A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  Violet doubted whether exuberant infatuation would prevent consumption from taking its course but said nothing. The cloth she’d pulled out of Maud’s mouth popped into her mind, but she decided it best not to share this discovery with Louise, lest the princess’s mind wander even further down paths of treachery.

  Besides, Violet hadn’t even told the girl’s parents about it. It would be unfair to share it with Louise first.

  “Your Highness, is there something specific you wish for me to do?”

  “Yes, find out how Lady Maud died, and who did it to her.”

  Like mother, like daughter, both assigning Violet with foolish, impossible tasks. Violet hoped the princess didn’t notice the sigh of resignation that caught in her throat. Was Louise sending Violet on this chase as a distraction from her affair—if it had progressed that far—with Reverend Duckworth? And did this secret relationship have anything to do with Mr. Brown’s spectral warnings?

  Maybe there was something to investigate, but not what Louise had in mind.

  Violet returned to Gainsburgh House several hours later with the photographer, Mr. Henry Peach Robinson. It was a silent ride in Mr. Robinson’s photography wagon, for they’d argued heatedly inside his shop.

  “My dear Mrs. Harper, you must understand that I am the expert in this situation, and it is my professional opinion that the ambrotype is the better way to capture the girl’s image.”

  “That may be so, but I wish you to produce daguerreotypes.”

  The photographer gave her a withering look to ensure she understood his superiority in the matter. “Madam, the ambrotype can be tinted, a small service for which no doubt such a prestigious family would willingly pay. I can make their daughter appear to be in the bloom of health.”

  “Actually, Mr. Robinson, it is my responsibility to bring Lady Maud to the bloom of health. The tinting is unnecessary, and we both know the ambrotype process is weaker and the image will not last as long. It is, however, simpler, is it not, saving you from extra labors while charging my customers an extravagant price?”

  Robinson tried a new approach as they climbed onto the driving box and he guided his team onto the street. “You are a businesswoman, Mrs. Harper. You know that it is practice to charge according to what the classes can afford. The Duke of Gainsburgh can afford much.”

  “He just lost his daughter, which has already cost him a great deal,” Violet snapped. “If you’re charging a daguerreotype price, it is a daguerreotype you shall produce.”

  Silence descended on the driver’s box as they rode the rest of the way without speaking. Violet vowed to never hire Robinson again. Unfortunately, Mr. Laroche, Violet’s favorite photographer, was otherwise engaged and unable to accept this commission.

  Once they arrived at Gainsburgh House, Mr. Robinson went to the rear of his wagon to gather his equipment, while Violet went up to check on Lady Maud. Two chairs had been pulled up next to the bedside. The duke and duchess must have spent time grieving next to Maud, perhaps even pouring out the contents of their hearts to a beloved child who would never respond to them.

  It gave Violet an idea.

  She pulled one of the chairs around to the other side of the bed. At that point, Mr. Robinson arrived and unpacked his black camera box, silvered copper plates, and a heating lamp. On top of this flame went a cup Violet knew was full of mercury, used to develop the daguerreotype pictures.

  While he finished setting up his equipment, Violet had the duke’s and duchess’s presences requested in Lady Maud’s bedroom.

  Lady Gainsburgh had worked in the interim to improve her own appearance. She’d changed into a different, less-wrinkled, black dress and rearranged her hair. The duke still looked haggard and drawn.

  Violet presented Mr. Robinson to Maud’s parents, then quickly set up several poses. It was best to get photographs captured before the family could dwell on what was happening and thus succumb to grief during the session.

  First, Violet did one with the couple on either side of the bed, each with a hand covering one of Maud’s. Next, she had Lord Gainsburgh sit next to Maud and gently lifted the girl’s torso and placed it against him. He naturally put his arms around his daughter, and Robinson captured the poignant moment.

  Violet also arranged pillows behind Maud’s head to push her forward and had Robinson do several photographs this way, as well as relaxing the girl’s body down on the bed and having him take an image from the side, capturing Maud at rest with her hands over a Bible.

  The Gainsburghs seemed pleased with the poses and left Violet and Robinson to finish their work. As Violet returned Lady Maud back to the supine position appropriate for visitors, she watched Mr. Robinson at work and had to admit that, despite their combative start, the man was efficient and able.

  As he pulled each plate from his camera box, he set the exposed piece over the heated cup of mercury, and soon the latent image was developed by the mercury condensing on the areas on the plate where the exposure light was most intense and less so in the darker areas of the image. Once he was satisfied that the image was finished, he slipped the plate into a developing box to inspect the image through a special glass window to determine when to stop development.

  Next, Robinson “fixed” the image onto the plate by dipping it into a saturated salt solution. After drying, the plate would be ready to be sealed in glass cases evacuated of air and filled with nitrogen to stabilize the photograph.

  Violet gingerly held up a finished photograph by the plate’s corners. The image was firmly defined, with Lady Maud’s features clearly reflecting a very sweet expression. No wonder Lord Effingham’s son was taken with her.

  Violet nodded as she carefully handed the plate back to Mr. Robinson. “This is fine work, sir. I’m sure the family will appreciate seeing them in their cases.”

  Violet and Mr. Robinson’s ride back together was much more pleasant.

  Lord and Lady Gainsburgh decided that they wanted Lady Maud presented in grander fashion than in her bed, so Violet returned with undertaker Will Swift to remove the girl’s body to a coffin they set up on a bier in the ballroom. Chairs lined the walls like somber sentries performing guard duty around the body.

  Will Swift and Harry Blundell had acquired management of Morgan Undertaking from Violet when she moved to the United States. Prior to that, they had worked for her in the shop. Now that she had returned for a protracted stay in London, Will was pressing her to buy his share of the business back from him, despite Violet’s previous insistence that she would be returning home to Colorado soon.

  He brought it up again in low tones as they artistically arranged pots of lilies around the bier and draped a cloth embroidered with the ducal crest over Lady Maud’s lower half. The coffin lid would be stored away until it was time to nail it down for the funeral itself.

  “Mrs. Harper, Lydia is bent on my abandoning the funeral business to join her father’s floral shop. Are you sure you aren’t interested in purchasing my interest?”

  “Of course I’m interested, Will, but it’s still possible that I will be returning to Colorado soon, just as soon as Sam finishes up his work with Mr. Nobel and I complete a task for the queen.”

  Will nodded. “And as soon as you see another body interred. This is, what, your third funeral since you arrived?”

  Violet thought about the mysterious deaths surrounding the Raybourn family she’d recently investigated. “I suppose this is my fourth one.”

  “Don’t forget that you also have the Suez Canal opening ceremonies to attend in November.”

  “Yes, but that is positively the last thing keeping me here.”

  “Oh, most certainly that is true. Except that by then, the queen will have something else for you to do. Please consider my offer, Mrs. Harper. Talk it over with your husband.”

  Violet had already mentioned it to Sam, but they hadn’t come to a decision yet. She promised to do so, and Will departed while Violet stayed behind to do some touch-ups on Lady Ma
ud’s cosmetics. The jostling caused by transporting corpses, especially on long flights of stairs, frequently marred their perfect composure.

  Violet had just tucked everything away in her undertaking bag when the tall double-mahogany doors to the ballroom were opened by an unseen servant’s hand. In swept a couple in their late twenties, probably a little older than Lady Maud. Violet stepped respectfully back into a corner, quietly setting her bag on one of the many ballroom chairs.

  “. . . and Lady Gainsburgh looks downright sickly, doesn’t she?” the man said.

  “Naturally, Ripley. Maud was everything to her.” The woman was a petite and blond foil to the man’s dark and towering presence. Both were appropriately dressed in solemn black, with an armband snug around the man’s upper arm and gloves encasing the woman’s hands.

  “We can’t be surprised by what happened to Maud, though, can we, Lottie?” Ripley dropped his voice to a hiss as they reached Maud’s coffin in the center of the room. Both were oblivious to Violet’s presence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know precisely what I mean. All of that . . . activity . . . you peahens are involved in. No wonder it wore Maud out until she finally just collapsed. It could happen to you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Maud was always sickly. I’ve never been ill at all.”

  “Yet we have no child.”

  “This again? Ripley, it isn’t for lack of trying. And anyway, this is a horrid time and place to speak of it. Poor Maud.” Together the couple leaned over the coffin to look at her.

  The woman called Lottie bent over and affectionately kissed Maud’s forehead. Violet winced, for the deceased’s cosmetics had just been freshly reapplied and were not yet necessarily set. It was difficult to know at Violet’s distance whether or not Lottie’s lips were stained with Porcelain Bisque Number Two.

  “Farewell, lovely Maud,” Lottie said softly, continuing to gaze at her friend.

  “Don’t be disgusting. I’ll not have it said that my wife goes about kissing corpses.”

  “You are an ass, Lord Marcheford.”

  “You’ve been perfectly clear about your opinion on many occasions, my dear. Are we quite finished here? I want to escort you home so I can get to the club. Barton has a new Cabernet imported from Anjou that we’re going to sample.”

  “You go on and send the driver back for me. I want to stay here with Maud a bit longer.”

  “Suit yourself.” He kissed his wife on the cheek with all the enthusiasm of a fish having a hook removed from its mouth.

  As soon as her husband departed, Lady Marcheford put her head down on her arm atop the edge of the coffin and sobbed, a sound that nearly split the room in half in its misery and wretchedness.

  Violet knew what it was to have a bitter and thoughtless husband, having had one herself prior to Sam. Her professional instinct to remain quietly in the background was overridden by her female desire to comfort. She went to the woman and said as faintly as she could, so as not to startle her, “Lady Marcheford?”

  Violet’s peaceful approach didn’t work. Lady Marcheford unsuccessfully tried to swallow a most unregal screech. “Who are you and where did you come from?” she said, a gloved hand flying to her chest. Her lips indeed had a smudge of cosmetic massage cream on them, but that was the least of Violet’s concerns now.

  “My apologies. I am the undertaker, here to care for your friend. I stepped back when you arrived, so as not to disturb your visit.”

  “You are the undertaker. How very curious. Actually, it’s rather appropriate in Maud’s case.”

  “Madam?”

  “Never mind. Did you hear the argument the earl and I had?”

  “No, madam. My attention is for the Lady Maud, and she no longer speaks.”

  The woman looked furtively at the door through which her husband had just exited, then sighed. “I suppose it is of no matter. It isn’t as though all of our servants—and therefore half of London—haven’t heard it before.”

  Violet cast her eyes down. “Yes, my lady.”

  She sensed that Lady Marcheford was about to unburden herself, and she didn’t have long to wait.

  “I am Charlotte Tate, the Countess of Marcheford. My husband is waiting impatiently to inherit the Marquess of Salford title, but his father has remained unforgivably healthy. Unlike poor, darling Maud.”

  Lady Marcheford bent down once more and stroked Maud’s jawline as she continued talking. The cosmetic massage was rubbing off onto her glove, but she didn’t seem to notice. “My husband’s mistress is also unforgivably healthy. Maud had no idea how fortunate she was in her unwedded state.”

  “I understand Lady Maud had recently found love.”

  Lady Marcheford frowned and stood once again. “How did you hear this?”

  “From the Princess Louise. She engaged me here on behalf of the family.”

  “I see. She shared such a personal detail about our friend with you?” Her tone was more curious than accusing.

  “Her Highness has placed a level of trust in me.” Violet hoped that sounded neutral enough.

  “Did she tell you anything else about Lady Maud?”

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “Did she suggest our friend was in danger?”

  Proceed carefully, Violet Harper.

  “The princess very clearly loved Lady Maud very much and wants to be sure she had no . . . undue distress before she died.”

  “Cleverly said, little undertaker. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if harm had come to her, and she wouldn’t be the only one in danger.”

  “Pardon me, madam?”

  Lady Marcheford was unable to answer, for she broke into a coughing fit. She frantically reached inside the drawstring reticule hanging from her wrist and pulled out a handkerchief, which she pressed to her mouth. Once the coughing had subsided, she glanced at the handkerchief and tucked it back into her bag, resuming her conversation as if nothing had happened.

  “No, there are others in danger. I do hope Louise is being attentive to others besides darling Maud.”

  “Do you speak of yourself, my lady?”

  “Have you any idea what it is to be married to a man who is handsome, polished, brilliant . . . and thoroughly rotten in his soul?”

  “In fact, I do.”

  “Does he approve of your undertaking?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Ah, then you approved of his own undertaking.” Lady Marcheford put the cosmetics-stained-gloved hand to her mouth to cover a weak smile. “Sorry, what a rotten joke. I mustn’t be so boorish.”

  “It’s quite all right, madam. My husband died long ago, and I have since made a much happier marriage.”

  “So it is possible then? To wait it out until His Rottenness comes to his own dreadful end and then pick up with someone kinder and more loving?”

  This was an uncomfortable conversation. “My lady, I wouldn’t say that I was waiting out my husband’s demise, it was more that he . . . brought it on himself.”

  “If only Ripley would do so. The man is simply loathsome. Sometimes he frightens me. I’ve learned to stand up to his browbeating, but you never know when a man like that will shatter and embed everyone around him with shards of glass. I am prepared for it, though.”

  Lady Marcheford pulled open her reticule and held it up for Violet’s inspection. Nestled inside was a pearl-handled derringer. “I nicked it from my father’s collection. He has so many he doesn’t even realize it’s missing. I know how to use it, too.”

  She pulled the drawstrings tight once more and put the reticule back over her arm. “I hope it doesn’t come to this between Ripley and me, but I’m prepared for him.”

  Violet murmured sympathies and quickly excused herself. Were Louise and all of her set this irrational, or was there something to their fears?

  Reese Meredith was amazed at his own good luck. It had been so long since he’d had any. Yet he’d managed to leave his position at Winterbourne Manor
with a good character reference in hand and the amusement of having Agnes weep on his shoulder while Runyon glared at him.

  That was a very satisfying moment.

  Yet it was only a foreshadowing of what he would accomplish now in honor of Margaret’s memory and to ensure there were no more Margarets being slaughtered in the streets of Mold and towns like it.

  For now he had accomplished his first goal, which was to get near the queen and her family. How simple it had been. His experience in the cavalry, fighting for his country in Hong Kong and Peking, culminating in the assault and capture of the Old Summer Palace and thus concluding the Second Opium War, had duly impressed his new employer, resulting in an immediate hire.

  Here Reese sat in a new servants’ hall, with new companions and new routines to follow, but it was all irrelevant to him as he remained lost in his own thoughts while steaming bowls of potatoes, braised rabbit, mince pie, and peas with bacon were passed around. A new butler said grace, and a new cook blushed at the praise heaped upon her roasting talents.

  Every house was like another, only some were larger than others.

  Reese considered his plan as he scooped out a serving of peas for the simpering maid across the table from him. All of his movements must be just perfect. Any misstep would reveal his plan. He didn’t care so much for himself, his own life, but it wouldn’t do for him to be caught and thus foil his precisely crafted scheme.

  What did he need to do next? Perhaps he needed an opiate of some sort. A woman struggling in his arms was so very distasteful, even if she was a member of the peerage. Yes, he must figure out how to procure something . . . soothing . . . to the fairer sex.

  His ruminations were interrupted by a tidbit of gossip that floated above the rest of the nattering the servants were doing.

  “What did you say?” he asked of one of the scullery maids.

  “It’s one of the Princess Louise’s friends what died. Lady Maud Winter. The princess is all broken up. She even rode over with the undertaker. Imagine that, a princess of the blood being seen with an undertaker out in public.”