“How do you remember all that? What everybody ate and the dates?” Coleman asked.
“Like you did about the furniture and frames. I’m interested in food and cooking,” Dinah said.
“I know that,” Coleman said. “I remember you standing on a stool in the kitchen at Slocumb Corners, helping Miss Ida cook.”
“I still love cooking,” Dinah said. “Oh, here’s our lunch. I ordered iced tea for both of us. I hope that’s all right?”
“Please. Iced tea available in the land of hot tea–drinkers? Wonderful! I know you’re interested in food and cooking, and you’re a marvelous cook, and you’re always coming up with new recipes. And that’s what I want to talk to you about,” Coleman said. “That’s my idea.”
“The idea that forces me to hire a cook?” Dinah asked.
“Yes,” said Coleman. “I want you to write a column or a series of articles on ‘Food and London’ for First Home. You’re going to be here for months, and I’m sure your job at the museum won’t take up all your time. You can get to know a lot about the food and the restaurants—you already know the take-out world, you already know there are dishes Americans aren’t used to eating, including some they won’t eat. If you have a good cook, she will be able to teach you recipes for things you like. You can come up with travelers’ tips about where and what to eat in London. I think you’d be a great addition to the magazine.”
Dinah flushed. “Are you serious? You really think I can do it?”
“Absolutely,” Coleman said. “I’ll give you a formal proposal in writing with suggested compensation in the next day or two. Will you do it?”
“Oh, yes,” Dinah said. “I’d love to! Now tell me what you think of my first recommendation—your first restaurant in London?”
Coleman took a bite of the rarebit. “Perfect! Let’s eat. I need to get home to rest up for tonight.”
When they were in the car again, James said, “I have a message for you, Mrs. Hathaway and Miss Coleman. Lady Jane has heard of your reception at the Ross office, and apologizes for the bad manners of her family. She was appalled to learn about the servants’ behavior towards you, and astonished by their criminal activities. She will be at the party at Scott’s tonight, and wants to apologize in person.”
Coleman and Dinah exchanged glances.
“How very nice,” Dinah said.
“I don’t see how she failed to know about her house being used by criminals,” Coleman said.
“I hope she isn’t guilty of anything,” Dinah said.
•••
In her lovely suite in Heyward’s house, Coleman took a long soak in the large bathtub, dried off, put on a nightgown, picked up Dolly, and settled down in the oversized bed with its smoothly ironed white sheets and several white coverlets. She set the alarm for six. She wanted plenty of time to dress for the party. Within minutes Dolly fell asleep, and Coleman soon followed.
When the alarm sounded, she got up and took a wake-up shower. Dolly followed her into the bathroom, and cocked her head.
“Yes, I’m going out,” Coleman told Dolly. “Don’t worry, that nice Mrs. Carter has invited you to spend the evening with her. She’s taking your Kitty Kup to her apartment, right above this one. She’ll give you supper and a walk—maybe two. Now, let me show you what I’m wearing tonight.” Dolly watched Coleman’s every move, and looked only a little sad when Coleman took her to Mrs. Carter’s, and left for the party.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rachel and Julia
Friday, lunchtime, London
The roast chicken and apple tart had been served and devoured, and they were drinking coffee, when Rachel took a deep breath and went straight to the point.
“Julia, someone told me you’re a Republican. Is it true? Are you one of those people who wants to abolish the Monarchy? I’ve read all the literature that group produces, and I can’t understand their arguments. I can’t believe you are a part of that crowd.”
Julia, who was looking like a contented cat after her lunch, answered without hesitation. “Yes, I belong to a splinter group of Republicans. I don’t like most of the people one meets in the larger group—they’re concerned with issues that don’t interest me. My group is made up of people who have legitimate grievances against the throne,” Julia said.
Rachel frowned. “Against Queen Elizabeth? Surely not,” she said.
“No, my dear, not our present Queen. My problems—and those of all of my group—are with Queen Victoria. My dislike of her goes back to the Crimean War.”
Rachel, stunned, couldn’t believe it. As unthinkable as it was that Julia could dislike Queen Elizabeth, hating the long-dead Queen Victoria seemed even more bizarre. “How can that be? What could Queen Victoria have done that makes you angry today? Didn’t she die in 1900?”
“1901. But after Prince Albert died in 1861, Queen Victoria was so wrapped up in her mourning, she didn’t seem to care about anything. She abused my family by sins of both commission and omission. Those of us who are angry with her thought she was a terrible queen. Many bad things happened under her reign, and she couldn’t be bothered to rectify them. She ruined my family.”
“How?” Rachel asked.
“Do you know anything about the Crimean War? If you don’t, you aren’t alone. It’s been forgotten by most people. If they know anything about it, it’s the Charge of the Light Brigade, because of the poem by Tennyson, and because of Florence Nightingale, who won lasting fame for her bravery and hard work during that ghastly war.”
“I know about Florence Nightingale. The Charge of the Light Brigade sounds vaguely familiar, but I do not know the poem you’re speaking of,” Rachel said.
“It’s a heartbreaking poem about a suicidal attack by the Light Brigade, ordered by the incompetents managing that war. I’ll recite a little of it for you,” she said.
To Rachel’s astonishment, Julia stood up and began to recite the poem with great passion.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death,
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Julia sat down. “That’s about half of it,” she said, through her tears. “I can’t help crying when I read that poem. All those men dying so unnecessarily. Back to the history of the war: it lasted for three years—1853 to ’56—and is usually described as disastrous. Nearly one hundred thousand British soldiers and sailors were sent to Crimea. More than twenty thousand died, eighty percent of them from sickness or disease.
“The war was led by inept aristocrats, mostly old men. Their mismanagement was to blame for most of the deaths, whether the men were killed by the enemy or by disease. There were few heroes among the generals, but one of the few was my ancestor General Ward. He was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather—yes, confusing; so many ‘greats,’ so I refer to him as my great-grandfather. He was killed in the war and so were his two sons. That war ruined my family.”
“That is a very sad story,” Rachel said.
“That’s only part of the story,” Julia said. “After the war, death du
ties crippled the estate, and no one was left alive to manage it. General Ward’s widow—I call her my great-grandmother—was left with almost nothing. She sold everything sellable and moved to a tiny cottage, not far from the great house she had once owned. Friends tried to help her obtain something more suitable, and they finally found a place for her.
“In the 1840s, Queen Victoria arranged the restoration of Tudor Gardens, a beautiful building in near ruins not far from Oxford. She had it divided into a labyrinth of apartments, which were given to grace-and-favor residents. Widows whose husbands had been killed in the Crimean War occupied most of them, and General Ward’s widow was given one. Tudor Gardens was not unlike Hampton Court in how it was used, and like Hampton Court, which burned in 1986, it was destroyed in a terrible fire. When our present Queen was told of the Hampton Court fire she immediately sent a message inquiring about Lady Gale, the occupant of the apartment where the fire started. Lady Gale’s body was found and Queen Elizabeth visited the site. Since the fire had started in Lady Gale’s apartment, there was no possibility of her being saved, or her furniture and valuables being rescued.
In the Tudor Gardens fire, my ancestor was killed, and her few belongings were destroyed. Her body was never recovered. She was the last of my family. Queen Victoria didn’t seem to care. She certainly didn’t visit the ruins. She showed none of the compassion that Queen Elizabeth did.
“Meanwhile, people who knew about General Ward’s bravery were trying to get recognition for his heroism. The Victoria Cross was created in 1856 and was awarded retrospectively to heroes of the Crimean War. Posthumous awards were forbidden until 1902, after Queen Victoria died. It was given for ‘valor’ or ‘conspicuous gallantry,’ but only for the living. Until 1902, there was no award to honor those who had fought valiantly, and died while they were fighting.
“The Queen could have changed this rule, but she didn’t. Brave men like my ancestor died in the performance of supreme acts of valor, and their acts weren’t even reported because those who knew all about their heroism knew it was futile. Nothing would be done. My ancestor, and all the men like him, were never recognized.
“But the word got out. Men wrote letters to their families. The people learned who was brave and able, and who was incompetent, which was most of the big generals. People continued to try unsuccessfully to get recognition of people like my ancestor. Thousands of British soldiers lie in unmarked graves in Crimea. My ancestor lies in a grave identified with his name and regiment. No one knows where his sons are buried. They are lost forever,” Julia said bitterly.
“That is very sad, but it was long ago. I cannot imagine anything being so terrible that it’s still a sore point so many years after the person responsible is dead,” Rachel said.
“Oh, can you not? What about the American Civil War? Wasn’t it fought in 1865, more than a hundred and fifty years ago? Isn’t it still a hot topic in some circles? And aren’t there Americans who moved to Canada because they think your country shouldn’t have declared its independence from England? Those who still believe the United States would be better off if it was part of the UK?” Julia said.
Rachel was startled by Julia’s passion. This was a side of her friend she had never seen. This woman could be dangerous. “But, Julia, what do you want? How can restitution be made after all this time?” she asked.
“I want to move General Ward’s body to England. I’m saving money to buy a small house near where the Wards lived before the Crimean War. I’ll see him buried in the cemetery near the church where my family worshipped, with a ceremony acknowledging his bravery. I’ll arrange to have empty graves with stones marked with the names and ranks of his sons, and another empty grave with a tombstone for the general’s wife, my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. It would be impossible to get my ancestor the Victoria Cross, but I don’t care. I don’t want that for him. That medal is neither honorable nor fair. But I’ll get something for him. That I promise,” she said.
Rachel now understood why Julia called herself a Republican. She did not seem to have any animosity toward the present Royal Family, and she did not seem to be a danger to anyone. Nothing she’d said connected to the deaths in the Little Palace. Was Stephanie more dangerous than Julia? Put another way, was Stephanie angry with the living? Or with the long dead?
“Does Stephanie share your feelings? Is she a Republican?” she asked.
Julia laughed. “No, Stephanie is a rebel without a cause. She’s only interested in herself. But Izzy is a Republican. We share a similar grudge. She, too, hates Queen Victoria.”
“Are you referring to that plain little woman who follows Stephanie around? What is her name again?” Julia said.
“Isobel Strange. Can you believe it? Did a name ever match anyone any better? She’s a spooky little creature,” Julia said.
“What is her problem?”
“She claims her family was ruined by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Her ancestor, William Strange, was a nineteenth century London bookseller and publisher. He published fifty-one or more copies of a catalogue of stolen prints made by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, which he planned to sell. In 1849, Prince Albert sued Strange and won, to no one’s surprise. The Prince had the catalogues destroyed or returned to him. Strange’s case was not helped by his record. He had been sued by Charles Dickens in 1844 for literary piracy; Dickens won. In 1848, Strange published a book attacking the Monarchy, which offended many people.
“Izzy believes William Strange was ruined by Prince Albert, with Queen Victoria backing him up. She thought that it was unfair of them to sue her ancestor. Strange could never have won a suit brought by Prince Albert, even if he had been innocent. Her family was impoverished after the lawsuit, and they hated Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. They still hate them.
“You now have the complete stories of why both Izzy and I are Republicans—we think that the power of the Monarchy was used unjustly against us,” Julia said.
“Do you think Strange was guilty of the charges against him?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he was guilty. But it wasn’t a fair trial. Everyone knew Prince Albert would win. And William Strange had returned the prints. So why ruin him?”
“How did it ruin him? Surely Prince Albert didn’t ask for costs?”
“I don’t think so. But people were afraid to deal with Strange after they knew Prince Albert was against him. His business never recovered, and he became desperate. He began to sell obscene literature. In 1857, he was prosecuted for selling Paul Pry and Women of London, a case that led to the passing of the Obscene Publications Act. The Strange family still sells books of a kind, and tries to get printing assignments, but they’re at the bottom of the barrel in their field. Izzy blames her family’s downfall on Prince Albert and Queen Victoria.”
“Why is Isobel so devoted to Princess Stephanie?”
“They’ve known each other a long time. I don’t know how or why. They help each other. Izzy helped Stephanie make those prints, and Stephanie tells Izzy when ‘she gets what’s coming to her,’ she’ll help Izzy’s family get back on their feet. I have no idea what she means by ‘getting what’s coming to her,’ except I know she wants to marry money.”
“Good luck to her,” Rachel said. “Speaking of luck and marrying money: someone told me you inherited a fortune from your husband.”
“I inherited some money, but nothing like what I need to buy a house, and bring my ancestor’s body home from Crimea, bury him, and his sons and wife, and arrange the ceremony I’d like to have following the burials. I’ll get there. I will make it happen,” she declared.
“I’m thrifty. I’m lucky that I could get a place in the Little Palace. The Remembrance Society will admit everyone who is a Republican; no matter which royal we’re against. Izzy and I aren’t the only people with grudges again Queen Victoria. Living in the Little Palace is a good deal. It allows me to save money to finance my plans.”
“What do you do to
press your cause?” Rachel asked.
“Write letters. Write stories and articles about the Crimean War, and the people who died there, and those who are to blame. My articles sell pretty well and every little bit helps,” Julia said.
“And Isobel?”
“She’s lucky to be in the Little Palace, too, and she’s always trying to raise money.”
Rachel had one last question. “When I got home after seeing poor dead Ivan, I found blood on my boots and the clothes I was wearing. I didn’t go in that bathroom. Do you know how I came into contact with blood?”
“After you left, I found bloody rags on the floor of my closet. I got blood on my shoes before I knew the rags were there. There were bloody rags on a hanger, too. Blood was all over my coat. I didn’t know you’d brushed against it too. I’m so sorry.”’
“Who would have done that?” Rachel said.
“Someone who doesn’t like me. Some of the people living in the Little Palace are spiteful and vicious. I guess that kind of behavior goes with unhappiness. Nearly everyone in the Little Palace is unhappy, dissatisfied, miserable. The bloody rags were a nasty trick, but not the first one.”
“Thank you for explaining,” Rachel said. “On a happier note, I hear you are coming to Heyward’s party tonight?”
“Yes. I’m so excited! I never get to go to a party. I’m sure I have you to thank for the invitation—you’re a good friend. But speaking of the party, I must go home. I have an appropriate dress, but I need to air it, make sure it’s in decent shape.”
She stood up and Rachel walked her to the door. “I will see you tonight,” Rachel said.
She returned to the library and sat down. She didn’t know what to think. She’d pass all this on to Heyward. Maybe he would find it useful. The mystery of her bloody clothes was explained. Julia was amazingly calm about it. Just another nasty trick by someone who hated her. Living in the Little Palace must be terrible.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Coleman
Friday night, May, London
Bloody Royal Prints Page 13
