Free Lady of Ashes by Christine Trent Page A

outer suburbs, like Richmond, it would have been too easy for her husband to leave her behind each day to manage the house while he rode into the city center to manage their business.
    What a dreadful thought.
    Greetings were passed all around, with Violet restraining herself from launching into her mother’s arms after such a long absence. Mrs. Scrope tinkled a bell from somewhere outside the room, signaling Graham to take Violet’s hand on his arm and lead everyone into the dining room.
    At Graham’s insistence, their dining room was decorated in a fashionable red motif. Crimson flocked wallpaper, heavy red draperies puddled on the floor to prevent drafts, a bright red Turkish carpet, and red chair cushions were equally weighed down by a mahogany dining table, sideboard, and fireplace surround. Even the glass over the sideboard was framed in an ornate mahogany frame.
    Their imported blue-and-white collection sat on individual shelves above the fireplace for admiration by guests. Graham preened as Violet’s parents proceeded to do so.
    In all, Violet felt as though she were being choked to death inside this room, but Graham loved it for the message it sent about the Morgans’ increasing status.
    Mrs. Scrope had done an admirable job setting the table. A variety of steaming side and corner dishes were strategically placed around the table atop containers of hot water, while a tureen of soup was placed in front of Violet’s place and a platter of fish sat on Graham’s end.
    They all sat down and Graham said grace, then Violet and Graham stood to serve soup and fish to everyone, with Mrs. Scrope on hand to pass plates. After they had eaten that, Mrs. Scrope removed the soup tureen and fish platter, replacing them with the braised beef in front of Graham and the spring chicken for Violet to serve. Mrs. Scrope also ensured that the side and corner dishes, none of which required carving or ladling, were passed around to each guest.
    The entire meal took hours serving à la française, but the conversation and wine were plentiful, and Mrs. Scrope was a miracle in the manner in which she guided Violet along, such that it appeared to their guests as though Violet was in complete control of things.
    Discussion started pleasantly enough, with the Sinclairs telling amusing stories about their neighbors in Brighton, and Fletcher doing the same about his ship’s crew members, who he said were as difficult to train as a school of dead haddock.
    “With no offense meant to our earlier delectable dish, which would have no doubt been easier to teach the mechanics of pumping bilge than my own crew.”
    Fletcher could always be relied on for brash humor. Soon he was openly flirting with both Violet and her mother, but managed to do so in such a way that Graham and her father didn’t notice, or at least didn’t take insult.
    Ida Morgan laughed at appropriate times and responded when directly addressed, but was mostly interested in devouring whatever meat, vegetable, or bread made an appearance on her plate. Violet had once thought her mother-in-law rude, but came to realize that for Ida Morgan, there were only two important things in life: food and her two sons, neither of which could ever fail her. Unfortunately, Violet felt she was a frequent disappointment to Ida.
    Ida’s adoration for Graham meant she’d keep her opinion to herself, but Violet sensed that the older woman disapproved of Graham’s marital choice. Whether she viewed Violet as an interloper in the family business or despised Violet for not being a rung on the social ladder was unclear. The woman was the least of Violet’s worries, though.
    Ida Morgan somehow remained thin and tiny as a tree sparrow, unlike Eliza Sinclair, who, Violet thought fondly, was enjoying her relaxed life in Brighton too much. Mother’s cheeks were filling out, and she was struggling inside her corset while seated.
    Father still maintained his tall, angular build, although his hair was