by Jana Petken
She heard the sound of running footsteps getting closer and then heard Eddie’s voice, identifying himself to the drivers. Her body relaxed, and she sighed with relief. She would find out what had happened, and then she could, she hoped, put her mind at rest and the past behind her. Eddie had not disappointed her after all.
The knock on the carriage door stirred excitement instead of the earlier apprehension that had unnerved her to the core. “Get in here, Eddie,” she whispered softly through the closed window curtain.
Eddie opened the door, stepped into the carriage, and closed the door behind him. He had a flushed face and was perspiring, panting like a hunting dog and smoothing down his damp hair.
Madame du Pont’s keen eyes captured Eddie’s expression and thoughts. People were like open books, and she never missed a trick. She looked at his nervous and scared posture for a moment and then spoke. “Eddie, tell me it went well. Tell me you didn’t cock it up.”
Eddie shifted nervously.
“Tell me they’re all dead – out with it!”
“I’m sorry, madam. The whores got away. I was interrupted by a couple of those American buggers who were intent on freeing them,” Eddie told her with downcast eyes.
“How many got away, exactly?” she asked him with an icy stare.
“All of them – and Sam. They got him. They had guns. They were going to kill me, so I ran. I didn’t even have time to get my horse. Look at the state of me! We need to get on the ship as fast as we can—”
“I know that, you bloody fool! What do you think I’m doing, sitting here for my own bleedin’ pleasure?”
“I know you’re desperate to get on, and I’ve sorted it – it’s done. America. We’re going to Norfolk, Virginia. I got one first-class cabin like you asked and one in steerage. There; that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Good, that’s good, but I want on right now. Did you sort that?” she asked him. “I don’t want to wait until morning, not with whores running around, thanks to your incompetence. You’re a dozy git sometimes, Eddie Gunn! You tell that ticket master that I don’t care how much it costs. Bribe him till he can’t say no, if you have to. Go – get it done. Bring the ticket master back with you and tell him I want his personal escort to the ship. Christ almighty, Eddie, thanks to you, all those bitches are running around Liverpool like headless chickens, spilling their guts and telling tales on me.”
Eddie nodded whilst opening the door and stepping down. “I’m sorry. I’ll make this right, I promise. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just stay put and don’t get out of the carriage. I’ll be five minutes.”
Up until now, Parker had remained silent, but her anger was clearly evident. “Have we got to share a cabin, then?” she asked. “I was supposed to get my own first-class ticket. What’s going on here?”
Madame du Pont stared at Parker with eyes no wider than slits. “Watch it, you. Who do you think you’re talking to, ya cheeky mare? Did you think it would be all right for you to get the same as me, as if you’re my bloody equal? I’m the one to have the best cabin, not you.”
Parker stopped panting with anger, took a deep breath, and leaned over, bringing her face inches from Madame du Pont’s angry glare. Her expression was, as always, cold and impassive. “Now you listen to me, madam. You’ve forgotten after all these years of playing queen bee to all and sundry that I’m your bloody sister.”
Madam du Pont opened her mouth.
“No, you don’t get to speak. Shut your mouth and keep it shut. You’re going to listen to me for a change,” Parker blazed. “That’s right. You’ve been so consumed by your own self-importance all these years that you’ve forgotten that I’m your elder by two years. You should be showing me some bloody respect.
“Well, Margaret, I’ve kept your secret for long enough, and there’ll be no more madam coming from my lips. Our new identity papers say Margaret and Myrtle Mallory. It’s our father’s name – our real names, at last. Parker is dead, and so is your Madame du bloody Pont!
“You’re not my mistress, you never were, and I finally deserve the pickings of my labour just as much as you. There’s no more brothel, no more French accent – it’s over! From now on, you’ll give me my due.”
She moved in even closer. “We are equals, and this equality starts right now.”
“I know that, Myrtle. Everything is different now. I agree that we’re equal, with equal money and status, but there is something you have to do now. ”
“No, there’s bloody not!” Myrtle hissed back. “I have my own money to do with what I please. We agreed right from the start that when our venture ended, you would stop bloody bossing me around. So I don’t need to do anything else for you.”
Myrtle looked at the valise. “And another thing: I want a cut of that gold there in the bag that I had to carry onto the carriage. I deserve it, and I’m going to have it just as soon as we land in America. It’s only right, and you know it. I worked hard in that mansion. Your bed was bigger than the room I slept in. I slaved for you and never told anyone who I really was because I promised you I wouldn’t. But no more, do you hear?”
Myrtle sat back and stared long and hard at her younger sister, whose face had turned a cherry red. Margaret’s lips moved, but no sound came from her mouth.
“Are we clear, Margaret Mallory?” Myrtle said for good measure.
“Yes, we’re clear, but Christ, I’ve just watched my whole life go up in bloody flames. Can you not give me some time to grieve?”
“It was my life too – what life I had.”
“Why didn’t you speak up sooner if you were so unhappy? You could have left whenever you wanted to.” Madame du Pont pouted moodily.
“Leave? Why the hell should I have left when half the business is – was – mine. I put up with you because you have the better business head and you seemed to enjoy killing young women. But you need to forget who you were and think now about who you’re going to be. That’s what I’m going to do the minute we get on that bloody ship and I take off this uniform for the last time.”
Madame du Pont lowered her eyes to hide her rage. She felt like strangling her own sister to shut her up. No one had dared speak to her like that for nearly two decades. Myrtle was her elder sister, but she had no brains to speak of. She’d always been as thick as the pig shit on the farm they used to live on. She’d still be living on that farm, milking cows, if it weren’t for her. Myrtle was an ugly bitch into the bargain, and she would never have found a husband to keep her. Christ, even their father had agreed with her on that point before he died.
There was silence. Madame du Pont, now this new Margaret, looked down at her hands fidgeting on her lap. Myrtle was right. She did deserve a retirement, but she would still have to work for it.
“Myrtle, I need to say something. I agree that there is no more Madame du Pont. That name will never be mentioned again. She went up in flames with Parker. Does that suit you?”
Myrtle nodded her head victoriously.
“It’s going to take time for me to adjust, but from now on, I’m just plain Margaret Mallory. You’re right; we have to look to the future now and put Liverpool and the whorehouse behind us.”
“Exactly right,” Myrtle said.
“You know, we’ve been lucky. We played with the devil for more than fourteen years, and we both came out unscathed, without losing our souls.”
Myrtle laughed.
“What’s that laugh for?” Margaret asked her.
“When have you ever had a soul? You were a soulless bitch from the day you was born. You loved killing and beating those girls.”
“So what? You loved watching me do it to them! Anyway, that’s all over with. We’ve got more important matters to discuss right now.”
“And what might they be?” Myrtle asked, forever suspicious of her sister.
“We’re going to a port called Norfolk, Virginia – that is, me and Eddie are going.”
“What the bloody hell do you mean by you
and Eddie?”
“We’ll find a nice small country house with a big garden, and we’ll get ourselves some of those nigger slaves they’ve got over there,” Margaret said, ignoring Myrtle’s question.
“Answer me, Margaret. What do you mean, you and Eddie? What about me? You’re not thinking about leaving me here, are you? You wouldn’t dare!”
Margaret’s eyes widened and displayed just the right amount of hurt. “No, of course not. I’d never leave you here, you daft bat! You’re going to London, to Knightsbridge.”
“What?”
“Myrtle, listen to me. We have a house there that’s worth a lot of money. We’re going to have to sell it because we’re never coming back to this bloody island. You can have more than me out of the proceeds – sixty-forty in your favour. You’ve got two men here to take you when they drop me off at the ship.”
“Get lost, Margaret. I’m getting on that ship, even if I have to fight you for your bloody cabin!” Myrtle raged.
Margaret tried to pacify her. “The house will sell in a week, Myrtle, a month at the most. Then you can join us. I’ll have a nice place all set up for us when you get to America.”
“No. I’m not doing it,” Myrtle protested again.
“But you’ve always wanted to see London, haven’t you? You’ll be a couple of months behind me, that’s all. Think about it. You’ve got all the power. You’ll be the one to give orders to folk, and I’m going to trust you with the money.”
Myrtle began to whimper. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. For a moment, Margaret almost felt sorry for her.
Myrtle said, “No. No – bloody no, you selfish bitch.” Myrtle stared at Margaret with contempt. “You planned this all along, didn’t you? I’ll not go to London for you. I’m going to America, and you had better make all these years I’ve put in worth it for me. Do you understand me?”
Margaret laughed. “Myrtle, Myrtle, you don’t understand. I’m not giving you a choice. How are you going to get to America when you’ve no ticket and I have all the money? Who do you think Eddie and the two drivers take their orders from? You’ll go to London because I’m telling you to go, or you’ll stay in Liverpool and walk the streets. I have all the money, and if you put your hands in that valise, I’ll cut them off. So it’s up to you … Oh, come on. Don’t look so bloody glum. You know I love you, and I’ll miss you …”
Myrtle leaned in closer, her face inches from Margaret’s. “You make me bloody sick, you conniving old whore,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mercy was awake, but she remained as still as a statue, with her eyes tightly shut. Eventually, she found the courage and cautiously opened her eyes halfway. She heard soft breathing beside her and turned her head on the pillow. She moaned softly with the pain that came with the movement. She opened her eyes fully and saw Julia lying next to her, sound asleep and with a peaceful expression on her innocent young face.
Mercy poked her head under the sheet and blanket in order to examine her body. It was aching all over as though she’d been punched. Oh, dear God! She was naked. Her cheeks blushed and stung with heat, and she pulled the covers up to her chin. Where were they? Her body was clean. The sticky mess had gone, and she smelled of lavender soap. Some unknown person had bathed her.
She touched her head. The bump was still there and was giving her a headache, but it had been covered by a bandage that was wrapped around her head several times. Who had cared for her? She looked at her right hand. It was burned, the way her hands had burned many times before whilst cooking at home in London, but it too was bandaged and smelled of herbs.
She tried to gather her thoughts and put them in order: the flames, the smoke, the fire engulfing Madame du Pont’s mansion. The memories converged in her mind, overcrowding it and making her head ache even more.
She covered her face with trembling hands. She had set the fire. She had killed a man. My God, I did; I killed him! Other people might have died too because of what she did. She hadn’t thought about all the innocent people in the mansion. She’d just wanted to destroy it. She was going to burn in hell – if not today, then someday.
Where was she? She looked around the cabin and listened for a familiar sound. There were scrapings and thuds and men shouting orders coming from the other side of the wooden ceiling. How could she have slept through such a racket?
There were soft swaying movements beneath her, rocking her gently in the bed. It felt nice, and she was somewhat calmed by it. She was on a ship. She was alive on a ship – but why? How had she come to arrive on a ship?
It was a man’s cabin. She could smell the remnants of tobacco and cologne. She could see maps, a spyglass, and masculine adornments. On the floor were a pair of boots and a crumpled-up shirt. Trousers were strewn over the back of a chair. Surely this was not Madame du Pont’s ship? Did the madam have a ship? Were she and Julia still her captives? If not, to whom did this ship belong?
She struggled to clear her mind but found it difficult to think about her present situation. She was suddenly hit again by images of an old man, his nakedness, his murder by her hands, her setting a fire and spreading it everywhere with candles and her own gown.
Visions of blood now came to mind, gushing from the man’s head and blinding her as it spewed everywhere like a fountain. The blood had been sticking to her body. She shuddered. Her mind heard the shouts from men and women, screams filled with fear and panic. There was a memory of a man’s voice. It was a soothing, soft drawl in an accent she’d never heard spoken before last night. It told her she was going to be all right. “You’re safe now.” Who did that voice belong to?
Julia stirred but slept on.
Mercy realised that she had slept better than she had in weeks. She was in a real bed with soft white sheets and feather pillows. She snuggled deeper into the bed, revelling in its luxury. She’d never laid her head on a pillow like this one. She was used to a sack filled with newspaper that scratched her face and made a noise every time she moved her head. There was also a blanket and soft sheeting on this bed. She was warm and cosy. She somehow felt safe. Even the memories of the previous night couldn’t stop her from enjoying this one lavish moment.
She felt her eyes close again. She was so tired, but she had to get out of bed, find clothes, and, more importantly, find out where she was. Fear descended on her again like an unwanted companion, taking away her short-lived moment of peace. No, she couldn’t go anywhere. She would be safer in here.
Were they prisoners? She panicked. What if they had been carted off to be sold on to someone else, someone even worse than Madame du Pont?
She turned, lifted her aching body to a kneeling position, and stuck her head out of the open porthole just above the bed. There was an array of ships at anchor, so many ships she couldn’t count them all, even if she tried all day. She twisted her head as far as it could go and could just see the outline of jetties and buildings behind. Finally, she looked down and saw the water lapping against the hull of the ship. They were somewhere near docks, in a grand cabin on a ship.
She continued to stare out of the porthole. An accumulation of different noises was coming from the docks and from the ship itself. It sounded as though cargo was being loaded or unloaded. She could feel tremors as large crates, no doubt, were being moved. She understood nothing. She looked again at Julia, serene, and wondered how the girl could possibly sleep through the disturbance.
Mercy thanked God for Julia’s survival. Her small childlike body had probably been violated, yet she slept soundly and appeared to be at peace, without nightmares of rape and fire. Mercy hoped with all her heart that this was the case, and that Julia would sleep on and on, with the horrors of the last few weeks absent from her dreams. She would have to wait until Julia awoke to find out all that had happened to her after she’d been taken away by the man and Madame du Pont.
It’s ironic, she thought. She had gladly taken on the task of protecting the youngster, yet Julia had saved her. Ju
lia had found her, helped her up from the floor, and had taken her to the room where they’d been rescued – but by whom and for what purpose?
Mercy lay her head back down, and it sank into the pillow. She was too tired to think anymore. She could hardly keep her eyes open. She should sleep, she decided. She had to sleep for just a while longer. She’d be no good to either of them if she felt like a dead cat.
She yawned and turned to face the wall, snuggling comfortably into the mattress. They would have to try to escape, but her head ached. Sleep. She would sleep a while longer …
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What the hell were you thinking, Jacob? How could you bring two women aboard? This is not a damn passenger ship. God damn it, what’s the crew going to think?” Jack growled.
Jacob smiled, just as he always did when Jack put on his fatherly hat. He found it refreshing because most of his subordinates, both on the ship and at home on the plantation, bowed and scraped when speaking to him. They used the word master at the end of every sentence. Jack was overfamiliar, overprotective, and in general overbearing, but Jacob liked this side of Jack’s character. Jack took the edge off the loneliness that had engulfed Jacob since his own father’s passing.
He took another sip of coffee, tore some bread off the long loaf, and then placed a lump of cheese on top of it. He took a bite, chewed it, and faced Jack’s blazing stare. “What did you want me to do, Jack?” he finally said. “One girl was near to death, and the other needed stitches on a head wound and was unconscious. Should I have left them lying in front of a burning building? Taken them to a hospital, where they would probably have been thrown out on the streets of Liverpool? Or should I have done what I did and tended to their injuries and made them safe for the night? What would you have done?”
Jack grumbled and mumbled something, then shook his head. “I know. I know you’re right. I would have done the same as you. But they can’t stay here. We’re in the middle of unloading, and your brother is arriving any minute with the Carrabelle. I’m just saying you’d better decide where to drop them off before the end of the day. Or have you forgotten that we set sail tomorrow night?”