A Virtuous Death Page 4

  Just outside the stable, two footmen were busily digging through a carriage’s hammer box, pulling out tools to repair an obviously broken rear axle. They ignored her presence.

  Through the archway, she found herself inside the cleanest stables she’d ever encountered. Most of the stalls to either side of the wide corridor were full, with either a horse or a miniature children’s carriage, yet there was almost no odor, nor did she see any manure droppings. Even the most freshly swept London streets still contained smears of manure that had been sloppily shoveled or stepped in by an unwary pedestrian or run over repeatedly by carriage wheels.

  A monarch’s life was certainly different from that of mere mortals.

  She heard off-key humming, and, following the sound, found Mr. Brown outside a stall near the end of the building, personally brushing down the queen’s favorite pony, Lochnagar. Violet had met this particular beast during one of the queen’s afternoon rides many weeks ago. Other horses snuffled in their stalls nearby as though waiting for their own turns to be groomed.

  “Mr. Brown, I should like to speak with you.”

  The ghillie turned around from what he was doing. “Thought ye might, lass. First, though, have ye considered wearing something besides that blasted black all the time? ’Tisn’t good for Her Majesty to be encouraged by you to wear it herself.”

  “I am an underta—”

  “Sure now, and I’m the queen’s ghillie, but you dinnae see me got up in riding clothes all the day, now do ye?”

  Violet took a deep breath. The dead were so much more agreeable than the living, especially when the living thought they were experts in all matters.

  “Mr. Brown, I am an undertaker. As such, I never know when I may be called upon to serve a grieving family and I make myself ready at all times to manage death. Unlike yourself, who may be called upon to change clothes multiple times a day for such onerous activities as escorting the queen to another residence, or walking her on her pony, or sitting down to shuffle tarot cards. I suspect your hands are full in taking care of your own position, so I’ll kindly thank you not to interfere with mine.”

  The expressions on Brown’s face ranged first from shock, then to mottled fury, and at last to a begrudging respect. Finally, he burst into laughter.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right, lass. I mean, Mrs. Harper. What ken I do for ye?” He turned his attention back to making long strokes down Lochnagar’s side.

  “What can you do—” Violet caught her anger. “I want to know the meaning behind yesterday’s tarot card reading.”

  Brown kept his back to her and continued working. “Now that’s something I cannae know, can I? The cards are mysterious.”

  “Are they truly? You have divined so many other meanings before, yet now they have suddenly closed themselves off to you.”

  The ghillie stopped what he was doing, much to Lochnagar’s snorting displeasure. “I cannot control the spirits, madam. Sometimes they are agreeable, sometimes nae so agreeable.”

  Violet crossed her arms. “I wonder what it was about a mysterious plot afoot in the palace that made them so disagreeable?”

  He leaned close, and Violet caught a whiff of liquor on his breath. Whisky, if she wasn’t mistaken. She kept her face blank and pretended not to notice.

  “This is what I ken tell ye,” Brown said quietly. “There is something the queen needs to know, but the spirits say I am nae the one to tell her, lest she become . . . agitated. It must come through someone else. A wumman. She’ll be less overwrought.”

  “But you’ve already stated that there is something treasonous going on at Buckingham Palace. What could make her more distressed than that? And how would details of a crime against the Crown be less upsetting coming from a female?”

  He shrugged. “I dinnae know the motives of the spirits. But they brought ye here, so ye have started in the right place to uncover the secrets. Leave me now, Mrs. Harper.”

  With that, Brown hung the leather-strapped brush on a hook outside Lochnagar’s stall, escorted the beast back in, and walked away.

  Violet contemplated running after Brown but didn’t want to make a scene in front of the servants outside. She stepped inside Lochnagar’s stall and patted him on the neck. He rewarded her with a nuzzle at her cheek, then at her hand.

  “Sorry, boy, I have nothing for you. Maybe next time?”

  Lochnagar responded with a huff.

  “I wish you could speak. Maybe you know what it is Mr. Brown is up to with his tarot card readings.”

  Mr. Brown was a scoundrel; of that much Violet was sure. But what, exactly, was he plotting?

  “Mother, you are in entirely too high a dither over this.”

  “Why are we not surprised that you would take this so lightly?” Furthermore, why did Victoria continue to be surprised by Bertie’s petulant behavior?

  Bertie rolled his eyes and flopped down onto a settee. So un-princelike. “Mordaunt is just in a rage because his wife has confessed to bearing him an illegitimate daughter. That child has nothing to do with me.”

  “According to Sir Charles, that child may have everything to do with you, and half the aristocratic houses of England. Does Lady Mordaunt even know who the father is?”

  Bertie stretched out casually, crossed his ankles, and reached to the table next to him for a cigarette, a habit he’d picked up from the Raybourn family.

  “Freddy says it might be his.”

  “Sir Frederick Johnstone? Why do you associate with such low men? You will be König, King, of the United Kingdom, one day. You cannot have such stains on your reputation.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Mother. No one notices these things, and if they do, they are most forgiving as long as their prince delivers a healthy number of heirs. I have Albert Victor and George, and Alix may deliver me another boy yet.” He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Bertie, you know we despise smoking in our presence.”

  “Only when it is me doing the smoking. Your Mr. Brown seems to have the privilege of doing as he pleases.”

  “Do not change the subject. We are discussing your appalling behavior with regard to Sir Charles.”

  Her son crushed his half-smoked cigarette out in the engraved brass ashtray she’d presented to Mr. Brown on his birthday last year. “Harriet and I were just having a bit of fun, Mother.”

  “Have you no conscience, Son? We don’t know how you came by this . . . this . . . attitude. Your father would be so ashamed. He was so dedicated to his wife and family. There was never a breath of scandal around him—Bertie, stop rolling your eyes at us; it’s very undignified.”

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You don’t care a fig for what goes on between Sir Charles and his wife. You’ve found another reason to blame me for Papa’s death.”

  “Bertie, language! This has nothing to do with casting blame. You are the source of your own desolation.”

  Oh, there was that word Mr. Brown had used at the reading. Was Bertie the source of a plot the spirits spoke of? He was certainly her source of desolation and loss. She must mention this to Mrs. Harper.

  He shrugged. “Harriet and I are simply friends; there’s nothing to worry about. Sir Charles doesn’t want the dragged-out court proceedings necessary to pursue a divorce. No doubt he’ll come to an accommodation with her.”

  “What do you mean, an ‘accommodation’?”

  “I suppose he will either lock her away in one of his estates or else pick up with an inamorata of his own.”

  Victoria shuddered. What was wrong with this generation of youth that they thought nothing of humiliating themselves in society? Had he not died, dearest Albert would have eventually taken Bertie well in hand and Victoria would not have had to face this alone.

  “You fail to understand all of the consequences at play, Son.”

  “What consequences? This is a storm in a teacup. Or should I say a storm in Sir Charles’s bedroom? Hah!”

  Would that God
grant her patience when dealing with this impertinent little Junge. How could such a little boy be the inheritor of a kingdom on which the sun never set? It was enough to make her cry, if she thought he was worth expending tears upon.

  “Let us discuss the possible outcomes. First, we desire to make a good match for Louise. It is her time to marry. What royal house will be interested in a girl whose brother is already proving to be an embarrassment and may continue to do so when king?”

  “Oh, Mother, you’re—”

  “Genug! Hold your wicked tongue! Furthermore, you have a pregnant wife, who will deliver a prince or princess in a few months. What effect do you think this scandal will have on her? Mein Gott, what if she were to lose the child? It would be entirely your fault for running about with other women like some kind of wild dog.” Whenever Victoria exchanged heated words with Bertie, she forgot all of her royal breeding and reverted back to Hanoverian German. Bertie’s detrimental influence was boundless.

  “Unlike you, Alix understands that I sometimes develop innocent friendships that mean nothing. You, of course, invent wild fantasies and use them to find me guilty of imaginary crimes. Perhaps if I open the door I will find a jury and executioner waiting for me.”

  Bertie yanked open the door to Victoria’s sitting room. Behind it was Mrs. Harper, one hand raised as though to knock and the other carrying a newspaper. She looked from queen to prince. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, Your Highness, am I interrupting?”

  Yes, praise God. “Not at all, Mrs. Harper, please come in.”

  “Yes, do. There is very little of interest happening here.” Bertie swept his arm into the room. “I’m sure you will at least be welcome.” As the undertaker entered, he turned and bowed gracelessly to his mother before exiting and shutting the door behind him.

  Mrs. Harper curtsied and sat on the chair Victoria indicated. “I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am, but I thought that to determine which plot might be afoot inside the palace perhaps I should start by seeing what might be afoot elsewhere in your kingdom and in the world. I have been reading yesterday’s Times, and found some interesting news items.”

  Victoria frowned. “In a newspaper? The spirits do not typically speak through the presses.”

  “No, of course not. I just thought it was another way to seek them out. If I discover the correct situation, the spirits might, er, find favor with my efforts and choose to reveal themselves to me.”

  “Yes, yes, that makes sense. And so what have you found?”

  “There are several articles of interest. First, there is the Cretan revolt in Greece. It looks as though the Turks have put down the rebellion.”

  “Yes, Greece’s King George is the Prince of Wales’s brother-in-law. George has wanted to unite Greek lands into one nation for years. Bertie tried to convince the foreign secretary to intervene on behalf of the poor Greeks, but he refused. An embarrassment for Alix, I’m sure.”

  “An embarrassment for the Prince of Wales, too. Have you any Greek members on the palace staff?”

  “What? Heavens, no. Everyone is of good British stock.”

  “Perhaps that isn’t it, then.” Mrs. Harper returned to the paper. “There is the Irish Church Act under discussion, which will disestablish the Church of Ireland, disassociating it from the state so that the Irish will no longer be required to tithe. There is much acrimony between the Commons and the House of Lords over it.”

  How irritating. “Yes, Mrs. Harper, we are fully aware of the act, since we are intervening personally in the situation between the two parliamentary bodies. We do not see how it brings personal desolation and loss to us.”

  “If I may be so bold as to suggest it, Your Majesty, perhaps what is agitating the spirits has to do with your realm and not your person. After all, you are the embodiment, and beloved treasure, of Great Britain.”

  “Mr. Brown did not say this was so.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “If the spirits meant that it concerned our realm and not our body, he would have said so.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Was that all you had to show us?”

  Mrs. Harper referred to the paper again. “There was one more item I wished to share with Your Majesty. It is back here and quotes from a Welsh border newspaper, the Flintshire Observer. . . .” She flipped through several pages, finally pointing to a small editorial.

  “This is about the recent riots in Mold, a coal-mining town in Flintshire. Is Your Majesty aware of them?”

  “Yes. There has been some bickering in Parliament about it. Some foolishness about the Welsh miners attacking soldiers simply because they were required to speak good English. What ruffians. We speak English even though it is not native to our family. If their queen does so, why can’t they?”

  The undertaker looked as though she’d eaten a spoiled egg. “There is more to it than that, Your Majesty. My husband was present for it, and told me that the miners also had their wages cut for no apparent reason. When I saw this article, I thought—”

  “My dear Mrs. Harper, please content yourself with seeking out our spiritual difficulties.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you will forgive my impertinence, it’s just that what I read here is an indictment against the English government for oppressing the native Welsh people.”

  Violet read aloud: “ ‘The time has now come for the cessation of these stupid and blundering attacks. How can you turn a stream that has flowed so long? How can you transplant the feelings and impressions of one people into the language of another entirely a stranger to those impressions? Language is but the reflections of thought and you can no more dry up or write down every old language such as this than you could level the mountain or turn back the stream.... There is a great fault in the English character and it has been the secret of their want of success in attempting to rule all colonies subject to them.’ ”

  “Mrs. Harper, if we cowered each time a journalist uttered a criticism, we would soon be a rabbit hiding inside its burrow. Those who did not understand our grief over Albert’s departure wrote scathingly of us in print, yet we did not allow them to impact our necessary mourning.”

  “But this was not the writing of a journalist. These are the words of George Osborne Morgan, the member from Denbighshire in the House of Commons. If the ill feelings about the treatment of the Welsh has spread beyond the confines of local collieries and into the halls of Parliament—”

  “This is quite enough.”

  “—then perhaps there is revolt, or worse, being festered in their minds. This might be the desolation and loss the spirits warn of, Your Majesty.”

  “But Mr. Brown was clear that the wickedness was for us personally. We believe it may have something to do with our wayward son, Albert Edward. You have read political meaning into it, Mrs. Harper. If it were political, the spirits would be warning Mr. Gladstone, would they not? We have so many worries on our mind, and now that the other world is attempting to reach us, we find it is impossible to find appropriate assistance.”

  She hoped her meaning was clear, but the undertaker’s expression was inscrutable. Yet still the woman persevered.

  “I’m sure I cannot begin to understand Your Majesty’s feelings,” Mrs. Harper said, although she didn’t sound contrite at all. “Yet I do wonder if the situation isn’t more far-reaching than the cards have stated.”

  Victoria was about to chastise Mrs. Harper for her impertinence when the door opened again.

  “Mother, have you seen my writing box? I may have left it—oh, pardon me, I didn’t realize you had a guest.”

  It was her daughter, Louise, the sixth of her children and her fourth daughter, and the one for whom a suitable marriage would soon need to be made.

  Although Louise was not her favorite, Victoria still employed her as her personal secretary. She was capable enough, although Louise’s lack of sufficient grief over Albert’s death had always been like dust in Victoria’s throat. Louise was by far Victoria’s prettiest child, a
talented sculptress, and appropriately polite, but there was something less . . . proper about her. Unlike darling Baby.

  And what was this? “Louise, what has happened to your hair? It is quite untidy.”

  Her daughter reached up a hand to pat her tightly wound curls. “Forgive me, Mother, I was outside and the wind blew it about.” Louise looked curiously at Mrs. Harper.

  “Louise, this is Violet Harper, the undertaker who helped carry your dearly beloved father to his final resting place. She left England for the United States four years ago to marry an American lawyer, but she has returned to London and is assisting us in a spiritual matter.”

  Mrs. Harper curtsied to Louise, who nodded graciously back to her.

  “There are my writing supplies,” Louise said, heading over to a leather-topped knee-hole writing desk and picking up the silver-inlaid box that held her pens, ink pots, and engraved writing papers. “I’ve been through the day’s obituaries, and there are several letters of condolence I need to prepare for you, Mother.”

  Victoria nodded approvingly. It was so heartwarming when her children were considerate of their mother. Louise might not be her favorite, but she was certainly better mannered than Bertie. Why, he could—wait, what was this?

  “What is that clinging to your hem?”

  “What?” Louise said, looking down. “Oh, it’s nothing, just something I must have picked up in the garden.”

  Did her daughter truly think her mother was a simpleton? “It looks like straw to us. Why would you be cavorting about in the mews?”

  “I wasn’t cavorting about anywhere, Mother. You are mistaken. These are just a few weeds that have clung to my dress. I really should have some new walking gowns made that won’t attract debris.” Louise tossed the words off nonchalantly, but Victoria knew she was hiding something.

  “Your hair is mussed and your dress bears the marks of you having been walking through the stables. We can only hope it was just walking. Will you confess to what you were doing there, or shall we make an assumption?”

  Must all of her children bring such grief? At least she knew she could rely on little Beatrice.