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Authors: Christine Trent
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really happened. Meanwhile, I need to ask you for permission to do something.”
“Anything, just ask.”
“In order to ensure I can obey the queen’s request, I need to inject—I mean, I need to fill, no . . . what I’m asking you is whether you would permit me to embalm your father in order to preserve him as long as possible. I have an excellent formulation that will prevent—”
Katherine’s cup clattered down into its saucer. “Heavens, no! You—the queen—can’t mean to do such a thing. Stephen, really, hasn’t your father been through enough?”
Stephen reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Darling, please. We mustn’t blame Violet.”
Still clutching his wife’s hand like a life preserver, he passed his other hand over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he dropped that hand to his lap. “I don’t know. I suppose it wouldn’t be any more dreadful than what has already happened. Go ahead. Just . . . be careful.”
“You can trust me to treat your father as if he were my very own. One last thing, though. I’ll need some fresh clothes for him.”
Stephen waved his hand, exhausted from the entire affair. “Talk to Mrs. Peet; she knows more about his wardrobe than I do. Speaking of which, can you recommend a mourning dressmaker? My wife and sisters will want wardrobes made. We also need some black armbands.”
“Of course. Mary Cooke is very reliable. I’ll have her sent to you.”
“Also, can you do something to prevent every family in Mayfair from coming to gawk at my father?”
“I can have a discreet sign made to go beneath the doorbell, and will also have ‘No Visitors’ announced in his obituary.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
With permission granted for the embalming, Violet retreated downstairs to request more clean cloths and a change of clothes from Mrs. Peet, then went back to the dining room to finish taking care of Lord Raybourn.
“Sir, I am sorry for the indignity, but I’m afraid I must relieve you of these spattered garments and make you look fresh again.” Violet had developed unusual strength in moving dead bodies around, typically by rolling them in one direction or another, instead of trying to lift them with her arms. With some struggle, she relieved Lord Raybourn of his clothing and folded it all into a pile. She covered his private area with a modesty cloth, and once again went through the exercise of examining his limbs and muscles in detail.
Beyond the tragedy that had befallen him, his body was in relatively good shape for his age, for he must be in his seventies by now. He had the usual nicks and scars one might expect from a man who’d had a life well lived on his estate. Many aristocrats had taken spills from their horses or been attacked by game they were pursuing.
There was one particularly nasty gash in Lord Raybourn’s side. Violet traced it with her finger. “What happened here, sir? Something with a long nail had its way with you. A disagreeable falcon not in the mood for hunting, maybe?”
With her physical inspection of his graying skin complete, Violet patted Lord Raybourn’s hand for comfort.
Pulling out another fresh cloth and soaking it with a special alcohol solution from her bag, she carefully but quickly wiped down the man’s arms, legs, and torso as if he were a newborn babe, patting carefully around his neck and face to avoid any further damage there. “Your final toilette, sir. The odor will be gone presently, I promise. It was worth it, though, for now you are sparkling fresh.”
Although a body’s natural decomposition would release smells into the air, the fragrance of any lotions, ointments, or colognes added to the body wouldn’t last. Occasionally, families tried to give Violet their loved one’s favorite toilet water or cologne, which she could only spray on the deceased’s clothing. Once the body no longer had blood flowing in its veins, there was no pulse or warmth to radiate a fragrance. Imbuing a shirt or
“Anything, just ask.”
“In order to ensure I can obey the queen’s request, I need to inject—I mean, I need to fill, no . . . what I’m asking you is whether you would permit me to embalm your father in order to preserve him as long as possible. I have an excellent formulation that will prevent—”
Katherine’s cup clattered down into its saucer. “Heavens, no! You—the queen—can’t mean to do such a thing. Stephen, really, hasn’t your father been through enough?”
Stephen reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Darling, please. We mustn’t blame Violet.”
Still clutching his wife’s hand like a life preserver, he passed his other hand over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he dropped that hand to his lap. “I don’t know. I suppose it wouldn’t be any more dreadful than what has already happened. Go ahead. Just . . . be careful.”
“You can trust me to treat your father as if he were my very own. One last thing, though. I’ll need some fresh clothes for him.”
Stephen waved his hand, exhausted from the entire affair. “Talk to Mrs. Peet; she knows more about his wardrobe than I do. Speaking of which, can you recommend a mourning dressmaker? My wife and sisters will want wardrobes made. We also need some black armbands.”
“Of course. Mary Cooke is very reliable. I’ll have her sent to you.”
“Also, can you do something to prevent every family in Mayfair from coming to gawk at my father?”
“I can have a discreet sign made to go beneath the doorbell, and will also have ‘No Visitors’ announced in his obituary.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
With permission granted for the embalming, Violet retreated downstairs to request more clean cloths and a change of clothes from Mrs. Peet, then went back to the dining room to finish taking care of Lord Raybourn.
“Sir, I am sorry for the indignity, but I’m afraid I must relieve you of these spattered garments and make you look fresh again.” Violet had developed unusual strength in moving dead bodies around, typically by rolling them in one direction or another, instead of trying to lift them with her arms. With some struggle, she relieved Lord Raybourn of his clothing and folded it all into a pile. She covered his private area with a modesty cloth, and once again went through the exercise of examining his limbs and muscles in detail.
Beyond the tragedy that had befallen him, his body was in relatively good shape for his age, for he must be in his seventies by now. He had the usual nicks and scars one might expect from a man who’d had a life well lived on his estate. Many aristocrats had taken spills from their horses or been attacked by game they were pursuing.
There was one particularly nasty gash in Lord Raybourn’s side. Violet traced it with her finger. “What happened here, sir? Something with a long nail had its way with you. A disagreeable falcon not in the mood for hunting, maybe?”
With her physical inspection of his graying skin complete, Violet patted Lord Raybourn’s hand for comfort.
Pulling out another fresh cloth and soaking it with a special alcohol solution from her bag, she carefully but quickly wiped down the man’s arms, legs, and torso as if he were a newborn babe, patting carefully around his neck and face to avoid any further damage there. “Your final toilette, sir. The odor will be gone presently, I promise. It was worth it, though, for now you are sparkling fresh.”
Although a body’s natural decomposition would release smells into the air, the fragrance of any lotions, ointments, or colognes added to the body wouldn’t last. Occasionally, families tried to give Violet their loved one’s favorite toilet water or cologne, which she could only spray on the deceased’s clothing. Once the body no longer had blood flowing in its veins, there was no pulse or warmth to radiate a fragrance. Imbuing a shirt or
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