The Leaving of Liverpool

by Lyn Andrews

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ Emily demanded, wearily.

  ‘Everything.’ Phoebe-Ann sat down and blew a sigh through pursed lips. ‘She’s gone and changed her mind about what she’s going to wear. After I’d gone to all the trouble of laying everything out and you know how long it took me to press that damned dress. That’s not too bad, but she’s hounding the life out of Master James. He doesn’t want to have to stand in the hall and receive. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with the entire thing, but she’s gone on and on at him. It’s a damned shame. It’s a disgrace and the Master should know about it.’

  Mrs Webster had regained her composure. ‘Don’t you think you’re getting above yourself, Phoebe-Ann?’ she queried in the rather cold voice she used when reprimanding those beneath her.

  ‘He talks to me.’

  ‘We know. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about being so familiar.’

  Phoebe-Ann opened her mouth to protest but closed it again as she caught sight of the warning look Emily shot at her.

  ‘It may well do him good to meet people and if the Master is agreeable to it, and he would have instructed otherwise had he been of that opinion, then Miss Olivia has every right to cajole him. It is none of our business and it is definitely not your place to take sides!’

  ‘Well, I for one will be glad when it’s all over and done with,’ Edwin put in, feeling a little sorry for Phoebe-Ann and for James Mercer. God help him, he was in no fit state to stand and make idle conversation with the old bores who were the Master’s friends and the brainless idiots that were Miss Olivia’s.

  ‘She’ll finish the night with a blinding headache and then I’ll get no peace until I’ve calmed her down enough so she’ll sleep. I can’t see me getting to bed until about two o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Phoebe-Ann said grimly.

  Silence fell as the sound of voices raised in argument drifted from the hall. Phoebe-Ann pulled herself reluctantly to her feet. ‘Oh, Lord! She’s off again. I’d better go and see what I can do.’

  Mrs Webster also rose. ‘I’ll come with you.’ She was determined to see that Phoebe-Ann kept her place and did not speak out of turn.

  It was Olivia and her father who were in the middle of a heated argument when the two women reached the hall. On seeing them Richard Mercer fixed his daughter with a piercing glare. He was not about to have himself talked about in the servants hall.

  ‘That will do Olivia! I want to hear no more about it. If James is not well enough . . .’

  Olivia had no reservations about interrupting him. ‘Of course he’s well enough, Papa. He is just using his illness as an excuse. How will it look?’

  ‘I do not care how it will “look”. If your brother says he isn’t up to receiving, and when I spoke to him he was very disturbed by the prospect, then I respect his decision and that is my final word. I’ll hear no more complaints and arguments. Don’t you think it is time you got dressed; it usually takes you at least two hours,’ he added unkindly. How he wished that Adele had been alive. Everything would have gone so smoothly. There would have been no tantrums, no nagging and it was dawning on him that Olivia was proving to be quite useless at being a hostess. Had Adele been alive he would not even have been consulted as to whether or not he thought James was fit to receive company. She would have just quietly informed him, one way or the other, and then she would have made the appropriate excuses to their guests. He was thankful that Phoebe-Ann seemed to be coaxing Olivia towards the stairs. He was regretting that he had ever agreed to this soirée, but he had not entertained for so long that it had seemed churlish not to mark the victory.

  It was Phoebe-Ann who had the blinding headache when at last at 7.30 sharp, Olivia, suitably attired, went down the stairs to stand with her father to greet the guests. With Mr Potter now retired it was Edwin in his best livery who stood ready to open the door. Phoebe-Ann and Emily, in their best black silk dresses and white lace caps and aprons, stood ready to take hats, coats and evening cloaks and attend to the wishes of those ladies who asked to ‘just check my appearance. Such a windy night.’

  I’m a nervous wreck, Phoebe-Ann thought. She just longed to creep up to the attic bedroom and lie down in the darkness and rest her throbbing head on the cool pillow. Of that there was no chance. Not for hours to come.

  The house was soon filled with guests and, before the evening got under way, Richard Mercer proposed a toast: to the King and Queen and the gallant men who had fought and died for their country.

  Emily, standing beside Edwin by the buffet, felt her throat constrict as she remembered her brothers. Phoebe-Ann was thinking of Rob and of James Mercer hidden away in his room, alone in the darkness. Edwin’s thoughts were bitter as he thought of the mates he had lost and in his view it had all been a waste of time and nothing to do with king and country.

  When Richard Mercer had finished speaking, there was little time to ponder such sentiments for they were all kept busy. Even young Kitty, resplendent in one of Phoebe-Ann’s uniforms and drilled to an inch of her life in her duties by Cook and Mrs Webster, had been promoted for the evening. Her place in the kitchen taken by two of her younger sisters, hired just for the occasion.

  It was almost half past ten, the evening was in full swing and they were all rushed off their feet when Emily found Phoebe-Ann under the stairwell, leaning against the wall, a hand over her eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter, Fee?’

  ‘My head. Oh, Em, my head feels as though it’s going to burst.’

  ‘Now is a fine time to have a headache,’ Emily retorted a little sharply. Her own head was beginning to ache and she had little sympathy with her sister.

  ‘It’s more than just a headache. I feel really ill, Em. Honestly I do.’

  Emily became more concerned. ‘Go and ask Cook for something. You’ve no chance of getting to bed.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. I wish Mam had let me get a job in a factory. At least I wouldn’t be standing here with my skull about to explode and my stomach in knots, but having to smile and be nice to fat old women covered in jewels. I would be in bed now with a cold compress over my head.’

  ‘Well, you’re not working in a factory so get down to Cook and just pray they all go home early.’

  ‘Em, would you do something for me?’

  ‘What?’ Emily was cautious. She had enough work of her own to contend with.

  ‘I promised Master James that I’d look in and see him. Bring him a bit of supper, like. He was upset earlier on, what with her tormenting the daylights out of him. Would you go instead?’

  ‘He won’t talk to me. You know he won’t.’

  ‘You won’t need to talk. Just say I’m so busy . . . no, I’m detained and that you’ve come instead. Please, Em? I don’t want him to feel left out.’

  ‘He got out of having to make an appearance so why should he feel left out now?’

  ‘He says things he doesn’t mean sometimes but I know what he’s really thinking. Oh, I can’t explain it. I’m not much good with words. Please, Em, do it for me?’

  ‘Oh, just this once. Don’t go making a habit of it.’

  ‘It will be better if you go. If Mrs Webster were to see me she’d read me the Riot Act again.’

  ‘Go and get some tablets before they all start shouting for us both.’

  As Phoebe-Ann disappeared through the green baize door, Emily wondered how she would go about filching titbits from the buffet without arousing suspicion. Then she remembered old Mrs Ferguson, a portly dowager who was virtually crippled with rheumatism and was unable to move about much. She’d fill two plates and take them both to her. Etiquette would prevent her accepting both plates.

  As she deftly filled two china plates it was Edwin who noticed as he ladled out punch from a silver bowl. ‘Who’s making a pig of themselves?’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  Emily grinned. ‘Mrs Ferguson.’

  There was a lull in the proceedings.

  ‘You can�
�t fool me, Em. She wouldn’t eat all that.’

  ‘I know. The other one is for Master James. I promised our Phoebe-Ann I’d take it to him. She’s got what I think is a migraine headache.’

  ‘Her timing’s rotten.’

  ‘I know. It’s probably Miss Olivia’s fault.’

  ‘I thought it was only the likes of them that got those bad headaches.’ He jerked his head in the direction of a small group of middle-aged ladies who were deep in conversation. Probably discussing some topic that was of great interest to their sex, or so he deduced.

  ‘She’s had one or two before. Mam says she’s highly strung.’

  ‘Highly strung, my foot!’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  The group of ladies had finished their discussion and were moving en masse towards the buffet. Emily placed a damask napkin over the two plates and, with a bright smile, said, ‘I hope you will excuse me. I must attend to Mrs Ferguson. She is a little tired.’ The ruse worked. Instead of asking her to serve them they all nodded and smiled sympathetically.

  The room was in total darkness when she entered and she was quite literally ‘in the dark’. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out a figure sitting in a chair beside the empty fire grate. She moved closer, puzzled, for he had his topcoat on.

  ‘Are you cold, sir? Should I light the fire?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ve brought you something to eat from the buffet. Phoebe-Ann asked me to.’

  The mention of her sister’s name seemed to have an effect on him, for he rose and turned towards her. Although there was little light in the room she was shocked by his expression. His eyes were wild, his gaze darting around the room as though searching for someone or something and there was a marked twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’ll leave your supper.’ She began to back away, remembering that Phoebe-Ann had said he was upset.

  Before she reached the door he had darted forward and caught her in a vice-like grip. ‘We’ll go away, Phoebe-Ann. Just you and me. We’ll go away from all this noise, this terrible, terrible noise and all those staring faces. Faces looking at me, staring at me. Staring all the time. We’ll go away. I’m ready. See, I’ve got my coat on, Phoebe-Ann.’

  Emily struggled to free herself. ‘It’s me, Emily! It’s not Phoebe-Ann!’ she cried.

  He appeared not to have heard her and pinned her against the door. ‘Come with me, Phoebe-Ann. I’m rich. I’ll take care of you. I’ll marry you and then you’ll be all mine and there won’t be any noise and no staring faces. They all hate me, they do.’

  Emily was really frightened now and she tried to cry out. She tried to pull away but his hold was too tight and then she felt his mouth on her skin.

  ‘I love you, Phoebe-Ann. You love me too, I know you do. Don’t leave me. We’ll go away from here.’

  ‘I’m Emily! I’m not Phoebe-Ann! For God’s sake let me go!’ she screamed. She managed to free one arm and tried to rake his face with her nails. Anything to make him stop what he was doing to her. ‘I’ll get your Pa! I’ll scream so loud that everyone will hear me!’

  She fought with all the strength she possessed. He was mad, she was certain of it, and that knowledge terrified her. His mouth cut off her screams until she tore her lips, bruised and bleeding, away, but her strength was failing. He was just too strong for her.

  She kept on screaming until he pushed her across the bed and the breath was knocked out of her by his weight. She gasped and tried to call for help but her cries seemed to echo only in her head.

  It could have been an hour or even two, or it could only have been a matter of minutes before he rolled away from her. She was never to know. He lay sprawled across the bed limp and she lay there too. Too shocked to move. Her throat was raw, her lips bruised and her whole body was aching. Just one thought penetrated her numbed mind. She had to get out before he woke . . . As she pulled herself upright a searing pain shot through her groin. Somehow she staggered to the door and then along the landing. She had to get to Phoebe-Ann’s room and shut the door. Lock the door. Lock out James Mercer and what he had done to her. She leaned against the wall only half conscious. Deep, racking sobs shook her.

  How long she stayed there she could never remember but it was Edwin Leeson who found her. He’d waited for her to return but when she didn’t he began to feel anxious, although quite why he didn’t know. When at last Phoebe-Ann appeared, he excused himself and, after being waylaid by three gentlemen, had got upstairs,

  ‘God Almighty! Em! Emily, what happened?’ He reached out to touch her rapidly swelling face.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ she screamed at him, shrinking further against the wall.

  Black fury chased away the concern that had filled his eyes. ‘Who was it? Emily, tell me who did this to you?’

  She gulped. ‘Him. He . . . he thought I was Phoebe-Ann. I kept telling him . . .’

  ‘James Mercer?’

  She nodded.

  He’d never felt so angry. He could have killed in that moment and not have cared for the consequences. ‘The bastard! The bastard!’ he yelled, smashing his fist against the wall, his anger futile, his wrath impotent and all the worse because of those very facts.

  ‘He’s mad! He’s mad!’

  ‘He’ll swing for this, Em! I’ll get him! The bastard!’ Again the crash of his fist against the wall.

  Emily sobbed harder.

  Instantly he was all concern. ‘I’ll get someone. Will you be all right for a few more minutes?’

  She couldn’t reply.

  When he returned he had both Phoebe-Ann and Mrs Webster with him. The housekeeper’s eyes widened with horror as she took in Emily’s face and her torn dress, the bodice almost completely rent down the front. ‘Oh, dear God in heaven!’

  Phoebe-Ann started to cry. ‘Oh, Em! Em! What happened?’

  Mrs Webster took the situation in hand. ‘Phoebe-Ann, pull yourself together and go and get some cloths and anything cold you can find. Quickly girl! Move!’ She placed her arm around Emily’s shoulder. ‘Let’s get you to bed, Emily.’

  Now that Emily was in safe hands, Edwin balled his fists into the pockets of his trousers. ‘I’m going to get the Master.’

  Mrs Webster turned on him. ‘Oh, no, you’re not! You will wait until the guests have gone.’

  ‘To hell with the bloody guests! They should all know what that . . . animal has done!’

  ‘Don’t you dare announce to everyone what has happened here!’

  His face was flushed dark red. ‘Well, he’s going to know,’ he said and, before she could say another word, he’d turned on his heel and had stormed away.

  Emily felt as though she were in a dream: a waking nightmare. Nothing was real, except the pain and the terrible feeling of guilt. Guilt that she had not fought harder. Guilt that in some way she had encouraged him, but in what way she didn’t know. She let Mrs Webster undress her and slip her nightgown over her head as Phoebe-Ann appeared with a bowl, some towels and some lumps of ice wrapped in a tea towel. She’d spilt a good deal of the water, for her hands were shaking. She gnawed at her bottom lip as she looked from her sister’s battered face to that of the housekeeper. ‘I brought some ice.’

  Mrs Webster placed the ice-pack against Emily’s right cheek. ‘Get into bed now Emily and try to sleep.’ She turned to Phoebe-Ann. ‘Has Miss Olivia got anything that will calm her?’

  Phoebe-Ann shook her head.

  ‘Then go and ask Dr Coleman for something.’

  Emily felt she would never sleep again. Although she felt totally exhausted, she was terrified to close her eyes. She lay down, staring at the sloping attic ceiling while her sister and the housekeeper whispered together. It was as though she didn’t care any more what happened to her, as though it wasn’t really she who was lying in the bed. It was someone else. Someone she was looking down on. Then Richard Mercer was beside her.

  ‘Emily. Emily, can you he
ar me?’ His tone was gentle but he couldn’t hide the horror in his eyes. He’d gone icy cold when Edwin had taken him aside and told him what James had done. At first he’d refused to believe the lad. He was exaggerating. He wouldn’t let himself believe that James was capable of rape, that most hideous of all crimes against women. But as soon as he saw her he knew it was true. ‘Emily, was it my . . . son?’ The words were as bitter as the bile in his mouth.

  The movement of her head gave him the answer he dreaded.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ he groaned, for a second completely stricken before his composure was regained. ‘Leeson, go down and tell Dr Coleman to come up here.’

  ‘No! No!’ Emily screamed the word. If she had to feel another man touching her she’d go insane.

  ‘Hush. Hush Emily,’ Mrs Webster soothed. ‘It will be just a quick look and then something to make you sleep.’

  Phoebe-Ann grabbed her sister’s hand and squeezed it tightly. To Emily it was like a lifeline. ‘Oh, Fee! Fee! It was . . .’ She choked on the words.

  With tears pouring down her cheeks, Phoebe-Ann gathered her into her arms and held her tightly. ‘It’s all right now, Em! I’m here. Phoebe-Ann’s here!’

  Emily raised her face from her sister’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Fee! It should have been you. He thought I was you. He kept calling me Phoebe-Ann.’

  Phoebe-Ann felt the room spin and her stomach churned, then a sickening blackness was closing down. She heard Mrs Webster’s voice, there was a pungent smell in the room and the giddiness was fading.

  ‘This is no time for you to be fainting! Send Kitty for Mrs Parkinson . . . I mean Mrs Davies. Just tell her to say she’s needed urgently,’ Mrs Webster instructed Edwin. Then she turned to Richard Mercer. ‘I think you’d better go back downstairs, sir, before people start to speculate. Edwin, you’ll have to manage as best you can until Phoebe-Ann can calm herself sufficiently to help you.’

  He was openly mutinous. His concern was only for Emily. ‘I’ll not leave her!’

  Mrs Webster drew herself up to her full height. ‘It is not proper that you should be in the bedroom of a girl who is so obviously . . . distressed. There is nothing you can do to help her just yet.’