Lady of Ashes, page 42
part #1 of Lady of Ashes Mystery Series
Sam looked around as if searching for something. “Are you . . . alone here?”
“Yes,” was all she managed to squeak out.
“I mean, are you . . . unattached?”
Violet nodded.
He relaxed visibly. “I sort of figured a woman like you would have men lining up in gold-plated carriages for her hand. I’m happy to see you didn’t go off with anyone. May I be so bold as to inquire as to whether you are, well, pleased to see me?” Sam almost looked embarrassed. Was that a scar above his right eye, cutting through his eyebrow?
Violet tried to speak. “I thought you were—the minister told me—how did you—I never got responses to my letters, so I assumed—” What was this babble tumbling from her mouth?
“Were you informed of my demise? Yes, government efficiency at its best. I imagine you’d like to know what happened. May we sit down? I find that I can no longer stand for extended periods of time.”
The three of them sat, Violet and Sam in the chairs they’d used so often during their discussions over Susanna’s kidnapping, and sixteen-year-old Susanna on the settee, her skirts prettily spread around her.
“What did you hear about me?”
“Only that you were killed at the Battle of Fredericksburg while attempting to take a Confederate position,” Violet said.
He nodded. “That’s almost the truth. There was another fellow named Harper in my regiment, and it was he who was killed, although an army clerk misidentified him as me. Even my father thought I was dead.
“The error remained because I had already been captured and sent to Libby Prison in Richmond. I won’t tell you what that was like, except to say that I frequently wished for death, and it nearly came at my guards’ hands on more than one occasion. The men who died at Marye’s Heights may have had the better end of things.”
“We also know about your president’s assassination. I am so sorry.” She did not express shock, though, as the president had come to the same end as their own King Charles I. Civil wars always seemed to end with the execution of one side’s leader.
“Yes, it has been a terrible time, but President Johnson is in charge now and we hope for the best. Lincoln’s assassin had intended to kill the vice president at the same time, so I guess we came out lucky.”
Lucky indeed. President Lincoln had written many missives to the British people that were widely published in newspapers and had stirred some agitators into calling for universal suffrage for all British men, but his efforts had never coalesced Britons into overwhelming support for the North’s cause. Nevertheless, the North had prevailed.
“Were you frightened in prison?” Susanna asked, breathless and fascinated.
“Frightened? I don’t know if that is the right word for it. It may be hard for you to understand at your age—although it looks like you’re practically a woman now—but living under such dismal conditions with your fellow countrymen and never knowing when the sword might come down, a man has to retreat inside himself in order to survive. He has to find sanctuary in his wishes and dreams. His hopes,” he said with a look toward Violet.
“I was released a few months ago and found myself aboard a train for Washington City, where I was taken to Armory Square Hospital. I was in considerable pain from multiple . . . injuries I’d received. Once I’d shown some progress in healing and had put on some weight, I was declared recovered and released from the hospital.”
“Are you saying you were thinner than this?” Violet said.
“Yes, and still I was among the lucky because I didn’t actually die of starvation.”
“His Excellency told me you were dead. Did he know you were really alive?”
“No, it took the army nearly two years just to realize their mistake. I went home to Massachusetts to get my affairs back in order once again and to see my father, who acted as though I were a specter come back to life. I guess I was, in a way.”
“I had the same thought when I saw you at the door.”
Sam grinned. “My gait hardly qualifies for the gliding around required by ghosts and spirits.”
“What happened to your leg?”
Sam glanced at Susanna. “Susanna, leave us for a few moments, will you?” Sam said.
Susanna nodded knowingly and went upstairs.
Sam’s smile disappeared. “I’d rather not discuss prison. I’ll only say that dissenters like me were taught not to complain about anything.”
“Is it a permanent limp?”
“Probably. Tell me, Violet, do you think less of me?” His voice broke, but he took a deep breath and continued. “Is it difficult for you to look at me? I have other scars on me. The limp is the least of it. If that bothers you, you’ll be repulsed by the rest of it. Besides, wondering if you were already married or had forgotten me was more torture than what any prison guard could render.”
“You’re alive, that’s all that matters.”
“I came all the way across the Atlantic instead of just writing to you because I thought it was important that you know the extent of my injuries.” He stood, shrugged out of his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“I don’t care about your injuries. You’re living. Breathing.” She got up to retrieve his jacket from the floor, folding it neatly and draping it over the back of his chair. When she faced him again, he was standing bare-chested before her.
His torso looked as though someone had drawn battle plans on it, so scarred and marked with depressions and lumps was it. Violet reached out and gently put a finger on a particularly nasty-looking red welt. “This must have been a terrible moment for you.”
He didn’t respond, but simply allowed her to examine him. Some of the wounds overlapped one another, and some looked as though they’d been reopened after healing. Sam’s eyes were closed and he breathed heavily, but still he didn’t touch her. Instead, he turned around. His back was covered with white, jagged stripes.
Violet ran her finger down the center of his spine. “How many times were you lashed?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Sam.” She put her arms around his pitifully thin waist and her cheek against his trampled back. He covered her arms with his own. Together they stood there, each lost in thoughts and memories of the past three years.
“Do you think I’m perfect?” Violet said, unfastening the row of buttons at her wrist. “As long as we are revealing our individual battle wounds, you have a right to see mine.” She pushed up the tight-fitting sleeve as far as she could and presented her arm to him.
He nodded in understanding. “The train crash.”
“I’m fortunate it wasn’t worse. I saw terrible things that day, Sam.”
“So we’re both war veterans,” he said as he dressed himself again while Violet readjusted her sleeve. “I said that I went home to get my affairs in order. I love my country, Violet, but I’ve decided that I’ve given enough of myself to the preservation of North and South. I want a new start.”
“Does that mean you’re moving to London?”
“No. I’ve decided to leave my law practice entirely in the hands of my partner and start again out in the Colorado Territory. There’s a great influx of settlers there, and I believe it will be prosperous.”
“You mean in the American West? That’s even farther from London than Massachusetts. I’ve read about it. It’s a dangerous frontier, full of lawless criminals.”
“So even the newspapers here sensationalize it?” He took one of her hands and kissed it, but didn’t let it go. “Some of it is dangerous, yes, but don’t you have unsafe places right here in London?”
“Yes, that’s true. I’ll worry for your safety, though, while you’re so far away.”
“There’s no need for you to fret about me if you’re with me. Violet, I once told you I’d never again ask you to move to the United States. I’ll hold to that promise, which means you’ll have to tell me you want to accompany me, to be my wife and the Colorado Territory’s most proficient undertaker.”
An undertaker in Colorado? She imagined living in a flea-infested tent and having to scrounge for basic necessities, like food.
“Are there . . . conveniences . . . in Colorado?” she asked.
Sam laughed. “Yes, Violet Morgan. There are conveniences. I’ll build you a sturdy brick home, fill it with good furniture, send you to dressmakers, and we can even attend the theater together. What you’ll be missing are London’s filthy air, ridiculous aristocracy, and its monarch.”
No monarch. No Queen Victoria. It seemed impossible to live in a place where all men claimed to be equal, even going so far as to fight a war to prove it.
“But my shop . . .”
“Sell it. I’m sure Will and Harry would be interested in taking it over. Remember, embalming is becoming a common practice in the States. You could put your skills to good use.”
Ah, Sam knows my weakness. What an opportunity it would be to practice undertaking the way she believed it should be, preserving loved ones as long as possible to make the grieving process easier. Still, she’d sworn after Graham’s perfidy that she’d never give up her business for any reason.
But was moving to America to be an undertaker really giving it up?
Violet said nothing as she contemplated the enormity of the thought. Would her assistants really be interested in purchasing the shop? Probably. How difficult would it be to build her reputation in America the way she’d done here? Of course, that reputation had seen bouts of tarnish, hadn’t it?
What of her parents? What would they say about their daughter moving across the ocean? What of Mary Overfelt? George had returned after the cholera crisis was over, but he was sure to cause her more distress and anxiety over time. Eventually he would prove himself to be a mere opportunist, not a successful businessman.
Maybe Mary would then like to emigrate to America and join Violet.
Stop it, you’re talking as though you’ve already decided to do it.
“I’m afraid there’s one great impediment.”
“Which is?”
“Susanna. She’s blossomed into a woman, Sam, and already has suitors. I don’t think she’d like to be swept away like that.”
“May I suggest that we ask Susanna herself?” He called out for her to join them.
Susanna’s eyes lit up upon seeing Violet and Sam hand in hand. “Yes?”
“Miss Susanna, your mother is contemplating whether or not to ask me if the two of you can accompany me back to America, but she’s not sure you will approve the idea.”
“America? Truly? What about Mrs. Softpaws?”
“I see no reason why she can’t travel along.”
She frowned. “Will Mother have to stop undertaking?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking her to stop. Colorado needs her skills.”
“Colorado? Isn’t that in the West? How exciting. I could learn how to ride a horse. But what does it mean for Mother? Will you marry her?”
“I’m waiting for her to tell me to ask her.”
Susanna rolled her eyes. “You’re both quite ridiculous. So, if you’re married, what does that mean for me? Will you be my father?”
“I’d be honored.”
“Then I’m going upstairs to tell Mrs. Softpaws that we have some packing to do. Mother, don’t be all night about it. London has never meant anything but pain and misfortune for us both. America just might give us life and happiness.”
Susanna wrapped her arms around both Violet and Sam before returning upstairs to give them privacy.
Sam dropped Violet’s hand and slid both his arms around her waist. “Violet Morgan, I want you to give up Morgan Undertaking and start Harper Undertaking.”
“Samuel Harper, I want to be your wife. Whither thou goest, I go.”
His kiss picked up directly where he’d left off three years earlier. Indeed, wherever Sam went meant life and happiness.
The next few weeks were a flurry of activity as Violet prepared to hand over Morgan Undertaking to her assistants, who were giddy at the notion of having it fall into their laps. There was also the sale of most of her personal belongings to manage, and saying farewell to everyone she loved. Eliza and Arthur Sinclair rushed up from Brighton, clutching both Violet and Susanna in their arms, wishing them Godspeed on their journey, and even suggesting following them over to America.
All of Violet’s old black mourning dresses went to the charity box, along with any other personal effects that reminded her too much of London. She did keep one of her old calling cards, the one with both her and Graham on it, just so she wouldn’t forget him. Despite everything, he deserved to be remembered by someone.
Pap’s old coat remnant and letter went into the fireplace.
Their departure day came quickly and Sam picked them up to go to Victoria station for a train to Dover, where they would board a ship bound for New York. From there they would take a train to Quincy, Massachusetts, to meet Sam’s father and be married in the church the family had attended for generations. After a short respite in Quincy, the trio would board another train to take them as far as St. Joseph, Missouri, before joining a chain of covered wagons bound for Colorado. Violet had no idea what a covered wagon looked like, but Sam assured her they offered good protection from the sun.
Once in Dover they boarded the ship, Sam carrying Violet’s undertaker’s bag and Susanna clutching the wicker cage holding Mrs. Softpaws. Susanna was already trying out the word “father” as often as possible. Violet watched amusement play across Sam’s face as he listened to “Father, I’ve never been on a ship before” and “Father, do you think the seas will be rough?” and “Do you think I’ll be able to let Mrs. Softpaws out soon, Father?”
Violet smiled, too. There was much the three of them had to look forward to in the strange new place called Colorado.
As the ship pulled away from the chalky white cliffs, most passengers stayed at the rail, waving back at the shore. Violet turned to face the ocean and what lay ahead, never once looking back at the past.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Embalming is a practice that dates back thousands of years, with plenty of documentation available on how it was practiced by the ancient Egyptians. Although its use in more modern societies is scattered, the technique of embalming by arterial injection was developed in the first half of the seventeenth century. Some groups, like the Jewish people, have never practiced it. The Victorians generally viewed embalming as unseemly, since it meant filling a body with sometimes toxic fluids, then committing the body to the ground, where it should be decomposing naturally.
Interestingly, it was the U.S. Civil War that saw great advancements in the science of embalming. Because soldiers were frequently dying hundreds of miles away from their home state, it would take time for their bodies to be collected, identified, and shipped home via train. Railways began refusing bodies that hadn’t been embalmed because of the obvious putrefaction factor.
Initially, it was surgeons—called surgeon-embalmers—who performed this service. At the beginning of the war, surgeon-embalmers might charge up to one hundred dollars per embalming, although later this was reduced to fifty dollars for an officer and twenty-five dollars for an enlisted soldier. It didn’t take long before undertakers assumed these duties, since it was more in keeping with funereal duties.
The story I relate about Hutton and Williams, who were holding corpses hostage until their families paid for the men’s unrequested services, is true, although they were arrested in 1863, not in 1862 as I portray it in the story.
Undertakers had a variety of formulas they used for embalming, including alcohol, arsenic, bichloride of mercury, creosote, nitrate of potassium, turpentine, and zinc chloride. Arsenic was outlawed in embalming compounds in Europe in the 1840s, but was legal in the United States until the 1870s. Formaldehyde was not discovered until 1867, and its preservative qualities were not recognized until 1888.
Whatever an undertaker’s formula was, it was typically considered a trade secret and never shared with anyone. Other trade secrets included cosmetic formulas and techniques for positioning and propping the body. Even today, funeral directors hold close their funerary practices.
Charles Dickens’s book Oliver Twist did much to malign an already tarnished reputation for undertakers in England. Although many were quite scrupulous, there were others who promoted expensive funerals their customers could not afford, started bogus burial clubs, and used shoddy merchandise in place of promised quality funereal goods. In other words, nothing has changed! It was my intent to present this profession in the capable and caring manner in which I believe most undertakers approached it then and still do today.
By the way, popular folklore claims that phrases such as “saved by the bell,” “dead ringer,” and “graveyard shift” come from the Victorian era and its obsession with death. Not true: “Saved by the bell” comes from boxing, whereas the other two terms date from the twentieth century and have nothing whatsoever to do with funerals.
Although technically a stalemate with both forces withdrawing, the Battle of Hampton Roads (March 8–9, 1862) is significant as the first encounter between two ironclad ships, USS Monitor and CSS Virginia. Neither Monitor nor Virginia survived long after the battle, with Monitor lost in a storm and Virginia scuttled by her own crew when in danger of being captured by the Union navy.
The battle received worldwide attention, and as a result, Great Britain and France halted all further construction of wooden-hulled ships. A great example of an ironclad is HMS Warrior, built in 1860 and now at the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard in Hampshire, England.
The major diplomatic goal of the Confederate government during the Civil War was to gain the formal recognition of its independence from European nations, particularly Great Britain and France, both of which were officially neutral. In late 1861, the Confederate government sent James Mason of Virginia and John Slidell of Louisiana as diplomatic representatives to Britain aboard the mail steamer RMS Trent, hoping to at least gain financial assistance for their cause, if not diplomatic recognition.
