Lady of Ashes (5 page)

 

Mrs. Scrope was, indeed, a domestic triumph, if just a bit intimidating.

Her first accomplishment was a thorough scrubbing of all four stories of the Morgan home, which took nearly two weeks in order to, in Mrs. Scrope’s words, “bring the place to decent standards.”

Thank goodness Graham wasn’t around to hear that.

Almost like a miracle, the smuts and blacks, those nuisance particles of soot and coal dust that continuously swirled around the London air, vanished from atop the mantel, the carpets, and the furniture.

Mrs. Scrope then completely organized their pantry, making a list of all the vegetables and fresh food on hand and compiling a list of what more was needed in order to bring the pantry up to an adequate condition. She did the same with the dry and tinned foodstuffs in the storeroom.

Violet happily gave Mrs. Scrope the money she requested to obtain more flour, sugar loaves, salt, spices, dried milk, beans, onions, potatoes, and other staples she deemed necessary.

Mrs. Scrope wheezed mightily in agreement when Violet asked her if there were improvements that could be made to the kitchen, located in the low-ceilinged basement along with the larder, the storeroom, the pantry that stored china and glass, the scullery for food washing and preparation, and Mrs. Scrope’s own quarters. Violet knew instinctively that the kitchen, even though it was new, needed updating, but had no idea in what way. Mrs. Scrope provided the answer.

“Yes, ma’am, it needs more light. Dark as the devil’s playground in there. And I’d appreciate gas lighting downstairs, too, just like upstairs, so’s I don’t have to tend to dozens of candles a day. I could also use a roasting jack for the fireplace. Your closed oven is just fine for boiling water and baking, but no joint of mutton is going to be tasty coming from an oven. I should say not. It needs to be roasted over a proper open fire.”

Violet was mentally calculating the expense of what Mrs. Scrope wanted. “Do you need anything else?”

“Well, in fact, ma’am, yes. I certainly could use a clotheshorse installed over the kitchen fireplace, one of those retractable types that can be pulled out of the way when I’m cooking. It sure would keep the laundry damp off me and get your clothes and bedding dry much quicker. Most nice homes have one.”

“Of course, of course.” Being fashionable was all Graham needed to hear in order to approve the clotheshorse, no matter what the expense. In order to be truly fashionable they should be sending out their laundry to be done, but Mrs. Scrope insisted that she was far better at caring for it.

Mrs. Scrope was saving Violet’s tattered female sensibilities by taking the home well in hand, so she couldn’t care less what the woman wanted. Whatever it was, Violet would see that she had it. In fact, the Morgans were saving money with their new servant around.

For, without Mrs. Scrope, Violet would have never realized that the butcher was sometimes trying to pawn off an old joint of mutton, or that the coal man was shortchanging his delivery, or even that the local tea merchant was adulterating his tea leaves with “smouch,” a substance made from dried ash leaves and difficult to distinguish from genuine tea leaves. Mrs. Scrope ferreted out their deeds and didn’t hesitate to use her sharp tongue on them.

In fact, Violet was just a bit intimidated by her new servant. When Violet proposed preparing an inventory of china and silver, she was dismissed by Mrs. Scrope’s simple “Not ready for that yet.” Violet was too fearful of losing her heaven-sent housekeeper-cook to insist, as was her due as mistress of the household.

Any attempt to plan a weekly menu would more than likely amount to Violet nodding in agreement with whatever Mrs. Scrope wanted. Yet none of that mattered. Among Mrs. Scrope’s considerable talents was her thrifty use of leftovers. A roast on Sunday might reappear in tasty chunks inside a baked crust Monday, sliced with potatoes on Tuesday, and mashed up into fried cutlets on Wednesday.

There was no aspect of Violet’s household that Mrs. Scrope didn’t see a way to improve on. She even cleaned out all of the Morgan linens and bedding, sending the ones she felt not worthy of “a respectable household” out to the rag-and-bone man. This scavenger took up worn fabrics, meat bones, and other household discards and sold his wares to paper mills, gluemakers, and fertilizer manufacturers.

Yes, Mrs. Scrope was a blessing. A blunt-edged, sharp-tongued blessing.

 

Fletcher Morgan held the card up to the light of the window of his new office near St. Katharine Docks. St. Katharine wasn’t able to accommodate the larger merchant ships, and was therefore a cheaper alternative for Fletcher’s narrow old clipper than the West India Docks. “Not a bad likeness of you, Graham. Of course, Violet is quite fetching and dominates the whole scene, doesn’t she?”

“Mind your manners, Fletcher. You wear your jealousy of me too openly.”

“Ah, so true. Yet you preen like a stuffed peacock when I talk about your wife. But back to your calling card. Let’s see, what does it say underneath the picture? ‘Morgan Undertaking, Purveyors of Funerals, all levels of society, embalming on request.’ Embalming, what a thought. I should have stopped after admiring Violet’s breathtaking visage.”

“Violet shares my view that embalming is the future of undertaking. Monsieur Jean Gannal has written extensively on it in France, and the Americans are already beginning to embalm their dead soldiers.”

“True, but their soldiers have to be preserved for transport by train back to their families for burial, sometimes hundreds of miles away. Most people in England die where they live and can be buried a few days later.” Fletcher handed the
carte-de-visite
back to his brother, who slipped it back into its protective cover and tucked it in his brown tweed frock coat pocket. “And when did you ever become a supporter of anything the Americans do?”

Graham scowled, an expression Fletcher always found amusing.

“My agreement with certain funerary practices has no bearing on my overall distaste for them,” Graham said. “The Americans have done little to commend themselves to me.”

“Yes, it would seem they have made a concerted effort to disappoint you for many years.” Fletcher’s sarcasm was lost on Graham, but at least now the conversation was where Fletcher wanted it. “What do you hear of the war? Is it likely to last much longer?”

“It would appear to have just started, now that the fool Americans have finally figured out that civil wars are never resolved promptly, being fought in endless skirmishes and big battles by neighbor against neighbor. They just had their first battle at someplace in Virginia called Manassas. The South routed the North, and now President Lincoln is scrambling to recover and has replaced his commander over the federal army with General George McClellan. No doubt the South’s president, Jefferson Davis, will have an opportunity to do the same thing when he’s routed in battle, as each side attempts to prove moral superiority. Both sides consist of dogs.” Graham shook his head in disgust.

“You still think about Pap, don’t you?”

“Of course. I never forget. You remember, too, don’t you?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I thought I read that the North is importing and distilling thousands of barrels of liquor as a standard ration for their army’s men.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Is the South doing the same?”

“Not that I could see. Seems a shame to miss such an opportunity, doesn’t it?”

Graham was no longer scowling. “What do you mean?”

Fletcher nodded toward the window, which overlooked Limehouse Reach, the western bend of the Thames around Isle of Dogs. “A man with a fast ship and a knowledge of Southern trading routes could do quite well for himself while the Americans are beating each other’s brains out.”

“But you already run rum through Boston back to England.”

Fletcher dropped his voice for effect. “Everyone plies the liquor trade. I’m talking about something far more valuable.”

“Not slaves!” Graham put out a hand as if to physically distance himself from his brother.

Fletcher chuckled softly. “No, brother, something far more to your liking. What I propose is this. . . .”

 

S
amuel Harper exited the hackney in front of the Langham Hotel. Egad, his back hurt. From the treacherous sea voyage across the Atlantic to Bristol, then the train to Paddington, where he found it nearly impossible to hire a private hack in all of the chaos of that location, and finally a ride through the densest fog he’d ever encountered.

What in the world caused such copious amounts of swirling mist and particles on the streets of London?

He paid the driver his fare, quickly checked in to his hotel room to drop off his meager belongings, and was back out on the street again in less than an hour.

It was time to find an enterprising businessman willing to help a patriot make a purchase to defend his way of life.

First, though, he needed to set himself up properly. Samuel passed a hand over his developing auburn beard, an asset for covering his features while serving on this assignment. It was grown enough to look natural for a photography sitting, he thought. Probably needed a haircut, though. And his suit was not only rumpled, it practically shouted out to passersby that he wasn’t a gentleman, not by a jug’s full.

Fortunately, he’d been provided enough gold and silver to rectify any such problems. He inquired at a newsstand where he might find a barber, a tailor, and a photographer, and proceeded to visit them in that order, with the goal of creating a very respectable visiting card for Mr. Samuel Harper of the Confederate States of America, Buyer of Special Goods.

 

Abigail Adams graciously excused herself from the reception rooms by pre-arrangement, leaving her husband, Charles Francis, with Lord Russell. The look of disapproval on his guest’s face told him he’d probably committed a social disgrace by having his wife excused before dinner, but it was too late now.

“My congratulations, sir, on your elevation,” Charles Francis said, grasping Lord Russell’s hand before escorting him to the dining room. Henry joined them, poised with his notebook, pen, and ink to take notes.

John Russell, the third son of the sixth Duke of Bedford and not in line to inherit the family estates, had just been elevated to the peerage himself as the first Earl Russell.

Charles Francis had to give a nod to this mighty achievement of ability, especially in the heavily stratified British society. He and Henry had studied the backgrounds of all of Queen Victoria’s important ministers prior to their sailing, and Lord Russell was an obvious paragon among his peers. In just thirty years, the man had served in a variety of important posts: leader of the House of Commons, home secretary, secretary of state, prime minister, lord president of the council, and now foreign secretary. Charles Francis mused that with his boundless energy and drive, despite his advancing age, the earl would have enjoyed great success in America, as well.

Not only that, he was a member of the Whigs, the party that believed in the supremacy of Parliament over monarch, and had supported American independence nearly a hundred years ago. In other circumstances, Charles Francis might even admire the man, despite his being a Briton and by definition untrustworthy.

Hopefully, Lord Russell would be sympathetic to American interests once again.

The foreign secretary sat down across from Charles Francis and Henry. Lord Russell had the girth of someone who had lived well, and the face of someone who had worried much, over the years. Even his side whiskers were a bit tangled, as if they were too troubled with more important concerns to bother lying neatly against his face.

“My thanks to you, Your Excellency. My wife, Lady Frances, is already planning to redecorate Pembroke Lodge, our country estate, to make it fit for human inhabitation, as she says.” The Adams men laughed politely at Lord Russell’s unsuccessful attempt to clothe himself in modesty.

“Your wife has every right to express her contentment with her husband’s success. Alas, Peacefield, our family home south of Boston, is in the hands of my son, John Quincy the Second, while the rest of the family is here. He’s just gotten married, so I expect that when we return, his wife, Fanny, will have completely torn the place apart to suit herself.”

Russell nodded. “No sense in arguing with a wife’s desires, whether your own or your son’s. You have another son, don’t you?”

“Yes, two others. We lost another boy when he was but five years old. My youngest, Brooks, is thirteen but chafes to be a man.” The men laughed. “Charles Francis Junior has an army commission and is busy fighting the rebels in the South.”

“Ah. So you—” Lord Russell stopped what he was saying as a servant arrived to present them with the evening’s menu, which Abigail had taken great care in developing. They were to have fried cod with fried oysters, mutton chops, savory rice, potatoes, fried broccoli, and brandy bread pudding. Charles Francis asked their guest to select a libation from his wine cellar list, and the foreign secretary chose a Cabernet Franc from Adams’s expansive collection. The bottle was presented with a flourish, and Lord Russell was offered the opportunity to sample and approve the selection.

“Where was I?” Russell asked. “Oh yes, so you Adamses are devoted to the North’s cause, even to the point of sending your sons into the thick of fighting?”

“We don’t send our sons, they elect to go. I believe this will all wrap up soon and Charles Francis Junior will be returned to Peacefield long before I am.”

Lord Russell took a long sip from his glass. “So you feel confident in the North’s prospects in this conflict?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t we?”

The earl rubbed the stem of his goblet between his hands, violently swirling the remaining liquid inside. “I sympathize with your position, truly I do—slavery is an abomination and the states’ rights argument is a bit specious to me—but I admit I’m not entirely convinced of the North’s ability to gain the upper hand, especially after your defeat at Bull Run. There are many who believe the Southern secession is an accomplished fact.” Lord Russell drained the glass. “I count myself among them.”

Charles Francis was too stunned to respond. By the furious scratching of pen to paper going on next to him, his son was in no such state of surprise. As a good journalist, Henry surely recognized that Lord Russell had just thrown a mortar of information into the center of the table.

At that moment, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. Their food was elegantly served on white plates edged in alternating bands of gold and cobalt, with an intricate pattern of gold swirls next to the innermost blue band.

The bone china here in England was much finer than anything they had in the States. Charles Francis surreptitiously glanced at the underside of his empty teacup to see the maker’s mark.
Royal Worcester
. He made a mental note to have Abigail visit Harrods to order several sets and ship them home for use at Peacefield.

Which reminded Charles Francis, it was time to make peace in this conversation before it became a heated discussion over the North’s chances against a belligerent South.

“So tell me, Lord Russell, what of Lord Palmerston? I hear he is most unusual. What can we expect when we meet him?”

Charles Francis had discovered a good diversion point. The foreign secretary smiled, all other thoughts forgotten as he delved into the topic of the notorious Viscount Palmerston, prime minister of Great Britain.

“That old reprobate.” He said it with more affection than revulsion. “Palmerston and I have had many differences over the years in our struggle for supremacy over one another. In fact, back in the late forties, I was prime minister and it was Palmerston who was foreign secretary. We’ve continuously ousted one another from various offices.

“He and I have never seen eye to eye on much of anything. I dismissed him as foreign secretary in 1851 for recognizing Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte’s regime in France. What was the man thinking? Last year I introduced a bill to reduce the qualification for the franchise to ten pounds in counties and six pounds in towns in order to offer more people suffrage. Palmerston didn’t support it, of course, so it died. He’s supposed to be a good Whig, but has never cared much for our principles. He treated his tenants in Ireland abominably during the famine and has never seen a relief bill he couldn’t block.” Lord Russell poured himself another glass of Cabernet Franc.

“But we’ve patched up our differences now that Palmerston has formed a truly liberal cabinet. I must tell you that we are in agreement that Great Britain will remain neutral in your country’s affairs.”

They were wandering back into uncomfortable territory again. But Charles Francis had not been a lawyer for years without knowing how to maneuver through a murky, polluted river and emerge as clean as a hound’s tooth.

“Speaking of affairs, are the rumors about Lord Palmerston true?”

Lord Russell’s face lit up in amusement. “Beyond your wildest imaginings. Another way in which he and I are quite different. They call him ‘Lord Cupid’ for all of his wanderings with other men’s wives, and he’s seventy-six years old. ‘Lord Lecher’ is more like it.”

Father and son respectfully laughed again at Russell’s joke. “How does the queen view Lord Palmerston’s . . . activities?” Charles Francis asked.

“Despises him. Early in her reign, he attempted to seduce by force one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting by entering the lady’s bedroom while staying as a guest at Windsor Castle. She fought him off and her screams woke the household and brought everyone running.

“The queen is a very strict observer of morals, as you know. He was nearly removed from office then, but it was his support for the French emperor, an autocrat just like his uncle, Napoleon Bonaparte, that did him in. Queen Victoria abhors his foreign policy as much as his loose morals, but finds him admirable in domestic matters. I do not entirely find him admirable in such matters, but nonetheless we are getting on well enough now.”

“Does the queen agree with your—and Lord Palmerston’s—as-sessment that Southern secession is an accomplished fact?”

Lord Russell paused before replying. “Prince Albert does not condone the acts of a slave-holding nation, and the queen is in full agreement with the prince’s viewpoint, although it is not a matter of great moment at Windsor,” he said evenly.

Ah, Lord Russell was also demonstrating his credentials as a politician. Charles Francis fought the urge to clap the man on the shoulder and say, “Well done!” for his deftly worded statement.

Instead, he pretended Lord Russell had just made a statement implying that the queen fully supported the North’s case. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “May I ask, then, Lord Russell, if the queen sees a problem with a slave-holding nation breaking a blockade?”

Russell pursed his lips as he considered this. “Does such blockade breaking impact Her Majesty’s people?”

Charles Francis sat back again. “Perhaps. It depends on whether the building of commerce raiders in English shipyards is cause for impact to Her Majesty’s people.”

Charles Francis watched as Henry’s furious motions of dipping his pen and scrawling across the page became a blur. His son poised his pen in midair as they both waited to hear Lord Russell’s reply.

Lord Russell smiled. “Do you seek an intervention in such practices, if they exist?”

“Actually, I seek far less than that. I would like free license to make discoveries for myself about whether or not Southern representatives are contracting with English shipbuilders and traders, and I will take care of them myself.”

“Without calling out any British subjects, of course, who I am certain would have no knowledge of their activity being unlawful.”

“Naturally, the U.S. has no interest in accusing innocent British citizens of any wrongdoing when in fact it is entirely the fault of American subversives.”

Lord Russell nodded. “Then consider yourself so authorized. Lord Palmerston will wish to know about this, of course, so I will arrange a meeting for you at the earliest opportunity.”

With both dinner and their official business concluded, Charles Francis signaled for cigars to be brought to all three men as they retired to the smoking lounge, where they spent the remainder of the evening discussing the proliferation of railroad building in both the U.S. and England.

 

In Kentish Town, north of the Adams residence, Violet and Graham hosted their families for dinner: Fletcher; Graham’s mother, Ida Morgan; and Arthur and Eliza Sinclair, Violet’s parents.

The Sinclairs had moved to Brighton not long after Violet’s marriage, Eliza having always desired to live near the sea. King George IV had made the seaside resort fashionable in the early part of the century, and even Violet could remember her mother talking about it during her childhood. Her parents were now nestled in a cottage in Preston Village, on the outskirts of Brighton.

Violet had made a few train trips down to see her parents in Brighton, but until now they had not left their comfortable environs for a visit. However, her parents were off to visit an old boyhood friend of Arthur’s who now lived up in Leicester, and so decided to spend a night in London before proceeding north.

When Violet told Graham of their impending arrival, he suggested a large family dinner to enable both sides to spend time together. She immediately agreed. Mother and Father had not yet seen their new home, and Violet was anxious that they approve.

She should have rested easy, knowing that Mrs. Scrope had the meal well in hand, but for once, she was more concerned with laying place settings than in laying out a corpse.