Lady of Ashes (34 page)

Afterward, Sam enthused over the elaborate sets and costumes as the four of them headed over to a confectionary for a treat.

“Do you find our playhouses as unusual as our museums?” Violet asked.

“Not at all. You should see Ford’s Theatre in Washington City. It rivals Covent Garden theater any day.”

Violet gently squeezed his right arm, where her hand was lightly resting, as they strolled with Mary and George behind them.

“There you are again with your competitive talk. Do all Americans approach life as though it is a horse race at Newmarket to be won?”

Sam laughed and covered her hand with his free one, which immediately elicited stares of consternation from passersby.

“I can see I have to tone down my aggressive spirit around you, Violet,” he said.

“On the contrary, I like spirit.”

“As do I,” Sam said, giving her hand another gentle squeeze before dropping his arm to open the door to the confectionary, which was already crowded with other theater patrons.

They sat down to exquisite Neapolitan cups, presented to them on a footed silver tray. The individual treats shaped like handled cups were made of molded ice and filled with ice cream and topped with fancifully colored sorbets.

“I must warn you both,” Violet said to Mary and George, “that Sam is a great ice cream lover and we must hurry if we expect to have more than a couple of bites of what’s before us before he steals them from under our eyes.”

“You like ice cream?” George asked, overstating the obvious for the hundredth time that evening. A plain, even-tempered man who clearly doted on Mary, he nonetheless irritated Violet with his dull-witted statements. Surely Mary couldn’t be enamored with such a companion?

Mary looked adoringly at George and fed him from her spoon. Some of the ice cream spilled down George’s ginger-colored beard and he laughingly licked at it, allowing Mary to daub his facial hair with her cloth napkin.

Perhaps George was pretending to simplicity in front of Mary’s friends to hide his real genius, so as not to make Violet feel dim-witted. Or so that he avoided any hint of arrogance.

Surely that was it. Otherwise, Violet couldn’t fathom Mary’s affection for the short, pig-eyed George Cooke of indeterminate age and even more mysterious background.

“Here and there,” he responded when Sam asked where he was from. His occupation was cloudy, too. First he claimed to be a clockmaker.

“Oh, then you’ll be interested in seeing my watch, made by Margaret Fleming,” Violet said, unpinning it from where it dangled from her collar and handing it to George across the nearly devoured ice cream sculpture.

He hardly gave the timepiece a glance. “Yes, very nice,” he said, returning it.

Violet and Sam exchanged looks. How could a clockmaker not recognize the importance of her mid-seventeenth-century watch?

Mary’s new beau was a very curious man. Disturbingly curious.

“Well, Mrs. Morgan, can’t say as we’re surprised, though deeply saddened we are.” Mrs. Porter dabbed at a corner of one eye with her apron.

Standing behind her in the kitchen, Mr. Porter patted his wife’s shoulder. “ ’Twas a pleasure working for you, ma’am, but we understand you wanting to move to smaller quarters, what with Mr. Morgan gone and all, and you rattling around in this house with Miss Susanna.”

Graham’s death was only part of the reason. Violet really just didn’t want the worry of a home anymore, with the myriad of concerns such as how much coal for eight fireplaces would cost this winter, or whether it was the flushing commode causing the smells in the basement. The house on Grafton Terrace was Graham’s love, not hers.

Hence she’d made the decision to re-let it and move Susanna and herself into smaller lodgings.

Once the decision was made, she’d had this discussion with the Porters. Now it was time to see an estate agent to have someone else assume her lease.

“Mama, I’ll come with you to see the agent,” Susanna said.

Ever since their encounter with Dr. Beasley, Susanna insisted on accompanying Violet nearly everywhere, as though she thought Violet needed protection. From what? Stupid medical men marauding the streets?

Yet Susanna was a determined girl and wouldn’t hear of being left behind unless Violet was in Sam’s company.

“Of course, sweetheart. Afterward we’ll go back to the doll shop to see what Mrs. Peters has that’s new. What do you say?”

Violet arranged to have her home advertised and inquired as to smaller places to let in Paddington, closer to Morgan Undertaking. The estate agent, Mr. James, opened his portfolio book, full of engraved drawings of properties and their descriptions. Violet chose two that looked acceptable and arranged to meet Mr. James the following day to view them.

Already feeling as though an oppressive weight had been plucked from her shoulders, Violet returned to the shop with Susanna, bursting with renewed energy for her work and for discovering what was killing completely unrelated persons of London.

 

Charles Francis paused as he sat at his desk making a diary entry. His assumption that Lincoln would be too preoccupied by the progress of the war to pay attention to his Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James was wrong. The president was making constant inquiries—without asking Adams directly—as to what diplomatic progress the minister was making with the British now that the U.S. had apologized over the
Trent
Affair.

Charles Francis was equally wrong in his assumption that any sort of congratulations would be in order for his ferreting out of the Morgan brothers. Although the crew of
Monitor
had ultimately seen to their demise, hadn’t Charles Francis smoked them out and caused them to act foolishly?

He passed a hand across his forehead. When had his skin gotten so leathery and wrinkled?

This coal-choked, pestilent hole doesn’t agree with me,
he thought.

No, the Morgan brothers should have been a great glory, but between the agreement to keep it secret with the British and his own government’s disdain for his work, there seemed little purpose to his presence in London. Lord Russell, in his great endeavor to keep Britain neutral, hardly received him anymore.

Which brought him round to Samuel Harper. Although the man had made some more contacts with possible blockade raiders, things were moving too slowly there. Maybe there weren’t as many of them in Great Britain as Charles Francis had thought. Maybe it was time to send Mr. Harper home.

In the meantime, Charles Francis needed something else, something dramatic, upon which to hang his diplomatic career.

The kidnapping of a famous American in London, in which the Adams men solve the crime and see the victim returned to his homeland. Or perhaps he might intervene in some notorious legal case involving an American abroad. Yes, that would be much more in keeping with his talent for the law.

Regardless, something had to occur soon to save his reputation and that of the Adams legacy.

To share her good news, Violet met Mary out for tea. She had arranged for new lodgings near Morgan Undertaking in Paddington. It was a narrower townhome of only a basement and two levels, not four as she’d had before. It also had a far less grand staircase, but because it was newly built it did have one of Mr. Crapper’s wooden toilets in it, a convenience to which she’d become accustomed.

With a kitchen in the basement, small dining and drawing rooms on the first floor, and Violet’s and Susanna’s bedrooms on the second, with the toilet room off the landing between the first and second floors, it was ideal for Violet’s purposes.

The neighborhood was more modest, so hopefully her new neighbors would be less concerned with how often she entertained, whether or not she sent out her laundry or had it done at home, and whether she had both a parlormaid and a housemaid, or just a maid of all work.

“I plan to just hire day help,” she said to Mary. “So much less fuss.”

“My dear, I’m delighted. You’ll be so near to me. I can keep a close eye on you.”

“Sorry?”

“To keep an eye on you and Susanna, of course. Have I shown you what George just bought me? Look at this.” From her bag, she pulled out a small enameled box with a pastoral scene of a young girl in a swing painted on top.

“George says he had it made for me by a watchmaker friend of his who also makes these boxes. George says his friend is quite renowned for his metalworking skills. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Very pretty,” Violet said, discreetly turning the piece over. Although the painting on top of the box was well done and would fool most people, the undercarriage was brass and the legs were glued on sloppily. It reminded her of the work of a shoddy coffin-maker. At best, the piece was a cheap import from the Far East, just like the blue-and-white porcelain Graham had collected and that she planned to sell.

She handed it back to Mary. “Are you contemplating marriage to George?”

Mary blushed. “I don’t know. Who could take the place of Matthew? Yet George is so kind and thoughtful, isn’t he? And prosperous. Although he has no interest in mourning fashions, he encourages me in my success.”

No doubt.

“Do you know where George was born? Where his family is?” Violet said.

“I think he’s originally from Northumbria. No, wait, or is it Cumbria? He’s been to Germany, you know. He says many famous watchmakers migrated to London from there; that’s how London became so renowned for its timepieces.”

Mary waxed on enthusiastically about George Cooke. It was so heartwarming to see her friend enjoy a nibble from the buffet table of happiness that eluded so many—including Violet—that it was impossible to express her doubts about the man’s honesty.

“Oh, and, Violet dear, I hope you don’t mind, but I accidentally mentioned your concerns about the customers you recently prepared. He’s such a kind-hearted man, he expressed great sympathy over their situations and wanted to know everything you observed about them. You aren’t angry, are you? He has such a trustworthy manner about him that I just want to confide everything in him.”

“It’s fine,” Violet said, trying not to clench her teeth. She shouldn’t be talking about her customers under any circumstances, and this was a good reminder why.

The estate agent came to Morgan House to inventory the furniture Violet planned to leave behind. It was a poorly timed visit, as the basement odors were stronger than usual.

“I don’t know what it is,” Violet said to Mr. James, a quiet man with a brisk, competent air about him. “I believe it to be the flushing toilet, but I can’t be sure.”

The estate agent walked from room to room, sniffing the air. Violet was mortified. He pointed to the servants’ staircase leading down to the kitchen. “May I?” he said.

Violet followed him down, where they found Mrs. Porter furiously rolling out a pie crust, a light dusting of flour on her apron and on her cap. Chopped apples lay heaped in a nearby bowl. Mr. James ignored her as he continued his olfactory testing of the air. He dropped to his hands and knees, sniffing along the baseboard.

Mrs. Porter stopped her attack on the dough, aghast at what the man was doing. “Sir, I assure you I keep a very proper home for Mrs. Morgan.”

He arose, rearranging his jacket sleeves and trousers. “Mrs. Morgan, I believe I understand what the problem is. Do you have a shovel?”

Violet had no idea if she possessed a shovel, but Mr. Porter came in at that moment and was able to produce one from elsewhere in the basement.

“If you would be so kind as to . . .” Mr. James motioned to a section of the hard-packed earthen floor.

Mr. Porter looked at Violet uncertainly.

“Go ahead, Mr. Porter, let’s see what Mr. James thinks is causing these odors.”

Mr. Porter drove the pointed end of the shovel into the ground repeatedly until he was able to break up some of the dirt. By the time he was able to actually dig up a shovelful of dirt he was sweating profusely. Mr. Porter removed scoop after scoop of dirt and piled it where he could. Mrs. Porter quietly gathered up her pie-making ingredients and fled the kitchen.

Once he was down about a foot, Mr. James stopped him and dropped to his knees to inspect the hole. “As I thought,” he said.

Violet stood over his shoulder to peer down. “What is it?”

Mr. James reached down and pulled out an old animal carcass, a rat by the look of it.

“A dead rodent has been causing foul smells on and off for the past year?”

“No, madam. The rat is just the beginning. Many of these new neighborhoods surrounding the city are being built hastily. Instead of properly building foundations, many developers are hauling in refuse and using it as fill underneath basements. I’m afraid yours is one of these properties. I suspect your neighbors have the same problem but are as embarrassed as you are to admit it.”

“I thought it had something to do with the toilet pipes. I cannot believe the reason is trash. What can I do about it?”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Morgan, I know a contractor who can dig out your basement and replace it with proper dirt.”

Violet arranged to have this done with Mr. James, the irony not lost on her that not only had her marriage been built on falsehoods and illusions, so had her house.