Stealing Mercy

by Tate, Kristy

  The clock in the bell tower struck six. The businesses lining the streets had drawn their shutters. Mercy knew very few establishments in bustling New York that carried premade clothes. She doubted she could find such a shop in Seattle.

  Although, Seattle was larger than she’d imagined. She passed a YMCA, a building named The Ladies Relief Society, blacksmith’s shops, a Methodist Church, and at the corner of Occidental and Yesler, a street car. Mercy walked the perimeter of the church. Some churches in New York had bins outside for cast off clothing for the poor. She’d rather meet her aunt in a hand-me-down dress than her father’s breeches, but after a quick look around the church and then at the dark heavy rainclouds, Mercy continued up the street until she saw Bradley’s Dry Goods. She’d walked fast to beat the impending rain and stopped to catch her breath. Shifting the knapsack, she tried to brush off the weeks of grime clinging to her pants. As she peeked through the window a raindrop fell.

  Inside the shop shelves filled with bolts of fabric lined the four walls. Aside from the spotless wood plank floor and gleaming counter top, the room was a riot colors and patterns. Mercy watched a tiny Chinaman bustle a bolt of fabric up a back stair. She’d heard of the racial tensions in Seattle, the Chinese massacres and attempted expulsions. She knew in San Francisco it was illegal to shoot a cow but not a Chinaman. Watching this robust lady, who looked like a healthy female version of her father, work side by side and laugh with the Asian reassured Mercy; perhaps her aunt, who showed no signs of bigotry, would be as equally liberal-minded about her niece arriving in men’s clothes.

  Mercy braced her thin shoulders and pushed open the door. A bell overhead jingled welcome, but Mercy had a hard time crossing the threshold.

  The woman turned and the Asian hurried up the stairs, a fabric bolt balanced on his shoulder. The woman looked at Mercy with a may-I-help-you face that crinkled into tears.

  “You must be Alfred’s daughter.” She swallowed a small sob. “You look just like he did as a boy.”

  Aunt Tilly moved with surprising speed for a woman her size. She held out her arms and soon had Mercy pressed in a warm embrace that smelled of lemon. Small, sharp somethings stabbed Mercy’s chest and she realized that Tilly had pins poked into her bodice.

  Rose Arbor, Washington

  “Thank you, Ms.-” Odious, standing at my shoulder, interrupts the story. When had he suddenly appeared?

  I drop the diary. It lands with a thud on the leather topped desk beside the stack of library books. I flush and stand up straight. From a distance, he’d looked much younger, but in close proximity I see his tired eyes and the thin lines around his mouth. “Mrs. Michaels,” I tell him, swallowing.

  He glances at the diamond I still wear on my left hand.

  “My apologizes, Mrs. Michaels. You’ve been most kind.”

  “Anything for Dotty. She was a sweetie,” I say, curling my toes into my shoes. Since Gregg’s death I’d lost considerable weight, making my shoes too large. I hadn’t gotten around to replacing my shoes, or my clothes, for that matter, and most of my wardrobe floats around me. No one had told me that on top of all the adaptations widowhood would bring, new shoes would also be in order.

  Odious’ eyes flicker towards his girlfriend who’d settled into a weeping mess on the silk sofa. Dot, who’d used a decorator and a pile of money to turn the Victorian into an Architectural Digest showpiece wouldn’t have been happy with the girl sniffling into the down pillows.

  “Yes, she was…an original. Are you, perhaps, related?” His real name wasn’t Odious Odor, of course, but since that’s what Dot had called him, the name had stuck.

  Does he really smell? I’d asked after her ex-husband, knowing, as only a wife of a high school principle in constant company of hormonal teenagers could know, that some people truly do smell. Only of money and cheap perfume, she’d replied. I could see the money in the cut of his suit. His real name was Errol, and according to Dot, he was more like Errol Flynn than a man who wouldn’t wear tights would care to admit. He even looks like him. Same lithe athleticism, dark blond hair touched by gray.

  The cheap perfume of the moment sniffles on the sofa, a honey with tiger striped hair, young enough to be his daughter. Red eyes, puffy cheeks, a lower lip bruised from biting, the torment of the guilty, I suppose. Why had she come?

  I turn my back on the genealogy chart I’d recently completed for Dot. She’d had it framed and hung on the wall. It had seemed odd to me that she wanted her ex-husband’s family history researched, but she said she wanted a history of the house.

  “You are my husband’s distant cousin.” I didn’t tell him that I’d only recently discovered that commonality. I look from his shiny black shoes to my own well worn pumps. I can’t talk about my work or the diary and I won’t meet his eyes.

  He clears his throat. “Well, you’ve been more than kind. What do I owe you?”

  I start. “I’m not finished!”

  He glanced around the empty room, smiling. “Did you contract for more than the piano? Because you’ve obviously left your bench.”

  I sigh in relief. Of course, he meant to pay me for the music. “Please, it’s my gift.”

  He raises his eyebrows, taking in the fraying cuffs of my best black dress. “Are you sure?”

  I square my shoulders. “Dot was my friend.”

  “You’ve been lovely, Mrs. Michaels. The music, beautiful.” He clears his throat. “I was worried you’d left before I had the chance to thank you.” Odious didn’t sound accusatory, merely curious.

  Still, I stammer when I reply. “I just stepped in here to wait out the rain. I didn’t want to intrude on your family and yet, I’m afraid I wasn’t looking forward to getting drenched.” I motion to the drizzle coating the window and blink hard. “I walked.”

  “You’re a neighbor, then?”

  I nod and rest my hand on the library books. They were most likely overdue.

  “Would you like a ride home?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t impose. I have an umbrella.” The obvious question would now be why hadn’t I used it? “I was just waiting for the worst to pass.” Weak. “I happened to notice the library books. Would you like me to return them?”

  Odious’ gaze flicks to the books beneath my finger tips. He catches and holds my gaze. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “No bother,” I assure him. “I work at the library, so I won’t be going out of my way.”

  Odious flips a set of keys in his hands and I notice he has a raincoat folded over his arm. “I’m going out, and since you live close enough to walk, I’m sure you won’t take me out of my way.” He cocks an eyebrow in towards the door.

  Of course, at this point it’d seem churlish to refuse a ride. I gather up the books and the diary, carefully tucking the diary between the two library books and holding them against my belly so that the spines won’t show. The guilty worm twists and turns inside me. I’ll return it when I’m done, I promise the worm and the memory of Gregg that suddenly flashes in my mind.

  CHAPTER 4

  LOVE POTION TEA

  1 pinch of rosemary

  2 teaspoons of black tea

  3 pinches thyme

  3 pinches nutmeg

  3 fresh mint leaves

  6 fresh rose petals

  6 lemon leaves

  3 cups pure spring water

  Sugar

  Honey

  Brew tea on a Friday during a waxing moon.

  From the Recipes of Mercy Faye

  Mercy stood on the boardwalk, her arm tucked through Eloise’s, totally in love with her new life. She loved living with Tilly, working in the shop and she loved her new friends. The queasy apprehension that had plagued ever since her father’s death had finally settled so that when she thought of him and the life she’d left behind, as she often did, she felt a sweet sadness no longer tinged with the overriding loneliness that had haunted her. Occasionally she still had nightmares, but when she woke and found herself in her aunt�
�s home on Lily Hill, the fears abated. In the daytime hours, between her work at the shop and the social whirl her new friend Eloise had introduced her to, she rarely thought of New York and the horror she’d left behind.

  As she watched men disembark from the tall gray ship in the harbor, Mercy thought about her own arrival just three months prior and how far she’d come in so little time. The long hours the bakery demanded, the predawn hours spent rolling dough, the tiny, dark apartment--it seemed like another life belonging to another person.

  Eloise squeezed Mercy’s arm as they strolled down First Avenue and returned Mercy to her new reality.

  “They say that there’s about a hundred men to every woman.” An elfish brunette with violet eyes, in Chicago at age twenty-two Eloise would have been placed on the shelf, but in female starved Seattle, she was a decidedly top shelf commodity. Angling her dark curly head at the stream of men disembarking from the US Maypole, she murmured, “Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones…why did I ever hesitate?”

  The ship unloaded a flow of men onto the gangplank while gulls wheeled overhead. The sun smiled on the crowd and the air held a circus quality-- so many people, coming and going, jostling in the excitement of a new place filled with fresh opportunities.

  “Maybe because in Chicago you had a lovely home and people who loved you,” Mercy said.

  “But there are so many more to love here.” Eloise scanned the crowded pier. Not all of the male specimens could meet Eloise’s approval. Some looked green and unsteady as they tried to navigate the crowded boardwalks on their reclaimed land legs.

  Mercy ran her hands over her skirt, again acknowledging and giving thanks for her aunt’s generosity. Because she’d spent most of the trip from New York around the cape hungry, she’d arrived looking like a scarecrow in her father’s too big clothes, but her Aunt Tilly, who loved company and food, kept an overflowing kitchen and manned a sewing machine. Even though Tilly hadn’t even known Mercy, she’d extended love, food and a mushrooming wardrobe. In return, Mercy worked in her aunt’s shop.

  Mercy hugged the parcel of linens and buttons to her chest and let her gaze follow Eloise’s. Tall ones, skinny ones, rich ones, poor ones… Mercy knew Eloise would meet and entertain most. “Come,” Mercy urged, slipping her arm around Eloise’s waist. “You can pick out your favorite at the Seafarer’s Ball.”

  Eloise shuffled her feet, reminding Mercy of the tiny dog that lived across the street from Aunt Tilly’s house: riotous hair, sharp features, perky bounce and a dislike for being leashed.

  “They probably don’t even know about the ball.” Eloise stuck out her lower lip, a habit that men seemed to unable to resist, but had little effect on Mercy.

  “Then you can meet them when they come into the Penny Store.”

  “No. Miles just scares them away.” Eloise sighed, obviously thinking of her hawk-eyed brother. Eloise flirted, fell passionately in love, and then moved on in a continuous circle of conquests, much to her brother’s chagrin. Eloises’ breath caught, her eyes widened and she cocked her head. “I pick that one.”

  Mercy took in the scene: legions of men teeming the sidewalks, heading in all directions, ships tied to the gray and weathered docks, horses, coaches and wagons splattering through the muddy streets. Then her gaze caught Eloise’s latest choice. He wove through the crowd, his head and shoulders above the others. The raven hair, the arctic blue eyes, tight tan breeches, tall leather boots, white shirt undone at the collar--he looked as handsome in Seattle as he had in New York.

  And just as dangerous.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lavender slows an over active imagination, improves sleep quality, promotes relaxation, and lifts the mood of those suffering with nightmares.

  From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

  “He’s like a dream come true,” Eloise whispered.

  A nightmare. Mercy’s skin felt like ice, and she tightened her hold on Eloise’s waist. “He looks mean,” she said through tight lips. Had he followed her? Would he seek revenge or retribution? Could she avoid him? Had her staged suicide fooled anyone? Mercy clutched the packages to her chest and held her breath. She could feel her blood spinning. Thoughts and fears whirled through her, but none settled long enough to be coherent or rational. She had to remind herself to breathe.

  Eloise turned, her dimples fading. “We can’t be seeing the same person. The dark-haired --”

  “I see him,” Mercy interrupted, surprised that her voice could sound so steady and sane when her mind was so jumbled with nerves. “The one with black cape. He just kicked that dog.” Could she confide in Eloise? No. Mr. Steele needed to believe that Mercy had died, and Eloise had a mouth as big as her kind heart. She didn’t trust Eloise with her secret. Mercy took Eloise’s arm and tried to propel her down the street in the opposite direction.

  Eloise shook off Mercy’s hand. “He did not.”

  “Yes, see that hound cowering under the hay wagon? That man kicked him.”

  “Oh please, you’re fibbing because you want him for yourself.”

  Mercy gripped Eloise’s arm firmly, as Steele weaved their way through the gangplank crowd. “Do you mind if we step in here?” Mercy nodded at the nearest shop and looked in the window at the display of goods. “I just remembered Aunt needs soap.”

  “But he’s coming our way.”

  “I need your help deciding. Please, just come in for a moment.”

  Eloise scowled. “You never need my help, especially with soap.”

  “But, you always smell so nice, and Aunt… well--” Mercy’s mind twirled. Every minute brought Steele one step closer. “I’ll just pop in, will you wait for me?” Mercy tried to will her friend safety and common sense. “It might take a while. Promise you’ll stay right here?”

  “How long can it take to pick out soap?”

  “Promise me you’ll stay right here.”

  “Of course.” Eloise looked baffled at Mercy’s new earnestness.

  Mercy tore her gaze from Steele to Eloise. “Thank you.” Mercy hugged Eloise and kissed her on the cheek.

  Eloise turned, already wearing her come hither smile.

  When Steele turned right on First, Mercy ducked into the shop. Watching through the window from behind a large display of Lifebuoy soap, she fought back the memories of her last night in New York, the spilt pies, the icy breeze swirling the small room, the smell of her fear and his sweat.

  Steele crossed the street, his long legs taking him around the newspaper boy, the cigar hacker, the fish stand and finally past the chemist shop.

  Eloise clutched her packages and turned down her pouty lips. The freckled youth sweeping the boardwalk visibly bucked up the courage to tip his hat in her direction, and Eloise gave him the briefest nod. Mercy said a prayer of gratitude for the thirst that had prompted Steele to cross the mud and muck and enter the Lone Stag Tavern.

  Mercy let go of a long breath, stepped from behind the soap and smacked into a white cotton shirt covering a warm, broad chest. She automatically raised her hand and then, too late, realized she held a yard stick. She must have picked up it up without thinking, and now had it poised inches from a man with a head of blond wavy hair that contrasted with his dark lashes and eyes.

  He grabbed her wrist and for a moment, they studied each other, Mercy in full frontal attack mode and the tall man who’d captured her wrist. His skin glowed from outdoor work, and she could feel his strength as he held her. A current ran from his hand to her center. She knew this man. He’d rescued her hat and saved her from the brute Wallace. She flushed beneath his gaze. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her after all these months. It’d been dark. She’d been dressed as a boy. Her eyes shifted away from his.

  “You frightened me,” Mercy stammered. She should apologize. She studied his boots, because she also owed him a thank-you for his shipboard heroics, but since she didn’t want to admit to being the male clad female he’d previously met, she kept her face adverted.

  “And
yet you’re the one holding a weapon,” he said, still holding her hand above her head.

  She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady and light. “I’ll relinquish my weapon if you release me.”

  He narrowed his eyes, smiling and lowered her hand a fraction. “It seems a fair trade, but how do I know you’re trustworthy.” He dropped her wrist. “I don’t think you are.”

  “Does my yardstick alarm you?” she asked, looking up at him. He hadn’t mentioned their prior meeting, but his eyes were lit with something, laughter? Recognition?

  He chuckled and she blushed as his gaze swept over her thin frame. He shook his head. “I like to know who’s attacking me, male or female, and why.”

  Male or female? Her heart sank. He had recognized her. She had no rational for waving a yard stick so she said, “Perhaps I wasn’t assaulting you. Maybe I wanted your measurements.”

  He smirked. “And how do I measure?”

  “Quite nicely,” Eloise said, appearing from behind the soap display.

  “Miss Carol,” the man dipped his head at Eloise.

  Eloise dropped in a slight curtsey. “Mr. Michaels.” She turned to Mercy. “Is this the something you needed to pick up?”

  “First she tried to knock me down.”

  “Really?” Eloise deepened her dimples. “And was she successful?”

  “Nearly,” Mr. Michaels murmured, his eyes lingering on Mercy’s face.

  Mercy blushed, looked away and caught sight of the tavern. Although she couldn’t see Steele, she couldn’t afford to forget him and the danger he posed. She turned back to Eloise and Mr. Michaels, and laid the yardstick on the counter.

  “Won’t you need that?” Eloise asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Michaels said. “You wouldn’t want to be unprotected.”

  “I’m capable of protecting myself,” Mercy said, remembering another time when that hadn’t been true. She wrapped her arm around Eloise’s waist. “And of taking a man’s measure. Come, Eloise. Aunt’s waiting for her parcels.”