Blood Moon (The Mercy Carver Series Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  Mercy was clean. She wore a crisp white nightshirt. Her stomach had needed five stitches, but the medicine Isaac had given her, coupled with a lack of sleep, had knocked her out. She barely remembered Isaac coming back into the room or putting the stitches in. She lay now in that luxurious state when one begins to drift off to sleep yet is still aware of surroundings and voices. The laudanum had dulled the pain somewhat. She heard Isaac’s muffled whispers to the woman who had cleaned her. Mercy listened to his lyrical tone whilst floating happily with the thought of seeing Nelson in the morning.

  The woman who had bathed her had told her, her name. As Mercy fought to keep her eyes open, she tried to remember it, but for the life of her, she couldn’t. She closed her weary eyes. There would be no questions from Isaac tonight, she thought thankfully, and she wouldn’t have to think about what answers to give.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Mrs Bartlett, it would be an honour to attend your ball,” Margaret Mallory gushed at her guest with her most amiable smile. “You know me and Elizabeth here, always ready to help the Southern cause – aren’t we, Elizabeth?” Margaret’s eyes bored into Elizabeth’s face. The trusting idiot was close to tears, she thought. She had wept, sniffed, begged, and screamed all morning as the ramifications of yesterday’s visit to the lawyer’s office became clearer. It was too late for Elizabeth to undo what had been done. There was no legal recourse open to her, Margaret thought with satisfaction. But nonetheless, Elizabeth was not happy about her decisions, and Mrs Bartlett’s arrival on the doorstep this morning could not have come at a worse time.

  “Why, yes, Mrs Bartlett, I would be very happy to attend your ball and to contribute something towards supplies for our gallant men – although I pray to the Lord that this horrid war ends and that our young men won’t need the care you speak of,” Elizabeth said.

  Margaret smiled to herself. Thank God for Southern etiquette, she thought. Elizabeth’s pride and social education would not permit her to make a scene or spill her guts in front of strangers. Her mother had trained her well. She was like the Liverpool whores, taught to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing to worry about – nothing at all.

  “We all desire this, Mrs Stone, but unfortunately men will be men, and as such, no amount of diplomacy will deter them from their quest for bloodshed and glory. Why, I do believe our army is growing tired of waiting for a real battle to begin.”

  “This war is a nasty business,” Margaret said absently. “I think we women should bash Lincoln’s and Davis’s heads together. That might knock some sense into them.”

  “Why, I do believe you might be right, Mrs Mallory,” Mrs Bartlett said.

  Margaret let out a contented sigh. She sat back in her chair and allowed the conversation to flow between Elizabeth and Mrs Bartlett whilst she looked on, triumphant and immensely satisfied. The past few days had been tense, but her powers of persuasion had worked on Elizabeth, who was like a simple-minded idiot, unable to think for herself.

  There would be many more influential people gracing her new house with their presence, she thought as she listened to her guest trundle on about ball gowns and the latest fashions. But when she had fully ingratiated herself into Richmond’s upper class, Elizabeth Stone would disappear forever. Elizabeth had exhausted her these past months. Putting up with the girl every day drained her of humour. Pretending to like her was becoming a real chore, one she couldn’t contemplate for much longer.

  Elizabeth was a pawn. In the grand scheme of things, she was not important. She wasn’t the enemy. No, Margaret thought, feeling her heartbeat quicken, her enemy was Jacob Stone. She hated him. She would never get over what he did to her at the farm, for it had been the only time in her life that she’d been scared stiff of a man. Her blood boiled every time she thought about the night he attacked her. Her wig ripped from her head. His rough hands on her skin, smearing her perfectly made-up face. The gun pressed against her forehead and his cruel words telling her she was ugly. That night would haunt her to the grave. Sweet Jesus, she nearly had a flaming heart attack!

  Taking Elizabeth’s money and throwing her out on the street would not be sufficient punishment for Jacob Stone, but Elizabeth’s pathetic future would cause him to feel guilt and remorse for the rest of his life; she was betting on that.

  “And when are these festivities to take place?” Margaret heard Elizabeth ask Mrs Bartlett.

  “One month from today. I have been told that President Jefferson Davis himself will be in attendance. Some of our fine officers from Yorktown are also coming, with an invitation from General Magruder. Why, I do believe this will be Richmond’s most important event in years. I’ve never been so thrilled.”

  “A month!” Margaret said, genuinely shocked. “Christ, those Yankees might be roaming round Richmond by then. Can you not make it sooner, just in case we’re invaded?”

  “Mrs Mallory! How could you even suggest that the Yankees will get into our capital?” Mrs Bartlett scowled angrily. “Why, it’s a preposterous notion.”

  “We are so looking forward to the ball. It is just what we need to lift everyone’s spirits. Isn’t it, Margaret?” Elizabeth said, plainly trying to defuse the situation

  “Yes, if we’re all still alive to enjoy it,” Margaret answered.

  Mrs Bartlett, one of Richmond’s best-known socialites, spent her days collecting money for her numerous causes from women of high society, such as herself. In each house, she drank tea, ate cakes, and regaled the attributes of her esteemed husband, who held a cabinet position in the Confederate government. The war, not yet fully begun, had been fortuitous, she’d always thought, for it had elevated her husband’s mediocre political career and her standing in the community.

  For weeks, she had resisted a visit to this house. She believed there was something not quite right about the Englishwoman, and the Richmond Ladies Society had agreed with her. She tapped her foot now as she watched her hostess order tea from a skinny nigger girl who would never have been good enough for her drawing room.

  All the Richmond ladies had been tasked with finding out what they could about the mysterious Englishwoman, who had absolutely no class whatsoever. They had, unfortunately, all failed miserably. Mrs Mallory was an enigma. Even her relationship with the reserved and somewhat sullen Mrs Elizabeth Stone was highly suspicious, Mrs Bartlett thought.

  The Richmond ladies did not enjoy the inclusion of outsiders into their midst at the best of times, particularly when the stranger had a questionable background. But money was a necessary evil in these uncertain times, Mrs Bartlett told herself, and these two ladies seemed to have plenty of it.

  The nigger girl served tea and cakes from a silver platter. Mrs Bartlett used the pause in what was a stilted conversation to study her two hostesses, who shared this house and a most dubious friendship.

  The rumours surrounding both of the Portsmouth women were rife but Mrs Bartlett had always believed that where there was smoke, there was fire. The gossipers were unanimous in thinking that the house had been purchased by Mrs Stone, who was going through a testing time after her husband, Mr Jacob Stone, had run off with another woman. They had further affirmed that Elizabeth Stone had abandoned Portsmouth, unable to bear the shame it had brought her and her family. Richmond was not ready for a scandal such as this; however, it was ready to accept donations for the cause by any means necessary, and for this reason, she had volunteered under sufferance to present herself here today.

  Mrs Bartlett had promised the other ladies that she would have the name of the new owner of this house confirmed by the time she finished her tea. Indeed, she had planned a meeting for this afternoon with the society to impart all that she had found out. She was desperate to hear what Elizabeth Stone had to say about the house, for if it did belong to her, it would dispel another rumour involving Mrs Mallory, who had, according to her sources, taken over the management of Mrs Stone’s financial settlement.

  “You have a beautiful house,” Mrs Bartlet
t said casually, casting her eyes over the spacious drawing room. “When I heard yesterday that it had been purchased, I just had to come and congratulate you,” she said to Elizabeth.

  “Why, thank you, Mrs Bartlett,” Elizabeth said. “I saw no reason to continue renting it when it was for sale. I bought the house, but Margaret thought it would be safer to put her name on the deeds, just in case the Yankees do come here.”

  “My dear Mrs Stone, as I said before, I do not believe for a moment that the Yankees will ever get into Richmond,” Mrs Bartlett said. She was shocked at the very suggestion of it being mentioned twice in one day. She was also extremely angry that Mrs Mallory could even utter her assumption of a Confederate defeat. “My husband is quite determined that the Yankees will go running back to Washington and that an agreement acceptable to the South will come shortly after. I also believe that the moment the Yankees see our brave men on the front lines, they will be shocked – yes, shocked at the strength and power that faces them. I shouldn’t worry about those Yankees, Mrs Stone …”

  Margaret interrupted. “Well, you and your husband can think what you like, but if you ask me, it’s you lot that are going to be shocked when those Northerners turn up. You mark my words: they’ll be taking everything they can get their hands on and calling it their own. Now, what I did for Elizabeth was for her own good cos that enemy of yours won’t take a house that belongs to a foreigner. No, stealing from a British woman would more than likely start an international incident – and Elizabeth here agrees with me. Don’t you, Elizabeth?”

  “I think I do,” Elizabeth muttered.

  “Of course you do. You’ll have to excuse Elizabeth, Mrs Bartlett. She’s not very bright when it comes to money and politics. It’s just as well she has me to guide her – isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She fiddled with her handkerchief with trembling fingers. Her eyes were downcast, and her unhappiness was evident. Mrs Bartlett looked on with a mixture of dismay and shock. Even she hadn’t imagined this scenario. Mrs Stone was either very naive or simply much too trusting of her older companion, Mrs Mallory. She did not like Mrs Mallory, at all, she decided. Even to suggest that the Yankees would march into Richmond was an affront to all the Southerners. Her lady friends would be most upset, and just as shocked as she, when they learned the facts regarding the purchase of this house. She would go straight to her husband and ask him if Mrs Mallory’s claim was correct; that’s what she would do. International incident, indeed!

  “So if I’m asked, who do I say owns this house?” she said, voicing her thoughts.

  “I own it, of course,” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Margaret is keeping it safe for me, and when the war is over, the lawyer will sign the deeds over to me. Margaret believes I will make a handsome profit if I decide to sell it after the war ends.”

  “Of course you will,” Margaret said merrily. “You’ll have your money back and much more on top of it. My dear departed husband, God bless his soul, always said I had a good head for business. In fact, I can quite honestly say that I was instrumental in his success. We had a mansion, you know. It was the talk of Liverpool, and the parties we held were renowned. People would come from all over the north, if they were lucky enough to get an invitation to one of my balls. We should have a party here. What do you think, Elizabeth?”

  “That’s a lovely idea. Oh, do say you’ll come, Mrs Bartlett,” Elizabeth said.

  Mrs Bartlett rose from the couch, desperate to leave. She had seen and heard enough. “Why, I most certainly will. I’ll tell the ladies the moment I see them. I’m sure they will be excited at the prospect of a party in your lovely home,” she said, heading towards the hallway. “Elizabeth – may I call you Elizabeth?” she asked at the front door.

  Elizabeth nodded. “Of course, Mrs Bartlett.”

  “I would like you to come to tea at my house. I’m sure some of my dearest friends would love to meet you. Shall we say three o’clock on Monday?”

  “Why, that would be lovely. I look forward to it,” Elizabeth told her.

  Mrs Bartlett looked at Margaret and nodded a farewell. That’s all she would get, she thought, getting into her carriage.

  She was appalled at what she had witnessed here today. She would go with every word and detail firmly etched in her mind. The Richmond ladies had been right. There was something terribly wrong here. Mrs Mallory was as cunning as a fox and as transparent as a mountain stream. She had clearly manipulated Mrs Stone, an innocent Southern woman, who was one of their own, and it would not be tolerated.

  She had met women like Margaret Mallory before. Like the Englishwoman, those she had previously come across were more often than not white trash looking for a moment of power and fame. They never lasted long, for the Richmond ladies always proved too much for these low-class interlopers who dared to assume that they could rise on Richmond’s social ladder.

  She would find out all she could about the Mallory woman. She would help Elizabeth Stone. She was convinced she detected fear in the young women’s downtrodden eyes. This was an outrageous situation, and she had never come across anything like it. No, she thought, as the carriage pulled away, Mrs Mallory would not get away with the heinous theft. She and the Richmond ladies would see to that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mercy did as ordered. She lay still, closed her eyes, and unconsciously bit her bottom lip as Isaac cut and pulled the stitches from her belly. When he had finished, he sat on the chair next to the bed and smiled with satisfaction. “The wound is healing nicely. There’s no redness or swelling. You will have a small scar, but it will fade with time,” he said. “I hope this is the last time I have to treat you for injuries. You have to take better care of yourself, Mercy,” he said worriedly.

  “I will, Isaac. I should have learned my lesson when Lina died. I think I wanted to carry on for her sake, but she wouldn’t be happy with me putting my life in danger, doing a job I’m not even very good at – I know that now.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. It takes courage to do what you did. Hell, there are men who wouldn’t want to dirty their hands to save a Negro. They talk about the abolition of slavery, but not many would actually lift a finger to help a slave on the run – not the way you have. I’m sure your friend Lina is very proud of you. You know, the other night I found Nelson outside wiping tears from his face. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that Lina had been killed. I’ve never seen him so distraught. She must have been a great lady.”

  “She was, Isaac. I loved her very much – so did Nelson.” Mercy felt her eyes water. She shook her head. “I’m going to weep again. Every time I think about her, I want to cry. I’m such an idiot.”

  Isaac laughed at her feeble voice. “No, you’re not an idiot. You’re strong and brave. I have never known a woman like you.”

  “Stop being so nice to me,” Mercy said. She wiped her eyes and attempted a smile.

  “You deserve to be treated nicely – and you will be from now on – but we shouldn’t be dwelling on the past. It’s time for you to look to the future. I have so many questions, Mercy. Is it wrong for me to want to know where you have been and what your plans are?”

  “No, Isaac, you’re not wrong, but to be honest, apart from the tragic death of Lina, my life has been quite settled and I have been reasonably contented. I’ve been in Norfolk, working with the Underground Railroad, since the day of Lina’s funeral. There really hasn’t been much time for anything else but that.”

  Isaac nodded and then studied her face thoughtfully. “So about you and Jacob … Have you seen him? Do you … still love him?”

  Mercy stared unwaveringly into Isaac’s fervent eyes whilst attempting to maintain a passive expression. “No, I have not seen him. I think about him with fond memories, of course, but the love I felt for him died on the day I left Nelson in Pennsylvania. It was on that day that I knew I couldn’t go back to Jacob. He’s married to Elizabeth, and I suppose I ne
ver really forgave him for that. I have moved on with my life.”

  Mercy prayed for forgiveness. Isaac was kind and such a gentle soul. He did not deserve deceit, for that was disrespectful and cruel.

  “I’m glad to hear that. It’s true; I am. Jacob was my friend, but he would have ruined you. You made the right decision.”

  “Yes, I know I did. As you said, it’s time to look to the future.”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s around the corner, but I do know that you, young lady, can have a bath now that your stitches are out. I’m going to leave you for a while. The nurse will be here any minute. She’ll help you bathe and dress, and when she’s done, I’ll come back with coffee.”

  “Thank you, Isaac. You’re so kind, as always. When will I be able to take the bandages off my wrist and hand?”

  Isaac shook his head. “It’s much too soon for you to even think about that. You had a bad break. I reckon it will be a good month before you can even think about removing the splints and bandages – and don’t you disobey my orders; I know your impatience. And don’t get it wet in the bath,” he said, wagging his finger comically.

  “I won’t, Doctor,” she said. “I promise. Hands are very useful tools. I would hate to cause any more damage to them. Thank goodness it’s not the hand I draw my Colt with.”

  She laughed. Isaac’s face was a picture. His expression had changed from shock to absolute horror. He doesn’t know the half of it, Mercy thought, still smiling. If he knew how many times she had actually drawn her gun, he would be even more astounded, maybe even appalled.

  “I do hate lying in bed,” she added. “I would love to go for a walk – may I?”

  “I think that’s a fine idea. I don’t see why you can’t have a gentle stroll, but remember: the sling stays on at all times.”