Bertie had come alone this time, to spare Alix what was sure to be a frightful row. He was glad he did, for when he stepped into Victoria’s private sitting room his mother looked braced for battle. Undoubtedly, he, too, looked prepared with his own verbal arsenal.
“May I join you for tea?” he asked, trying to keep himself at a low simmer.
A maid poured for them both; then Victoria waved her away.
“We don’t have long. Mr. Brown is in the stables preparing Lochnagar for our afternoon ride.”
Bertie swallowed his irritation with his first gulp of tea. Mother rides out nearly every day with that drunkard leading her. “I’m sure you will enjoy the fresh air.”
“It’s hot outside.”
“I imagine many people must see you when you go on your afternoon jaunts.”
“The people like to see their sovereign.”
“They also like to gossip. What do you imagine they say when they see you riding with your ghillie every single day?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone knows that we are devoted to your father and would never consider such a thing. Besides, Mr. Brown is a servant.”
“It’s not ridiculous, Mother. There are people who call you Mrs. Brown now. Do you understand? They think you are intimate enough with him that you could be his wife. You must dismiss him.”
She stirred two cubes of sugar into her tea. “Son, your jealousy makes you petty.”
“Jealousy? What have I to be jealous of?” Had he just snorted again? He must temper that, lest someone bridle him and escort him to the mews.
“Your mother’s crumb of happiness.”
“You are happy with that whiskey-swilling, arrogant dung collector, who shows you no more respect than a sailor shows a prostitute?”
“Your language, Bertie, is really quite atrocious.”
“Not as atrocious as all of the rumors that follow that sot around. Do you know what I heard about him yesterday? That he is a follower of that Marx fellow, that Brown is a communist.”
Victoria snorted. “Of all the foolish things you’ve said before, Bertie, this must be the silliest. Of course Mr. Brown isn’t a communist. Anyone who gave off even a whiff of revolutionary tendencies would be dismissed instantly.”
“Except that you can’t smell him out through the bottle of Begg’s Best that he keeps on him. I tell you, Mother, no good will result from this unseemly attachment you have to Brown.”
“Bertie, the Bible says to attend to the plank in your own eye before pointing out the speck in another’s eye. Need we remind you of your own troubles with Sir Charles Mordaunt?”
“Nothing will come of it. It’s all idle gossip.”
“Is it? Sir Charles has accused you of improprieties with his wife, Harriet, and will probably drag your name through his inevitable divorce proceedings, and you believe that nothing will come of it?”
“Sir Charles is a little put out by his wife’s . . . private adventures. She isn’t walking through Hyde Park every day on the arm of some other man.”
Victoria pushed her teacup and saucer away from her and leaned forward. When did Mother become so pudgy? “No, she is merely dallying with the Prince of Wales, whose wife is carrying their fifth child.”
“Those are unsubstantiated rumors.”
“Perhaps we should refer to Lady Mordaunt as the Princess of Wales, eh?”
“You’re changing the subject, Mother.”
“And you are forgetting that we are the queen. As your mother, we are sorry to have this conversation. As your queen, we demand that you stop and never bring it up again.”
Bertie threw down his napkin and pushed back his chair. Why did every discussion with his mother end up like this? “It may be over for now, but, assuredly, your adoring people will remind you of it over and over.”
He stalked back to Marlborough House. How could he ever make his mother see reason?
Violet accompanied Mary to Charing Cross station, with a final plea to her friend not to go. “No good will result from surprising him like this,” she said.
Mary, however, had developed a will as strong as that of the iron steam carriage that would carry her to Dover before she boarded a ship to Calais and then another series of trains across the border of France to the city of Lausanne in Switzerland.
“I must know, and this is the only way to be certain of his fidelity. I will be fine, Violet, I promise.”
Violet nodded in resignation and kissed Mary’s cheek. “When you and George return, we will visit Madame Tussauds to celebrate your happiness. I hear they have an exhibit on the upcoming opening of the Suez Canal that I would love to see.”
Mary smiled and boarded her train, waving through her window as she sat down. Violet kissed her gloved fingers and waved back. How she hoped Mary would still be smiling when she returned home.
Back at St. James’s Palace, Violet had two letters waiting for her, one from Sam and one from Susanna. She opened Sam’s first. He was back in northern England, dejected over his meetings with Nobel and the officials in Pembrey.
They have refused to permit the building of a dynamite factory. The site Mr. Nobel had located was ideal, but it is of no use to purchase it. I don’t know what to do next. Should you and I return to Colorado, where I would try to build a factory to service gold and silver mines in the West, or continue to stay here in Great Britain in hopes of eventually changing minds in either Wales or the North?
I confess, my love, that I see that thousands of miners’ lives might be saved through the use of dynamite. I saw terrible things in Wales. Mining is a dangerous business. Could I be of help here? Should I stay until I am absolutely certain dynamite will never be used? I know you have a desire to formally reopen your undertaking activities—should we stay?
But if we stay, what of Susanna?
He then offered an admonition:
Now, my darling wife, I expect that you will keep out of trouble until I return. No chats with murderers, no tumbles over bridges, and most certainly no near accidents with trains.
Had all of those things really happened over the past few months? It was hard to believe that life was more adventurous here than even in Colorado.
. . . and when I do return, I’ll not go anywhere without you again. Whether we stay in England or return to Colorado, it will be together. I’ll brook no arguments.
Violet smiled and kissed the letter, in which her husband agreed with her own thoughts. How she missed him, especially as someone of good reason with whom to discuss things. Sam would have insights into Mr. Brown, Mr. Meredith, Lord Marcheford, and the host of spirits supposedly waiting for her to do something about it all.
She didn’t dare write to him about it, though, lest someone else—accidentally or otherwise—open the letter. No, she would have to figure it out for herself.
She opened Susanna’s letter and threw it down in frustration and dismay after reading the first two lines:
Dearest Mama, I hope you and Papa won’t be angry, but Benjamin and I are married. We just couldn’t wait another day for each other. You do understand, don’t you?
Susanna hadn’t waited for Violet and Sam to return. Violet would have none of the pleasures of preparing her daughter to be wed. Sam would be so disappointed, too. Violet shook her head at the impetuousness of youth.
Of course, with Susanna already married there was now little impetus to rush back to Colorado for a wedding. So was it a blessing in disguise?
Violet retrieved the letter from the floor and continued reading. Susanna and Benjamin were planning to take a honeymoon by traveling to London, so that she could show her new husband the home of her youth, “. . . and because I don’t foresee you ever returning, Mama.”
Her daughter was beginning to sound like Will Swift.
The letter closed with Susanna jokingly suggesting that Violet present her to the queen.
Based on the date of the letter, Violet predicted that Susanna and Benjamin would arrive in anoth
er month. She looked around at her disheveled room. This was no place to entertain guests. Nor did she have permission from the queen for guests beyond her husband.
Perhaps it was time to meet with Will and make a commitment to owning the shop once again. Surely she could have the rooms above Morgan Undertaking ready by the time Susanna and her new husband arrived. Violet spent her evening writing a long letter to Sam, telling him about Susanna and her plan to buy back into Morgan Undertaking.
They would stay in England.
Violet didn’t expect the House of Commons to be so hot and crowded. She was sweating by the time she and Josephine secured spots on the long, green leather-covered benches on one side of the viewing gallery. There were quite a few women in attendance today, and most were vigorously waving fans at their faces.
Another viewing gallery faced Violet and Josephine. Beneath each gallery were four rows of pews facing each other across a center aisle. The aisle was dominated by a desk and a tall altar chair behind it. What wasn’t covered in green leather was done in paneled wood. Enormous gas chandeliers hung imposingly from the ceiling. The entire effect was dramatic and dignified.
Until the members entered. Hundreds of men in their finest black frock coats began filing into the pit, taking seats on either side of the aisle, already arguing among themselves. Once they were seated, an older gentleman with a large, hooked nose and a florid face, wearing a judge’s wig and black robes, walked ceremoniously up the center aisle and took his place in the altar chair.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Josephine.
“Evelyn Denison, the Speaker of the House. He’s a Whig. I like him, as he’s working to have a plain but complete commentary of the Bible written for the public.”
Violet nodded. The Speaker would need considerable cosmetic attention one day. However, for now he projected determination. Denison opened up the session and recognized the honorable member for Cockburn to speak.
A middle-aged man, whose somber dress was relieved by a bright scarlet waistcoat, rose and spoke at length about the addition of more gas lampposts in heavily populated areas.
When he was finished, Denison recognized someone else, who also spoke tediously, this time about British rule in Ireland.
Violet might have found it all more interesting if it weren’t so stuffy in the building. She was struggling to stay awake.
And so the next couple of hours went. Various members were recognized from either the Tory or Whig side of the aisle to discuss a variety of issues, measures, and reforms. Some generated wild debate; others were politely ignored.
Finally, the Speaker brought up the Contagious Diseases Acts, asking for opinion on them. This caused the most uncontrolled arguing of the day until the Speaker finally intervened. “Gentlemen, be seated once more. Members, I ask for your attention. I say, SILENCE!”
The members all sat down noiselessly, the only sound now the whirr of ladies’ fans waving back and forth.
“We will now recognize Sir Charles Mordaunt, the member for South Warwickshire.”
A man in his early thirties, who might be described as handsome if not for an expression so bitter it was as though he had a mouth full of ginger root, stood on the Tory side. He was trim and finely dressed, however, and moved with the lazy assurance of someone whose primary occupation was pleasing himself.
He also quickly proved to be an effective orator.
“As my distinguished colleagues are aware, there is a movement to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts, a movement populated by derelicts, reprobates, and headstrong women. These acts, which not only protect our sailors and soldiers from disease, but also keep the health of these prostitutes in check, do not need to be repealed. No, I say the laws should be strengthened.”
There were murmurs of both approval and disagreement. Next to Violet, Josephine sat as still as a statue, although her darting eyes were indicative of her total concentration on the proceedings. Violet worried that the woman might have a raging outburst if Sir Charles continued in this vein.
In this vein he indeed continued.
“The acts, passed easily in 1864, have had no deleterious effects on prostitutes. How could they, when all they do is seek out those that are infected and attempt to treat them? They are put in hospitals at taxpayer expense for this treatment for up to three months, then released to continue plying their trade. Why so much worry over it?”
Violet put a calming hand over Josephine’s as a warning not to interject. She didn’t need to, for another member jumped up.
“We recognize Mr. Walter, the member for Berkshire,” Denison said.
This member was as corpulent as Mordaunt was thin and with as placid a countenance as Mordaunt’s was churlish.
“While I appreciate Sir Charles’s sincere beliefs about the Contagious Diseases Acts, he is quite mistaken about the effect on prostitutes. Despite his claim that the British taxpayers are paying for these treatments, in truth there is little funding for the lock hospitals. In fact, there are fewer than four hundred beds for these patients—when our prostitute population numbers in the thousands—and only about two hundred beds are actually funded for use. So what happens? These female venereal patients must resort to workhouse infirmaries. We all know the condition of such institutions. These unfortunates are lucky to survive the infirmaries, much less be in condition to ‘continue plying their trade,’ as Sir Charles states.”
Josephine smiled, nodding in approval. She leaned over to Violet. “Mr. Walter publishes The Times. We might see a favorable article on our cause in tomorrow’s paper.”
But Mordaunt wasn’t finished.
“The member for Berkshire might speak true, and is it any wonder that the government is reluctant to spend money on treating prostitutes when there are so many problems across Her Majesty’s empire that need attention and money. Regardless, this allotment for the lock hospitals will certainly be in flux over time. What we are debating is the value of the acts themselves, which are clearly of use to a great and moral society like that of Great Britain. Why, in times past, the Bishop of Winchester himself regulated prostitution, to ensure the cleanliness of the girls. Are we not at least as concerned about it as the church leaders of the medieval period?”
Mordaunt templed his fingers together in front of his face, as though deep in thought. He spoke again.
“I’m of no doubt that Her Majesty approves of what the acts do—”
Josephine leaned over and whispered, “More than likely, Her Majesty would refuse to even have it discussed in her presence.”
“—and so what we have is a small faction attempting to destroy the good work being done. What should be of no surprise to anyone here is that there are several women—moralists, as they are known—who claim to know better than their husbands, their government, and their God what is best for the unfortunates who walk the streets providing attentions to our military men. Of particular arrogance is Mrs. Josephine Butler, who formed her own organization to protest what are surely some of the most valuable pieces of legislation this body has passed in some years.”
At this reference to her, Josephine visibly stiffened.
“She sends out unsuspecting women, whom she convinces that they are unsatisfied in their domestic duties, to create disturbances at public events. These women embarrass themselves by parading around, carrying signs and exhibiting the most unseemly behavior. These moralist women would be of more benefit to society if they returned to their preordained station in life.”
There were several nods of agreement among the other members. Having pressed his advantage, Mordaunt managed to use it to make another point.
“In fact, so deeply do I believe in the Contagious Diseases Acts that I submit to this august body that my own wife could surely do with a stay in a lock hospital.”
Scattered laughter broke out on both sides of the aisle. Denison glowered and hushed them once again.
Violet was shocked that a member of Parliament would say such a th
ing to an audience. Why was he doing this?
“I say this, gentlemen, to prepare you for the suit of divorce I intend to lodge against Lady Mordaunt.”
The word “divorce” had everyone’s attention and Mordaunt knew it. His soured face almost looked happy.
“Yes, I plan to divorce her. I was charmed by her beautiful face and charming words, but now realize I married a viper. A viper who has slithered into many other nests, including some that are perched up very, very high. So high that I dare not—yet—speak their names.”
Even the viewers in the gallery gasped. Who had ever heard a baron speak so vilely of his wife in public? And in Parliament, no less. His insinuations were breathtaking, and the newspapers would undoubtedly print no end of speculations in the next day’s papers.
“Therefore, yes, so confident am I in the wisdom of passing the Contagious Diseases Acts that I would recommend my wife be forced into a lock hospital for treatment, for surely her activities have resulted in a disease of—”
The Speaker stood abruptly. “We believe that no further conversation is necessary of private matters, nor of the Contagious Diseases Acts, for the day. We will continue on with the rest of the day’s agenda.”
Violet and Josephine left, the moralist too angry and discouraged to continue listening to the posturing and bickering of the men below.
Despite the heat of the day, it was refreshing compared to the inside of the House of Commons. Violet patted her face with a handkerchief. “Your injuries are much improved,” Josephine said.
“What of you? How is your arm?”
“It is bandaged under my sleeve. It will heal, although probably not without a scar.”
A Virtuous Death Page 19
