Lady of Ashes (6 page)

Even Mrs. Scrope’s extra-loud wheezing as she bobbed her head up and down in pretended agreement with Violet’s ideas and suggestions didn’t deter her from being consumed with the idea of creating a perfect dinner for her parents.

For the very first time, she sat down and went over the menu in detail with her housekeeper. Violet changed her mind repeatedly over how many courses to serve and what should be included in each one. Finally, in frustration over her mistress’s indecision, Mrs. Scrope suggested that they see what Mrs. Beeton might recommend.

That dratted busybody Mrs. Beeton again. Realizing, though, that she couldn’t afford to lose the invaluable Mrs. Scrope, Violet agreed, and a menu was planned to include three courses, each comprising several dishes, plus an entrée course that would include braised beef, spring chicken, roast quarter of lamb, beef tongue, and roast saddle of mutton.

But that was just the beginning. Violet was concerned with how napkins would be folded. “The miter design is the best look,” Mrs. Scrope said patiently.

What of the tablecloth? What color? “Always white and crisply ironed,” Mrs. Scrope said.

Right. And should the service be
à la française,
or
à la russe?
Mrs. Beeton didn’t seem to think much of
à la russe,
but wasn’t it becoming the more popular serving style?

“We’ll serve
à la française,
as is proper,” Mrs. Scrope said, a tad less patient now.

Violet carried on with her worries until Mrs. Scrope threatened to burn the first-course soup if her mistress didn’t stop fretting and let the housekeeper do her job.

Violet stopped fretting in front of Mrs. Scrope, but continued to do so in private, marveling that she must be the only wife in London whose servant spoke down to her like this.

Is this what a mistress of the house is supposed to do every day? Worry about menus and the number of candles on hand and whether or not the smuts are scrubbed off the front stoop?
It was agonizing, and she resolved to immerse herself back inside her shop the moment her parents left.

On the day of her parents’ arrival, Mrs. Scrope forbade Violet from coming near the dining room, assuring her that everything would be perfect and telling her to concentrate on her toilette.

So Violet concentrated on dressing in her new russet pelerine jacket and matching skirt over her widest crinoline. The sleeves of the jacket were gathered at the elbows and then flared open, permitting her snowy white sleeves to show through. The jacket’s entire edge was trimmed in a black loop fringe. She pulled her hair back in a loose knot and topped it with a cap that matched her white sleeves. Violet Morgan would never be a society woman with a lady’s maid to dress her hair in elaborate styles.

As she prepared to go downstairs, she met Graham on the landing. His black trousers were tight fitting, accentuating his thighs and calves, and the chocolate brown cravat surrounding his raised shirt collar emphasized his piercing green eyes. He pulled a watch from his checked waistcoat and nodded, as if verifying they were on time.

“You look dashing,” she blurted, instantly regretting her unreserved tone.

His eyes raked over her. “And you, dear Violet, are a vision. Perhaps we should conclude this little dinner party early, eh?” He raised an eyebrow suggestively and she blushed, unused to her husband’s teasing advances, which had all but disappeared over the past couple of years.

“By the way, I have something for you.” Graham reached into a pocket and pulled out a small box secured with a burgundy satin bow. Inside lay a magnificent pair of pearl ear bobs.

“They’re lovely,” Violet said.

Graham removed the bobs from their velvet resting place and clipped them onto Violet’s earlobes, doing so with a tenderness that swept away her earlier misgivings about her husband.
The man I love is still there.

He cupped her ears as if making sure the bobs were placed correctly and kissed her forehead. “Now you look utterly perfect, sweetheart.”

She took his arm and they went together to greet their guests. Violet’s heart was the lightest that she could recall in months.

 

Although the dinner was a success from a meal perspective, Violet was left unsettled by the final events of the evening.

Everyone arrived promptly at seven o’clock. The dining hour in London was becoming later and later because of changes in people’s work habits. The railway system in England was improving to the point that many families had moved out to the suburbs of London where the air was cleaner, and the men simply commuted into the city each day for work. However, by not living above, or at least near, their shops and employers, they returned home later in the day, thus postponing the family’s evening meal.

Violet was glad she and Graham remained close to the city. If they had chosen a home in one of the fast-growing outer suburbs, like Richmond, it would have been too easy for her husband to leave her behind each day to manage the house while he rode into the city center to manage their business.

What a dreadful thought.

Greetings were passed all around, with Violet restraining herself from launching into her mother’s arms after such a long absence. Mrs. Scrope tinkled a bell from somewhere outside the room, signaling Graham to take Violet’s hand on his arm and lead everyone into the dining room.

At Graham’s insistence, their dining room was decorated in a fashionable red motif. Crimson flocked wallpaper, heavy red draperies puddled on the floor to prevent drafts, a bright red Turkish carpet, and red chair cushions were equally weighed down by a mahogany dining table, sideboard, and fireplace surround. Even the glass over the sideboard was framed in an ornate mahogany frame.

Their imported blue-and-white collection sat on individual shelves above the fireplace for admiration by guests. Graham preened as Violet’s parents proceeded to do so.

In all, Violet felt as though she were being choked to death inside this room, but Graham loved it for the message it sent about the Morgans’ increasing status.

Mrs. Scrope had done an admirable job setting the table. A variety of steaming side and corner dishes were strategically placed around the table atop containers of hot water, while a tureen of soup was placed in front of Violet’s place and a platter of fish sat on Graham’s end.

They all sat down and Graham said grace, then Violet and Graham stood to serve soup and fish to everyone, with Mrs. Scrope on hand to pass plates. After they had eaten that, Mrs. Scrope removed the soup tureen and fish platter, replacing them with the braised beef in front of Graham and the spring chicken for Violet to serve. Mrs. Scrope also ensured that the side and corner dishes, none of which required carving or ladling, were passed around to each guest.

The entire meal took hours serving
à la française,
but the conversation and wine were plentiful, and Mrs. Scrope was a miracle in the manner in which she guided Violet along, such that it appeared to their guests as though Violet was in complete control of things.

Discussion started pleasantly enough, with the Sinclairs telling amusing stories about their neighbors in Brighton, and Fletcher doing the same about his ship’s crew members, who he said were as difficult to train as a school of dead haddock.

“With no offense meant to our earlier delectable dish, which would have no doubt been easier to teach the mechanics of pumping bilge than my own crew.”

Fletcher could always be relied on for brash humor. Soon he was openly flirting with both Violet and her mother, but managed to do so in such a way that Graham and her father didn’t notice, or at least didn’t take insult.

Ida Morgan laughed at appropriate times and responded when directly addressed, but was mostly interested in devouring whatever meat, vegetable, or bread made an appearance on her plate. Violet had once thought her mother-in-law rude, but came to realize that for Ida Morgan, there were only two important things in life: food and her two sons, neither of which could ever fail her. Unfortunately, Violet felt she was a frequent disappointment to Ida.

Ida’s adoration for Graham meant she’d keep her opinion to herself, but Violet sensed that the older woman disapproved of Graham’s marital choice. Whether she viewed Violet as an interloper in the family business or despised Violet for not being a rung on the social ladder was unclear. The woman was the least of Violet’s worries, though.

Ida Morgan somehow remained thin and tiny as a tree sparrow, unlike Eliza Sinclair, who, Violet thought fondly, was enjoying her relaxed life in Brighton too much. Mother’s cheeks were filling out, and she was struggling inside her corset while seated.

Father still maintained his tall, angular build, although his hair was thinning a bit on the sides.

Suddenly, Violet felt sharp pangs of homesickness. She’d hardly missed her parents at all since marrying Graham, but sitting together to dinner like this made her long for them, long for a time before she was responsible for home and hearth and her husband’s mercurial disposition. Yet how could she wish to return to a time before she had her life’s passion in undertaking? She dragged herself back to the conversation.

Violet’s father was interested in Fletcher’s work. “How many sailings to America do you make each year?”

“As many as I can, sir. The Jamaicans want their tea, and the British need their rum.”

Violet’s father chuckled. “Quite. Although I never understood the propensity for rum. I much prefer port or claret, which I hope we will partake in tonight?”

“Of course, sir,” Graham said. “I’ve saved my finest for you.”

“This is quite fine, too, brother,” Fletcher said, lifting the red wine bottle and offering it around the table. “Violet, did Graham tell you he is joining me in a new venture?” Fletcher asked.

“No, he didn’t—”

“No need to burden Violet with our little enterprise,” Graham said.

“It’s no burden. What venture is this?”

Graham tried to interrupt again, but Fletcher cut him off. “We’re going to make the Morgan name known across the Atlantic. Because of their war, there is quite a demand for funerary supplies in America, so we’re going to ship them the superior goods provided by Morgan Undertaking.”

“Graham, you haven’t mentioned this to me.”

“It’s nothing, really. We’re developing certain contracts that will allow us to ship coffins, shrouds, wreath cases, and the like over to help families bury their sons, brothers, and fathers.”

“How much is this costing us? How will it affect our own inventory? Graham, you should have told me.”

“Now, darling, that’s why I didn’t tell you about it, lest you worry over nothing. I have everything under control.”

Ida looked up from her plate. “Violet, a good wife trusts her husband. I’m sure Graham knows best.”

Violet ignored her mother-in-law. “They don’t have their own cabinetmakers who can build coffins? Wouldn’t that be cheaper than importing coffins from us? And aren’t there undertakers over there?”

“You see, Violet, that’s why I didn’t share this with you. You don’t have a head for international business transactions.”

“I have as much head as you for all of our business dealings.”

“But this is much more sophisticated and complex. You see, you’re already hysterical and you know nothing of it.”

“I’m not—” Violet swallowed her retort. Her parents looked stricken at the argument taking place between husband and wife. Ida had returned to her food, but could not disguise a self-satisfied look.

Her brother-in-law attempted to repair the situation he’d caused.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, you probably don’t realize how the Morgan reputation has grown under Graham’s leadership. I never had any interest in the family business and it would have undoubtedly failed if I’d remained in it. Graham was always the one with a mind for the hereafter, so to speak.

“When he met your breathtaking daughter, well, the match was secured by the Almighty for the two of them to work side by side on dressing, cosmetically altering, and otherwise preparing their, er, clients, for their final meeting with their divine destiny. I’ve often wondered if those you know are bound for Hades receive less attention than those bound to sit at the right hand of the eternal throne. Perhaps you don’t dress them in their finest?” He winked at Violet.

“Honestly, Fletcher, you’re going to frighten my parents into thinking I’m somehow influential in those destinies. Mother, Father, pay my brother-in-law no mind. He’s had too much sea water to drink and it’s made him dizzy.”

Ida Morgan managed to put down her fork long enough to say, “Violet, really, it’s rather vulgar to speak in such a manner to your brother-in-law.”

Fletcher laughed. “I’m not offended, Mother. But, Violet, you would admit that you do alter your subjects’ appearances at times, wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t like speaking of the deceased as though they were dolls she casually dressed and posed. “When the circumstances call for it. We strive to help families give their loved ones decent Christian burials, no matter their status.”

He pressed further. “What happens when you receive someone who has been drastically injured, or has perhaps lost an arm or something? Do you just pin up his sleeve, or do you wrap the sleeve around something arm-like?”

Violet’s mother put a hand to her mouth. Leave it to Fletcher to guide the conversation from an unseemly spousal argument into completely uncivilized territory.

Violet treated the question as though it were perfectly normal dinnertime conversation. “It depends. The family might not have the money to do much more than minimal cover-up, in which case, depending on the injury, we might use a closed coffin, with just a window to the view the face. A well-to-do family, however, might want to see their dearly beloved in as close a state to living as possible. In that case, the options are more . . . flexible. I can use a bit of clay and wax to perfect a nose or ear that has been mangled. I might go so far as to purchase a wax prosthetic from Madame Tussauds in the case of a missing limb.”