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returned from their day of amusement. She didn’t look forward to telling Sam that their return to America would have to wait a while longer. She didn’t particularly mind, though, handing her mother back into her father’s care.

6
    M ajor Cowell was courteous, but unwilling to answer any of Violet’s questions as to which member of the royal family had died. He told the carriage driver not to unload her luggage, then escorted her through the upper ward and to the queen’s apartments. Violet was familiar with Windsor, having worked inside St. George’s Chapel in the lower ward for Prince Albert’s funeral. Not only Major Cowell, but every male she encountered along the corridors, still wore black armbands in remembrance of Albert. The women had black caps.
    The queen’s man led her to one of Victoria’s private rooms, a place where Violet had spent many an hour describing Albert’s calm repose in death, and avoiding any discussion of how terrible his decomposition was, given his long lying-in prior to burial. In fact, the Grenadiers posted at the four corners of his coffin had to be switched out every hour, despite Violet’s profusion of lilies all around the coffin and chapel. The odor was intolerable even for military men who had witnessed the horrors of war.
    Instead of sitting behind her usual immense mahogany desk, the queen was in her sitting area, perched at the edge of a burgundy velvet settee in close conference with a handsome man whose traditional Scottish dress was spoiled only by another black armband, and who occupied a matching settee across from her. Between them lay an ottoman with oblong cards spread across it.
    The man’s good looks were obscured by the reek of cigar smoke that emanated from him, reaching all the way to Violet in an invisible, noxious fog. The queen didn’t seem to notice it.
    Violet approached and curtsied, something she hadn’t done once since going to America.
    “Your Majesty,” she said.
    The queen and the man both sat back in their seats. “You may rise. Mrs. Morgan—we mean Mrs. Harper; it is so difficult to remember that you remarried, especially since we continue on in our widowed state, waiting to be reunited with our dearest Albert—we welcome you back to Windsor and are glad to see you returned from America.”
    Had the queen summoned her here to throw barbs into her chest?
    Violet’s first husband, Graham Morgan, was morose and inscrutable, but to him she owed her knowledge and passion for undertaking. Graham had inherited Morgan Undertaking from his grandfather and Violet had worked at her husband’s side for years. Graham changed, though, eventually getting involved in a gun-smuggling scheme with the American Confederacy during their war of rebellion, and had paid dearly for it.
    Violet had almost paid dearly, too. If not for Samuel Harper, she might have long ago been one of her competitors’ customers. She subsequently returned with Sam to his homeland and successfully reestablished her undertaking practice there. She’d had no intention of ever returning to England, until learning of her mother’s illness.
    “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
    “Mr. Brown, this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker of whom we spoke to you. Mrs. Harper, this is our ghillie, Mr. Brown. He helps us with our riding and takes care of the wildlife on our estates. We could hardly do without him.”
    Was Violet mistaken, or was the queen simpering?
    “Mrs. Harper.” Mr. Brown nodded his head toward Violet but did not move from his position. “Her Majesty speaks highly of your skill and compassion.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    The queen waved. “Do have a seat. No, not there, in the damask chair right here. Yes, that’s it. Do you know the tarot, Mrs. Harper? Mr. Brown gives the most delightful readings.”
    “No, I cannot say I know it. I’ve never . . . indulged . . . in the occult.” The cards that lay between queen and servant had numbers and caricaturized people on them. She