Lady of Ashes (3 page)

G
raham sat behind his ebonized desk, one detailed in a floral pattern that he had purchased because he thought it blended well with their Chinese porcelain collection. He ran an impatient hand through his shock of unruly black hair, a feature Violet once considered charming, and now thought made her husband look unbalanced. His cloudy green eyes did not help dispel the notion.

“I’m sorry, Violet, but I went ahead and fired Annie. You simply
must
hire appropriate staff for our home. What sort of
maîtresse de maison
cannot manage her own servants? If you cannot do so adequately, I’ll . . . I’ll send you to Brighton to your parents.” Graham shifted his eyes downward as he said this.

How dare he suggest such a thing? Violet took a deep breath, quickly sorting through the multitude of retorts in her mind and focusing on what was most important.

“I think your sense of reason has left you, Graham. I’ll not return to my parents’ house any sooner than you would bake an apple tart and serve it to the inmates at Newgate. Besides, you know perfectly well how much you need me at the shop.”

He exhaled. “Darling, you don’t know how hard I work to keep you insulated from world events. In return, I ask that you keep a decent home for me, one that reflects our standing and makes me proud when I come home each night.”

“I’ve never asked to be insulated from world events. Besides, I don’t even understand what you’re talking about.”

“Violet, if you understood the insidious forces at work against our kingdom, you’d beg me to let you return to Brighton.”

“What insidious forces? Who is working against Great Britain?”

“This is what I mean. You don’t understand how the United States is attempting for the third time to break Great Britain’s back. It can’t be tolerated.”

“I cannot for the life of me understand why the Americans have made you so angry, Graham. What have they to do with you?”

He slammed his fist down on the desk, causing Violet to jump. She’d never seen Graham so passionate about politics before. “They nearly destroyed my family is what they have to do with me! My grandfather was a shattered man because of the United States. We should have smashed and annihilated them the moment they had the audacity to dump good British tea into their harbors. We would have saved generations of trouble.”

Violet sat down in a chair across the wide expanse of desk. Its top was carefully arranged with decorative painted boxes, porcelain bird statues, a piece of elephant tusk, and a letter opener carved from black ash.

“Graham, please tell me the truth. What bothers you so?”

He ran his hand through his curly mop of hair again before rubbing his eyes and looking at her bleakly.

“You never met my grandfather, Philip Morgan. He died probably three or four years before we met. He was a brave and honorable man, and was revered not only by my father, but by Fletcher and me.”

“I know you respected him.”

“Pap fought under Major General Ross during the second war with the Americans. They landed in Benedict, Maryland, and marched through that pestilent state before horsewhipping the Americans at the Battle of Bladensburg. Pap was particularly proud that they were able to burn the U.S. Capitol afterward. However, after that he was separated from his unit when it was sent on to Baltimore, but he successfully made it through American lines, throwing on a disgusting hide coat he lifted from a dead American in order to cover his own uniform. Pap was not only brave, but resourceful. I’ve seen the coat. It was a patchworked thing made from weasels and dogs. Even years later, it was absolutely hideous and stank worse than a four-day-old corpse.

“But he made it out of there safely wearing it, walking miles through woods while trying to find the British line. He collapsed from exhaustion, and while he was sleeping, a group of Yanks found him, thought he was dead, and tried to lift the coat from him.

“When they realized he was still alive, they carried him off to their camp and held him prisoner for weeks, treating him abominably. He wasn’t sure whether he would die from exposure to heat or if they would starve him to death first.”

Violet had never heard this story before. “How did he escape?”

“By pretending to be even more injured than he really was. They quit paying attention to him after a time, thinking he was too lame to get very far. One night while the Americans sat around drinking whiskey and playing cards, he quietly slipped away and found his unit, still wearing that awful coat. Can you imagine? He nearly died at their hands—and for what? So some cursed American could parade around looking like a dead animal hodgepodge?”

Violet stood and went around to where her husband sat, putting an arm around his shoulder and her cheek against the top of his head. “I’m sorry for your grandfather’s suffering, Graham.”

He clutched her free hand with his own. “My grandfather always told me that the worst thing about the Americans was their sense of privilege. Their horses eat better than the average British soldier, yet they have carped and complained for decades about all of their deprivations and English oppression. Pap witnessed it all firsthand while in their camp.

“He told endless stories about the cruelty the British troops suffered at the hands of the overfed American bullies. I’ve never forgotten any of them, although none are fit for a woman’s ears. Suffice to say that the United States doesn’t deserve to exist as a nation, in my opinion. It’s a wilderness full of heathens and barbaric Indians and greedy speculators. Their arrogant posturing always leads to tragedy for others. Just think how Fletcher’s business will be affected by this brainless war. It makes my head throb to the point of distraction.”

She kissed the top of his head. “I wish I’d known of this before.”

“I wish you had no need to know of it at all.”

That night, husband and wife found a truce in each other’s arms. Violet remained uneasy and apprehensive of her husband, yet desperate to reclaim the peace they once knew.

The next morning, she gazed down at her husband as he still slept. The lines of anger on his face were less noticeable, softening his expression and reminding her again of the sweet and enthusiastic man she’d married seven years ago.

She assured herself that all would be well once time passed and Graham forgot about his furor over the Americans. She rose, dressed, and prepared for another day at Morgan Undertaking, not realizing just how dreadfully wrong she was.

 

C
harles Francis Adams offered his son a cigar to celebrate his new appointment as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James, with St. James referring to the palace of that name and ultimately referring to the British monarch. He did not have the formal title of Ambassador, but was designated authority to represent the United States in Great Britain.

Henry accepted the cigar, took an appreciative sniff, and bit off one end before lighting it and offering the safety match to his father as the two men sat in comfortable old leather chairs inside the family townhome. “So, Father, or should I say, ‘Your Excellency,’ how was your meeting with the president?”

Charles shrugged. “Lincoln is indifferent to me. Hardly looked me in the eye the entire time, despite our support of his presidential campaign.”

“Abominable way to treat the son and grandson of presidents, I should think.”

“I suppose I don’t blame him. I wasn’t his first choice, but he deferred to what William Seward wanted, now that Seward is secretary of state. Regardless of the president’s personal feelings over my nomination, I’ve discussed it with your mother, and she, Mary, and Brooks will be accompanying me to London.” Mary and Brooks were two of their six children. Charles Francis saw the uncertain look in Henry’s eyes. After spending two years on the Grand Tour, Henry had come to live with the family in their Washington City quarters, where Charles Francis was serving out a term in the U.S. House of Representatives. Although an intelligent, grown man, Henry was still floundering to find his place in the world.

Charles Francis understood too well how difficult it was in a family that had produced his own father, John Quincy Adams, as well as his grandfather, John Adams. Charles Francis’s own career had prospered, too, perhaps due to his own raw talents, but he thought it more likely due to his family name. Certainly it wasn’t due to a voracious political appetite. In fact, he doubted his own diplomatic skills in what might prove to be a delicate situation with Britain. Lincoln’s reservation over his appointment didn’t reassure him.

He put his own cigar down in an ash stand and leaned forward.

“I’d like you to come to London with your mother and me, son, as my personal secretary. You’ve been on the Grand Tour, so you will easily understand English sensibilities, and you’ve made quite a journalistic mark already with your writings. I plan to send your brother, John Quincy, up to the old house in Massachusetts to look after financial affairs from there. Charles Francis Junior is, I suspect, an army man through and through and won’t wish to give up his commission—”

“Father, the answer is yes. No need to convince me. What would I do otherwise? Return to Beacon Hill and rattle around up there while you’re gone?”

“I just want you to know that I value your company. I’m also thinking of revising your great-grandfather’s biography and could use your help on it, in addition to assisting me with some foul offal I intend to have removed while in London.”

That piqued his son’s interest. “What sort of foul offal?”

“I have seen certain communications that indicate British shipyards are already secretly building commerce raiders on the South’s behalf so the rebels can best us that way rather than in open combat.”

“Commerce raiders?”

“Ships sent to attack its enemy’s merchant ships on the open seas. As opposed to the blockade runners, who are trying to get their ships through our blockade in Virginia.”

Henry nodded. “I see. What do you plan to do about it?”

“We’ll have to ensure that ships returning home from Great Britain sail in convoys, preferably protected by naval escorts, provided we can do so without raising the ire of Parliament. I don’t trust Britain to support us in it, since we don’t know yet whose side they will take, but I do intend to keep U.S. ships safe.”

No need to tell his son yet of his plan to actually ferret out rebels positioned in London who were not only contracting with shipbuilders for commerce raiders, but were encouraging merchants to break the blockades set up at locations like Hampton Roads. That part of things could get . . . messy. He hadn’t even told his wife, Abigail, yet of his real intentions in London, nor did he intend to do so. She would flutter about him with wifely concern and worry herself—and him—to distraction.

He would eventually tell Henry, just not yet. There was time enough once they got settled inside their new residence in London.

A mild twinge of headache announced itself quietly behind his eyebrows. Charles Francis passed a hand across his brow and was reminded once again of the Adams affliction. Why did all the men in this family have such confoundedly bald heads long before their time? Even poor Henry, just twenty-three, had the receding hairline that marked—nay, cursed—the Adams men. Soon he would join his father in a completely bare pate, save curly tufts above each ear.

Henry tamped out his own cigar. “I look forward to joining you and Mother in England. When do we depart?”

“Soon. A few weeks from now at the most. As soon as I get my affairs in order.”

 

Violet was gratified to receive a note from a customer thanking the undertaker for giving the family’s mother such a beautiful farewell. The thanks of a happy family member meant far more to her than moving in society ever could. She shuddered to think what she might be doing this day if she were a member of the society Graham was so anxious to enter. She would probably be making weekly calls on other ladies at the precise moment she knew they would
not
be home so that she could have credit for visiting while not actually having to talk to Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was. Meanwhile, Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was would be doing the same thing. Was there anything more ridiculous?

Violet folded the note and slipped it into a drawer for rereading later as a reminder that her work was valuable and worthy. It was time now to focus on the Stanley funeral.

One of their assistants, William Swift, had recently scrubbed spotless the glass of their funeral carriages so they sparkled anew for bystanders craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the coffins within. London soot and fog were constant irritants to maintaining the necessary elegant look of a funeral procession, and the Morgans were constantly freshening their equipage.

Although Graham had hired Will without consulting Violet, resulting in quite a row between them, she had to admit that he was a hard and dedicated young worker, and took pride in any task, even that of sweeping dust from corners behind doors. She’d not complained when he later hired Harry Blundell, whose brawn made easy work of moving the fleshiest of corpses.

Unlike most undertakers, who merely rented funeral horses and carriages from stables specifically set up for such business, the Morgans kept three different types of funeral carriages at a mews nearby, as well as several Clarence coaches used for transporting family members to the grave site. One funeral carriage, a black lacquered, open carriage, looking more like an elegant cart than anything, was specifically meant for those who could not afford the costlier glass carriages, of which they owned two.

Their largest glass carriage, decorated with silver and gold trim and topped by three posts plumed with ostrich feathers, had enough window space to easily display a coffin to onlookers. This stately funeral car, intended for the wealthiest of society, was tall, and the ceiling loomed several feet above the coffin as it rested inside. Fancy dark green draperies adorned this carriage both inside and out. Paired with four plumed horses, it was an impressive sight as it slowly but proudly made its way to whatever resting place for which the deceased inside was intended.

Unfortunately, this magnificent car wasn’t called into use as often as their small glass carriage, lined with fringed black velvet drapes. It was the one that now carried Mr. Stanley to Kensal Green. Mrs. Stanley and her daughter followed behind the funeral carriage in one of the Morgans’ black Clarence coaches with its blinds drawn and the driver riding up high atop a lavishly embroidered velvet seat cloth. The women wore dresses of black crape, black veils and gloves, and were adorned with the jet jewelry purchased from Violet. The second mourning coach behind the funeral carriage contained Mr. Stanley’s brother and sister. Other mourners followed behind in their own carriages.

The entire cortege was surrounded by pages, attendants, and professional mourners walking alongside the carriages dressed in black and looking suitably somber. The Morgans were fortunate to know a bevy of reliable men happy to earn extra pocket money this way.

Graham rode on the funeral car, driven by Harry, while Violet stayed back at a discreet distance in their own simple horse and carriage with folding top, a conveyance the undertakers used strictly for following funerals.

The procession made its way at a walking pace for the four-mile ride from Belgravia to the cemetery, with a detour around the circumference of Hyde Park to ensure maximum display to London’s citizens. As they neared Kensal Green, more rightly known as the General Cemetery of All Souls, Graham motioned to the pages and attendants, who all climbed onto the various coaches, and the drivers increased the tempo along Harrow Road to a brisk trot. Once a procession was beyond the view of onlookers, it made no sense to continue at a walking pace.

At the cemetery’s entrance lodge, an imposing structure of arches and Doric columns, the foot attendants climbed down from the coaches, and once again the procession returned to its slow amble. The thirty-year-old Kensal Green Cemetery was one of London’s first public burial grounds, a response to the grossly overcrowded church grounds that could no longer cope with London’s exploding population. Violet loved the design of this cemetery, which reminded her of a pleasant retreat, with its long vista of sloping grounds and dense plantings of oaks, evergreens, shrubs, and flowers.

The procession rolled its way down the tree-lined road that cut the cemetery in half. The cortege moved slowly and in complete silence except for the creaking of wheels and carriages, and the occasional snuffle of a horse. The Anglican chapel loomed large before them in the middle of Kensal Green. Dissenters, those who separated from the Church of England, such as the Baptists, Presbyterians, and Quakers, were buried in a remote part of the cemetery.

Once the funeral carriage pulled up to the chapel entrance, the entire procession stopped. Graham jumped down from the funeral carriage and directed the pallbearers to remove the coffin from inside its glassed-in location and carry it gently inside the chapel. Six pallbearers had been selected from among Mr. Stanley’s friends, and could only serve in this duty if they were near Mr. Stanley’s age. Even at children’s funerals the pallbearers had to be selected from other children close to the deceased’s age.

While the pallbearers did their work, wearing black gloves and crape armbands, Graham somberly opened up the door to Mrs. Stanley’s carriage, put down the steps, and helped her and her daughter out, tipping his black crape–wrapped hat at them.

Graham was always the perfect blend of humility and boulder strength during funerals. Widows always responded with a smile beneath their tears or by holding on to his proffered arm just a moment too long. Violet wished it weren’t considered unseemly for her, as a woman, to be in as much attendance on things as Graham was. After all, hadn’t she performed all of the indelicate work on Mr. Stanley?

She continued to wait outside while the carriages emptied out their passengers and everyone trudged into the chapel for the service. A short while later, the women exited from the chapel, with Mrs. Stanley once again on Graham’s arm for comfort. Graham deposited Mrs. Stanley back into her carriage and returned to the chapel.

Everything was almost over. Once it was time for the coffin to be lowered down into one of the underground vaults inside the chapel, women were generally dismissed from the scene so that they wouldn’t be subjected to the unsettling vision of a loved one, whose coffin now rested on a mechanical bier, being lowered down into the depths of the crypt.

It did rather resemble being sent to the gates of hell.

Such a process also prevented mourners from the temptation of throwing themselves in after the coffin.

Men usually stayed behind until the coffin was in its final resting place. Ah, they were all coming out now and joining their womenfolk. Graham popped out one more time to signal to the driver of Mrs. Stanley’s carriage to move in front of the funeral carriage and get the procession moving again. The cortege’s pace went quickly to a trot, for everyone would now be heading either back home or to the Stanley residence to hear Mr. Stanley’s will read.

Violet and Graham were, of course, not invited to such an occasion. Their business was with the dead, not frolicking with the living.

Once everyone was out of view, she climbed out of her own carriage to join Graham inside the chapel. The interior was filled to overflowing with arrangements of lilies. Their cloying fragrance never ceased to overwhelm Violet. They were the flower of choice for funerals because they smelled so strongly that they overpowered any unfortunate odor arising from the deceased. Yet no matter how many pots of them she picked up from the florist or arranged inside a chapel or the home of a grieving family, she was always a little nauseous afterward.

Graham had no such problem with the fragrance of the lily, which was, admittedly, a strikingly beautiful bloom. In response to her grumbling about them, he always smiled and said that God made lilies beautiful to compensate for their sickly-sweet aroma.