Henry kissed Cecelia on the cheek when she arrived a moment later. “You ladies be careful. Send word if you need more supplies.”
He slammed the door shut, and the hired coach lurched forward. On any other day, the ride to the mansion would’ve passed quickly. But the twenty minutes crawled by despite the clipped pace of the horses’ hooves against the road.
Mercy glanced out the window, watching the dark-gray stones of the manor gain definition the closer they came. Carriages passed them by on occasion, headed away from the manor, and she took it as a good sign. Perhaps the coachman had overreacted. She didn’t say a word the whole trip, nor did her aunt. What was there to say in a situation such as this?
A short while later, the conveyance came to a stop, and the driver jumped down, opening the door. “My apologies, Mrs. Gibbs, Miss Seymour, but you’ll have to walk from here. The road is lined with carriages, some attempting to get to the manor, others attempting to leave. There’s a fair bit of confusion up ahead.”
“Thank you, William,” Cecelia said, stepping to the ground and making way for Mercy. “We’ll be fine. Can you remain here for a few hours?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They charged up the drive, and Mercy was thankful she wore serviceable boots. No one would care about her attire under the circumstances. Gentlemen and ladies brushed past them, determined to reach their carriages, their faces distraught, ladies crying. There were so many people. As they neared the manor, she heard bits and pieces of conversation from coachmen huddled around, waiting for the road to clear.
“Far too dark and cold . . . ”
“Never seen waves in a lake . . . ”
“Still searching, but . . . ”
The courtyard came into view, and Mercy paused, shocked into immobility by the sight before her. Where was the statue of Neptune that sat atop the underwater ballroom’s glass dome? And why had the water receded so low at the shoreline? Goodness, but the coachman spoke the truth. The glass dome had collapsed.
“Come, Mercy,” her aunt said, tugging on her arm. “I see the cook, Abigail Stevens, up ahead giving orders. She’ll know where we’re needed most.”
As they approached, Abigail caught Mercy’s gaze, and her eyes widened. “Word has reached town, thank the Lord,” she said, shooing them up the stairs to the grand entrance and through the front door that stood wide open, allowing guests to pass in and out. Abigail eyed the bag hanging over Mercy’s arm and nodded. “You’ve come prepared. My thanks for that bit of quick thinking. You’ll be needed in the east parlor where we’ve put the injured.”
A footman appeared and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Abigail.”
The cook blew an errant strand of hair from her face and turned to the man, snapping, “What is it, Michael?”
“You’re needed in the kitchen,” he said, stepping back a pace.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
He shrugged. “I’m only the messenger.”
“Oh, very well,” Abigail muttered under her breath. She pointed to a room down the hallway. “You’ll be able to find the parlor?”
“Go, go,” Cecelia said. “We’ll be all right.”
But before the woman had a chance to slip away, Mercy asked, “Have you seen Emma Taplin?”
The cook shook her head. “Sorry, dear, but I haven’t seen her as of yet. No need to frown,” she added with a motherly pat on her arm. “There are more than two hundred guests here tonight and at least fifty servants. I’ll keep an eye out for her and direct her to the parlor.”
With a nod of thanks, Mercy trailed behind her aunt to the parlor. Once they stepped into the room, there was little time to think of Emma or anything else besides the injured guests. Dr. Burns arrived on their heels and organized the patients according to the severity of their injuries, allowing Mercy and Cecelia to tend to the cuts and scrapes, of which there were many.
After laboring for two hours, Mercy stretched her arms in a wide arc in front of her, trying to ease the tension in her back.
“Go outside for a bit of fresh air,” her aunt said, rubbing Mercy’s shoulders. “We’re done here. Rest on one of the benches in the courtyard. It’ll do you good.”
Now that the rush of adrenaline had passed, Mercy had to admit she was exhausted, but she still wished to find Emma. “You’re sure you don’t need me to stay?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Go!”
Peeling off a borrowed apron, she exited into the hallway. The guests had thinned out considerably. A footman walked past her, headed for the door, and she fell into step next to him, following him outside and down the stairs to the courtyard.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you happen to know where I might find Emma Taplin? She’s the lady’s maid to Eveline Mitchell.”
He glanced at her sideways and shook his head. “Sorry, not since before the ball.”
She thanked him and stood alone in the cold night, staring across the lake to the surrounding forest. A thick sliver of moon reflected off the inky surface of the water; its temperature must be frigid in November. Oh, the poor souls who hadn’t escaped before the glass dome shattered . . . If the whispers were to be believed, more than fifty guests had fought their way up, dragging themselves out of the water. Others were not so lucky.
Where was Emma? Mercy hugged herself and glanced over her shoulder, perusing the second level of the mansion. Eveline’s chamber was there, somewhere. Perhaps she could sneak up the servants’ stairs and search for her friend. She really ought to find their driver, William, too, and tell him they would be returning home soon. But first she needed to rest her feet for five minutes.
Sitting on one of the benches lining the lake, she closed her eyes and filled her lungs with the crisp night air. Compared to the chaos that had greeted her upon her arrival, the night was quiet. For a few moments, at least, until a fight broke out nearby.
“Don’t be a bloody fool!” a man shouted. “Do you want to die?”
“Get your goddamned hands off me,” another man growled.
Mercy’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the familiar voices. Two men stalked toward the lake not far from her, and one of them hurled himself at the other, tackling him to the ground.
“You have to let it go, Hatchet!” Victor said, gaining the upper hand as he pinned the other pirate to the ground with his knee against his back, holding his head to the grass. “Don’t make me knock you out, dammit.”
An arm snaked behind Victor’s knees, dislodging him. He fell on his back with a grunt.
“You can’t stop me!” Hatchet yelled, jumping to his feet. “This isn’t your fucking decision. I’m going back in there.”
Victor gained his feet in a second, blocking his friend’s path. Hatchet attacked with a solid right hook. A sickening crack echoed in the night, and Victor’s head snapped back. He shook it hard and then lowered his head before barreling into Hatchet’s stomach like a battering ram. They both fell to the ground and rolled in a tangle of limbs.
Goodness. Their clothes were soaking wet. Had they been searching for more bodies in the lake? She shivered, the mere idea chilling her to the bone.
They were going to kill each other with their bare fists if someone didn’t do something. Standing, she scanned the area, looking for help. But there was no one within shouting distance.
“Stop it!” she screamed, running toward them. “You bloody idiots! People have died tonight, and you’re fighting like two boys in a schoolyard. You both should be ashamed. Get up this instant.”
Her outrage must’ve shocked the men as much as it shocked her, because they immediately stopped fighting and rolled onto their backs, staring up at her with wide eyes.
“I said stand up,” Mercy hissed.
Hatchet dragged himself into a sitting position but seemed incapable of anything more. He stared at her a second and then hung his head between his bended knees, whispering something unintelligible. Seconds later, his shoulders sagged and began to shake. His wails
crashed into her, and her knees grew weak.
Pirates did not bawl.
She glanced at Victor and forced herself to ask, “Why is he crying?”
Victor laid his hand on his friend’s back in a show of support. His tear-filled eyes met hers. “Because he couldn’t save her.”
Who couldn’t he save? Her gaze was drawn to the lake . . . so cold . . . dark . . . and deep. Tendrils of dread crept over her skin, inching closer and closer to her heart. No, Emma wasn’t at the bottom of that lake. Tears stung her eyes and flooded over her cheeks, blinding her.
“I’m so sorry,” Victor said, standing and reaching for her. “We did everything we could to save her. I know she was your best—”
“Do not touch me!” she said, ignoring the horror reflected in his eyes. She stepped back. “You’re wrong! Emma isn’t dead. She’s taking care of Eveline in her chamber. She’s her lady’s maid. That’s why she’s here. She had no reason to be at the ball.”
He shook his head. “I know, but—”
“Shut up!” she cried, halting his words. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. She wasn’t even a lady’s maid! She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was only here because . . . because . . . because of you!”
Bile rose to her throat, and she stumbled backward as the reason hit her.
“You killed her!” Mercy said, glaring into his wide eyes. She shoved him in the chest with all her might. “She wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for you, you fucking bastard!”
He took a step back, holding up his hands, and she advanced, shoving him again, only harder this time.
“You knew she was desperate for work, and you pressured her to take this position.”
He shook his head back and forth, and she growled, punching his bicep. His muscle was hard, cracking her knuckles, and she cried out in pain.
“Emma didn’t want to live at Devil’s Cove Manor. She was terrified of the ghosts. But you laid on the guilt.” She glared at him once more and pounced, slapping his face. “Emma is dead because of you! May you rot in Hell!”
He blanched as she wound up to slap him again.
“Mercy, that’s enough!” a woman said, her tone stern as she snatched Mercy’s hand out of the air.
It would never be enough! Victor needed to pay for his sin, for destroying her best friend’s life. Whirling around, she lashed out at her captor in a fit of rage, but Victor’s iron grip clamped down on her forearm before she completed the strike.
Cecelia reared back, shielding her face, and a bone-deep shame burned through Mercy’s veins. Freya help her, she’d almost hurt her aunt. What kind of monster had she become? Covering her mouth with trembling hands, Mercy sank to her knees, unable to support her weight a moment longer.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, sobbing. “Please, forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry, Cecelia.”
Her aunt knelt beside her, wrapping her in a warm embrace. “You’re hurting, sweet girl. I understand, but taking your anger out on Victor or anyone else will not bring our Emma back.” She lifted Mercy’s chin, staring into her eyes. “What happened tonight was a tragic accident.” Turning her gaze to Hatchet, she added, “No one is at fault for Emma’s death, do you understand?”
Mercy closed her eyes and wept. She did not understand, not one little bit. What had the world come to when murdering pirates prospered while kind-hearted women died young?
She lifted her head, and her steady gaze met Victor’s, blasting him with all the anger and frustration raging in her soul. He might’ve prospered for the early part of his life, but he would pay now.
Chapter Eight
Victor gazed toward the harbor, his eyes locked on The Savior as it bobbed on the choppy waves, anchored in place. He should’ve been halfway home by now but instead found himself standing on the edge of Hillcrest Cemetery.
“It’s time,” Dominick said, clapping him on the shoulder and pushing him gently in the direction of the casket.
They each took their place, and Victor caught sight of Hatchet’s blank eyes but looked quickly away, unable to bear the pain reflected there as they prepared to lay Emma Taplin’s body to rest. His heart broke for Hatchet, for the devastating events that led to him losing the second love of his life, and for what was yet to come. Because in less than two months, his friends might be forced to lower Victor’s casket into the cold ground of Blackburn Castle estate.
Victor’s muscles bulged and ached as he worked in tandem with the other men to lower the simple wood box into the gravesite. He felt utterly exhausted after two harrowing days. When the receptacle settled against the bottom of the grave, Victor released the leather strap, letting it fall into the gaping hole. He stepped back and focused his attention on the priest standing at the head of the grave.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest said, “we are gathered here to pay our last respects to Emma Taplin, daughter of Lawrence and Sandra Taplin, sister to Mary, and friend to many. In the wake of her tragic death, we are humbled and seek God’s loving grace to guide us through our grief.”
Victor glanced at Emma’s family—father, mother, and sister huddled together and weeping. They were a picture straight out of his nightmares . . . the one in which his family gathered around his grave. Sweat trickled down the side of his face despite the frigid wind, and he fought to quell the rising panic seizing his gut.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the rich cadence of the preacher’s voice as he spoke of Emma’s giving nature and prayed for God’s loving grace, that her parents might learn to accept Emma’s tragic fate, knowing she rested with Him in peace.
Victor was doomed to die from a tragic fate as well. Unless he convinced Mercy to break the Blackburn curse. And now she blamed him, at least in part, for Emma’s death. Such a horrible, unfortunate accident.
Breathing deep, he opened his eyes and connected with Mercy’s angry scowl. There must be a way he could convince her to break the curse. At least he had almost six weeks to earn her forgiveness. Somehow. He nodded in greeting, but she turned and stalked away without acknowledging him. Only then did he realize the Mass had come to an end and the congregation was dispersing, leaving only Emma’s family and Victor’s party at the gravesite.
He plucked the white rose from the lapel of his coat and tossed it down onto the casket already covered in flowers. Emma’s spirit rose out of the box with hands outstretched, as if she wished to catch his offering, but the rose fell through her iridescent form while she beckoned him with a smile, her fingers curling inward, calling him to her.
He stumbled backward, fighting to control his ragged breaths as he shook his head. What was the matter with him? Exhaustion could cause hallucinations, couldn’t it? With his heart thundering in his breast, he crept back to the edge of the gaping hole and peered inside. But there was nothing except a coffin covered in flowers.
Striding away, he shoved his hands through his hair. As the day of the curse neared, he was slowly going insane. That was the only explanation. Dominick appeared by his side and gestured toward the carriage with a flick of his chin.
“We can wait inside while Hatchet and Eveline say their final goodbyes in private.”
They idled toward the conveyance, both silent for the entire stretch. After settling on the plush bench seat, Victor drummed his fingers on his leg, turning his next steps over in his mind.
“My birthday is nigh upon me,” he said, contorting his face into a mask of indifference. He didn’t wish to worry Dominick. His best friend had enough to deal with already. “I would like to visit my family at Blackburn Castle, before . . . ”
Tears stung his eyes, and he looked away. By God, this was more difficult than he imagined it would be. He didn’t want to leave without Dominick by his side, and yet he must. His gut warned he would not return, that these might very well be the last hours he shared with his best friend. Staring out the carriage window, he focused on the evergreen trees lining the edge of the graveyard and cleared his
throat.
“You’ll be tied up here for a while, dealing with the aftermath of the ball. I would sail to Cape Wrath with The Savior to visit my family. The crew have been ashore long enough, I daresay. Hatchet would also accompany me. What say you?”
“I’d say it’s about time.”
Relief flooded Victor, and he nodded his thanks.
Dominick regarded him with a steady gaze. “Perhaps you’re agreeable to read this, then?” He dug into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Mr. Morris delivered it earlier, said it looked important. It’s addressed to me at Devil’s Cove Manor but bears your family crest. From your mother, no doubt.”
Dominick handed Victor the letter. He turned it over and over again, staring at his mother’s familiar script. She had written him countless letters over the years, never losing faith that he’d one day be free of the curse.
The door to the carriage swung open, and the cabin filled with a blast of cold air. Eveline entered and settled in, snuggling close to Dominick’s side without a word as she dabbed her red, puffy eyes with a handkerchief. Hatchet followed hard on her heels, equally silent, filling the empty space beside Victor. He glanced at the unopened letter with lifted brow.
Victor stuffed the missive into his jacket. He tapped his fingers on his leg and cast a weary glance at Dominick. “So we have your permission to take The Savior?”
His friend nodded curtly.
“Finally, a bit of good news,” Hatchet said, folding his arms over his chest. “No disrespect, Eveline, but I’ll be glad to leave this place far behind.”
“You’re both leaving?” she asked, a frown pulling down her lips. “Where will you go? For how long? You know we’ll miss you terribly, especially Maribeth.”
A twinge of sadness gripped Victor. The girl was only eleven, but after five years of sailing on The Savior under the care of its captain and crew, the little termite had burrowed her way into his heart.
“She’ll be safer here,” Hatchet said and then grunted when Victor elbowed him hard in the side.
Eveline’s eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “Why is that? Where are you going?”
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 5