerve-wracking. The Grenadiers standing guard by the prince consort’s coffin had to be relieved every hour, as they were complaining that the overwhelming fragrance of the lilies was making them light-headed. In fact, one Grenadier had indeed fainted. Violet knew they were too polite to state what was really bothering them.

The queen had indeed fled to Osborne House, refusing to stay at Windsor for Christmas and refusing to tell her closest advisors when she planned to return from her sanctuary.

The entire household, including Graham, sat enthralled as Violet discussed what had happened in the days leading up to the royal funeral. Graham was certain it would lead to more distinguished clientele using Morgan Undertaking’s services, and Violet agreed.

As jolly as Violet’s news made him, Graham still slipped out of the house early Christmas evening, claiming he had business to conduct.

“How could you possibly have anything to do today that can’t wait?” she asked.

“I just do. Don’t wait up for me. Mr. Porter, I’ll want my brown suit for tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir.”

And like that, he was gone into the black night.

Violet refused to let Graham make the household Christmas miserable. “Mrs. Porter, let’s have some Lambs Wool to drink. Mr. Porter, please fetch Mrs. Overfelt. She loves to sing carols. What do you think, Susanna?”

The girl looked up from where she was playing with her dollhouse—Graham had been appalled that Violet allowed the child to play with it in the drawing room—and smiled broadly.

Mrs. Porter swept open the curtains covering the entry between the drawing and dining rooms so they could easily move between the piano and the dining table.

Once Mr. Porter and Mary had returned and everyone had a cup of Lambs Wool, Mary sat down to the piano and played a rousing rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy” while the rest sang and Susanna clapped her hands.

Mary looked particularly radiant tonight. Violet pulled her away from the piano and into the dining room as Mr. Porter boomed out a version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” while leading Susanna in a silly dance. Mrs. Softpaws was perched atop the fireplace mantel, watching the proceedings warily.

“You are positively glowing, my friend,” Violet said. “I had no idea cold weather agreed with you so well.”

Mary’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, it’s not the cold. You’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but—”

“Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Overfelt, will you join us for ‘O Christmas Tree’?” asked Mr. Porter, who still held Susanna by the hand.

“In honor of the prince consort, a lovely idea,” Violet said. It was a very old melody, but had been rewritten a few decades ago by German composer Ernst Anschütz and was now popular in England.

Mary was also enthusiastic. “Of course. Susanna, I can’t let you think Mr. Porter is the only baritone in the room.”

As Mary returned to the piano, she deepened her voice and comically portrayed a man singing, with Violet joining them with an equally silly deep voice. They were interrupted during the chorus of “We Three Kings of Orient Are” by a rap at the door. The room went silent.

“Who could that be so late?” Violet said.

Mr. Porter left to admit the visitor, whom he ushered into the dining room.

What was Samuel Harper doing here?

“Mrs. Morgan,” he said in greeting, sweeping his hat from his head.

“Mr. Harper, to what do we owe this unexpected visit?” She entered the dining room to greet him.

“I see that I’m interrupting your festivities; my apologies, although I heard your fine rendition of our American tune. Is your husband at home?”

“No, he left some time ago on business. I assumed it was with you.”

“Hmm.” Violet didn’t like the way Mr. Harper’s eyes surveyed the room. Did he not approve of her surroundings? Was she cavorting too much with servants?

He tapped his hat against his leg and looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you room for a tenor? I’ve sung my fair share of choruses in church back home, although I cannot promise to successfully carry too many notes to a pleasant conclusion. I’m a man far from home tonight, and would appreciate some friendly company.”

Susanna approached Mr. Harper and stood in front of him, staring up at him intently. Violet was about to admonish the girl, when, to her surprise, Susanna took his hand and led him over to the piano. Given how much the girl avoided Graham, Violet was surprised by her behavior with this veritable stranger.

“Mr. Harper, I believe you’ve made a friend in this household. You may of course stay to sing carols with us. Would you like a cup of Lambs Wool?”

He smiled at Violet in gratitude. “Certainly. What is it?”

“It’s a hot punch made from apples, cider, wine, and cinnamon. You’ll enjoy it.”

They sang carols for another hour, drank more punch, sampled Mrs. Porter’s macaroons and plum pudding, and Susanna showed off her dollhouse to Mr. Harper, who inspected it as though he were considering the purchase of it as his residence. Susanna was animated over the man’s interest in her toys.

How peculiar.

Violet escorted Mr. Harper to the door herself as he was ready to leave. He paused before exiting into the wintry air, turning back to thank her yet again for such a memorable evening. He started out the door once more, and again turned back. “Mrs. Morgan, you should know that your husb—that I do not . . . that is, you may find that—”

“Yes, Mr. Harper?”

He shook his head. “Good night, Mrs. Morgan. Happy Christmas, and may God forgive me.” With that, he was gone.

Before shutting the door, she sensed something was wrong outside. She ventured out onto the stoop. Why, what was this? All of the garlands she’d so carefully assembled and hung over the door had been torn down and lay scattered on the ground. A delinquent hooligan, no doubt. She’d clean it up and hang new garlands in the morning.

 

 

The president wished for Christmas to be one day he could spend alone with his family, but it was not to be. Too much was at stake with the rising tension between the United States and Britain. The entire situation was ridiculous, and if he didn’t know the facts of the case, he might almost think the Confederates had manufactured the entire affair to destroy the relationship between the two countries.

So here he was this Christmas day, meeting with his cabinet to discuss the diplomatic crisis that had been provoked.

Partisans on both sides of the issue railed on about what to do. Charles Sumner, the senator from Massachusetts as well as chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, read aloud letters from the leading British and French supporters of the United States. They all urged release of Mason and Slidell.

Attorney General Edward Bates also argued that war with Britain would effectively end their chances of suppressing the Southern rebellion.

Others disputed this, firm in their belief that they should not allow themselves to be bullied by Britain. Hosting the two Confederate diplomats aboard
Trent
was a clear demonstration of hostility toward the North, and deserving of punishment. A show of strength against both the South and their neighbors across the Atlantic was what was needed.

The president himself was having serious doubts about the wisdom of holding Messrs. Mason and Slidell. It would be dangerous to have a war on two fronts. Already the South was demonstrating more force than had been anticipated. If the North had been unable to crush the South’s ambitions thus far, how would war with Britain further erode their strength? No, Mr. Bates and Senator Sumner were correct in their assessments of the situation.

If only he’d been able to put Sumner in as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James instead of the colorless Adams, perhaps he could have intervened successfully and smoothed everything out before it reached this point, where the queen herself had to send correspondence on the matter.

Instead, Adams was mostly concerned with intercepting commerce raiders. An admirable enterprise, to be sure, but hardly the most critical activity given the state of things. To his credit, Adams had at least reported on the
Trent
situation, informing the president that Britain fully believed that it was the intent of the U.S. government to drive both countries into war, but little had he done to diffuse the situation.

If it be possible, as much as it lieth in you, live peaceably with all men,
Lincoln remembered from the previous Sunday’s sermon.
Yes, peace is what we need wherever it can be ascribed.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I believe we have reached an overall consensus—with apologies to those still in disagreement—that it is best to release the two men and patch things up with Britain as quickly as possible. Besides, with Britain in mourning over the death of the prince consort, they might be in a more conciliatory mood.

“Mr. Seward,” he addressed the secretary of state, “I leave it to you to finesse the details without offending our friends in Congress, nor American public opinion.”

Seward took on the job with relish. His formal reply to the British government did not include an official apology, which would have outraged those whose American pride had been grievously wounded, but did state that Captain Wilkes of USS
San Jacinto
had violated international law by not taking
Trent
to an international prize court to determine the fate of both the ship and its passengers. Seward furthermore stated that Mason and Slidell would be “cheerfully liberated,” and that the British would be permitted to carry them to the British Virgin Islands for pickup by a commercial vessel headed back to Europe.

Lincoln was pleased with Seward’s efforts. Now they could get on with the work of bringing the South to heel. Might that the peaceful resolution of the
Trent
Affair dash the South’s hopes of diplomatic recognition by Britain.

For this evening, though, there was a Christmas party to host.

 

 

Charles Francis Adams enjoyed a subdued, private family meal on Christmas. The goose was succulent and the sweet potato pudding a perfect accompaniment. After dinner, the family retired to the drawing room and parents exchanged gifts with children. As soon as was practical, Charles Francis signaled to his wife that they should leave the merriment to the children, who were laughing at ridiculous stories Henry was inventing and acting out.

They retired to their bedroom, where he gave Abigail a gift for which he’d searched all of London to find: a perfect cameo necklace. Abigail’s eyes sparkled their excitement over her husband’s gift, causing Charles Francis a pang of guilt as he draped it over her neck. His wife had uprooted herself to follow him to this godforsaken place and never complained about anything. She deserved a hundred necklaces for her devotion.

Tonight he would show her his deep appreciation for her loving fidelity.

 

 

The queen stared sightlessly at what went on around her. Osborne House had been decorated with pine boughs and festive ribbons, but the minute she swept in, she demanded that it all be taken down immediately and replaced with black crape. Servants were instructed to speak as infrequently as possible, and all of her children were sent to other parts of the residence to quietly contemplate their sadness. Presumably Bertie, who chose to go to Sandringham instead of joining his mother here, was also grieving properly.

It was an insult to dear Albert, not yet two days in the ground, that anyone even suggest there was to be any sort of celebration. Christ’s birth, indeed. What of her saintly Albert’s death?

Victoria couldn’t get comfortable anywhere. She tried to walk down to the seaside, where they and the children had spent so many joyous days splashing about in the water. The sight of the bathing machines, standing upright in the cold winter air as a promise of warm days ahead, made her nauseous.

Inside Osborne House, she refused to eat at the dining room table. Merely sitting at her usual spot and looking over to Albert’s empty chair was enough to completely eradicate her already diminished appetite.

Every other part of the house, so lovingly designed by Albert, had the misfortune of having his personality indelibly stamped on it. She loved being here because she felt like she was near him, yet she hated being here for the overwhelming grief.

She spent Christmas Day locked in her rooms, refusing to see even her youngest child, Princess Beatrice. Still in her nightgown and wrapper, not having bothered to dress, she paced back and forth, stopping only to stare listlessly out the window at the gardeners fussing with the removal of some dead shrubbery.