Free Stolen Remains by Christine Trent Page A

she’d removed from Lord Raybourn, as well as all of the dirty rags, then stepped back into the dining room to inspect her embalming one more time and to dress Lord Raybourn.
    Embalming was an imperfect technique, since it was not in regular use. Those opposed to the practice pointed to cases where an embalming had resulted in perfectly preserved arms, face, and torso, and completely disintegrated legs.
    True enough, yet wasn’t the purpose of embalming to keep the body fresh while it was transported a long distance, or while grieving family members gathered around to mourn? As long as it served that purpose, why make a fuss that it couldn’t preserve indefinitely?
    “Indefinitely” was a word that now made Violet nervous. How indefinitely did the queen intend to leave Lord Raybourn lying out? Would Violet have to reembalm him if things dragged on too long? She’d never done that before and wasn’t certain it would even work.
    Violet worked quickly to cork the heavy, blood-filled bottle—whose contents she would take to an undertaker’s shop later for disposal—and clean up her instruments so she could re-dress Lord Raybourn.
    “My lord, it’s time for me to serve as your valet and dress you. I need you to cooperate,” she said, wrestling to get his arms into his jacket without jostling him too much. Arms were always so much more difficult than legs.
    Once he was dressed, Violet laid a cloth on his neck and torso to protect his clothing from her cosmetic work. She cut, filled, and stitched as best she could, despite the ravages caused by the gunshots, finishing off with a liberal application of Natural Number Six and a dusting of talcum powder.
    She stood straight to examine his face. No, it wouldn’t do. His cheeks were still . . . uneven. She took another of Mrs. Peet’s cloths and tore it into little strips, rolling each one up and tucking it inside His Lordship’s cheeks. After some adjustments, his face was fuller.
    Rather than sewing his mouth shut, or dragging a wire under his chin and sewing it behind each ear to keep his jaw from dropping, she put a block of wood under his chin, raising his shirt collar as high as she could and tying his cravat to hide it. After all, hadn’t he suffered enough indignity over her ministrations without her probing his mouth with a needle?
    With his eyes sewn shut, his lips firmly closed, and his torn flesh either sewn or augmented, Lord Raybourn resembled something of his former self.
    Violet stepped back to view her work from a few feet away. She was kidding herself. Poor Lord Raybourn looked like the monster from Mary Shelley’s novel.
    And I am Dr. Frankenstein.
    “Well, my lord,” she said as she finished cleaning up. “I trust you won’t arise and terrorize Londoners while I go out to find a coffin befitting your station. Pardon my jest, sir. Rest easy, I won’t be gone long.” She covered Lord Raybourn with a length of black crape, turned off the gas lamps, and left him in dark solitude.
    Only later did she realize she’d completely forgotten the tea tray Mrs. Peet had brought up for her.
     
    “It must be peculiar,” Katherine said, putting aside her cup and picking up a shortbread bar, nibbling distractedly at it, “to be a lady undertaker. And to then be called to do service for a family who once employed yours. How well did she know your father?”
    “Not that well. She might have seen him out riding, or, more likely, striding to the pond in a fury to find me as Violet and I muddied up our clothes capturing toads.”
    “What delightful fun, I’m sure. Will she take good care of the body?”
    “I believe so. She was just the estate manager’s daughter, but I suspect she still retains enough memory and respect of our family to be gentle with him.”
    “That’s not what I mean.”
    “You refer to Her Majesty?”
    “Of course.”
    Stephen picked up a smoked brown trout sandwich. “We can hardly expect the undertaker to have enough influence