Blood Moon (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Elizabeth Stone lay on top of her bed, dressed but with no desire to join Margaret in the breakfast room. As usual, she had slept little. Bad dreams plagued her of late. They were horrible nightmares that woke her up night after night, leaving her listless and yearning for Portsmouth.

She had made some terrible decisions. She should never have agreed to come to Richmond. She had asked herself the same question a hundred times: how could she have been so stupid? She had taken Margaret’s advice against her own better judgement, and now she was wallowing in misery, with no way back to her old life in sight.

Margaret Mallory’s words, with her fancy talk of power to come, in addition to parties and important men who would swoon over her, had come to naught. Margaret was ruining her life. She, Elizabeth Stone, was from the very best of families, yet she was no higher in standing than a slave, doing as she was told. She was a prisoner in her own home – but it didn’t feel like
her
house. Ever since Mrs Bartlett’s visit – when that dear woman had so kindly invited her to tea – Margaret had kept her locked inside and out of sight.

Charles, Margaret’s slave, would be standing outside her room right now, she thought.  He was always close by, stopping her from leaving the house. She hated him almost as much as she did Margaret.

Margaret was a dangerous woman. She was not the friend or mother figure she’d thought her to be. She had manipulated her with ease. Margaret had taken money from her, and as she, Elizabeth, had been so trusting, she hadn’t thought twice about it.

Elizabeth looked at her face in the dressing table mirror. She could see her own desperation staring back at her. She was going to die in this house alone, without friends or family. She wanted her ma and pa. They would save her. They would deal with Margaret Mallory, that vile creature downstairs. Her pa would whup that nigger Charles too. She wanted the slave to bleed to death. She had hated Stone Plantation, Jacob Stone, and her marriage, but that hatred was nothing compared to the loathing she felt now for the woman downstairs and the slave outside her door.

Margaret ate her eggs and pork bacon whilst looking at the newspaper brought to her by Charles, her house slave. The particular page she had been looking for was towards the end of the rag and boldly stood out against the depressing accounts of the South’s woes.

The ball tonight would be attended by the best of Richmond’s society, the article said. She took a sip of tea and untidily replaced the cup on the saucer. At first, she had been pleased to receive the invitation, but she was now apprehensive about attending the function, where the guest list included almost anyone who was anyone, what with Elizabeth in tow.

She looked up at the ceiling and cursed. Elizabeth was upstairs as usual, probably moping about. The stupid cow would have to go with her tonight. She could not attend such an important function without the bitch by her side, for that would throw even more light on their tenuous relationship.

Bloody Mrs Bartlett, sticking her nose in all the time, she thought. The woman had become a challenging adversary. She was like a dog gripping a bone with snarling teeth. Bartlett was determined to hold on to Elizabeth, and no amount of turning her away at the door seemed to deter her from coming back every other day. “It’s not easy to get rid of people here,” Margaret mused aloud. 

Margaret walked into the study and went straight to the desk. She sat in the chair that she had recently purchased and rested her palms on the soft leather arms. It was a good chair. Her new furniture was made with only the best materials and wood. The curtains, bedding, cushions, and crockery were expensive and tasteful. Thank God she’d persuaded Elizabeth to buy the stuff before going to the lawyer.

She opened the desk drawer and lifted out the manila envelope containing the deeds to the house. The document was legal. The lawyer had signed it, as had a judge. There were no loopholes – she had seen to that. There was nothing Elizabeth or the Bartlett woman could do about her ownership. The house belonged to Mrs Margaret Mallory, in black and white, and no court in the land could fight its authenticity.

She smiled. Elizabeth Stone had been led to the slaughter like a baby lamb following its mother’s teat. “I only want to keep you safe,” she had told Elizabeth. “The house will be yours as soon as the North stops threatening Richmond.” How gullible the Southern woman was.

Margaret looked at the writing on another document in the same envelope:
The last will and testament of Margaret Mallory
. She swallowed deeply. The lawyer had insisted on a will to secure Elizabeth’s money and right to inheritance, and Margaret had found herself with no other choice but to agree. “I’m still young,” she mumbled to herself, “and I’m looking good.” She knew she looked better now than she had in her forties. Her skin tone and even her body looked younger. Elizabeth bloody Stone would be dying long before she did, Margaret thought.

Tonight could be a problem, however. There was no guarantee that Elizabeth wouldn’t shout her mouth off about the house deeds. There might be uncomfortable questions thrown at her, and she would have to defend her actions. She could always blame the lawyer. The stupid git had allowed it to happen, hadn’t he? She didn’t put a gun to his bloody head! Elizabeth had given her permission when handing over her money.

Margaret returned the documents to the envelope and sighed. She was going to have to spend the entire day making sure Elizabeth knew the consequences of opening her trap tonight. Oh, how she wished for the days when she could just take a blade to a throat or snap a neck.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jacob stood at the front door, just beneath the porch roof, and nodded with satisfaction. Elizabeth had purchased this house, she had informed her brother George in her last letter to him. She had done well, Jacob thought, looking out at the tree-lined street beyond the small front garden. He was happy for her. She had made her own decision to come to Richmond and had obviously been enamoured enough with the city to settle there.

He was not worried about seeing Elizabeth. He was here to pay his respects to her and to deliver her brothers’ letters. He believed that if she had moved on – and the purchase of this house certainly seemed to attest to that assumption – she just might have come to forgive him. This, he told himself, would bode well for an easy divorce, which now required only one more signature from both of them to complete the process.

He thought about the other woman who lived there. Madame du Pont continued to plague him. Every time he thought about or worried about Mercy, du Pont’s face came to mind. He had no desire to see her today. If he were lucky, she would be out. He detested the way she made him feel – the rage she caused within him. The overpowering desire to kill her had been eating at him for far too long; the urge to end her life had not abated with time, nor had it mellowed. She was a curse which had infected the lives of those he loved.

A slave opened the door. Jacob briefly took in his appearance, noting straight away that his muscled body was that of a field slave, not a house nigger. He was dressed in a formal black suit of trousers, jacket, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. He stared at Jacob for a moment with an arrogant expression laced with suspicion. Jacob was immediately concerned. Never had a slave greeted him in this fashion. House niggers were gentile in character, at times even more so than their masters. They took pride in their jobs as butlers, with overly exaggerated niceties towards guests. No self-respecting household would tolerate a disrespectful house nigger, for that would bring shame to the slave’s masters.

Jacob cleared his throat. The nigger looked as though he was ready to manhandle him and throw him out on his ear. “Please inform Mrs Stone that her husband is here,” Jacob said coldly.

“She sleepin’,” the slave said dismissively.

“Then tell someone to wake her, boy,” Jacob grunted.

“Mistress Mallory said to leave Miss Elizabeth be.”

“And I’m telling you that I want to speak to her.” Jacob felt his anger growing. The slave’s puffed-up chest and angry scowl were intended to intimidate him. This had to be du Pont’s doing. “Du Pont, come to the door right now! I’m not leaving until you fetch Elizabeth!” he shouted past the slave. “Don’t try my patience, woman. Get out here!”

              After a couple of minutes, Margaret Mallory appeared. She stood at the door’s threshold with hands clenched and a face reddened with anger and a hint of surprise. The slave walked to a chair in the reception hall and sat down. Margaret looked Jacob over, from the tip of his grey and gold hat to his shiny black boots, and it was clear that he was the last person she expected to see. “The name is Mrs Mallory. I’ve told you that before. What the bloody hell do you want?” she demanded to know. “Well, what are you gawking at? Has a cat got your tongue?”

Jacob stared back at her with his contempt clearly visible. “I had hoped that you would have been thrown out on your ear by now, du Pont. I find it hard to believe you are still able to display false niceties to my wife.”

“Your wife – you’re having a laugh, aren’t you? When did you ever treat her like a wife? I hope you’ve come to tell her that your divorce has been finalised. There’s nothing I would like more than to tell you to get lost and to never show your face here again.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it has not been finalised. I’m here to pay my respects to Elizabeth, nothing more. Is she here? Jacob asked tersely.

“No, she’s out. She’s gone to collect a new gown for the ball tonight, and she won’t be back for a while. I suggest you take yourself off. You’ll not get in this house whilst I’m here alone – not after what you did to me the last time you were in my house.”

“Your slave told me she was sleeping.”

“Him? That stupid git hardly speaks English. I wouldn’t take any notice of what he says.”

“Then I’ll leave. I have no desire to keep company with you. The sight of your face sickens me.”

“Oh, it does, does it? Well that’s your problem, not mine. And what about your whore, Mercy Carver? Has her face sickened you yet? Have you had your fill of her cunt?”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Jacob shouted.

“Lower your voice, you!”

“If I could …”

“What? What do you want to do, rip my wig off and stamp your feet like a spoilt little sissy? Look at you – you look ridiculous in that uniform. It won’t stay new forever, you know. It’ll be riddled with holes and bloodied in no time. I’ll look forward to hearing all about your death, so I will.”

Jacob sighed. He sometimes thought du Pont was demented. Never had he known a woman who could fill so few sentences with so many insults. His eyes wandered to her neck. He would love to put his hands around it and squeeze until she had no air left in her lungs.

“I don’t have time for your insults or your games,” he said. He forced himself to keep his words even and his tone of voice passive. He had already parried insults with her in Portsmouth. He had threatened her. He had tried to best her, and he had failed. “Tell Elizabeth I called. Tell her I will see her tonight – and as for you, we have unfinished business. I aim to tell Elizabeth the truth about you, so she had better be at the ball. If not, I’ll come back here and get her.”

“It won’t matter either way. She won’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. She can’t stand the sight of you.”

“That may be so, but nonetheless, I aim to speak about my dealings with you in Liverpool. Elizabeth and every other person present will be made aware of your true profession, your criminal activities, the murders you committed, and the lives you ruined. You broke our deal, just as I thought you would, and now I am going to break my end of the bargain and do what I should have done a long time ago.”

“Aw, get lost, ya big lout! No one will pay any heed to you. Everything that went on in Liverpool happened a long time ago and so far away. You’ll gain nothing by opening your trap. Nothing will be done and no one will care because it will be your word against mine. You’re an adulterer, for Christ’s sake – who’s going to side with a man like you? ”

Jacob smiled. He flicked his eyes over her with contempt. He would leave now. She would close the door on him with her usual self-aggrandizing demeanour, but once inside, she’d take in his words and would wonder for the rest of the day if he intended to go through with his threat to spread the truth about her past. He had done enough to worry her. “I
will
see you tonight. I’m going to end you, du Pont.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Who was that?” Elizabeth shouted from the top of the stairs. “I heard a man’s voice.”

“You heard nothing. Get back to your room!” Margaret retorted from the bottom of the staircase. Her hands were trembling. Jacob Stone was the only person she had ever known who had the power to unnerve her. She needed a bloody drink and time to work out how to combat this threat of his. He couldn’t get the house, but he could damage her reputation beyond repair.
Christ, there’s no point having a fancy house if no one is going to speak to me,
she thought, walking into the breakfast room.

“Margaret, please don’t speak to me in that tone. I am not your servant, and this is
my
house, not yours,” Elizabeth said upon entering the room behind Margaret.

Margaret sat in the chair and lifted the coffee pot. Her face was burning with rage.  Whenever she’d felt like this in Liverpool, she’d taken her fist to someone. Punching another person usually calmed her down. She had to restrain herself, she thought. She might get caught out if she marked Elizabeth’s face. “You just keep thinking like that if you want,” she said without turning her head. “It makes no difference to me whether you believe this house to be yours or not. The fact of the matter is that legally it is mine – all mine – and there is nothing you can do about it. Come in here. We need to have a little word, you and me.”

Elizabeth walked tentatively towards Margaret and settled on the chair opposite her. Gone were the smiles and pleasantries between the two women. In their place were sheer loathing, an unhidden expression of fear from one and domination from the other.

Margaret casually cast her eyes around the room. “I’m very happy with our new furniture. Aren’t you, Elizabeth, dear?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it. It would be a shame if you decided you had to leave. I think you would miss this grand house, don’t you?” Margaret’s eyes came to rest on Elizabeth’s frightened face and teary eyes. Elizabeth nodded, and Margaret smiled.

“I thought so. Anyway, what does it matter whose house it is? The main thing is to be happy with what we have and, even more importantly, keep our private business to ourselves. You don’t want all the soldiers round here to think you spend all your days moaning and crying, do you?”

“No.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, let’s talk about the ball tonight. Me and you are going to put our best faces on, are we not?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Cos I’m sure you don’t want to go with a puffed-up blotchy face, do you?”

“No.”

“And I can’t imagine you want to waste the night away bawling your eyes out to get attention from folks. No one likes a crybaby …”

“Stop it! Stop it, Margaret!” Elizabeth erupted, finally unable to take another word from her. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child or threaten me! You want to keep me silent – well, I won’t. I will do what I have to do. You have kept me quiet for weeks, but I swear on the Holy Bible that I will tell as many folks as I can about what you have done to me. You are a wicked, wicked woman, and I intend to make you pay for your crimes against me!”

Tears dripped from the corners of Elizabeth’s flashing eyes. She was afraid, but she was also encouraged with the prospect of finally getting out of the house and telling people about Margaret’s cruelty. She would use this opportunity tonight to shame Margaret in front of everyone. She would beg Mrs Bartlett and her politician husband for help. She would speak to the lawyer and the judge. She would make Margaret sign the house over to her, for there was no trust, affection, or loyalty between them now. She would scream and cry to anyone who would listen to her pleas. She wiped her eyes and looked at Margaret, who was sitting quietly in thought.

“I am going to give you the opportunity to go to the lawyer’s office with me. You will hand over the deeds to me, Margaret, because if you don’t, I will tell everyone about your cruelty and theft of my house and money,” she said. Her self-assurance was growing. Margaret would have to comply now, she thought. She wouldn’t stand a chance against a room full of Southerners; they would band together to protect their own kind. Margaret Mallory had to go. It was as simple as that. “Are you not going to speak?” she asked.

Margaret remained silent. Her eyes, focused on Elizabeth’s face, were without emotion.

The sound of the newly purchased grandfather clock ticking heightened Elizabeth’s senses as she waited with trepidation to hear Margaret’s response.

Margaret banged her cup onto the saucer, which cracked. She rose from her chair and stood with her fists clenched on the table. “I don’t like being threatened either, girl,” she said. She spoke softly, without hurry or anger. “Do you know what I do to little girls that talk back to me?”

“No, and I don’t believe I want to,” Elizabeth said haughtily.

“Stand up,” Margaret said.

“What? What do you mean, stand up? What are you going to do?”

Margaret crossed to Elizabeth’s side of the dining table. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hair by the roots, pulled her up, and held her face inches from her own.

Elizabeth stared, hypnotised at the rage now evident on Margaret’s face. She whimpered at the pain shooting through her head as Margaret’s grip tightened on her hair. She had never witnessed such hatred or malice. She was a stranger to rough behaviour. “Let me go … please,” she sobbed. “Margaret, stop this!”

Margaret loosened her grip and then threw her first punch. It connected with the side of Elizabeth’s head, just at the hairline, and sent her stumbling backwards into the chair she had just vacated. She sat awkwardly, panting but unable to speak. Another blow hit her on the arm. Tears streamed down her face. She lifted her arms to shield her face and turned the top half of her body to face the back of the chair. She felt her arm and shoulder being pummelled by fists. She heard Margaret scream, “You stupid American bitch!”

Then there were her own cries for help. “Stop it, Margaret! For God’s sake, stop it!”

“I’ll stop it when I’m good and ready!” Margaret screamed back at her. “I’ll punch you into next week. I’ll destroy your pretty face forever, and then I’ll kick you till you bleed inside! This house is mine, and it’s staying mine! And you’ll not say another bloody word about it!”

As Margaret’s punches and slaps connected with the back of her head, Elizabeth found herself strangely hypnotised by Margaret’s words. She was mad, Elizabeth decided. Margaret had lost her mind. There was no weapon to fight a woman such as this. She was possessed by demons and abandoned by almighty God! “Get away from me,” she sobbed.

The blows continued. Margaret wasn’t listening to her. She wrapped her arms tighter around her head and then heard Margaret panting with exertion.

“One word from your mouth tonight and it will be the last you ever speak. I crush women like you. I drive them mad with hopelessness, and I’m good at it!” Margaret screamed. “I tamed Mercy Carver, and I’ll bloody well tame you too. Look at me. I said to look at me!”

Elizabeth turned slowly to face Margaret, knowing her eyes were wide with fear. She felt so much terror that she was loath to look away, lest another blow strike her. What had Mercy Carver to do with this? she wondered briefly. Another fierce slap hit her face. “Please stop, Margaret,” she whimpered. “Please … no more.”

“Are you going to open your mouth tonight or are you done with your ranting? Am I going to have to hit you every time you threaten me? Well, am I?”

“No.”

“Is this house mine or yours? Tell me!” Margaret said with a raised fist.

“Margaret, you know it’s mine – you know it is. Why are you doing this?”

Margaret laughed. She lowered her clenched fist and once again grabbed Elizabeth by the hair. She pulled her out of the chair and marched her to the window. She tugged back the curtains and put her mouth to Elizabeth’s ear. “I’m doing this so that you don’t forget my words. Take a good look outside. Know that if you even so much as threaten to spill your guts to anyone, I will make sure you never see or breathe fresh air again. Know that you will be kept inside this house until your body rots from hunger and thirst. This house is mine in name, and it will stay mine cos you don’t have the bloody guts or brains it takes to take it from me.

“I’ve had enough of your whining, you half-witted bitch. You will
not
accompany me tonight. I’ve decided that you will stay in your room with that big darkie git I have to guard you, and only when I’m satisfied that you will keep your mouth shut about this bloody house will I think about letting you out. Now get lost! Get out of my sight and don’t let me see your face until I open that bedroom door up there.”

Elizabeth stood on shaky legs. A strange calm came over her. She felt as though she had finally opened her eyes and had just stumbled upon a way out of this mess. She was a Southern belle. She was a lady, she told herself, and ladies did not tolerate white trash women. She had to get out of the house, tell people the truth, and have Margaret arrested and thrown into jail. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me,” she said. “I thought we were friends, but I do believe you have lied to me all along …”

Margaret laughed. “Well, if you weren’t so bloody stupid, you would have known I was lying. You thought we were friends cos you’re as thick as a pile of horseshit, that’s why! Me, friends with the likes of you? No, dear, you’re the last person I could ever be friends with. Go on. Away with you.”

Y
ou’re as thick as a pile of horseshit.
The words echoed in Elizabeth’s ears, which still rang painfully from Margaret’s forceful blows. She lowered her head in defeat and was unable to comprehend the violence and cussing that had come from Margaret’s mouth. She watched Margaret sit back down, quite out of breath and now seemingly indifferent to her presence. Margaret was done with her. She would now cast her aside, lock her up, and do even more despicable things to her. She staggered towards the door and then stopped to look at the back of the chair Margaret was sitting in. She hated Margaret Mallory. She despised her even more than Mercy Carver.

She looked at the sideboard. Breakfast dishes were laid out. A large bread knife lay beside an uncut baked loaf. She picked up the wooden-handled blade, gripped it tightly in her hand, and stared at the back of Margaret’s chair again.

“Have you not gone yet?” Margaret said, without looking round.

Margaret would never hurt her again, Elizabeth thought. She would never say this house belonged to her when it didn’t. Margaret had to go. She had a ball to attend this evening, and Margaret was not going to spoil it for her. She stared at the knife in her hand and tread softly towards the back of Margaret’s chair.

Margaret turned her head just as the knife bore down and connected with her left shoulder blade.

Elizabeth felt it pierce Margaret’s skin and hit bone. She pulled the knife out and jumped back in fright.

Margaret staggered to her feet with a piercing scream. Disoriented, she fumbled her way to the back of the chair and stared with unfocused eyes at Elizabeth, who was near the closed door. She moved menacingly towards her, her pain seemingly forgotten for the moment, and screamed Elizabeth’s name. “I’m going to end you! I’m going to bloody kill you for that!” Margaret threw her body forwards with arms outstretched and hands aiming for the knife, which was clutched at Elizabeth’s breast.

Elizabeth lowered the knife and held it with two hands in front of her belly with its point facing outwards. Margaret lurched forwards again, so filled with rage she failed to see that the weapon had been lowered.

Elizabeth thrust the knife into Margaret’s stomach. Instead of moving backwards, Margaret screamed again, took another stride forward, put her two hands around Elizabeth’s throat, and squeezed. Elizabeth moved in closer to Margaret’s body and pushed the knife farther into her belly, right to the hilt, as she choked and struggled for air.

Margaret growled like an animal and tightened her grip on Elizabeth’s neck for just a second until pain spread through her body. Her eyes widened. She stared at Elizabeth, shook her head in disbelief, and then stood frozen to the spot.

Time was suspended in her mind. She tried to convince herself that what had just occurred hadn’t really happened at all, for it was impossible to believe. She looked down at her belly, seeing the knife’s hilt and blood surrounding it. The knife had gone all the way inside her belly. She could see that, yet still, she thought, it couldn’t be true – she couldn’t die this way.

Margaret tried again to reach Elizabeth, who was staring at the injury she had just caused. She wanted to kill the bitch, but she felt as weak as a newborn and couldn’t even lift her arms to swing a punch. She staggered on her feet from left to right and back, like a drunkard after too many whiskies. Again, she stared down at the knife, and this time reality hit her. Raising her eyes, she found Elizabeth smiling with satisfaction and without an ounce of pity. The weakest of women had ended her, Margaret thought.

She dropped to her knees in front of Elizabeth and then made a last desperate attempt to pull the knife out of her. Blood filled her mouth and spilled out onto her chin. Her body keeled over onto the pale green rug, and she closed her eyes.