Dark Shadows

by Jana Petken

  Thomas nodded his head.

  “Thomas, I need you to stay out here. I can’t have you near me. If it’s God’s will, she’ll deliver and live, but be ready for the worst.” Her voice then grew harsh as she turned her attention to the other men present. She pointed to the bedroom. “Right, you lot. No one, and I mean no one, goes in there. No matter what you hear from that room, keep him out.” She walked past them and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  Thomas finally stood up, straightened his back, and asked for a shot of whisky. No more crying, he told himself, and no more making an arse of himself in front of his mates. He’d gone from hope to despair to hope and then back to despair so many times these last two days that he was bloody dizzy. But he had a gut feeling about this midwife. She seemed to know her stuff.

  He needed a drink to settle his nerves. He’d gone off his rocker earlier, and he’d be the first to admit it. Joan lost blood every month, and he was overreacting. She was just losing a bit more than usual, that was all.

  He shut out all the whispers, noises, and pitiful expressions and thought about Joan – not as she was now but as a bright-eyed beauty who had become the greatest gift a man could receive. He pictured every memory and relived each one with her. Her soft, sweet laughter rang in his ears. Her strong character that had put him in his place more than once made her even more desirable. Her eternal optimism and brave acceptance of poverty were noble and pure, unlike his insatiable ambitions and need for more money. He had quite simply married the perfect woman, and he’d make sure she knew that when this was all over.

  He leaned against the wall and drank the tot of whisky in one quick gulp. Hands intermittently patted his shoulders. He drank another couple of tots. Then he awoke from his dreams to face a grief-stricken road again. His Joan was lost to him. She wasn’t going to live. He was kidding himself. He could see by every expression on every face that this was the truth of it. His seventeen-year-old bride of a year was going to leave him alone and take every bit of meaning from his life. He would not be able to live without her.

  After a prolonged silence, a piercing scream penetrated the closed bedroom door. Thomas stood in silence, to attention, and as still as a statue as he waited and prayed.

  In the crowded hallway and street outside, one could hear a pin drop. The silence was unbearable.

  Then the sound of a baby crying loud and strong filled listening ears until every person was clapping and crying and patting Thomas on the back.

  Silence again. All eyes stared at the closed bedroom door. Thomas slid once again down the wall and onto the floor. His legs wouldn’t hold him upright another second. It seemed like an eternity, but only minutes passed until the bedroom door finally opened.

  The midwife marched out of the bedroom, holding a baby swathed in bloodied sheeting in her arms. She showed the infant to Thomas. “You have a healthy daughter, young Thomas Carver,” she said.

  Thomas stood and gazed lovingly into the perfect tiny face. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he stopped himself and looked deep into the midwife’s unfathomable eyes. “And my wife? How is she? Can I see her?” he whispered hopefully.

  The midwife lowered her eyes. They were no longer hard or passive but filled with emotion and sadness. She focused on the baby’s tiny face, refusing to look Thomas in the eye. Her words were softly spoken with an empathy she rarely appeared to feel. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, son. I did everything I could – everything. She was just too weak when I got to her, and she had already lost too much blood. She was very brave, though; you have to know that. She fought hard and got your daughter into the world. She saw her just before she took her last breath.”

  Thomas’s chin sat on his chest. He was afraid to look at sorrowful eyes but heard the midwife’s words. “She smiled, Thomas. Your Joan smiled. Had she lingered a day or two more, she would have faced terrible suffering, and death would have taken her in any case. Believe me, it’s better she’s gone now. She’s at rest and at peace.”

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed next to Joan. He was alone, silent, and lost in grief. He stared into Joan’s small oval-shaped face as though looking at her for the first time. A grey pallor, chapped lips, and pain were still deeply etched in her expression, even in death, but she looked better than the last time he’d seen her.

  He stroked her wet skin and then looked at the bloodstained sheets. The smell of stale sweat, blood, and death hung in the air. He found it difficult to imagine that the stench belonged to his sweet wife, who always smelled of freshly cut flowers.

  He leaned in closer and kissed her full lips. Then he lifted the top half of her body until it came to rest on his chest. He rocked her back and forth and stroked her damp black hair, still shimmering like diamonds.

  “I love you, my Joanie. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved or ever will love.” The tears rolled down his face. Every now and then, he sniffed loudly and wiped his runny nose. He twisted her long curly tendrils around his fingers, just as he always did. He lifted her face to his and kissed her again, this time on the forehead. Eventually, he let go of her and laid her down on the bed.

  He knew what he had to do. She was his soulmate, and he would have to follow her before she was lost to him in the afterlife. He thought for a moment. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. She might still be here, watching him, waiting for him; he turned around, thinking he might see her shadowy figure beckoning him. There was nothing but emptiness and silence in the room. “Wait for me, Joan,” he whispered into the air.

  He looked at her a moment longer and then opened a bedside drawer. He lifted out a thick piece of cloth and unrolled it until it revealed a long dagger. It had a pearl and silver hilt and a long, curved blade. His father, who had received it from his father, had passed it down to him. He looked at it, turning it over in his hand. It was probably the most expensive possession he owned, never to be sold or pawned. It was meant to be passed down to his eldest son when one came along, and it was supposed to travel down the Carver line.

  All that meant nothing to him now. His younger brother could have it, for this particular Carver line would end with him, here and now.

  He laid the dagger on the bed beside Joan. He bent over her, kissing her forehead, lips, and cheeks for the last time. He held her hand, kissed it, and laid her arm by her side for a moment until he got himself into position.

  The Bible was on top of the bedside table. He picked it up and grunted, still hating God, his minions, and the world he was leaving.

  He lay on his belly face down and placed the Bible on the pillow. He measured the line and distance from the Bible to the base of his neck, near the small hollow under his Adam’s apple. He picked up the dagger and set it atop the Bible’s hardcover surface, pointing it upwards until its blade tip caressed the hollow in his throat at a perfect angle. He grabbed Joan’s limp hand and curled it around the pearl hilt. His hand then covered hers, holding the blade steady.

  “I’m coming with you, my darling girl,” he quite simply said. “I don’t want to stay here without you. Will you forgive me for doing this when you see me in a minute or two?”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. He was not thinking about courage or fear, nor regret or indecision. No, it was imperative that he concentrate on the dagger’s pearl hilt, not the long blade. His neck needed to make contact with that hilt with one quick thrust downwards, for he might not have the courage or maybe even the means to push the blade into his neck a second time. The very thought of that gave him the determination he needed. He wanted to die almost instantly, without screaming out or languishing there for minutes, choking on his own blood.

  He looked at Joan and tightened his grip on her hand, taking a deep breath, and with one swift push of his head downwards, he felt the blade pierce his skin. He pushed it all the way through his throat until it came out the back of his neck. He coughed silently, and his eyes widened. Blood spurted from his open mouth. He drew his
last breath.

  The discovery of Thomas’s dead body was only the beginning of what was to become a nightmarish and unforgettable afternoon for all concerned.

  After staring at the blade sticking out of the back of Thomas’s neck, all four grandparents’ eyes began to wander in a daze. No one spoke. Each was alone in a world he or she could not begin to understand. So deep was the shock that not one single tear fell. There was only hypnotic fascination in that room where once a young couple had loved and laughed.

  Blood was splattered on the walls. It was on Joan’s face and in her hair. Thomas lay face down at an awkward angle, impaled in mid-air by the dagger, the hilt of which still rested on top of the Bible. Joan’s small hand rested beneath Thomas’s long fingers. She looked peaceful and serene, unaware of her husband’s act of suicide.

  Finally, the Jennings and Carvers left the room, closing the door behind them.

  When the commotion outside died down, Thomas’s father asked everyone to leave the family in peace. Brothers and sisters were also asked to go home. Only Joan’s and Thomas’s parents would remain.

  The undertaker, accompanied by two men in his employ, and a local copper had been and then left in quick measure. The cop had asked questions, and the answers had been precise and clear: Thomas had been alone in the bedroom with his dead wife, as was his right. He had killed himself and slumped in death next to her body.

  Tom, the spokesman, summed it up by saying, “My son chose to die with his wife. What other answer to your questions can be given when we have none to give?”

  Two sets of grandparents and the local vicar sat in stony silence, now in the Carvers’ parlour. Both men had teacups filled to the rim with whisky in their trembling hands. The women lifted cups of hot tea to their lips between intermittent sobs. The vicar held his Bible to his chest but appeared to be at a loss in finding any suitable words of comfort. Thus he murmured prayers that clearly no one wanted to hear.

  The baby, for a time forgotten, was being rocked back and forth, sleeping contentedly in Sylvie Jennings’s arms. A wet nurse had been requested and was due to arrive any minute.

  The curtains had been drawn in the room, and everyone else was still ignoring the vicar.

  After a while, it became evident that decisions now had to be made. One set of questioning eyes looked at another. Funeral arrangements and the baby’s future should be discussed. All four grandparents were intimately involved, as the vicar reminded them after he’d probably experienced what was the longest silence in his career. “The baby must be placed in an orphanage, for there can be no other future for a sinner’s child.” The vicar’s voice rang out clearly and with a tone of authority.

  This statement brought life hurtling back into all four grandparents. They shouted a vehement “No!” in unison.

  “This baby’s going nowhere, Reverend Smith. How dare you even bloody suggest such a thing? My Thomas had flaws like the rest of us, but he was no sinner!” Tom hissed, clearly trying not to raise his voice or lose his temper.

  The baby would go home to the Carvers’ house for the time being, all four grandparents agreed. It was also decided there and then that the best course of action would be to take equal responsibility for the child for the foreseeable future.

  “What shall we call her?” Sylvie Jennings asked the others. “Thomas and Joan never mentioned a name for the infant. They wanted to wait until they saw the babe. Did they say anything to you?” she asked Grace.

  Grace Carver shook her head. “No. They were sure a name would just come to them as soon as the child was born and its gender known. We could call her Joan.”

  “No!” Sylvie barked at her. “Not Joan. I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t live with that name. There is … There was only one Joan, and she’s gone. My girl Joanie’s gone – she’s gone …”

  Joan’s father, Walter, cried. He’d said nothing since the sight of Thomas lying dead next to his daughter. He gulped down the last of his whisky, plainly unable to contain his emotions any longer, pain likely seeping into his veins and rushing through his body like a tidal wave.

  “Dear God, my little girl, my Joan. My Joanie, asking for mercy. Christ almighty, that word will stick to me like bloody shit forever! That’s all she asked for, Reverend!” he shouted now, turning his anguish towards the vicar. “What bloody mercy did she get, eh? She was dying and in so much pain that I wanted to shoot her myself, just to put her out of her misery. God forgive me, but I did.” He sobbed. “Mercy – that’s all my Joan asked for, wasn’t it? That’s all she wanted. She didn’t call her old dad’s name or her husband’s. She didn’t scream for her mum either. Bloody mercy – that’s all she said. So where was your God, Reverend? Where was his blasted mercy, eh? Answer me that!

  “They were just a young couple starting up. They had their whole lives to get through together. I’m sick and tired of seeing youngsters dying of plague and starvation whilst you sit in people’s houses claiming that God is merciful. You, your Bible, and your bloody mumbo jumbo prayers … Look at you. What words can you say from that bloody book that can ease our suffering, eh?

  “Put the babe in an orphanage? Is that the best you and your God can come up with? Jesus Christ – go on, get out, and take your merciful God with you before I blaspheme any further.”

  “That’s enough!” Grace half sobbed, half shouted. “Enough of the cursing, you! Your Joan’s at peace now and so is my Thomas. They’ve gone from us, but this is no time to blame God or anyone else. We have to think about a proper send-off for the two of them: a nice burial. And we need to think about the well-being of this baby. That’s all that should concern us now.” Grace turned to the vicar. “Reverend Smith, please stay. Walter didn’t mean it. He’s just upset and—”

  “Bloody right I’m upset,” Walter butted in. “But you’re right, love. We need to get this sorted.”

  The vicar nodded and visibly relaxed his tense muscles.

  Tom poured some more whisky into the cup. The bottle was getting empty. He looked at Walter, still reeling. “Here, Walter boy. We may as well finish it off.”

  Walter nodded, and seemed grateful to have some more whisky to calm him down or send him into a drunken stupor.

  Tom Carver looked at the two women and decided that for once the women could have their way. He shrugged. He didn’t really care what the infant was called. “You two decide on a name between you. Call the babe whatever you deem fit. I don’t care one way or the other.”

  “Well, you should, Tom. She’s our granddaughter, and she needs a name – a nice name,” Grace admonished him.

  “Mercy,” Sylvie sobbed, staring at the newborn baby. “We should call her Mercy. It’s a fitting name … and the last word my Joan ever spoke. Mercy Carver – that’s what we’ll call her.” She looked at the other faces.

  “Are you off your head?” Walter said in a raised voice. “Have we not heard that blasted word enough today? Don’t be so bloody stupid. Mercy’s a rotten name. She’ll be laughed at her whole life. Mercy? Don’t you think it’s bad enough that her father stuck a dagger through his neck and left her? What’s folk going to think? Jesus Christ!”

  Walter and Tom shook their heads. The vicar crossed himself and stared at the Bible on his lap.

  Sylvie, usually as quiet as a mouse, spoke up again. “You two listen to me,” she said, wagging her finger at Walter and Tom. “This baby is alive against all the odds. Another minute and she would have died inside her dead mother. It’s only by God’s grace that she made it into the world in time.” She sobbed again. “My Joan got her wish. She got mercy. Walter, Tom, don’t you see? She delivered a healthy child. Grace, what do you think?”

  “God saved this baby; that’s merciful enough for me. It’s a good name, fitting and beautiful. I’m with you, Sylvie.”

  The two men shrugged, clearly defeated and drunk on whisky. The wives had spoken.

  Chapter One

  London, 1860

  Mercy Carver strolled
sedately down the street, pensive and distracted. When someone called her name, she waved back absently, without looking up to see who had greeted her. It was her eighteenth birthday, a day that under any other circumstances would have been celebrated with all the pomp and ceremony the family could muster. Not today, though. This was not a time for parties or happy reunions with family. She had been adamant with her remaining grandparents, Sylvie Jennings and Tom Carver, that she wanted nothing to do with any birthday party they might be planning.

  Mercy’s lacklustre enthusiasm with regard to this milestone year and anything her grandparent had to say about it was like a heavy weight on her shoulders. As far as she was concerned, her grandparents were selfish and cruel. Their secret deal four years earlier to marry her off to a grocer called Mr Black, or Big Joe, as the community called him, would now have to be honoured. This day was not to be celebrated, for it heralded the end of her dreams for a better life and the beginning of a dismal future that she would rather not face or even think about. Her grandparents had ruined her life.

  This morning, she had managed to persuade Grandma Jennings to allow her to take this excursion on her own. This had only been made possible because her grandma had come down with belly sickness. Mercy had prayed for forgiveness this morning, for she’d secretly prayed for an intervention that would somehow stop her grandma from coming with her, and God had answered her prayers.

  This morning’s walk to the dressmaker felt like a walk to the gallows, with Mercy being the condemned prisoner facing death. This was to be her final fitting for a wedding gown she didn’t want to wear in a ceremony that would bind her for life to a man she already detested. She would rather face the gallows.

  Her thoughts had clarity this morning. She had tried the wedding dress on three times already; but on all previous occasions, her grandma had been with her, gushing over her beauty, how expensive the dress must be, and how kind Big Joe was for buying it.