“I’ve not been doing anything immoral, if that is what you mean to imply.”
Victoria sighed. “And here we thought that Bertie would be the ruination of us all. You know suitors have been suggested for you from both Prussia and Denmark? Shall we send them each a photograph of you looking as you do now?”
Mrs. Harper’s expression certainly wasn’t inscrutable now. The undertaker’s face registered wide-eyed horror at Louise’s obvious indiscretion. At least Victoria knew she could trust the undertaker to be silent.
“We will speak later on this, Daughter. Go write your letters.”
Louise fled the room, her face flushed with embarrassment.
If only the girl understood how often their mother had to manage embarrassment on behalf of others.
Violet left the queen’s presence completely frustrated. Sam’s description of the scene in Mold, combined with what was being said in Parliament, led her to believe that something terrible was brewing. And although Mr. Brown was a Scot, both Scotland and Wales had long chafed under English rule. Might not Mr. Brown be sympathetic to the Welsh problem and be trying in his own way to force the queen to address it? If today’s reaction was any indication of Victoria’s opinion, Mr. Brown might have been wise in cloaking everything inside a tarot reading.
But why so much subterfuge around Violet? Why did he not just speak plainly to her in the stable?
She walked back to her rooms at St. James’s Palace and opened the newspaper again. Did the Mold riot really have anything to do with Mr. Brown’s reading or was she just grasping at straws?
And what of Louise’s apparent activities in the mews? Was she meeting someone there? A man? Surely the Princess Louise Caroline Alberta, daughter to the queen of the most powerful nation in Europe, was not debasing herself with a groom.
But what if it was someone else who had reason to be among the horses? Oh, surely not. The idea was preposterous. Mr. Brown was the queen’s loyal servant; he would never . . .
Would he?
Why must all women be carping harpies? the man thought as he considered his options. From the lowest kitchen maid to the highest well-born woman, her heels clacking imperiously on marble floors, they had all given him no end of grief.
All except for one, of course. But he wouldn’t think of her right now. Not when he was this busy, tenderly nursing his grudge and willing it to blossom into the purest form of hate and rage.
He would need that hate and rage for what he knew was eventually to come.
3
Half-irritated that the queen wouldn’t listen to her and half-discouraged by the weak plan she had concocted the previous evening, Violet headed back to Buckingham Palace.
Today she planned to make Mr. Brown aware of her presence, then lurk about in corridors until he caused some sort of spiritual “appearance.” She’d already had a message sent to him that she would be at the palace all day.
It didn’t bode well that this was the best plan she had.
Only one servant stopped her as she made her way to the Ministers’ Staircase, a rear passage leading up to the palace’s private rooms. Violet intended to avoid taking the Grand Staircase or walking anywhere near the state rooms, which were simply overwhelming in their grandeur. She felt like an unwelcome intruder, furtively darting through in her black skirts.
She finally reached the queen’s apartments, which were marked by less opulence and more warmth. As Violet stood in the main corridor, debating where to lodge herself, she was met by Beatrice, wearing a smock and carrying an armful of paints and brushes.
“Good morning, Princess,” Violet said, executing a minor curtsy. The queen had nine children. At this rate, Violet would be bobbing up and down like a goose all day. “Are you working with oil paint today?”
Beatrice paused, giving Violet the full benefit of her intensely sad expression. “Yes, Mrs. Harper, my tutor is teaching me how to make eye portraits. Would you like to see what I’ve done?”
The princess’s art room was as good a location as any to start. “It would be my pleasure to see your work.”
Together they entered a room that was unmistakably meant for messy artistic work. Paint- and glue-spattered rags had been sewn together and were scattered across the expansive floor. The windows were so enormous that even with their draperies they allowed in a flood of light, which was nearly blinding as the morning sun’s rays bounced off empty gilded frames and half-finished canvases. The air was heavy with a mix of paint odors and the smell of cleaning solutions.
“Here.” Beatrice led Violet to a table, upon which sat a wood box with a self-contained easel of about two feet in diameter propped on top of it, with three drawers below it. On the small easel sat an oval piece of ivory, about the size used for mourning brooches.
“I am making an eye portrait of my father, the esteemed prince consort. My tutor is teaching me to work in watercolors for it, so I was just roughening the ivory with a pumice stone before you came, to ensure the paints will adhere. Mr. Caradoc says I should bleach the ivory in the sun to whiten it, but I prefer it in its natural state.”
An open case containing slots filled with watercolor cakes sat waiting on the table next to the box. Beatrice opened one of the box’s drawers and removed several brushes, all with very fine tips. “I am going to paint his left eye and part of his nose from one of our family photographs. Mama says Papa’s nose was majestic.”
“What is this?” Violet pointed at another, half-finished piece of ivory.
Beatrice picked it up. “It was one of my first attempts at Papa’s eye portrait, but it wasn’t very good, so I abandoned it.”
Although not complete, the detailing of the pupil and eyelashes was astonishing, especially since they had been done at the hands of a twelve-year-old girl. Beatrice was surprisingly serious about her work for such a young girl. Violet imagined most girls Beatrice’s age would be more interested in pet dogs and fancy hair ribbons.
“Your art tutor has taught you a great deal about painting,” Violet said.
“Yes, Mr. Caradoc is very talented and intelligent, just like Mama’s friend, Mr. Brown.”
“Indeed. What is this?” Violet pointed to an array of photographs spread upon a table. Most were of animals: a caged ring-necked parakeet, a border collie, and a horse harnessed to a miniature carriage.
“They are photographs I have taken. Mr. Caradoc says I should concentrate on real art—painting and sculpture.”
As if he had been summoned, a tall, thin, prematurely balding man entered.
“Mr. Caradoc,” Beatrice said. “This is Mama’s undertaker, Mrs. Harper.”
Caradoc frowned in open puzzlement. “Pardon me?”
“What the princess means to say, sir, is that I am an undertaker doing work for the queen.”
“Has someone died?”
“No, it is work unrelated to a funeral. Her Majesty wishes me to investigate some . . . possible funereal oddities inside the palace.”
“I see.” Clearly he didn’t. “And to what do we owe the honor of a visit, Mrs. Harper?” He held out a hand and Violet shook it. Like the rags on the floor, it was stained in a variety of colors.
“I am just admiring Beatrice’s work with the camera.”
The art tutor barely glanced at the photographs. “They are a hobby, but not really an art form. I am trying to impress upon our princess that she must remain concentrated on true art.”
He moved over to Beatrice’s unfinished eye portrait. “Did she show you this? Not perfect, but she shows great promise. Now this is genuine art. Eye portraits went out of fashion forty years ago, but the queen has expressed interest in them, so we just might revive the art, eh, Princess?”
Beatrice nodded. “Mama would be so pleased if that happened, sir.”
Caradoc smiled, revealing teeth with wide gaps between them. His expression was boyish, despite his balding pate.
“Have you any artistic ability, Mrs. Harper?”
“I�
�m afraid my talents lie only in the preparation of the deceased for burial.”
“Ah, so you ensure the bloom of a cheek and a calm repose. Is that not art of a nearly pure form? Translating death into life? Yes, I imagine you have much artistic ability coursing through your veins. Perhaps someday you would like to share a lesson with Princess Beatrice.”
For the first time, Violet witnessed Beatrice’s face lighting up. “Yes, Mrs. Harper, we can work on easels side by side. I have an extra smock you can wear. Oh, but your dress is so long, we will need to tie it up so that it doesn’t drag in any paint.” The girl chattered on as Mr. Caradoc indulged her childish prattle.
“Can you come soon, Mrs. Harper?” he asked. “The princess is obviously beside herself over it, and I’d like to give you the lesson before I leave in a few days to visit my brother.”
“I’m not sure I can paint more than a few rosy dots.”
“Mr. Caradoc will teach you. I will send you an invitation straightaway.” Beatrice reached over and grabbed Violet’s hand.
This girl was a princess but was quickly reminding Violet of her daughter, Susanna, at the same age. Susanna was an orphan when Violet found her in her twelfth year, while Beatrice was blessed with eight siblings. Yet, ironically, this girl was just as desperate for companionship as Susanna had been.
Beatrice looked to Mr. Caradoc for approval. He nodded gravely. “There is much to do in preparation for Mrs. Harper’s visit, isn’t there? We’d best get to work.”
Violet left them, saddened for Beatrice’s solitary existence. Being not only a princess but also several years younger than her next sibling made for a lonely childhood. No wonder the girl clung to her mother.
As Violet paced through the hallways, waiting for either Mr. Brown or one of his spirits to make an appearance, she considered again something Beatrice had said, that she found Mr. Brown to be very intelligent and talented. Talented at what? Had she witnessed him at something besides horsemanship and tarot cards? Might she have valuable information? Was it possible that Beatrice knew more about Mr. Brown’s readings than anyone might imagine?
Violet needed to question the girl more closely but needed to tread carefully as well. She had no desire to appear to be making friends with the vulnerable princess just to interrogate her.
Violet puzzled this out while walking through the corridors, waiting for a visitor, either an earthly one or a spectral kind.
She received neither.
Reese dug the newspaper out of a rubbish can behind the kitchen and scanned it. He might not be wholly literate, but he would know his own letter when he saw it.
It wasn’t in today’s paper, either.
What had happened? Did it not make it to the editor’s desk? Had some lackey thrown it away?
Maybe it had made it to the editor. Perhaps the editor pitied the colliery owner, instead of the real victims. If he was rich, that was probably exactly what happened.
Reese crumpled the paper in fury and shoved it back into the bin. Not even the press cared about what happened to British subjects.
He ran a hand irritably through his hair, then pulled it away in disgust. How could he have forgotten about the Macassar oil all of the grooms now had to wear? The master thought it looked fashionable for all of the male servants to not only wear livery but also have matching hair.
At least they weren’t required to wear wigs.
Reese pulled a scrap of the newspaper back out of the bin and rubbed his hand on it. Someone had ironed the paper to set in the ink, but it was no match for the oil, and now he had both oil and newsprint on his hand.
He rinsed his hand under the pump in the center of the kitchen courtyard. He was so distracted lately that he was forever doing something stupid. This was unnoticeable, though, unlike when he’d forgotten to have a carriage ready by ten o’clock one morning for the mistress and her snooty daughter to go round and offer sympathies to some family whose tad had died. Reese knew how difficult it was to lose your father, but the rich had plenty of money to comfort them.
Forgetting the carriage had been a bad mistake. Mr. Parks had cuffed him good and docked his pay. Worse, Runyon had laughed on it for days.
Curse them all.
Reese returned to the stables to check on a horse suffering from thrush. He scrubbed the infected hoof, then soaked some clean rags in iodine. As he stuffed the iodine rags into the hoof’s clefts, his anger grew until he could nearly taste bile in the back of his throat.
Reese and Margaret were examples of how little the English cared about the Welsh, and she had died as proof of it. Except that it was the aristocracy—those who held china cups in their hands and vile thoughts in their heads—who were truly responsible, for they were the only ones who could truly fix things.
The queen perched herself at the top of this revolting heap of people. Constantly mourning her long-dead husband, with not a tear to spare for those who lived . . . and suffered.
Perhaps it was time for Reese to take further action. First, though, he’d give The Times editor a tongue-lashing he’d not soon forget.
Once Reese’s duties for the day were over and he’d crawled into his narrow bed around eleven o’clock that night, he lit his gas lamp to a low flame and sat beneath the coverlet with pen and writing paper. He’d be more careful this time, for the paper was consuming a lot of his pay, and if he got docked too many more times, well, soon the master would expect Reese to pay him for his work as a groom.
He slashed at the paper for nearly an hour before he was satisfied. There. The newspaper editor was not likely to ignore that. And if he did, there kindled in Reese the spark of an idea, ready to ignite in the murky, hate-filled reaches of his mind.
After two days of pacing and lurking in the palace’s corridors, poking her nose into closets, and closely observing any servants she encountered, Violet was heartily tired of whatever it was Mr. Brown had divined. He hadn’t responded to any of her messages, nor had he—or the spirits—made an appearance.
The servants seemed to be quite tired of Violet, too. In fact, they probably thought she was the spirit come to wreak havoc among them.
Perhaps it was time to tell the queen that this was a useless endeavor. Or, rather, it was time to suggest it to the queen. Violet would have to tread lightly given the high favor that Mr. Brown enjoyed.
She didn’t look forward to that conversation.
She may as well have another look around. An elderly maid came around the corner and nearly ran into Violet. The maid squealed and dropped the stack of starched tablecloths she was carrying.
“Ma’am, you nearly frightened me to the grave just now.”
“Pardon me—Rose, isn’t it? Why, we are both named for flowers,” Violet said as she bent to pick up the folded bundles and hand them back to her.
Rose wasn’t impressed with their common floral bond.
Violet tried again. “Perhaps I can help you. Can I take care of some of these tablecloths for you?”
“I’m not sure it’s proper for you to do so.”
“No one will notice me shaking out a couple of pieces of damask. It’s the least I can do for frightening you so.”
Rose nodded, openly mollified by Violet’s gesture. “These two go into Prince Leopold’s bedchamber. Go to the end of this corridor, turn right, and the room is the first door on the left. You’ll see the matching pair of tables where they belong. This red one with the gold fringe belongs in the prince’s classroom next to his bedchamber. I’ll lay the cloths on this end of the corridor.”
Violet nodded and took the tablecloths from Rose. She quickly found Leopold’s bedchamber and knocked quietly. Or was it proper to scratch at a royal’s door? Fortunately, there was no answer, so she entered the room and billowed the tablecloths out over the tables. If she recalled correctly, the prince was about sixteen years old and the youngest next to Beatrice. He was nearly unknown in the public eye because of his frail health. A skin condition, wasn’t it? No, wait, it wa
s a blood disorder, hemophilia. The poor boy probably suffered from terrible spontaneous bleeds in his joints and other locations. Violet had once prepared a hemophiliac, a girl of about eight, who had bled into her own skull so much that her head was purple and misshapen.
Prince Leopold would be most difficult to prepare when he died, requiring vast cosmetic skills.
Violet immediately cringed at her own thought. She should be praying for the prince’s health, not imagining his death.
As she closed the door to his bedchamber behind her, it occurred to her that poor Beatrice didn’t even have the brother closest to her in age to play with. No wonder she was eagerly anticipating anyone willing to be her companion.
Deep in her own contemplations about the princess, Violet forgot to knock at the door of the prince’s classroom, merely turning the knob and entering. Now it was her turn to squeal in fright.
Seated behind a desk at the opposite end of the room was a man exceedingly handsome except for his bulbous nose. That nose reddened in mortification by Violet’s appearance.
It wasn’t the man, however, who shocked Violet. It was the young woman perched at the edge of the desk, running the lapels of his jacket through her fingers. An intimate and inappropriate gesture.
Particularly for a princess for whom the queen was seeking to make a marriage.
Certain that her face was as scarlet as the tablecloth she held, Violet attempted to recover herself. She curtsied and said, “Your Highness, forgive my intrusion, I was just—”
“Why are you carrying linens as though you are one of the maids, Mrs. Harper?” Louise wore no expression of contrition or embarrassment. Instead, she was nearly defiant.
“I startled one of the maids in the corridor, so I offered to help—”
“You seem to make a habit of being in surprising places and startling others. Do you know the Reverend Robinson Duckworth? He is my brother’s tutor.” Louise slid off the desk gracefully in a single move.
A Virtuous Death Page 5