A Grave Celebration Page 11

  Violet now understood even more. “So Great Britain has participated in Pasha’s self-aggrandizement. Yet we must be seen to support the sultan. But our country’s true goal is to ensure that British shipping interests remain intact.”

  “The politics at play are very complicated, Mrs. Harper, and complicated politics are usually quite dangerous for those who play heavily in them. The ambassador enjoys such intrigues; I personally do not. I suppose that is why I am a mere ship’s captain.”

  How dangerous was the situation, though? Enough to result in two murders? Worse, would there be more?

  For the life of her, though, Violet couldn’t understand how in the world the two dead men could possibly have anything to do with the complex foreign intrigues at hand. What was she missing?

  

  November 17, 1869

  Violet was awakened not by bells on deck, or by a steam whistle, or even by an off-key rendition of a sea shanty by Nares’s men. No, it was a deep, guttural howling, like that of a wounded gray wolf, an animal she had listened to many a night while in the Colorado Territory with her husband.

  Sam launched himself out of bed at the sound, nearly knocking himself out on a support beam. “Good God Almighty,” he exclaimed as he fished around for his trousers. “Do you know what that sounds like?”

  “Yes,” she said, tossing aside the bedcovers and joining her husband in frantically getting dressed. “I was hoping I had heard the last of such sounds when we boarded the train for New York.”

  Once presentable, they dashed up to the main deck, and were stunned by what greeted them.

  The morning was strikingly gorgeous, with the sun already bathing everything in warmth, eradicating all memory of last night’s distress. Pasha must have sent workers out like little nocturnal dung beetles, scooping up all of the evidence of the fire, the murder, and the stampeding fear, then rolling it away out of sight. In fact, both the fireworks stand and the lumberyard were gone and the sand raked over both places.

  However, Newport was now leading the flotilla down the canal, with L’Aigle and the other ships behind it. The howling emanated from de Lesseps, who stood on his deck screaming epithets at Commander Nares, Sir Henry, the Prince of Wales, and even Violet and Sam. Running out of those insults, he added the queen, all of her children, her children’s children, the prime minister, and Parliament to his invective against those who should be cooked slowly on a spit in hell for impudence, arrogance, and duplicity.

  Violet was as shocked as de Lesseps.

  Newport’s captain came up from behind them. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Harper. Truly a fine morning, is it not?” he said, his face threatening to split in two from the mischievous grin spread across it. “Appears we accidentally drifted into the lead,” he said with a wink of the eye.

  Violet was at a complete loss for words. “Sir, you did not tell me you intended to insult Monsieur de Lesseps in this way. It does not seem politically astute.”

  Nares took no offense. “I did tell you he would receive his comeuppance, though, Mrs. Harper. No doubt I will be in grave trouble with the Lord High Admiral, not to mention Prime Minister Gladstone, but I deem it thoroughly worth it to witness the Ditchdigger’s reaction. Ten years of work behind him and Pasha, and Great Britain is the first to sail the canal. This calls for a special celebration, does it not?”

  Violet noticed that Nares and his men were all standing around, highly amused, but the Prince of Wales and Sir Henry were conspicuously absent. “Are His Highness and the ambassador aware of this action, Commander?”

  “Not officially. And they will undoubtedly reprimand me, as well.” Nares was perfectly cheerful about it.

  “I imagine, sir, that the khedive will be equally as angry about our taking the flotilla lead,” Violet insisted, in disbelief that the ship’s captain was so cavalier about what he had done.

  “Eh, I do not believe that Pasha adores de Lesseps as much as people would believe him to. Pasha has reason to be in our good graces, too, and you won’t see him protest too loudly over this.” He walked off, whistling jauntily, with de Lesseps’s voice growing weaker in the background as his voice gave out from bellowing.

  “When did Commander Nares talk to you about de Lesseps having a comeuppance?” Sam asked Violet, his face grave. “Is there something treasonous going on here?”

  Violet told Sam of her conversation with Nares in the middle of the night. He nodded. “So the Prince of Wales and Sir Henry knew of it and approved of it, and are hiding in their cabins so that they can claim they knew nothing of it.”

  Violet was still surprised that Nares had so easily hidden his intentions from her last night, and was trying to prevent that surprise from twisting itself into anger over what any thinking person would realize was a usurpation of de Lesseps’s role in the Suez Canal celebrations. However, she was merely an observing delegate here, not a member of the political process, so the wisest course was to remain silent.

  But that was only as long as there were no further corpses presenting themselves.

  People lined the embankment of the canal as far as the eye could see, waving flags and cheering as the flotilla got truly under way on its eight-hour journey to Ismailia. As was true when they docked last night, the crowds were made up of every nationality and style of clothing imaginable, and the enthusiasm was almost drowned out by the snapping of flags and banners waving from poles, tent tops, and outstretched arms. Did they realize that Great Britain had made itself the first to achieve transit between the Mediterranean and Ismailia?

  From somewhere behind them, the musicians on the Austrian ship had started up the same anthem from last night, which was received happily by the crowds. De Lesseps had seemingly washed down his anger. Violet saw him at the prow, Eugénie next to him and Louise-Hélène a couple of steps behind the two popular French citizens. De Lesseps and Eugénie both soaked in the adoration of the crowds, turning to one side and then the other, waving to the throngs.

  It was more difficult to see what was happening on ships farther down the line, but she presumed the same sort of sovereign-to-commoner greeting was occurring. Violet knew she and Sam looked like cats rumpled by a romp in forest undergrowth, but there was no help for it at this point. Shrugging at each other philosophically, they also lifted hands of greeting to everyone along the shore.

  More cheers rose up as the Prince of Wales and Sir Henry Elliot finally emerged from below decks. They were dressed in their finest silk top hats and velvet-collared coats, their hands encased in golden-brown doeskin gloves as they also waved down to the embankment.

  Violet felt even more disheveled in her appearance.

  But no one was paying attention to the undertaker and her husband, for there was simply too much to behold in the procession to worry about a woman who had had only about thirty seconds of ablutions a short while ago.

  Not only were there throngs lining both sides of the canal for their journey, but also, at strategic intervals along the shore, were examples of the dredges and elevators de Lesseps had employed for constructing the canal. She was especially amazed by one of the gargantuan dredges, which to Violet looked like a pregnant spider upon its back, its huge metal arms attached to retaining lines like an arachnid’s legs clinging to strands of web.

  Reading her mind, Sam remarked simply, “Impressive. I heard that they were the brainchild of the Greek workers.”

  They would be entering Ismailia soon enough, so Violet proposed that they go down and get ready properly. Despite her lack of sleep after the previous night’s events, followed by this morning’s shock, it was hard not to be excited and carried away by the sheer magnificence of the flotilla. The joy expressed by the international well-wishers on either side of the canal was truly an experience that could not be described.

  If only Violet Harper weren’t so mindful that there were two dead men who needed justice.

  Chapter 10

  Aboard the French yacht L’Aigle

  alo
ng the Suez Canal

  Louise-Hélène Autard de Bragard, known fondly as “ma louloute,” or “my darling,” by her fiancé, Ferdinand de Lesseps, was fully aware of her tendency to scowl too much. It gave others the impression that she was bitter and angry most of the time, when the opposite was true. In fact, she was inexpressibly overjoyed at the favorable hand that God and the Blessed Mother had dealt her.

  Here she stood on the deck of the French yacht L’Aigle, named for both the bird of prey and the symbol of Bonaparte’s First French Empire. It was gloriously luxurious, and her private cabin—for use only by her and her lady’s maid, Isabelle—had every comfort possible. Bottles of wine, feathery bedcoverings, and exotic culinary delicacies were always presented before she even realized she had a desire for them. Ferdinand even somehow ensured that fresh flowers were delivered each day.

  She might be only twenty-one and her fiancé forty years her senior, but he had the energy of a man half his age. He had a vitality that consumed everyone around him. Men did his bidding without questions, as if he were able to imbue the importance of his canal project into their very souls. Louise-Hélène hoped that Ferdinand’s vigor would extend to their private bedchamber once they were married, and immediately blushed inwardly that she had such improper thoughts.

  She must stay focused on making him proud during the next few days of diplomatic relations so that he would be glad of his decision to pluck up the granddaughter of a former magistrate on the island of Mauritius. Well, it had been known as Isle de France until the British—or les rosbifs, as they were disparagingly called—had invaded the French colony in 1810. The Roast Beefs had then proceeded to make the profitable island of sugar plantations part of its never-ending, never-satisfied realm, just one of many indignities the French had suffered.

  Her grandfather was one of the few French permitted to remain in his position, since the de Bragards were part of the Franco-Mauritius elites, but his health was broken and Louise-Hélène only remembered him as a stooped man, kind but vacant-eyed. Her father, Gustave, took over the magistrate position, but ensured that Louise-Hélène and her sisters were sent to France for education. She had a chance meeting with the great de Lesseps two years ago when he made one of his many trips to tout the Suez Canal’s progress. He was invited to a music recital in which many young men and women were playing. For some reason, he became enamored of Louise-Hélène’s fingering of “La Marseillaise” on the trumpet and insisted upon meeting her. He later claimed not only that he was entranced by a woman playing the trumpet, but also that her rendition of the French national anthem had brought tears to an old widower’s eyes.

  Two years of infrequent visits by de Lesseps back to Paris, a flurry of letters to her parents back in Mauritius, and now here she stood on the deck of L’Aigle, cruising to Ismailia for more canal-opening festivities. By her side was Isabelle Dumont, her lady’s maid and now her chaperone, although de Lesseps had proved himself such a gentleman that Louise-Hélène doubted he would have ever pressed an advantage, even in the close quarters of the sailing yacht.

  He was kind, strong, educated, and one of the most important men in France—no, in the entire world. His age was easy to overlook. No, she could have done much worse than to fold her hand into Ferdinand de Lesseps’s.

  A strong breeze blew across the bow of the ship. Louise-Hélène hoped that her floppy white hat, edged in white ostrich feathers and secured firmly under her chin by silk ribbons, successfully tamed the mass of dark curls pinned atop her head. Her coiffure was frequently as uncontrollable as her expression. All of a sudden, though, another manner of wind circled around Louise-Hélène, in the form of Eugénie de Montijo, a former Spanish countess and the current empress of France. Louise-Hélène found Eugénie to be impossibly beautiful, cultured, and intellectual, all of which was emphasized by smoky dark eyes and understated, elegant clothing.

  Louise-Hélène felt like a dowdy imposter next to the empress, whose husband, Napoléon III, had sent her as his representative at the canal opening while he dealt with domestic opposition to his policies. Something about Republicanism and growing Prussian power, Louise-Hélène recalled. She had no head for politics and could never pretend to have one. Ferdinand didn’t seem to mind that she was an uncomplicated girl, but it didn’t make her any less uncomfortable when Eugénie strolled into her path.

  Eugénie sauntered over to her now, a walking cream confection, with her own lady’s maid following an appropriate distance behind. The empress’s tailored ivory jacket with wide lapels and side pockets suggested a gentleman’s cut, but of course on the empress it looked dainty. Beneath the jacket was a matching waistcoat with shell buttons so numerous as to create an effect of a train track from stomach to neck. Her skirt was of the same material. Eugénie wore no jewelry, letting the stark contrast of her dark coloring against the ivory fabric speak for itself.

  Louise-Hélène didn’t have to look down at her lace-ruffled copper skirt with the hem band of brown to know that she looked positively frumpy and out-of-date by comparison. Why, even Eugénie’s maid, Julie, looked more stylish from within the shadow of her grand mistress.

  All during the earlier trip down the Nile to Cairo and back to the northern coast—which had been interesting enough, what with the views of swaying palm trees, round-domed mosques, and all manner of ancient structures along the way—Eugénie had been the undisputed center of attention. Her tinkling laugh, her pretty wit, and her seemingly effortless ability to make every man from the lowliest porter to the khedive of Egypt himself fall half in love with her filled Louise-Hélène with inexplicable jealousy. She could hardly believe that Eugénie was reputed to be very devout and presumably would never act on her flirtations.

  For all of Ferdinand’s chivalry toward his own betrothed, he also seemed impressed by the empress’s charms, and Louise-Hélène had even once caught him gazing at Eugénie’s back with something akin to hunger. Was it just the natural state of being a woman to feel intimidated by her betters? Or perhaps it was only the natural state of an unsophisticated soul like Louise-Hélène? Her stomach fluttered in dismay to think that perhaps she wasn’t up to being Ferdinand’s consort.

  As if understanding her mistress’s thoughts, Isabelle discreetly put a hand to Louise-Hélène’s back, as though to steady her. Louise-Hélène nodded, and Isabelle dropped her hand away as the empress approached.

  “Your Majesty,” Louise-Hélène murmured deferentially, dropping into a curtsy as she had done so many times over the past few weeks. Behind her, Isabelle dropped even lower in homage. The empress always smiled sweetly in her direction, but looked just past Louise-Hélène, as if perpetually searching for someone else. As far as Louise-Hélène could tell, that someone was Franz-Josef, the Austro-Hungarian emperor, who was also part of the flotilla on the Nile. He was as dashing as Eugénie was beautiful, and they looked like two darkly exotic heavenly orbs dancing around each other when in each other’s company. Eugénie frequently took Franz-Josef’s arm when they all disembarked their respective ships for touring the latest Egyptian ruin. Eugénie knew how to glide along lightly, playfully tapping Franz-Josef with her fan or pursing her lips enchantingly to convince him to purchase a souvenir for her. All Louise-Hélène was capable of doing was clutching onto Ferdinand’s arm and hoping she didn’t trip along the unevenly gapped slats on the dock.

  She tried not to continuously wonder what indiscretions might be occurring, what with both Eugénie’s and Franz-Josef’s regal spouses sitting a world away. It was sinful for Louise-Hélène to speculate on the transgressions of others. She pressed discreetly against her skirt, on the pocket that lay hidden beneath, and took comfort in feeling the beads of her rosary there.

  “Ma louloute,” replied Eugénie, the only other person in the world who took the liberty of calling her by Ferdinand’s pet nickname, which was not only an endearment but also a play on the name Louise. It made Louise-Hélène’s stomach roil that the empress used the term, but the empres
s was, after all, royalty—and of the great nation of France—making awe a clashing emotion with jealousy in Louise-Hélène’s breast. Maybe it was the competition between the two that kept her in constant need of fennel seeds to chew to settle her stomach.

  “Your Majesty,” Louise-Hélène repeated as Eugénie motioned for her to rise. “The breezes blow doucement today, do they not?” Isabelle came from a good family, and had been able to advise Louise-Hélène on the nuances of idle chatter, something she had missed while absorbed in music lessons. What Isabelle lacked in hairdressing talent, she more than made up for in comportment and conduct skills.

  “Oui, but they are not gentle enough to avoid sending my hair into complete disarray.” Eugénie’s laugh tinkled across the deck, and more than one sailor stopped his work to gaze her way. Louise-Hélène wasn’t sure if Eugénie was making a sly stab at her own hair, which was in disarray in the best of times.

  “Why do you look so glum, ma louloute?” Eugénie asked. Was there an air of fake concern in her query? “You frown too much. Happiness improves the digestion and the disposition. I do recommend it.”

  Her stomach churned, but Louise-Hélène forced herself to smile as Isabelle had taught her to do in many private sessions in her cabin. “Your dress is charming, Majesty. Your couturière is to be commended.”

  “Do you think so?” Eugénie replied absently, brushing an invisible piece of lint from her arm. “The emperor says he likes this color, but I feel like I am an old medieval French queen donned in mourning. I certainly hope he appreciates the trouble I took with it. Your dress is quite lovely, too, my dear.”