Blood Moon

by Jana Petken

  “I don’t have time for your insults or your games,” he said. He forced himself to keep his words even and his tone of voice passive. He had already parried insults with her in Portsmouth. He had threatened her. He had tried to best her, and he had failed. “Tell Elizabeth I called. Tell her I will see her tonight – and as for you, we have unfinished business. I aim to tell Elizabeth the truth about you, so she had better be at the ball. If not, I’ll come back here and get her.”

  “It won’t matter either way. She won’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. She can’t stand the sight of you.”

  “That may be so, but nonetheless, I aim to speak about my dealings with you in Liverpool. Elizabeth and every other person present will be made aware of your true profession, your criminal activities, the murders you committed, and the lives you ruined. You broke our deal, just as I thought you would, and now I am going to break my end of the bargain and do what I should have done a long time ago.”

  “Aw, get lost, ya big lout! No one will pay any heed to you. Everything that went on in Liverpool happened a long time ago and so far away. You’ll gain nothing by opening your trap. Nothing will be done and no one will care because it will be your word against mine. You’re an adulterer, for Christ’s sake – who’s going to side with a man like you? ”

  Jacob smiled. He flicked his eyes over her with contempt. He would leave now. She would close the door on him with her usual self-aggrandizing demeanour, but once inside, she’d take in his words and would wonder for the rest of the day if he intended to go through with his threat to spread the truth about her past. He had done enough to worry her. “I will see you tonight. I’m going to end you, du Pont.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Who was that?” Elizabeth shouted from the top of the stairs. “I heard a man’s voice.”

  “You heard nothing. Get back to your room!” Margaret retorted from the bottom of the staircase. Her hands were trembling. Jacob Stone was the only person she had ever known who had the power to unnerve her. She needed a bloody drink and time to work out how to combat this threat of his. He couldn’t get the house, but he could damage her reputation beyond repair. Christ, there’s no point having a fancy house if no one is going to speak to me, she thought, walking into the breakfast room.

  “Margaret, please don’t speak to me in that tone. I am not your servant, and this is my house, not yours,” Elizabeth said upon entering the room behind Margaret.

  Margaret sat in the chair and lifted the coffee pot. Her face was burning with rage. Whenever she’d felt like this in Liverpool, she’d taken her fist to someone. Punching another person usually calmed her down. She had to restrain herself, she thought. She might get caught out if she marked Elizabeth’s face. “You just keep thinking like that if you want,” she said without turning her head. “It makes no difference to me whether you believe this house to be yours or not. The fact of the matter is that legally it is mine – all mine – and there is nothing you can do about it. Come in here. We need to have a little word, you and me.”

  Elizabeth walked tentatively towards Margaret and settled on the chair opposite her. Gone were the smiles and pleasantries between the two women. In their place were sheer loathing, an unhidden expression of fear from one and domination from the other.

  Margaret casually cast her eyes around the room. “I’m very happy with our new furniture. Aren’t you, Elizabeth, dear?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. It would be a shame if you decided you had to leave. I think you would miss this grand house, don’t you?” Margaret’s eyes came to rest on Elizabeth’s frightened face and teary eyes. Elizabeth nodded, and Margaret smiled.

  “I thought so. Anyway, what does it matter whose house it is? The main thing is to be happy with what we have and, even more importantly, keep our private business to ourselves. You don’t want all the soldiers round here to think you spend all your days moaning and crying, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, let’s talk about the ball tonight. Me and you are going to put our best faces on, are we not?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Cos I’m sure you don’t want to go with a puffed-up blotchy face, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And I can’t imagine you want to waste the night away bawling your eyes out to get attention from folks. No one likes a crybaby …”

  “Stop it! Stop it, Margaret!” Elizabeth erupted, finally unable to take another word from her. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child or threaten me! You want to keep me silent – well, I won’t. I will do what I have to do. You have kept me quiet for weeks, but I swear on the Holy Bible that I will tell as many folks as I can about what you have done to me. You are a wicked, wicked woman, and I intend to make you pay for your crimes against me!”

  Tears dripped from the corners of Elizabeth’s flashing eyes. She was afraid, but she was also encouraged with the prospect of finally getting out of the house and telling people about Margaret’s cruelty. She would use this opportunity tonight to shame Margaret in front of everyone. She would beg Mrs Bartlett and her politician husband for help. She would speak to the lawyer and the judge. She would make Margaret sign the house over to her, for there was no trust, affection, or loyalty between them now. She would scream and cry to anyone who would listen to her pleas. She wiped her eyes and looked at Margaret, who was sitting quietly in thought.

  “I am going to give you the opportunity to go to the lawyer’s office with me. You will hand over the deeds to me, Margaret, because if you don’t, I will tell everyone about your cruelty and theft of my house and money,” she said. Her self-assurance was growing. Margaret would have to comply now, she thought. She wouldn’t stand a chance against a room full of Southerners; they would band together to protect their own kind. Margaret Mallory had to go. It was as simple as that. “Are you not going to speak?” she asked.

  Margaret remained silent. Her eyes, focused on Elizabeth’s face, were without emotion.

  The sound of the newly purchased grandfather clock ticking heightened Elizabeth’s senses as she waited with trepidation to hear Margaret’s response.

  Margaret banged her cup onto the saucer, which cracked. She rose from her chair and stood with her fists clenched on the table. “I don’t like being threatened either, girl,” she said. She spoke softly, without hurry or anger. “Do you know what I do to little girls that talk back to me?”

  “No, and I don’t believe I want to,” Elizabeth said haughtily.

  “Stand up,” Margaret said.

  “What? What do you mean, stand up? What are you going to do?”

  Margaret crossed to Elizabeth’s side of the dining table. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hair by the roots, pulled her up, and held her face inches from her own.

  Elizabeth stared, hypnotised at the rage now evident on Margaret’s face. She whimpered at the pain shooting through her head as Margaret’s grip tightened on her hair. She had never witnessed such hatred or malice. She was a stranger to rough behaviour. “Let me go … please,” she sobbed. “Margaret, stop this!”

  Margaret loosened her grip and then threw her first punch. It connected with the side of Elizabeth’s head, just at the hairline, and sent her stumbling backwards into the chair she had just vacated. She sat awkwardly, panting but unable to speak. Another blow hit her on the arm. Tears streamed down her face. She lifted her arms to shield her face and turned the top half of her body to face the back of the chair. She felt her arm and shoulder being pummelled by fists. She heard Margaret scream, “You stupid American bitch!”

  Then there were her own cries for help. “Stop it, Margaret! For God’s sake, stop it!”

  “I’ll stop it when I’m good and ready!” Margaret screamed back at her. “I’ll punch you into next week. I’ll destroy your pretty face forever, and then I’ll kick you till you bleed inside! This house is mine, and it’s staying mine! And you’ll not say
another bloody word about it!”

  As Margaret’s punches and slaps connected with the back of her head, Elizabeth found herself strangely hypnotised by Margaret’s words. She was mad, Elizabeth decided. Margaret had lost her mind. There was no weapon to fight a woman such as this. She was possessed by demons and abandoned by almighty God! “Get away from me,” she sobbed.

  The blows continued. Margaret wasn’t listening to her. She wrapped her arms tighter around her head and then heard Margaret panting with exertion.

  “One word from your mouth tonight and it will be the last you ever speak. I crush women like you. I drive them mad with hopelessness, and I’m good at it!” Margaret screamed. “I tamed Mercy Carver, and I’ll bloody well tame you too. Look at me. I said to look at me!”

  Elizabeth turned slowly to face Margaret, knowing her eyes were wide with fear. She felt so much terror that she was loath to look away, lest another blow strike her. What had Mercy Carver to do with this? she wondered briefly. Another fierce slap hit her face. “Please stop, Margaret,” she whimpered. “Please … no more.”

  “Are you going to open your mouth tonight or are you done with your ranting? Am I going to have to hit you every time you threaten me? Well, am I?”

  “No.”

  “Is this house mine or yours? Tell me!” Margaret said with a raised fist.

  “Margaret, you know it’s mine – you know it is. Why are you doing this?”

  Margaret laughed. She lowered her clenched fist and once again grabbed Elizabeth by the hair. She pulled her out of the chair and marched her to the window. She tugged back the curtains and put her mouth to Elizabeth’s ear. “I’m doing this so that you don’t forget my words. Take a good look outside. Know that if you even so much as threaten to spill your guts to anyone, I will make sure you never see or breathe fresh air again. Know that you will be kept inside this house until your body rots from hunger and thirst. This house is mine in name, and it will stay mine cos you don’t have the bloody guts or brains it takes to take it from me.

  “I’ve had enough of your whining, you half-witted bitch. You will not accompany me tonight. I’ve decided that you will stay in your room with that big darkie git I have to guard you, and only when I’m satisfied that you will keep your mouth shut about this bloody house will I think about letting you out. Now get lost! Get out of my sight and don’t let me see your face until I open that bedroom door up there.”

  Elizabeth stood on shaky legs. A strange calm came over her. She felt as though she had finally opened her eyes and had just stumbled upon a way out of this mess. She was a Southern belle. She was a lady, she told herself, and ladies did not tolerate white trash women. She had to get out of the house, tell people the truth, and have Margaret arrested and thrown into jail. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me,” she said. “I thought we were friends, but I do believe you have lied to me all along …”

  Margaret laughed. “Well, if you weren’t so bloody stupid, you would have known I was lying. You thought we were friends cos you’re as thick as a pile of horseshit, that’s why! Me, friends with the likes of you? No, dear, you’re the last person I could ever be friends with. Go on. Away with you.”

  You’re as thick as a pile of horseshit. The words echoed in Elizabeth’s ears, which still rang painfully from Margaret’s forceful blows. She lowered her head in defeat and was unable to comprehend the violence and cussing that had come from Margaret’s mouth. She watched Margaret sit back down, quite out of breath and now seemingly indifferent to her presence. Margaret was done with her. She would now cast her aside, lock her up, and do even more despicable things to her. She staggered towards the door and then stopped to look at the back of the chair Margaret was sitting in. She hated Margaret Mallory. She despised her even more than Mercy Carver.

  She looked at the sideboard. Breakfast dishes were laid out. A large bread knife lay beside an uncut baked loaf. She picked up the wooden-handled blade, gripped it tightly in her hand, and stared at the back of Margaret’s chair again.

  “Have you not gone yet?” Margaret said, without looking round.

  Margaret would never hurt her again, Elizabeth thought. She would never say this house belonged to her when it didn’t. Margaret had to go. She had a ball to attend this evening, and Margaret was not going to spoil it for her. She stared at the knife in her hand and tread softly towards the back of Margaret’s chair.

  Margaret turned her head just as the knife bore down and connected with her left shoulder blade.

  Elizabeth felt it pierce Margaret’s skin and hit bone. She pulled the knife out and jumped back in fright.

  Margaret staggered to her feet with a piercing scream. Disoriented, she fumbled her way to the back of the chair and stared with unfocused eyes at Elizabeth, who was near the closed door. She moved menacingly towards her, her pain seemingly forgotten for the moment, and screamed Elizabeth’s name. “I’m going to end you! I’m going to bloody kill you for that!” Margaret threw her body forwards with arms outstretched and hands aiming for the knife, which was clutched at Elizabeth’s breast.

  Elizabeth lowered the knife and held it with two hands in front of her belly with its point facing outwards. Margaret lurched forwards again, so filled with rage she failed to see that the weapon had been lowered.

  Elizabeth thrust the knife into Margaret’s stomach. Instead of moving backwards, Margaret screamed again, took another stride forward, put her two hands around Elizabeth’s throat, and squeezed. Elizabeth moved in closer to Margaret’s body and pushed the knife farther into her belly, right to the hilt, as she choked and struggled for air.

  Margaret growled like an animal and tightened her grip on Elizabeth’s neck for just a second until pain spread through her body. Her eyes widened. She stared at Elizabeth, shook her head in disbelief, and then stood frozen to the spot.

  Time was suspended in her mind. She tried to convince herself that what had just occurred hadn’t really happened at all, for it was impossible to believe. She looked down at her belly, seeing the knife’s hilt and blood surrounding it. The knife had gone all the way inside her belly. She could see that, yet still, she thought, it couldn’t be true – she couldn’t die this way.

  Margaret tried again to reach Elizabeth, who was staring at the injury she had just caused. She wanted to kill the bitch, but she felt as weak as a newborn and couldn’t even lift her arms to swing a punch. She staggered on her feet from left to right and back, like a drunkard after too many whiskies. Again, she stared down at the knife, and this time reality hit her. Raising her eyes, she found Elizabeth smiling with satisfaction and without an ounce of pity. The weakest of women had ended her, Margaret thought.

  She dropped to her knees in front of Elizabeth and then made a last desperate attempt to pull the knife out of her. Blood filled her mouth and spilled out onto her chin. Her body keeled over onto the pale green rug, and she closed her eyes.

  Elizabeth stared at the blood gurgling from Margaret’s mouth, yet she was still afraid for her life. She stumbled backwards and watched, fascinated with Margaret’s feeble attempts to move her hands towards the blade. Margaret was finished, she thought. There was no need to fear her anymore. “This is my house, Margaret,” she said. She looked down at the dying woman and panted, “I told you it was mine – so you can go to hell.”

  Margaret looked up once more. She managed to grab the hem of Elizabeth’s dress. Elizabeth kicked Margaret’s head and watched it roll to the side like a puppet without a string to hold it steady. Margaret closed her eyes and lay still – until her body twitched with a last long breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elizabeth stood over Margaret Mallory’s body, panting for breath and feeling quite nauseated at the bloody and ugly sight before her. Margaret was completely still, and her face was already taking on the grey pallor of a corpse whose blood had stopped running through its veins. Though sickened, Elizabeth continued to stare. She was curious about the physical appearance of someo
ne that had just died. She had never seen a corpse, nor had she witnessed a human being in his or her last moments, taking that last long breath, and staring at the remnants of life with terrified eyes.

  She felt nothing but relief wash over her, for she no longer had to think about Margaret Mallory or be burdened by the Englishwoman’s cruelty. The house was rightfully hers now, just as it should have been all along, and Margaret could no longer threaten to throw her out of it.

  Margaret looked vulnerable, Elizabeth thought, cocking her head to one side. With death, her heartlessness, foul language, and malicious intentions had been nullified. She was just as helpless and as pitiful as any other soulless pile of rotting flesh and dried bones. She felt the urge to touch the body’s skin. Her mind was consumed with the entire concept of mortality. She was fascinated with the corpse’s expression. She could no longer call that face Margaret’s, for the wild anger in the eyes and the thin-lined grimace on the lips did not look human at all. She was like an odd sculpture, Elizabeth decided. Yes, that was the only way to describe what she was looking at.

  She sat on the couch by the window and lifted a small bell which sat on a side table, ringing it for a good few seconds. She stared again at the body, noting this time that blood was beginning to dry up around Margaret’s wound. She hadn’t realised that the human form was so soft and spongy. It had not been easy to pierce the gown’s layers of fabric with the blade, but once it had gone through to the skin, it had been like cutting into butter. Strange, she thought again, that a body could be so vulnerable.

  Charles, the slave, opened the door to the drawing room and was immediately met with the horrific scene. He had heard the screaming and the noise of hands slapping but had thought it best not to interfere with the two crazy women who owned him – never had he been beaten so much in so short a time by a white mistress. She seemed to enjoy whuppin’ him.