A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  “Did someone mention shopping?” she asked. “I was stuck on board during this afternoon’s shopping expedition while Julie fussed with my hair. Ma chérie,” she said, addressing Louise-Hélène, “you don’t know how fortunate you are that your hair has such . . . fullness so that you do not need to be consumed with endless hours of primping and smartening.”

  Louise-Hélène went red once more at the apparent insult. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said through gritted teeth. Violet was certain the girl would have broken down in tears if her pride hadn’t been a firmly erected wall around her emotions. “Madame Harper is planning to go to the Arab district for souvenirs. Perhaps you would like to join her. There is also the European district—”

  Eugénie, though, didn’t seem to notice Louise-Hélène’s discomfort. “Ah, yes, I will certainly visit the European district. I must see if the emperor will escort me.” She merely had to flutter her eyelashes in Franz-Josef’s direction and the emperor was upon her, his servant in his wake. Eugénie laughingly told the emperor of her desire to shop, and he immediately offered an arm to her. It wasn’t difficult to see how he could be besotted with her, her tiny nose wrinkling when she smiled, her teeth like perfectly shaped pearls, radiant against the sun’s rays.

  Poor Louise-Hélène. She must feel like an utter wallflower against Eugénie’s charms. Not to mention that Eugénie was the empress of France.

  Violet was distracted by this line of thought as Franz-Josef entered into a heated discussion with his servant, eventually snapping, “You vill do as you are told!” before turning on his heel with Eugénie and leaving the rest of them behind.

  Violet approached the man, who was standing near Sam. “Good evening,” she said to him.

  “Good evening,” he replied, respectfully snapping his heels together with a loud click. Sam stepped in. “Violet, this is the emperor’s manservant, Karl Dorn.”

  Dorn nodded precisely. “Frau Harper, a pleasure. I beg leave to tell you that I am His Imperial Highness’s chamberlain, not his manservant.” Strangely, large droplets of sweat appeared on Dorn’s brow and upper lip. Perhaps his livery was made of wool, or perhaps he was reeling under the lash from his master’s tongue.

  Whatever it was, Violet was not about to intrude on his private misery. Besides, she wanted to visit the Arab shopping district for whatever interesting finds might be there before the evening festivities started. Hadn’t Sam mentioned purchasing a new undertaking bag for her?

  They took their leave of Dorn and strolled toward the green tent. However, they were stopped near the entrance to the shopping district by an almost-familiar face.

  “Frau Harper?” asked a man with an intense gaze, whom Violet guessed to be a little older than she was. He was clad in the typical military uniform that almost all of the Europeans were wearing, but this one had a black cross at the collar.

  “Yes, how do you do?” she said as Sam rustled protectively next to her.

  The man broke into a smile that breached his powerful scrutiny, like the moon emerging from behind clouds. “I recognize you from the letters my mother-in-law has sent to my wife.”

  “Sir? Do I know your mother-in-law?” How could she possibly know any of the important foreign members of this gathering?

  The man bowed. “I should be very surprised to hear that you do not. I am married to Vicky. I am Frederick, the crown prince of Prussia, at your service.”

  Vicky? Oh, of course! Queen Victoria’s daughter. “Your Highness, I am honored to meet you.” Violet sank into a curtsy and rose again. “The queen is happy to have an alliance with your country.”

  He brushed the compliment aside. “I am most happy to be married to the princess. In fact, it is because of Vicky that I wished to meet you. You were not on the Nile trip, but I understood that you would be in attendance once the festivities began. You see, I wish for you to deliver a letter to Her Majesty from Vicky.” He glanced around as if to be sure no one was watching before pulling a letter from an outer coat pocket and handing it to Violet.

  Violet could hardly believe she was being entrusted with such a thing. She stared down at the sealed envelope without taking it. “Your Highness, do you not wish to have a servant carry it to Osborne?”

  The Prussian prince’s expression clouded again, and Violet realized that he was not used to having his orders even remotely disobeyed. Her stomach clenched over her terrible etiquette. “I mean, sir, Your Highness,” she said, stumbling over her words, “that I have not couriered anything before, and am not sure I am worthy of your trust in such a matter.”

  “Ah.” The moonlight returned. “Actually, Mrs. Harper, I prefer to have the letter transmitted as privately as possible, hence I have sought you out. You see, my wife did not accompany me because she suspects she may be schwanger. You understand?”

  Violet didn’t.

  “Fruchtbar,” the prince repeated. “Heavy. Laden. Fecund?”

  Now it was Violet’s turn for understanding. “Ah, she is with child.”

  “Ja, yes. She did not want to risk the dangers of travel, and I also could not see that the canal opening was reason to risk her health or that of my heir. However, Herr de Lesseps believes this to be a slap in his face by the British royal family, that the queen instructed my wife to stay home while deliberately sending someone less, shall we say, impressive, as part of the delegation. You, Frau Harper.”

  It was becoming a familiar refrain, this constant reminder of how unworthy she was of being present on this trip.

  “I do not replace your wife, Your Highness. My presence is merely incidental, particularly considering that the Prince of Wales is here. Have you not informed Monsieur de Lesseps of the truth?”

  “Nein. We have not even revealed our happy news to our families yet, as she is not far along in her time. It is better that de Lesseps is böse at Prussia and Great Britain than that we should give away our secret too soon. You will take the letter?” He pushed it at her again.

  Violet reached out her hand to take the letter. “I will not be carrying state secrets, will I?” she said with a weak laugh. “I don’t wish to be attacked by French spies.”

  Frederick smiled. “I would not entrust state secrets to you, liebe Frau. It is just a letter from a loving daughter to her mother.”

  “Your Highness,” Sam said, “we will not be traveling straight home, as I intend to take a brief holiday in Pompeii with my wife on our return to London.”

  Frederick blinked at Sam’s unexpectedly American accent but did not comment upon it. “I trust that you will not stop for too long when Her Majesty will be anxiously awaiting to hear from her beloved daughter.”

  This was the limitless arrogance Violet was used to from her titled, wealthy funerary customers. And, of course, she knew that she wasn’t capable of denying a sovereign’s wishes, even if he was from another country.

  Violet tucked the letter inside her reticule, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to be traveling with what could be a very important missive on her person.

  

  The Arab shopping district, known as Gemalia, was set inside an area of streets containing relatively new buildings that looked like a haphazard stirring together of French and Moorish architecture, all done in wood painted to look like stone. Presumably the entire district had not existed more than a few years ago, only springing up once de Lesseps had set his mind to dredging a canal through here.

  In the streets were stalls set in buildings with overhanging floors, making Violet feel as though she were in a medieval market street. The shop stalls were bursting with cotton fabrics of scarlet, cerulean, plum, and celadon along with fringed shawls and head coverings. Other stalls offered a dizzying array of goods including inlaid backgammon sets and gleaming and intricately worked bangle bracelets of gold, as well as finely hammered copper and brassware stacked in piles on wood shelves.

  Most prevalent were stalls featuring burlap sacks heaped with coriander, peppers, and fennel, along with othe
r exotic spices of impossible colors and overwhelming fragrances. Sweet aromas blended with savory bouquets, creating a veil of perfume that clung to Violet’s clothing and released its scent with every rustle of her skirts.

  It didn’t take long to realize that it had been a mistake to come without an escort conversant in at least one of the plethora of languages here, each clamoring to be heard over the other. Presumably the European district wasn’t much better, although English or French might be predominant over there.

  Sam, though, didn’t seem intimidated at all as they wandered down the cobblestones of the main throughway, headlong against children, dogs, turbaned men pushing carts, and veiled women with trays of steaming bread balanced on their heads.

  Not even Piccadilly Circus was this chaotic.

  They stopped before a stall containing an upright loom at least eight feet tall. On a low bench in front of it sat a woman flanked by two boys. All three of them held in their laps bundles of colored yarn, which they were feeding into the loom that the woman operated by a foot pedal. Violet watched, mesmerized, as a pattern in shades of red, black, brown, and yellow came alive before her eyes. Stacked around the stall in random piles taller than Violet were carpets of varying sizes and patterns.

  A short, narrow loom sat nearby, an unfinished tapestry waiting to be brought to life on it.

  The man who was running the stall—presumably husband to the woman and father to the children—put on a sales smile, and began animatedly chattering at them. Sam held up a hand and shook his head no, then grabbed Violet’s hand. “Look, in the back here.”

  He led her behind the small loom and into the building, where there was a table full of tapestried pillows, wall hangings, and an array of bags, from a tiny coin purse to one so large one might hide a camel in it. “I’m sure we can find your new undertaker’s bag here,” Sam suggested.

  Violet was entranced by the creations, which were like magnificent artwork when compared to her own leather bag. It had serviced her for years, but was worn and old now. She eyed a bag on the table that was roughly the same size as her own, thinking she would happily throw the old one overboard in exchange for this bag, with its sturdy leather handles and stunning pattern. The design was a black background with a row of crosslike symbols repeated horizontally across the center of the bag in gold and crimson.

  “This is an ankh,” she said, pointing out one of the crosses on the bag to Sam. “The Egyptian symbol of life, if I recall the travel guide correctly. It seems appropriate.”

  Sam took the bag and went to the man behind the table, and before Violet even realized what was happening, the man’s eager smile had turned into an argument between the two men, the seller’s voice rising in pitch and Sam gesturing with his fingers, with feigned incredulity on his face. As quickly as the tempest started, though, it dissipated out to sea. Sam pulled a few coins from his pocket and handed them to the man, who smiled broadly and nodded.

  Sam returned with the bag. “Ready to purchase something else? Maybe a pretty fan?”

  She needed nothing else now that she had this superb new bag. She planned to transfer all of her cutting tools and cosmetic massages to this new bag as soon as they returned to the ship. Poor Sam had been aghast when she decided to bring all the tools of her trade except for her breakable embalming solution bottles on this pleasure trip, but she had learned long ago that Death tended to be impatient of other people’s plans, and barged in whenever he pleased. It was always best to be prepared.

  Sam had certainly seemed to be prepared for his encounter with the vendor.

  Violet clutched his arm as they walked away. “How did you do that? You don’t speak Arabic.”

  Sam grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Sweetheart, my father used to negotiate prices for Holsteins and hens all the time. That was my initiation into the art. And my stint working for Charles Francis Adams only served to hone my skills.”

  Violet had first met Sam while he was doing secret work for Charles Francis Adams, the US ambassador to Great Britain until last year. Sam’s work had helped end the building in England of commerce-raiding ships that were destroying the Northern blockade back in his home country, although she hadn’t known that until long afterward.

  “To think that all of your aptitude would eventually result in your most daring deed, that of procuring the handsomest undertaker’s bag ever woven,” Violet said, looking up at her husband, who returned her appreciative gaze with one of his own and laughed.

  “My love, you are—as you British say—quite cheeky. I will remember your sauciness.”

  They continued through the swarming crowds, stopping to purchase some sliced mango, a twist full of dates, and a few handfuls of almonds, all of which they ate while browsing stalls. Sam seemed exhilarated by it all, so Violet tried not to be intimidated by all of the shouting vendors.

  To demonstrate her newfound bravery, she pulled on Sam’s arm so they could stop at a stall whose owner was particularly thundering in his demands that they stop. He held up a lidded jar made of marble, or perhaps it was alabaster. Violet could only assume it was an example of the ancient artifacts that Egypt was famous for selling.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan,” the man said, addressing Sam, who shook his head to indicate that he didn’t understand him. The vendor cocked his head to one side and appraised Sam. “You are the English?” he said with a heavy Arabic accent.

  “Nearly,” Sam replied. “My wife is English. I am American.”

  The man smiled broadly, his teeth noticeably yellow against his dark skin. “I am Yahir. I speak the English. I welcome you like my family, and may you tread an easy path. You will like to buy one of my precious antiques? They are all fresh from a dig in Luxor, the temple founded by Amenophis III. These are very old, more than three thousand years, sir.” The dealer held out a statue to Sam, who glanced at it and handed it to Violet.

  It was about a foot tall and easily fit in her hand. Carved of red granite, it appeared to be someone very important, sitting regally in a chair with his hands laid flat on his knees.

  “Amenophis was very great, very important. This shows him on his throne. Very rare, a very valuable piece.” Yahir continued smiling in encouragement.

  Sam ignored him. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

  “It’s lovely,” Violet said quietly, cradling it in one hand as she appraised it, and stroking the smooth granite with the other.

  “How much?” Sam asked Yahir, who spread his hands out expansively.

  “Ah, a bargain, sir, at eight of your sterling pounds.”

  Violet had never held such a piece of art in her hands before. Her mind easily transported itself back to what she imagined to have been a time of astounding funeral customs. What might it have been like to have been an undertaker in ancient Egypt? To have preserved organs and gently wrapped bodies to protect them from the elements? The visions were practically transferring themselves from the statuette directly to her mind. Wouldn’t it make a fascinating display piece inside the shop back in—

  A hand clamped around her wrist. “Mrs. Harper, I don’t advise this,” came a familiar voice from beside her.

  Nearly squealing in fright, Violet turned to see the British ambassador standing there with another, younger man behind him. “Sir Henry, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Sam was frowning at the ambassador’s hand, which still clamped Violet’s wrist. “My apologies, Mrs. Harper,” the ambassador said, hastily letting go of her arm under Sam’s visibly incensed scrutiny. “This is my secretary, Asa Brooks,” Sir Henry said, presenting the man behind him. “He came highly recommended by the queen.”

  That was curious. Since when did the queen recommend people for ambassadorial assistant posts?

  Brushing aside her misgivings, Violet joined Sam in shaking hands with Brooks. “I see you have discovered one of Egypt’s many artifact dealers,” Brooks said.

  “Yes, he is offering us this statuette of Amenophis III. Isn’t it be
autiful?” She held it aloft for his and Sir Henry’s inspection.

  The ambassador nodded. “Yes, he was also known as Amenhotep the Magnificent. He was the ninth pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty. More important for you to know, the Luxor temple—which is part of Auguste Mariette’s dig at Karnak—is one of the temples whose artifacts are most commonly replicated. Statuettes, scarabs, and stelae are frequently imitated with a skill that deceives many experts. If I might?” He held out a hand to Violet, and she handed him the statue, over the vociferous objections of the shopkeeper, who insisted with a reddening face that his goods were of the most perfect provenance.

  “We are familiar with Mariette’s name,” Sam said, his expression much calmer now that his wife’s arm wasn’t in the other man’s clutches. “He has a rather important role for a Frenchman, doesn’t he?” Behind Sam, Yahir was becoming agitated at the discussion.

  Elliot smiled. “You do remember that a Frenchman named de Lesseps has cut a hundred-mile canal through Egypt, don’t you? There is little the French seem incapable of cajoling, herding, or forcing through this country.”

  There was little to argue in that.

  “Well,” Elliot said, dismissively handing the statuette back to Yahir, “I am sorry to say that this is one of the country’s many, many fakes, and not worth a shilling of your money.” Yahir let out a howl of outrage, but Elliot continued on as if the man weren’t there. “Do not look so glum, Mrs. Harper. Selling fakes to tourists is a major form of commerce in countries with ancient sites, especially at ports that tourists frequent. I’m sure that Yahir here was duped into selling this statue,” he said drily, resulting in great protests by the shopkeeper.

  “I’m grateful to you, ambassador,” Sam said, shaking the man’s hand. The four of them walked away from the outraged Yahir, and the ambassador generously shared his knowledge about Egyptian customs with them as they continued making their way through the district. Brooks purchased a curved snuff box and immediately put it to use, while Violet purchased a fan painted with a sunset pyramid scene using gold and copper leaf and accented with an unusually brilliant orange carnelian stone surrounded by pearls in the handle. Sam skillfully negotiated at another stall for a scarab brooch for Violet made of smoky red garnet, the base of which popped open to reveal solid gold wings.