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the Americans sat around drinking whiskey and playing cards, he quietly slipped away and found his unit, still wearing that awful coat. Can you imagine? He nearly died at their hands—and for what? So some cursed American could parade around looking like a dead animal hodgepodge?”
    Violet stood and went around to where her husband sat, putting an arm around his shoulder and her cheek against the top of his head. “I’m sorry for your grandfather’s suffering, Graham.”
    He clutched her free hand with his own. “My grandfather always told me that the worst thing about the Americans was their sense of privilege. Their horses eat better than the average British soldier, yet they have carped and complained for decades about all of their deprivations and English oppression. Pap witnessed it all firsthand while in their camp.
    “He told endless stories about the cruelty the British troops suffered at the hands of the overfed American bullies. I’ve never forgotten any of them, although none are fit for a woman’s ears. Suffice to say that the United States doesn’t deserve to exist as a nation, in my opinion. It’s a wilderness full of heathens and barbaric Indians and greedy speculators. Their arrogant posturing always leads to tragedy for others. Just think how Fletcher’s business will be affected by this brainless war. It makes my head throb to the point of distraction.”
    She kissed the top of his head. “I wish I’d known of this before.”
    “I wish you had no need to know of it at all.”
    That night, husband and wife found a truce in each other’s arms. Violet remained uneasy and apprehensive of her husband, yet desperate to reclaim the peace they once knew.
    The next morning, she gazed down at her husband as he still slept. The lines of anger on his face were less noticeable, softening his expression and reminding her again of the sweet and enthusiastic man she’d married seven years ago.
    She assured herself that all would be well once time passed and Graham forgot about his furor over the Americans. She rose, dressed, and prepared for another day at Morgan Undertaking, not realizing just how dreadfully wrong she was.

4

    The Cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in Winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
     
    —Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
Adonaïs (1821)

    Washington City, D.C.
    May 1861
     
    C harles Francis Adams offered his son a cigar to celebrate his new appointment as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James, with St. James referring to the palace of that name and ultimately referring to the British monarch. He did not have the formal title of Ambassador, but was designated authority to represent the United States in Great Britain.
    Henry accepted the cigar, took an appreciative sniff, and bit off one end before lighting it and offering the safety match to his father as the two men sat in comfortable old leather chairs inside the family townhome. “So, Father, or should I say, ‘Your Excellency,’ how was your meeting with the president?”
    Charles shrugged. “Lincoln is indifferent to me. Hardly looked me in the eye the entire time, despite our support of his presidential campaign.”
    “Abominable way to treat the son and grandson of presidents, I should think.”
    “I suppose I don’t blame him. I wasn’t his first choice, but he deferred to what William Seward wanted, now that Seward is secretary of state. Regardless of the president’s personal feelings over my nomination, I’ve discussed it with your mother, and she, Mary, and Brooks will be accompanying me to London.” Mary and Brooks were two of their six children. Charles Francis saw the uncertain look in Henry’s eyes. After spending two years on the Grand Tour, Henry had come to live with the family in their Washington City quarters, where Charles Francis was serving out a term in the U.S. House of