Lady of Ashes (7 page)

Fletcher sat back like a solicitor who had just delivered an irrefutable argument to a jury. “Fascinating.”

By this point, the diners were finishing up their third-course selections from dishes of strawberries, cherry compote, and Neapolitan cake, and were washing it all down with glasses of Madeira.

At the blessed conclusion of the meal, Violet rose and invited her mother and Ida to join her in the drawing room, pulling closed the heavy, sound-blocking draperies that divided the two rooms behind her. The men would remain in the dining room to drink port. She and Graham had agreed in advance that tonight there would be an exception to the no-cigars rule.

Violet had outlawed cigars in the house the moment they moved in. The smoke could never be aired out because the windows always had to remain shut to prevent smuts from drifting into the house. With their difficulties in keeping servants, Violet needed no further strain on maintaining the cleanliness of their household. Especially since that peculiar smell was still wafting periodically through the house. One day she would have to hire a man to check the pipes.

The three women sat down, with Violet almost sighing in relief to be gone from the inquisition and contention of the dining room.

“So, my love,” her mother said. “Your new housekeeper seems very efficient. How did you discover her?”

“Mrs. Scrope placed a situation wanted advertisement in
The Times,
which I answered. She was looking for a place with a single gentleman, but had no objection to a married couple.”

Violet’s mother frowned. “What did her references say about her?”

“I didn’t actually bother with her references, given that she seemed so competent—and has proved to be so—and Graham gave me so little time to find a replacement for Annie.”

“Hmm. Do you keep your tea and sugar locked away?”

“Well, no. I’m so busy at the shop that I can’t be here every time she needs to scrape some from a block for that evening’s dinner.”

Ida interrupted. “A good mistress makes her home her first priority.”

“Yes, Mother Morgan.” Violet shifted uncomfortably. “But Morgan Undertaking requires so much of me. . . .”

Ida sniffed. “It seems unladylike to me that a woman would place dirty hands above her husband’s comfort. I certainly never did so while my husband was alive.”

“Graham is not uncomfort—”

Violet’s mother broke in and steered the conversation back to Mrs. Scrope. “Well, the woman does appear to have your home well in hand, and I know you were never much for learning the finer points of managing a home yourself, so I suppose all is well for you. At least tell me you keep your silver under lock and key.”

“Of course. You can take comfort that one of the lessons you tried to instill in me found its mark.”

“If I was able to teach you just one thing, I consider your youth a great success.”

Eliza Sinclair had taught her daughter at home as much as she could: reading, handwriting, arithmetic, and religion. Mother had also attempted to teach her the graceful arts of music and dancing, but Violet had been hopeless at them. Violet smiled. “I must have been a terribly difficult child.”

Ida sniffed again. Violet resisted the temptation to give her a handkerchief and ask her if she was suffering from an ague.

“Not difficult, just single-mindedly determined and more interested in asking the butcher, the physician, the train porter, and everyone else you met questions about their job duties, rather than learning the duties you should take on as a young woman. Your poor father, he was mortified by it.” Eliza Sinclair’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and Violet knew that, contrary to her father’s chagrin, her mother found it all amusing.

Perceptively realizing that Ida wasn’t particularly interested in musing about her daughter-in-law’s childhood, Eliza Sinclair went to the heavy upright piano Graham had ordered from Monington and Weston. It wasn’t as majestic as the Stanleys’ grand piano, but served not only its functional purpose, but was decorative as well, with its appropriate fringe-edged lace runner on top and a variety of china pieces lining it.

Violet’s mother culled through a nearby cupboard containing several pieces of sheet music that came with the instrument, found something she liked, and sat down to play. The sounds of “Come into the Garden, Maud” soon filled the air. After tapping her foot for several moments, Ida joined Eliza at the piano and sang along, completely out of tune to the music but with utter abandon, leaving Violet alone with her thoughts.

What was going on between her husband and brother-in-law? She didn’t like it one bit, and a knot of worry in her stomach urged her to confront Graham over it.

At nearly midnight, their guests finally left, with the men having exhausted three bottles of port and Violet’s mother having played every piece of sheet music they had, twice.

Violet went upstairs ahead of Graham, who wanted to speak to Mrs. Scrope about replenishing their wine stock. Relieved of her corset and wearing a comfortable nightgown and wrapper, Violet sat at the chintz-covered vanity table in her dressing room, brushing out her long hair after so many hours pinned tightly to her head, as she continued to ruminate on the evening’s events. It was so comforting to see Mother and Father again, even if that comfort was tempered by Ida Morgan’s disapproving glances and snorts. Fletcher was charmingly exasperating and seemed to have stolen Graham’s portion of charisma.

She didn’t even realize Graham had entered her dressing room until he was bent over behind her, circling his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck.

“You did a wonderful job, sweetheart,” he said. “The meal was prepared to perfection. That Mrs. Scrope is a gem, isn’t she? And I think your father was impressed with our new home.” He pushed aside the right shoulder of her robe, placing tiny kisses along the exposed skin.

Violet put down her brush and tilted her head to give her husband better access to her neck and shoulders. She sighed in contentment at his gentle touch.

“In fact, I think we should host more dinner parties,” he said, continuing to kiss her and now stroking her arms. “I’m thinking we can invite Fletcher and some of his business associates and their wives one evening. You could invite Mrs. Overfelt over to pair with Fletcher so there would be an even number.”

Mary and Fletcher were acquainted, and although neither would have the least romantic interest in the other, especially given their age difference, they would be amenable dinner partners.

“I’d like to give Mrs. Scrope a rest after last night’s venture, but we could certainly do it again soon,” she said.

“Good. Some of these men may be my own business partners one day, so I may as well start courting them now. They can see how prosperous we already are.”

“What is the nature of these ‘future business partners,’ Graham? Are they involved in shipping funerary supplies to America, too?”

Graham offered his arm and gently lifted her from her chair to face him. “Among other things. As I said, it’s nothing for you to worry over. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

He leaned down for a kiss, but Violet pulled away.

“I’ll not be spoken to like a child. I work just as hard as you in our shop, and I deserve to know what you are planning to do with our supplies and money.”

“This is a private matter between Fletcher and me. All you need to know is that it is guaranteed profitable, which will one day have you in silk dresses and feathered hats, with perhaps even a move to Mayfair.”

“It is
not
private between you and your brother. The mere fact that you won’t tell me means it’s something immoral or illegal, and I won’t have you using our shop for it.”

“
Our
shop? Mrs. Morgan, I daresay you forget your place in this marriage. You are an adequate undertaker, and a great help to me in the shop, but it is my shop to do with as I please. And it pleases me to do a little trading with America.”

“An adequate undertaker? I’ve contracted for twice as many bodies so far this year than you have, and have attended every single one of their funerals. I make sure our supply closet is maintained and our employees are paid and our fees are collected.”

Graham took two steps away from Violet. “Yes, you are merely adequate, because all of the marvelous work you do is always at the expense of our home, which is your wifely duty and the clearest sign of our prosperity. My mother has commented to me more than once that our home is not kept to a high standard. God clearly favors you, for we now have Mrs. Scrope, but with all the servants previous to her, this place teetered on disaster. You’ve neglected me far too long. You hold a cold, white corpse in higher regard than you do me.”

“If I hold a corpse in higher regard, it is because it is more respectful of me than my own husband, and doesn’t see fit to criticize everything I do. I also find that our deceased customers keep fewer secrets than you do.”

Graham looked sideways through the dressing room door. “Lower your voice, Mrs. Scrope might hear us.”

“Yes, and you are far more concerned about offending Mrs. Scrope than your wife, are you not? After all, she is far more than
adequate
in taking care of you and your needs. Perhaps Mrs. Scrope would even suit you better as a wife.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Violet. She’s servant class.”

“Ah, her lower status being your only impediment?”

“Of course not, she’s thoroughly unattractive and makes that annoying wheezing sound—wait, why am I even justifying myself? This conversation has gone completely around the bend.”

“Not as far around the bend as you seem to have done, between your obsession over my competence as your wife, your volatile mood changes, and now your secret dealings with your brother.”

“Violet, you don’t—”

“I’m finished.” She headed through the doorway into the bedroom, yanked down the tester bed’s coverlet, and slid in, staying turned away from Graham’s side.

As he followed in behind her, she reached up and extinguished the gas lamp on the wall above her, then sank back down on the pillow. Violet felt him standing next to the bed, staring at her. His bullish exhalations were the only signal of his fury. She clenched her eyes shut, willing him to go away.

He complied, muttering “Blast it all,” as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Full of anguish and regret after a sleepless night, Violet arose even before Mrs. Scrope would be up to draw open the drapes in the dining and drawing rooms. She searched for Graham, intent on making amends with him.

The sight of disarrayed pillows on the sofa in his study told her where he’d spent the night. A square envelope with her name scrawled across the front sat propped up against an inkwell on his desk. Inside was a hastily written message.

Not even a signature, much less an endearment.

Blast it all.

 

Samuel was pleased with his visiting cards, which showed him seated next to a table with a globe on it, the photographer’s best idea for representing him as an important man of the world. Underneath the picture were the words “Samuel Harper, Buyer of Quality Goods, Confederate States of America.”

Samuel purchased ninety-six copies of the untinted ambrotype and headed off to Isle of Dogs to make some inquiries.

Isle of Dogs lay on a low, marshy tract of land on the left bank of the Thames about five miles below London Bridge, facing Deptford and Greenwich. It comprised a great colony of shipbuilders’ yards, ironworks, chemical works, tar manufacturers, and other similar establishments. Their by-products filled the air with noxious smells, rendering the atmosphere nearly fatal to a newcomer. Samuel grimaced at what he was willing to endure for his homeland.

He spent time walking past the shipyards and examining their names, who they employed, and how prosperous they seemed to be. Only a very specific sort of shipbuilder would do. There seemed to be about a dozen shipbuilders in all, each its own busy hive of activity. Samuel estimated that there were thousands of men at work on this little peninsula. The clanging of riveting hammers was interspersed with the lilting sound of Scotsmen. The occasional worker who noticed Samuel passing by greeted him with a “How are ye?” in that distinctive Scottish accent.

Public houses abounded on the island, and so, now sweating from the heat of a sun having risen high in the sky, Samuel stopped inside the cool, dark Highland Mary for a meal and to see if he could meet anyone . . . helpful. The smell was only marginally better here.

Samuel ordered ginger beer and a dish of fried cod slices with anchovy sauce before sitting down at a rickety pine table next to a window facing one of the shipyards. He glanced at his pocket watch and saw that it was now exactly one o’clock in the afternoon. Almost as if a bell had rung, workers dropped their hammers and other tools and either retrieved lunch pails from inside a locker or began pouring into the Highland Mary and other nearby public houses, chattering loudly as they ordered food and found places to sit down.