Free Lady of Ashes by Christine Trent

look,” Mrs. Scrope said patiently.
    What of the tablecloth? What color? “Always white and crisply ironed,” Mrs. Scrope said.
    Right. And should the service be à la française, or à la russe? Mrs. Beeton didn’t seem to think much of à la russe, but wasn’t it becoming the more popular serving style?
    “We’ll serve à la française, as is proper,” Mrs. Scrope said, a tad less patient now.
    Violet carried on with her worries until Mrs. Scrope threatened to burn the first-course soup if her mistress didn’t stop fretting and let the housekeeper do her job.
    Violet stopped fretting in front of Mrs. Scrope, but continued to do so in private, marveling that she must be the only wife in London whose servant spoke down to her like this.
    Is this what a mistress of the house is supposed to do every day? Worry about menus and the number of candles on hand and whether or not the smuts are scrubbed off the front stoop? It was agonizing, and she resolved to immerse herself back inside her shop the moment her parents left.
    On the day of her parents’ arrival, Mrs. Scrope forbade Violet from coming near the dining room, assuring her that everything would be perfect and telling her to concentrate on her toilette.
    Really, I should reprimand her for talking to me thus, but what would I do if she left?
    So Violet concentrated on dressing in her new russet pelerine jacket and matching skirt over her widest crinoline. The sleeves of the jacket were gathered at the elbows and then flared open, permitting her snowy white sleeves to show through. The jacket’s entire edge was trimmed in a black loop fringe. She pulled her hair back in a loose knot and topped it with a cap that matched her white sleeves. Violet Morgan would never be a society woman with a lady’s maid to dress her hair in elaborate styles.
    As she prepared to go downstairs, she met Graham on the landing. His black trousers were tight fitting, accentuating his thighs and calves, and the chocolate brown cravat surrounding his raised shirt collar emphasized his piercing green eyes. He pulled a watch from his checked waistcoat and nodded, as if verifying they were on time.
    “You look dashing,” she blurted, instantly regretting her unreserved tone.
    His eyes raked over her. “And you, dear Violet, are a vision. Perhaps we should conclude this little dinner party early, eh?” He raised an eyebrow suggestively and she blushed, unused to her husband’s teasing advances, which had all but disappeared over the past couple of years.
    “By the way, I have something for you.” Graham reached into a pocket and pulled out a small box secured with a burgundy satin bow. Inside lay a magnificent pair of pearl ear bobs.
    “They’re lovely,” Violet said.
    Graham removed the bobs from their velvet resting place and clipped them onto Violet’s earlobes, doing so with a tenderness that swept away her earlier misgivings about her husband. The man I love is still there.
    He cupped her ears as if making sure the bobs were placed correctly and kissed her forehead. “Now you look utterly perfect, sweetheart.”
    She took his arm and they went together to greet their guests. Violet’s heart was the lightest that she could recall in months.
     
    Although the dinner was a success from a meal perspective, Violet was left unsettled by the final events of the evening.
    Everyone arrived promptly at seven o’clock. The dining hour in London was becoming later and later because of changes in people’s work habits. The railway system in England was improving to the point that many families had moved out to the suburbs of London where the air was cleaner, and the men simply commuted into the city each day for work. However, by not living above, or at least near, their shops and employers, they returned home later in the day, thus postponing the family’s evening meal.
    Violet was glad she and Graham remained close to the city. If they had chosen a home in one of the fast-growing