Lady of Ashes by Christine Trent

fork long enough to say, “Violet, really, it’s rather vulgar to speak in such a manner to your brother-in-law.”
    Fletcher laughed. “I’m not offended, Mother. But, Violet, you would admit that you do alter your subjects’ appearances at times, wouldn’t you?”
    She didn’t like speaking of the deceased as though they were dolls she casually dressed and posed. “When the circumstances call for it. We strive to help families give their loved ones decent Christian burials, no matter their status.”
    He pressed further. “What happens when you receive someone who has been drastically injured, or has perhaps lost an arm or something? Do you just pin up his sleeve, or do you wrap the sleeve around something arm-like?”
    Violet’s mother put a hand to her mouth. Leave it to Fletcher to guide the conversation from an unseemly spousal argument into completely uncivilized territory.
    Violet treated the question as though it were perfectly normal dinnertime conversation. “It depends. The family might not have the money to do much more than minimal cover-up, in which case, depending on the injury, we might use a closed coffin, with just a window to the view the face. A well-to-do family, however, might want to see their dearly beloved in as close a state to living as possible. In that case, the options are more . . . flexible. I can use a bit of clay and wax to perfect a nose or ear that has been mangled. I might go so far as to purchase a wax prosthetic from Madame Tussauds in the case of a missing limb.”
    Fletcher sat back like a solicitor who had just delivered an irrefutable argument to a jury. “Fascinating.”
    By this point, the diners were finishing up their third-course selections from dishes of strawberries, cherry compote, and Neapolitan cake, and were washing it all down with glasses of Madeira.
    At the blessed conclusion of the meal, Violet rose and invited her mother and Ida to join her in the drawing room, pulling closed the heavy, sound-blocking draperies that divided the two rooms behind her. The men would remain in the dining room to drink port. She and Graham had agreed in advance that tonight there would be an exception to the no-cigars rule.
    Violet had outlawed cigars in the house the moment they moved in. The smoke could never be aired out because the windows always had to remain shut to prevent smuts from drifting into the house. With their difficulties in keeping servants, Violet needed no further strain on maintaining the cleanliness of their household. Especially since that peculiar smell was still wafting periodically through the house. One day she would have to hire a man to check the pipes.
    The three women sat down, with Violet almost sighing in relief to be gone from the inquisition and contention of the dining room.
    “So, my love,” her mother said. “Your new housekeeper seems very efficient. How did you discover her?”
    “Mrs. Scrope placed a situation wanted advertisement in The Times, which I answered. She was looking for a place with a single gentleman, but had no objection to a married couple.”
    Violet’s mother frowned. “What did her references say about her?”
    “I didn’t actually bother with her references, given that she seemed so competent—and has proved to be so—and Graham gave me so little time to find a replacement for Annie.”
    “Hmm. Do you keep your tea and sugar locked away?”
    “Well, no. I’m so busy at the shop that I can’t be here every time she needs to scrape some from a block for that evening’s dinner.”
    Ida interrupted. “A good mistress makes her home her first priority.”
    “Yes, Mother Morgan.” Violet shifted uncomfortably. “But Morgan Undertaking requires so much of me. . . .”
    Ida sniffed. “It seems unladylike to me that a woman would place dirty hands above her husband’s comfort. I certainly never did so while my husband was alive.”
    “Graham is not uncomfort—”
    Violet’s mother broke in and steered