Reese snapped a strap of leather. It cracked loudly inside the small room attached to the stable.
“No, been too busy. Can’t put my feet up on a stool all day long the way you do.”
Not rising to the bait Reese tossed out, Runyon instead smirked in his usual irritating way. “I s’pose those of us with more than porridge between our ears end up with leisure time. Look there, a bit of manure on your boot. Won’t want the master to see that.”
Reese looked down. There was indeed some crusted dung on his toe. “They isn’t my riding boots, numbskull. You too busy with newsprint to notice even the simplest things about your job anymore?”
Runyon didn’t reply and instead leaned against the planked wall and began speaking about the article he was reading. “Ah, a fire over in Trowbridge. Burned down some lord’s house and stables. Four Welsh cobs and two Cleveland Bays lost. Shame about the beasts.” He flipped the page and scanned some more.
“Some chap named Sainsbury has opened a fresh foods shop in London. Promises perfect quality and lower prices to all shoppers. Sure, no chalked milk or coppered pickles from him, eh?”
Reese ignored Runyon, picking up another harness and pouring out more neat’s-foot oil.
“What else do we see here? Hmm.” He turned another page. “What’s this? A riot over in Wales, in Flintshire. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”
“Yes, what of it? You think I had something to do with it?” Reese had worked hard to eliminate his Welsh dialect, but somehow people always discovered where he was from.
“Don’t be so tetchy. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Where was I? Yes, here it is. Yes, very interesting. That will ruffle a few feathers in London, won’t it, now? So much terrible destruction.”
God, but Runyon was irritating. How was such a horse’s rear Mr. Park’s favorite? Reese considered planting his manure-covered toe firmly up that rear but didn’t think the docked pay was worth it. He wiped down the harness in his hands a few more times, then let out a beleaguered sigh.
“So, Runyon, won’t you tell me what the article says?”
The other footman deliberately raised an eyebrow.
“Please,” Reese said through gritted teeth.
“Sure, happy to help those less fortunate than me. A couple of days ago, two colliers were sentenced to jail for attacking their pit manager. Townsfolk didn’t like it and attacked the police escort. The pit manager must have been one mean buzzard, eh? Soldiers were brought in, and they shot and killed several people.”
Reese frowned. “Does it say who was killed?”
“Let’s see, yes, two colliers, Robert Hannaby and Edward Bellis, were both killed. A local maidservant, Margaret Younghusband of Chester, was shot and killed. And the wife of a collier was also killed. Shot in the back, she was. Now that’s just not proper. These soldiers get worked up and think they can just—what’s wrong with you, Meredith? You look green.”
Reese tried to maintain his balance on the stool, but everything was spinning and he knew he’d soon be sharing the straw-covered floor with the remaining dirty harnesses.
He swallowed and licked his lips. “What was the name of the maidservant again?” His voice came out as a dim croaking in his ears.
“Margaret Younghusband. You know her?”
Reese took a deep breath, trying to get some semblance of control over his racing heart and the endless swirling of mental images adding to his unbalance. “What? No. Her name sounded familiar, but I’m sure I don’t know her.”
Och, Margaret, what happened? What were ooh doing there?
He ignored the trickle of sweat trailing down past his ear. The room was coming back into focus again. “What else does it say? Has the queen or Parliament made comment?”
Runyon scanned the article again. “No, no proclamation from Buckingham Palace. I guess the queen’s too busy getting her children married off to the crowned princes and princesses of Europe to be worried about a few grubby Welsh coal miners.”
“Right,” Reese said. Margaret, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.
“Well, back to work. Lady Christie wants to go into town and won’t be kept waiting, will she, eh?”
With Runyon gone, Reese savored the silence as he mechanically returned to his work, unsure what else to do. Questions of Why? and What happened? were swirling around inside his throat, choking him, like the dust that billowed from the thundering of horses’ hooves on a dry road.
He gathered up the harnesses and staggered to his feet, still not quite sure he’d heard aright. A local maidservant, Margaret Younghusband of Chester, was shot and killed.
Swallowing to keep his stomach from lurching the contents of his boiled egg and cold ham breakfast onto the tack room floor, he focused on hanging each harness on its proper hook. Saddles, harnesses, and stirrups were all identified by the specific riders for each animal at Winterbourne Manor. Woe betide a footman or groom who got them mixed up.
That done, he stumbled out of the room and into the stables themselves. No one there; good. Finding an empty stall, devoid of a horse that must be now carrying Lady Christie on her errand, he huddled in a corner where no one could see him.
He knew he’d end up covered in straw that would never come out of his clothes and it would undoubtedly earn him a cuff or two, but it didn’t matter for the moment.
As a member of the King’s Dragoon Guards, Reese had witnessed plenty of death during the opium war, all of it sickening and much of it committed by him. He’d hacked at men from atop a saddle while sloshing through disease-infested waters, even as horses were cut out from under him. He’d severed, stabbed, and shot dozens in the name of queen and country.
He’d also seen his fellow cavalry members destroyed before his eyes. Being on the receiving end of a friend’s intestines after he was sliced open next to you was enough to make any man cower in terror.
But not Reese Meredith. He barely noticed any of it. After years of working in the grimy, brutal conditions of the coal mines, war was almost a relief. At least it was all conducted outdoors, instead of underground.
But this, this, was cracking his heart like a pickax against a coal face. He covered his face with his hands. Margaret, was this my fault for leaving you behind?
After several minutes of heaving and sobbing, with no one to hear him except a few mares, snuffling anxiously at the sounds, Reese wiped his face on his sleeve—also cuff worthy—and reined in his thoughts. In time, he heard the telltale clopping of horseshoes. Lady Christie had returned and Runyon was bringing the horses back.
Reese slipped out of the stable stall before he was caught. As he returned to his duties, he decided upon one thing.
Someone should pay, and pay dearly, for murdering his sweet Margaret.
2
Two letters awaited Violet at the palace, one from Susanna and one from Sam. Violet set Sam’s aside to savor later and opened the one from her daughter, which was full of newsy tidbits about her work in Violet’s undertaking shop in Colorado during her absence. Susanna left the most important news for the end.
. . . I know Papa has told you everything, so it will be of no surprise to know that Ben Tompkins and I are now engaged. Isn’t it wonderful? I know I should have waited for you, but I was so excited that I visited Mrs. Perry on my own. She has the most marvelous silks, imported here from Provence. And yards and yards of different laces. I can’t decide between Chantilly lace and the lace being produced by some of the Indian tribes here. I wish you were here to help me. You will be home soon, won’t you? I cannot bear the thought of waiting to get married, but I also cannot bear the thought of getting married without you and Papa here.
Violet couldn’t bear the thought of missing her daughter’s wedding, either. To think that she would be delayed in order to chase filmy spirits up and down parquet hallways was beyond mortal comprehension.
It had been months since she’d left Colorado, yet she had to admit to being happy back in London.
Despite the fog swirling in the streets, the smuts blackening the air, and the dark alleys inhabited by thieves, prostitutes, and worse, London had always been home to her. She’d learned her trade here, and she’d embalmed hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of its citizens, making her part of both the city’s present and its past.
So although she missed Colorado’s blue skies, the grandeur of its mountain vistas, and its sense of endless possibilities, it was good to be in London, especially since Sam was with her. Well, he was in nearby Wales, but only temporarily. If only Susanna were here, instead of thousands of miles away . . .
Violet also had the Suez Canal ceremony to consider. After the last service she had performed for the queen, Victoria had given Sam and her a royal invitation to attend the opening of the Suez Canal in Egypt. The waterway was scheduled to be opened in November. It was now June. How could she ever possibly discover the plot at the palace, return to Colorado for Susanna’s wedding, and then rejoin the entourage in London and head to Cairo before November?
It wasn’t likely.
She sighed in frustration. It was difficult to be in service to the queen, since the queen’s demands came before everything else, including a husband and daughter to whom you wanted to devote much time.
This was probably why Victoria was usually highly incensed when any of her palace staff had the desire to marry. The very audacity of it!
Violet put Susanna’s letter aside. This decision would require discussion with Sam. Perhaps he could head back to Colorado for the wedding. She imagined the scene at the church, with her spot in the pew empty, and felt a nervous flutter in her stomach.
It just wouldn’t do. She had to resolve the queen’s problem, created by Mr. Brown for unknown reasons, and return home to Colorado as soon as possible. Besides, she’d purchased Susanna a beautiful pair of dolls, wearing exact replicas of the wedding garb worn by the Prince and Princess of Wales for their wedding six years ago. Susanna had to have the dolls in time for her wedding.
Sam’s letter was equally newsy but more disturbing than Susanna’s. In it, he told of a terrible incident whereby he witnessed a revolt that resulted in several town residents being killed, including a young woman who died in Sam’s arms.
. . . Fear not, Wife, for I immediately knew what I must do. After my guide returned with a doctor, who immediately declared her dead, I sought out the girl’s family. Her employer told me she had none, and, in fact, did not seem overly upset by her sudden death. I traipsed about until I found a local undertaker, and remanded her body to him, giving him payment myself to ensure she had a decent, Christian burial.
Let us hope that the entire incident is finished and that there will be no more violence in the aftermath. I do not care to engage in any further battles or wars, especially ones having nothing to do with the United States.
I am now in Pembrey, waiting for Mr. Nobel to arrive from Stockholm. He telegraphed me that his ship was delayed at the Norwegian port of Kristiansand prior to entering the North Sea. I expect him any day, and together we will meet with local authorities to discuss his idea for a dynamite factory here, although I cannot imagine why he wants this location. As far as I can tell, there are no diatomite reserves here, as most are in the north surrounding an old volcano. Diatomaceous earth is critical for making dynamite, so why does he desire this place? It is certainly marshy here; perhaps he suspects there is an undiscovered deposit. It also has good access to the Bristol Channel and so would facilitate shipping to the United States.
Violet was still mystified by Sam’s enthusiasm for this explosive dynamite. Both he and Mr. Nobel were convinced it was perfectly safe, but how could anything whose primary purpose was to detonate be safe?
Her anxiety over her husband’s activities was tempered by her gratitude over his service to a dying girl. And the undertaker in Violet definitely fretted: Did the others who were slain also receive proper ministrations?
Violet wrote first to Sam, telling him about Mr. Brown’s tarot card reading and her new assignment. She had difficulty explaining it all, since she wasn’t sure she even actually understood it herself. She also expressed her turmoil over whether they should stay permanently in London. One of the owners of her old shop, Morgan Undertaking, had offered to let her buy back in. She wanted to do so . . . but was it the right thing for them?
To Susanna, she expressed her delight at the engagement, and her fervent hope that she would return before Susanna got too impatient and donned her veil without Violet’s presence.
No, Violet wasn’t entirely unhappy to be in London, but part of her heart was in Colorado.
Reese crumpled up yet another sheet of writing paper and shoved it into one of the side pockets of his groom’s coat. Damned if he’d ask Runyon for assistance, though. He would muddle through this himself.
As he stood on the rear stand at the back of Lady Christie’s carriage, he tried again, working as covertly as possible against the landau’s roof. Fortunately, Lady Christie never went out with the top down, “to save her complexion,” as she insisted. Runyon, today serving as driver, sat stoically on the box at the front of the carriage, not looking in any direction but forward, so Reese could work without notice by anyone except for the other aristocrats coming and going from inside the jewelers’ shop.
Aristocrats were unlikely to notice much beyond the crest on the carriage and the white and green colors of the Baverstock livery, homage to the family’s supposed connection to the Tudors. Lord Christie showed off his title well.
Reese drew a line through not a speck of compashun in the harts of those who preetend to serve us. Too harsh? After some more scratching and rewriting, he was finally happy with his effort. He glanced up to look into the jewelers’ shop. Lady Christie was still poking through trays of baubles and probably wouldn’t be done for a half hour or so.
Under his breath, he reread his letter to the Times editor aloud: “ ‘Dear Mr. Walter, I know your readers will be as unhappy as I am to learn that many people are pointing their fingers at not only Parlemint but the queen herself as responsible for the trajedy at Mold that kilt a number of innocent citizens.
“ ‘Is it not enough that the owner of Leeswood Green Colliery and his loutish, ruffian managers care noothing for the lives of their workers? Must the prime minister and the queen turn their backs on them, too?
“ ‘There has been no apology from any of these black, evil parties who see young children booried deep underground sixteen hours a day and feel nothing about it. Or who witness starving miners having their wages cut without a thought about their families that will starve. And who also know that innocent young wimmen are being kilt in the streets to proteckt the sinful acts of vile men.
“ ‘Is there no shame? Citizens of London, if this is happening in Wales, think you that it woun’t happen in the match facktories and cotton mills in England? We must demand vengeance for these wroongs.
“ ‘Will you stand up?
“ ‘Yours and et cetera, A Citizen Concerned for Coal Miners’ Rights.’ ”
At least, that’s how he hoped it read. Reese knew it was badly misspelled and his written grammar probably bore no relation to his stampede of ideas, but certainly the newspaper editor would clean it up before publication, wouldn’t he? The world needed to know what was wrong in Mold—and all across Great Britain—with these dangerous coal mines.
Reese needed to make an excuse to Runyon so he could jump down and post his letter. Once it was published, anger would surely erupt in London.
Anyone who knew darling Margaret would be outraged. Such an impish, round face, with auburn hair that tumbled wildly down her back. Her tresses were always in differing lengths because she was forever hacking at them to imitate the fancy hairstyles of the day that were popular, but never quite succeeded at copying any of them. Who could not love her, having known her for just moments?
Reese Meredith knew her better than anyone else on this cruel earth and would never, ever let the matter rest.
He would have satisfaction for his half sister’s life being so tragically cut short.
Violet returned to Buckingham Palace the next day and went looking for Mr. Brown. A servant suggested he might be in one of the stables, so she went there. Located about five hundred feet behind the palace, the mews was constructed of unremarkable beige stone. It was built around an open area where grooms were exercising several of the royal mares.
Because the building was a uniform, two-story square surrounding her, Violet wasn’t sure exactly in which direction to go. A servant in livery approached her.
“Pardon me, there are no tourists permitted in Her Majesty’s stables. You can see the Prince and Princess of Wales in their carriage when they depart today at half past five for the theater.”
“No, you don’t understand. I am Violet Harper and I—”
“Ah, yes, the undertaker on the queen’s mission. How may I help you, Mrs. Harper?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Brown.”
The servant extended his hand toward the center of one side of the mews. “If you go through the archway, I believe you’ll find him in the stable there.”
“Thank you.” Violet started to walk away, but the servant stopped her.
“Please, ma’am, if you don’t mind, the ground floor contains the horses and equipage and is open for you to inspect. The upper floor, though, is where all of the stable hands’ quarters are, and it is private, if you don’t mind not going up there.”
“Of course.” What an odd request, Violet thought as she made her way to where she hoped she’d find Mr. Brown. Why would servant quarters be of any interest to her, especially those located in the mews?
A Virtuous Death Page 3
