Dark Shadows (The Mercy Carver Series Book 1) Page 4

  The girl was right, Doreen was thinking. Big Joe was a lecherous old git and had a different woman paid for in coin almost every night of the week. Doreen removed the veil and got a better look at Mercy’s anguished face. She sighed. She’d been paid to make Mercy look like a princess, and that’s what she’d done. Moreover, she’d done it well. She couldn’t say anything that would help the girl. Life with Big Joe would be bloody rotten, and that was the truth of it. He’d set his sights on Mercy when she was just a young girl; everybody knew that. Now that the time had come to marry her, he’d make sure she was never out alone again. He’d work her hard in his shop all day, and he’d have his way with her whenever fucking took his fancy. Doreen screwed up her face in disgust behind Mercy’s back. Personally, she’d rather eat rats than marry that bloody dog of a man!

  Mercy took one more look at herself in the mirror. She was not vain, but she was well aware that she looked every bit like a sophisticated woman. Soft pink rouge had been painted on her full bow lips and cheeks, and black kohl now defined her eyebrows and lifted the corners of her eyelids, making her eyes appear twice their size. The effect was subtle, but it had changed her girlish face into something beautiful and elegant. She sniffed into the handkerchief Doreen had just given her.

  “I had hoped to get the chance to wear a gown like this more than once in my life,” she said. “But I fear living in the Elephant and Castle won’t give me any opportunity at all, ever. My Grandma Jennings says Big Joe always works and goes out to a men’s club at night, and I’m not to nag him about it. I bet I’ll just spend all my life alone and miserable. I should kill myself right now!”

  Doreen turned Mercy from the mirror and held her by the arms. She wore a shocked, frightened expression. Tears welled up, making her remove her eyeglasses. “Now you listen to me, girl. I knew your father and your mother. I was at their bloody wedding. I’ve never seen a couple so much in love – they made me right jealous, so they did. What your father did – kill himself – was a terrible waste of a life, and I’ll not have his daughter in here threatening to do the same thing. Now, I don’t know what I can say to help you. I don’t know what I can do to make you feel better. But if I ever hear you mention killing yourself again, I’ll give you a right good slapping. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Mercy sobbed again. “But if I could just go into London, across that bridge, just once, I’d have the memory of it and would be satisfied with that. But how can I go to London in my old rags if I want to have a cup of tea and go inside St Paul’s Cathedral? I saved some pennies. I have them with me. It took me almost a year, but I have enough for an outing and maybe even a short carriage ride after I’ve had a scone and tea. That’s always been my dream. Just once – if I could do it just once, I’d never complain again about anything.”

  “I understand, Mercy. Really I do,” Doreen told her, softening her tone. “I would love to tell you to grab every opportunity that comes your way and go after your dreams, but you’re betrothed, and there’s nought you, me, or Agnes here can do about it. You’re too beautiful for your own good; that’s the truth. If you’d been brought up on the other side of the river, you would have found an even better husband – perhaps an aristocrat.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so,” Doreen told her.

  Mercy seized the chance. Now she would test the waters.

  “What if I could just wear this for a short while? It may be my only chance. You did say you would love to tell me to grab opportunities, even though you can’t. Doreen, I promise I won’t get it dirty. No one will know except for us three. Can I? Please? I’ll be back in three or four hours to carry the dress home in its box. Please?”

  Doreen and Agnes looked horrified and shook their heads. Doreen began to undo the tiny buttons on the back of the gown, looking worried that Mercy was thinking about bolting out the door with the dress on.

  Mercy cried and tried again. “After today, my life is over. I’m just going to have to kill myself. If I can’t have one good memory, what’s the point of living?”

  “Mercy, you’ll get us into a bother talking like this. Big Joe and your family will have our hides.”

  “But not if they’re none the wiser. They would never have to know,” Mercy rushed in. “Who the bleedin’ hell do we know that goes into London from this side of the river? If I could just see St Paul’s Cathedral and say a prayer maybe – to help me through this—”

  “Right. That’s enough, Mercy Carver,” Doreen interrupted her. She wagged her finger an inch from Mercy’s face. “Get that dress off you right now and don’t you dare move.”

  Doreen gave Agnes a sly look and nodded towards the back room. Whispering, they walked towards it and then disappeared inside, leaving Mercy alone. Mercy sighed. Her plan hadn’t worked. Now she’d have to go to London in rags with nice hair. She was going to look stupid!

  Doreen came back out alone. “We’ve discussed it, Mercy. We can’t allow you to wear a bloody wedding dress in the streets of London, and you’re a fool to think we would. Sorry, but it would come back with its hem covered in mud and horse dung, and we’d get shot for allowing it to happen. But …” She stopped speaking just as Agnes appeared carrying a burgundy gown.

  “This was made for a young lady from Knightsbridge.”

  Mercy’s eyes opened wide. “But …”

  “No, don’t ask questions. I may be in Southwark, but I’m quite well known for my work and designs in the highest quarters. I get clients who have titles, but not many people know that, so don’t spread it around. I could close up this shop tomorrow and live a comfortable life, but I’m planning to move to the country. I want a nice cottage where I’ll dress the gentry and feed my face on scones and butter. I’ll be respected and asked to attend dinner parties and local balls. I’ll find myself in with country society and marry a nice man. I’ve got big plans, Mercy, and so should you.

  “Do you really think you’d be here if you were marrying a man who didn’t have Big Joe’s money and position? God almighty, folk from these parts would never be able to afford my gowns, not in a month of Sundays. The only reason I’m here is because my home is upstairs and the rent for this building is cheap.”

  “You’d never be able to afford my hairstyles either,” Agnes piped in.

  “Yes, true,” Doreen said. “Anyway, as I was saying … This dress here was ordered, but the girl is pregnant. She fell pregnant just a couple of months after she got married and told me to keep the dress. She didn’t ask for anything in return, so the gown is mine. She was about the same size as you. Would this do for your big adventure?”

  Mercy stared into the faces of the smiling women. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with joy. She grinned and nodded her head, unable to speak.

  Doreen smiled and held Mercy’s hands. “Now let’s find you a bonnet. You have your day, Mercy Carver. You bloody well deserve it, and you’ll never get another chance, because that old man you’re marrying will never let you out of his sight.”

  Chapter Four

  Mercy walked gracefully down to the end of the street. She stood for a moment to get her bearings. This was the point where junctions and wider roads began to emerge. These were the roads that led to the bridge and where the new tramlines began.

  Her shoes were pinching just a little, but that wouldn’t deter her from her quest; it would just force her to walk a bit slower. Doreen had told her to walk with her head high, chest out, and waist in. She also added that it wouldn’t do any harm if she were to swing her hips a bit too.

  Her burgundy puff-sleeved gown had a small delicate collar with black velvet piping. It was fastened with black velvet buttons, running in a neat line to her waist and matching the black velvet shawl, which Doreen had insisted she take with her. Her bonnet, a gift from the dressmaker, was also burgundy, trimmed in black with black feather plumes at its crown and a black velvet ribbon tied in a large bow under her chin. She carried a small pin
k and black silk purse and parasol to match. Mercy, you look like a lady; you do indeed, she thought as she moved closer to the bridge.

  Mercy’s heart quickened: there it was! She stopped at an embankment, the farthest she’d ever walked, and cautiously looked around her in all directions. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. Grandma’s not following you.

  Southwark Cathedral was just ahead on her left, and London Bridge, with its five magnificent arches, was straight in front of her. She crossed the busy road junction and felt her heartbeat quicken. My God, I might have a heart attack. She’d never felt so excited about anything in her entire life.

  There was a lot of work going on in side streets and on the busy main roads. One could easily believe that London’s entire working population was congregated here, digging and shovelling dirt. They were working on the new sewage system, she determined now. She’d heard that even some politicians and lords had succumbed to cholera. That was what probably urged the government to get a move on and fix London’s stink, she thought, disgusted that it had taken a high-class person to die before they sorted the problem.

  Mercy took her first step on the bridge. She attempted to blend in, but she noticed that the bridge’s traffic consisted of heavy carts laden with flour sacks and vegetables, coal wagons, tradesmen carrying pots and pans, and just a few plainly dressed men and women who probably worked on the other side of the bridge. Every now and then, an omnibus would pass. She heard the noise of their passengers before she saw them. They were filled to capacity, and most children sat on parents’ laps. She’d seen these multi-person transport carriages before, but only from a distance – they didn’t come all the way to the Elephant and Castle, just as far as Southwark Cathedral.

  Mercy could well understand now why there were no grand carriages or gentry in sight, for with every step she took, the stink got worse. She also knew that she should have the sense to get to the other side as quickly as possible, but she couldn’t prevent herself from stopping every few feet to look down at the water in the Thames and around her at all the comings and goings. Her grandparents had been right about something, she admitted now. It seemed to her that all the people in England had come to this river and left their shit behind.

  Carts and omnibuses continued to pass her in both directions. People bumped into her, and some didn’t even say sorry. Men tipped their caps to her when she passed them. Throngs of people were going about their business. She was going on an adventure and couldn’t care less about the smell. She was in new territory now. She was witnessing new and unimagined things. Mercy suddenly wondered if the bridge was safe under the weight of all this traffic, riding and on foot.

  She giggled. There was horse dung everywhere, and all the people around her looked as though they were playing hopscotch, jumping over and swerving around all the mountains of droppings. She took her handkerchief from her dainty bag, which was attached to a silk-roped chain, and covered her mouth and nose with the handkerchief, careful not to smudge her newly painted lips.

  She could see the north end of the bridge. It was just ahead of her and crowded with people walking in all directions. Some hurried whilst others ambled along in the sunshine with no particular place to be. On the wide grassy verges, children with mothers and nursemaids were having beverages and picnics. Mercy had never seen so many people congregated in such a small space – no, she’d never seen so many people ever!

  When she stepped off the bridge, her stomach lurched. She was in London now. She was going to make the most of it, and she had plenty of time to explore some streets before St Paul’s.

  She loosened the silk cord and peered inside her purse. Grandma Jennings had given her a couple of coins and had told her to buy something extra nice from the dressmaker for her birthday. Grandma had suggested that hair ribbons would be a good idea. Mercy had bought nothing. Instead, she had kept the money, putting it towards her savings, which she would spend today. She would spend every penny as though it were her last day on Earth.

  She walked along and then stood at the corner of Monument. She had studied one of her grandpa’s survey maps of London and was now looking for Thames Street, which, according to the map, would be to her left. She walked a little farther and wondered if she should take tea before reaching her final destination. Her feet were tired, and she was sure she had a blister on her left heel. Blimey, these shoes were not made for walking! she decided.

  When she found Thames Street, she decided against the tea idea. The street itself was wider than she could have ever imagined. It was as long as the eye could see. It was bustling with carriages, men on horseback, and women strolling, shopping, and buying fruit and vegetables from the market stalls that lined one side of the road.

  There were limeburner premises sitting just inside small alleyways, adding to the street’s pungent odour. There were building works going on. Hundreds of workers lined the entire street. New sewage drains and what looked like half-built docks were being dug, installed, and constructed. Barges were moored to the wharf, and beyond were glimpses of the river, with masts of shipping and warehouses on the far side. This was not picturesque at all, Mercy thought. This was her first taste of the city, and her first and lasting impressions would be of chaos, mayhem, and dirt. She would have to avoid walking through that, as she could quite clearly imagine that a ruined muddy-hemmed dress was no way to repay Doreen.

  She wouldn’t think about that now. She was far too happy to think about turning up at the shop dirty, covered in dust, wearing dung-filled shoes, a mucky dress, and a blackened face. She would worry when the time came.

  She saw an open carriage drop off a couple of men, and she approached it gingerly. This would be her first carriage ride. She had never seen a carriage like it and had no idea how much it would cost or exactly how far away St Paul’s Cathedral was.

  “Can you take me to St Paul’s Cathedral, please?” she asked the driver.

  The carriage driver tipped his hat politely, nodded his head, and jumped down from his wooden bench seat to open the carriage door.

  Mercy wasn’t sure how to lift the piles of material under her skirt, but she did remember that Doreen said women looked more elegant when they took hold of a petticoat hoop, which in turn lifted the front of the dress up, and avoided tripping over themselves. That was the last thing she wanted – to be lying in the muck with her legs flailing about or diving into the carriage head first!

  With this in mind, she inched her hands down to her hips and eventually found a hard-boned hoop. She grabbed it from both sides, lifted it, exposed her ankles, put her first foot onto the carriage step, and followed with the other. Before she knew it, she was sitting prim and proper on the soft leather passenger seat.

  The driver closed the small waist-high door and tipped his hat again. “I’ll have you there in no time, miss,” he told her.

  Mercy smiled to herself. He had called her miss. That was the first time anyone had ever been so polite to her. Where she came from, she was called “the orphan” or “gangly Mercy Carver”.

  She was now completing another ambition. She had never felt so alive. As the carriage slowly manoeuvred its way through busy Thames Street, she was amazed at just how many people she continued to see. There was a never-ending throng of new faces and costumes, of strange and colourful hats. Blimey, she almost felt as though she were in a different country altogether! People were looking up at her as she passed them. They would be wondering who she was, she thought vainly. Here she sat, dressed in a beautiful gown fitted to perfection, with fashionable hair and bonnet. She was all alone, an independent woman being driven around the streets of London in a grand carriage. Yes, she thought, they might be imagining all sorts of things about her – but they’d all be wrong.

  She asked the driver what route he was planning to take, and he told her that they would not stay on Thames Street but would cross the next junction into Cannon Street, which led directly to St Paul’s. It would be quicker, he added, and would get them
out of the traffic jam. Mercy nodded gratefully. She was happy to be leaving the madness of Thames Street behind her. That was one road she would always remember, but not with fondness.

  The carriage stopped at the edge of the square which surrounded the cathedral. After giving the driver some coins, far fewer than she’d expected to pay, she walked no more than a dozen feet before she came across a small but elegant restaurant and tea room. She entered and was seated at a table for two by the window. She looked out of it, mesmerised by the great domed building she had read about in one of her old schoolbooks.

  She had heard some neighbours talk about excursions they had taken to St Paul’s. They had all said the same thing about it on their return: the masons and builders had done a wonderful job reinvigorating what had been a dirty and quite miserable building. They’d also said that Queen Victoria herself had been instrumental in its makeover. Apparently, she had been quite distressed by its run-down state and had personally ordered its image to be changed.

  Mercy’s eyes widened at a thought that had just burst into her mind: would she ever actually have the opportunity to see where the queen lived? Would she find another day like this to venture as far as Buckingham Palace? Would she be able to wear a gown like this ever again?

  She ordered her tea and decided on fruitcake instead of scones. She was still thinking about her bleak future but then decided to push those thoughts aside and instead force herself to imagine a completely different life, an imaginary life. Her belly turned over with all the wonderful scenarios she was so clearly imagining.

  To be a grown-up was a wonderful thing, she decided. Her spirit, her yearning to explore, to seek adventure, and to meet new and diverse societies was becoming even more wondrous in her mind. Her heart told her to follow a different path than the one laid out for her. For eighteen years, her grandparents had made sure she’d been fed and clothed. Neighbours pitied her orphan status and the stigma that surrounded her. She’d also had to endure taunts and spiteful references about her father’s suicide. She’d been ostracised by girls and boys her own age because she’d not been allowed to socialise with them. She knew very well what people thought about her. She was the orphan of a deranged idiot who’d plunged a dagger into his own throat; she was the girl who was marrying a man almost ten years older than her father would be now if he were alive.