Dark Shadows (The Mercy Carver Series Book 1) Read online

  Two graves had already been dug that morning deep inside the small woods at the back of the mansion.

  Sam carried Maud in his arms. Eddie had Lizzie’s body over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

  Eddie tossed Lizzie into her grave, leaving her body lying twisted, with legs halfway up the dirt wall. Sam followed suit but then jumped into the hole to make sure that Maud’s body lay flat and straight, with arms crossed over her chest. He scrambled out of the hole and picked up the spade.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Madame du Pont was dressed and ready for the busy night ahead. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and congratulated herself. She looked lovely in her new gown, she thought.

  Her new whores had been cleaned up. They had been tutored so well that fear ran through them as easily as pee between their legs. Seven out of the nine were virgins, innocent and unworldly, and their aristocratic, pompous, spoilt arses had been kicked into shape.

  Their upbringing made her feel sick to the stomach, for they had been given everything life had to offer without having to work, sweat, or go hungry. She, on the other hand, had fought for every crumb and farthing. She resented them, but the bitches were expensive and coveted commodities, and she couldn’t let her hatred blind her. That was the truth of it.

  She thought again about the incident that had occurred two days previously. She had been forced to kill one of the new whores by her own hand. The thought of it rattled her. The girl had not been a virgin, but even so, her death had meant a small loss in profits. Normally she refused herself the luxury of losing money because of a momentary loss of control. She was much too clever to allow personal feelings to interfere with her business. But she had been compelled, for the sake of her business, to make an example out of the hysterical cow.

  Men had already poked the girl in question on numerous occasions; Madame du Pont was quite certain of that. Not a man or woman on Earth knew cunts as well as she did. Over the years, she had made it a priority to examine every single new girl that had come onto her property. A girl could lie and say she was a virgin, but her inspection was the only way to confirm it.

  The death of the nineteen-year-old aristocrat had been necessary in order to subdue others who were displaying rebellious streaks that she would not and could not tolerate.

  The girl had gotten herself out of the basement, up the stairs, and through the unlocked door. Parker had been surprised. She’d been standing in that hallway with a servant. The girl somehow managed to throw Parker to the ground. Then the bitch started screaming and bawling her eyes out to the servants, claiming that she’d been abducted. She somehow managed to grab a pair of scissors – the bloody servant involved there had been given a battering for that stupidity!

  The girl actually made it into the kitchen, screeching like a banshee and begging the cook and maids to save her. She ran to the outer door that led to the garden and nearly made it into the grounds before being subdued by two stable boys who finally managed to silence her.

  Back in the stable, the girl had cried and begged for mercy. Madame Du Pont remembered the sheer look of terror on the girl’s tear-stained face and the way she clasped her hands in prayer. The girl had been on her knees, asking the holy bloody virgin for help – stupid cow.

  “Watch and learn!” Madame du Pont had shouted, putting the fear of God into every one of them, just before she sliced the girl’s throat open. The girl had gurgled for a second and then choked on her own blood.

  The madam couldn’t have cared less what the girl had been thinking in those final seconds, but she was convinced that all those watching had learned a bloody good lesson. That was the most important thing as far as she was concerned.

  She smiled now, remembering the girl’s death. Without words, she had set the rules in stone: Run, speak out of turn, or tell a client your dirty little secrets and death would follow.

  The girls had the job of cleaning up the blood from the floor. They had seen the cold way in which the madam could and would inflict death. She now had them right where she wanted them: traumatised, with broken spirits and newfound fear that would dismiss any lingering thought they might have had about trying to escape.

  Her clients were not saviours or knights in shining armour, she scoffed now. They were in her home to fuck as many pretty girls as they could get their hands on. Even the virgins had comes to terms with this fact of life. She sat back, still studying her reflection, and pushed the dead girl to the back of her mind.

  Her belly fluttered at the thought of this evening’s party and the huge amount of money she’d make off her virgins’ backs. She had sent Sam and her various contacts at the dockyard to inform ship owners, lawyers, custom officers, the mayor’s offices, and the head of the Liverpool coppers that a new batch of young girls were ready, willing, and available to those who wanted the first, second, or third exquisite taste.

  She had nurtured the new girls. They’d been well fed and kept clean, and they were now ready to make their first appearances, which would propel most of them from London virgins to high-class whores in a single night.

  She threw a patronising sneer at the mirror. Here she was charging ten to twenty times more than any other whorehouse in the city without being challenged, outsmarted, or threatened by any of the other Liverpool madams, and there were plenty of them. They hated her. She had no friends among them. Most of them were low-class sluts who had simply taken over premises where they’d fucked men for years.

  She smiled. The best they could come up with were street rats and urchins gagging to open their legs for fear of ending up in a workhouse. By the time these street whores were twenty, they were disease-ridden and too slack for even the biggest and thickest of cocks. Their faces were pox-marked, and half of them were dead because of too many badly performed abortions.

  She tossed her head again and ridiculed the madams. They were stupid and uneducated in business. They had no class, delivering rubbish off the streets, and she was glad of them. She was grateful to them, for her business would not be successful without the badly run shabby brothels.

  She looked at herself in the mirror one last time before leaving her bedroom. Her new turquoise dress was complemented with hair ornaments and sparkling neck chains. She was looking good. The stress of breaking in the new girls had all but gone from her. She was always a little nervous on these opening nights, as she called them. She couldn’t be absolutely sure of the untested girls until the night was finally over and the last customer had left. It was a wonderful feeling when she climbed into her bed knowing that she was so much richer than the day before.

  On inauguration nights, thoughts came back to haunt her. There had been, on occasion, virgins crying for their mummies and daddies during their first experiences with men. She did not enjoy complaints from the customers. They quite rightly stated that they were not there as father figures to comfort little girls but to be pleasured.

  She also hoped that no secrets left her home via customers’ loose tongues. The thought of being betrayed and caught by authorities not already in debt to her or in her pocket was daunting.

  She banished these thoughts and forced a well-rehearsed smile. She’d been doing this job for fourteen years, and her retirement was approaching. She was a lucky woman with a bright, glorious future that would take her into old age. Nothing and no one would get in the way of her dreams.

  She looked at the grandmother clock on the wall. Eddie and Sam should be back by now, she calculated.

  It was a shame, for as much as she hated losing good whores who had served her well, she couldn’t, under any circumstances, allow women to walk free. Her policy had always been the same and always would be. The older girls who were no longer desired by her customers because they had been fucked for too long and by too many had to be disposed of. After all, she wasn’t running a bloody charity or a retirement home for whores.

  Shame, she thought again, sipping a sherry. Maud and Lizzie had been good whores. “Cheers, gi
rls,” she said, downing the sherry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jacob Stone rode at a slow walking pace towards the main dockyard gates with his three companions in tow. He and James, the ship’s first mate, were on horseback, whilst Jack, the Christina’s captain, and Isaac, the ship’s doctor, followed behind in a closed carriage.

  They had talked about this night out for days. It would probably end in sex, gambling, and plenty of food and drink. They had been at sea for so long that a respite of this nature was not only enjoyable but also highly necessary to blow the cobwebs of monotony from their minds and release pent-up bodily urges.

  Jacob had chosen to have dinner in one of the most elegant restaurants in the city, on a road called Mansions Row. The restaurant in question provided excellent English fare of pigeon pie with potatoes and vegetables, which was always followed by an amazing dessert tray. The ambience was congenial, and it had the added advantage of being situated just a few streets away from Madam du Pont’s mansion.

  Evenings like these always held great promise and never failed to live up to expectations. As much as he enjoyed the voyage and the men he sailed with, there was nothing more alluring than a civilised night on the town and the sight of beautiful women to fill his eyes. Beautiful women were just what he needed to shrug off wearying thoughts of home and his impending marriage, he thought, riding slightly in front of the others.

  Madame du Pont’s premises were spectacular, and her whores were by far the best Liverpool had to offer. He was not keen on Madame du Pont herself, not since she had taken his father and his wallet full of money to bed with her when his father had been so drunk he barely knew what country he was in. She had taken advantage of his docile father that night, and Jacob would not forgive her. He had felt his father’s humiliation and embarrassment afterwards as though it were his own. He grimaced now, for only a very drunk man would choose the vulgar Madame du Pont as a bed partner.

  He shuddered. Madame du Pont was probably the crudest woman he’d ever met. Her artificial, over-exaggerated French accent only added to her pretentious arrogance. Still, he thought, smiling, her grand house will suit my purpose tonight.

  Jacob’s father had never allowed him to bed a slave on the plantation, even when his desire was so great he thought his balls would burst – or worse, he’d die. He’d noticed women, their bodies, and had felt the growing need to bed one just as he was coming into his fifteenth year. He’d hidden behind trees and bushes and had gone to the river, sliding between the tall rushes, just to glimpse a slave’s breasts or complete nakedness when he got the chance to watch one bathe. The slightly older piccaninnies had opened his eyes and senses to sexuality. He’d spoken to his father about wanting a woman and laughed to himself now, remembering his father’s answer. “Nigger women are for nigger men. It’s a well-known fact, my boy, that niggers carry some goddamn awful diseases in their cocks, which then spread to the female piccaninnies they fuck.”

  At the time Jacob had thought that highly unlikely, as he’d seen plantation overseers and even his father’s visitors bedding nigger women. He was also sure his father had bedded a few in his youth. It was a customary and hospitable gesture when receiving callers to offer all the comforts of home. Even Hendry had taken one or two behind their father’s back. He, Jacob, was younger than Hendry by two years and had been naive and obedient. He’d missed a lot of fun. He grinned now.

  He’d never forget that first night in Madame du Pont’s, when his world had become an even greater and brighter place. His father had promised to make him a man, and he’d certainly kept that promise. Madame du Pont had found the perfect woman to bring him into manhood with ease. He remembered that first awkward moment as though it were yesterday. He, a fumbling boy so nervous he could scarce undo his trouser buttons, and the woman, an experienced and patient teacher, had enjoyed an entire night in bed together courtesy of his father, who had spent his evening playing poker with a group of men. Drinking a bottle of whisky had ultimately sent him into a deep sleep on one of the salon’s soft leather couches.

  Jacob paid his respects to Madame du Pont’s establishment on every Liverpool trip. It was a must – a need as great as cold lemonade on a sweltering summer’s day in the cotton fields.

  Bedding prostitutes was not one of Jacob’s frequent pastimes, for he had more than enough choice among Virginia women of good breeding who were quite happy to give him their sexual favours for free. He thought again about life’s hypocrisies. Many fathers had married off their Southern belle daughters as virgins when those girls had already lain with young bucks under their fathers’ ignorant noses. However, the Southern code demanded that bed secrets remained just that. He wondered if Elizabeth, his betrothed, was still a virgin. Yes, she was, he determined. She had no passionate spark about her eyes. She never wore anything that didn’t clasp around her neck, and even in summer, when houses and gardens were like stoked ovens, she insisted on wearing long-sleeved gowns, which gave the impression that she was a maid rather than a young Southern lady looking for a husband.

  Marriage was big business in Virginia and the surrounding states. Good matches meant more power, money, and standing in the community. The games that were played amused Jacob at times. The never-ending cycle of balls and parties at plantations, sometimes a day’s ride away, were frivolous and boring at times, but they were where introductions were made and business was conducted, whether it be for the acquisition of slaves, land, horses, machinery, or potential brides. They were, if nothing else, Jacob thought, highly civilised in the South, with an insipid glass of punch in one hand and a handshake deal made with the other.

  The gates at the entrance of Madame du Pont’s sprawling mansion were open and guarded by two men in full livery costumes. As always, dinner and drinks had been a grand affair, and now all three of Jacob’s companions made it clear that they looked forward to tumbling some whores until the sun came up.

  Jacob and James did not dismount from their horses, and Isaac and Jack remained in the carriage when they came to a halt at Madame du Pont’s gates. They handed the two gate men their membership documents and waited patiently until these had been scrutinised. After a few minutes, they were cordially invited inside and wished a good evening.

  Chapter Twenty

  Seating arrangements for the girls made prior to the evening entailed thoughtfulness and clever planning. The colours of the girl’s gown and hair were important. No two girls with similar looks sat together. Each girl was complemented by her seating companion to enable her to stand out in her own individual right. Dark-haired girls sat with honey-coloured or light-haired girls. One girl was usually older than the other, and although she detested the idea of allowing them any freedoms, Madame du Pont encouraged girls who were particularly close to each other to remain seated together when standards and protocol allowed. This, she believed, made them feel more comfortable on their first night out, and if the whores were comfortable, their guests would be too.

  Mercy and Julia sat with planted smiles on their softly painted faces. As instructed, their backs were straight, not hunched. Their hands lay one atop the other on ruffle-skirted laps, and their legs sat at an angle, unfolded and with points of toes just visible.

  Mercy watched men of all ages dressed in evening attire accept champagne in crystal flutes. She knew it was champagne because Parker had told them about the guests’ welcome procedure during their instructions. Mercy wondered what it tasted like. She almost wished she could drink a whole bleedin’ bottle, which would in all likelihood knock her out until morning. She even wished now for the horrible smelly drug that had been placed on the rag and then shoved in her mouth, for even that would be better than having to endure this night.

  She was terrified. She did not intend to give her body to a complete stranger. How she was going to avoid this inevitability was a different matter entirely, of course, but as she sat trembling and afraid, she forced herself to keep her mind sharp and her resolve steady.
/>   She looked dispassionately around her surroundings. Highly polished rosewood tables and chairs were dotted about the room. A variety of seasonal flowers in crystal vases added fragrance to the already perfumed area. An abundance of nude women posing in various positions on oil-painted canvases adorned the red velvet walls. She had seen enough nudity this past week to last a lifetime, she thought, trying to banish memories.

  She found the faces of the other girls she had shared the stable with during the previous week or so. Had it been eight or nine days, or weeks? Time had slipped into insignificance. Each morning she was horrified to discover that her nightmares were not dark and ugly visions from which she could awake and forget, but reality that was ever constant.

  Her dreams never altered. They had become part of her, like dark shadows accompanying her through every night. The bridge, the man, the floor of the carriage, and the murder committed threatened to drive her mad. She would not survive this hell, she believed. She was not able to abolish her need and determination to escape, as she perceived most of the other girls had. Her dreams were prophetic; she was sure of this, for she always felt the knife cut into her throat just before she awoke to Parker’s morning call.

  Her waking thoughts were now a repetitious regime of fear and dread of what torture the day would bring, worry over whether she would be able to keep her temper and anger in check, and finally that tiny hope that she’d be rescued.

  Her anger had grown into what could only be described as an internal hatred of all she saw, experienced, and felt. It was further inflamed with the knowledge that she would have to succumb without complaint to another day of threatening rhetoric bestowed upon her and the other girls by the servants and the madam, whom she had come to despise with every fibre of her being.