Dark Shadows (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Jacob Stone and his three companions stood in the salon, champagne flutes in hands, and observed the gathering. The men had cut their usually long dinner short to accommodate Jack, who had continually urged the others to eat faster for fear of being late and missing Madame du Pont’s finest.

Jacob was relaxed and felt energised. The dinner of freshly cooked pigeon pie in flaky pastry had been the type of meal he had sorely missed at sea. The good food and amiable company had lightened his mood. He now felt quite amenable towards Madame du Pont’s whorehouse and looked forward to taking one of her delightful young ladies.

Jacob’s father had bought Jacob’s membership years ago, telling him that Stone Plantation’s business had grown exponentially over the years because of Madame du Pont’s establishment. “With the right people and atmosphere, you can endear yourself to prospective clients – as long as you remember to lose a poker hand to them a couple of times,” his father had added with a wink of the eye.

Jacob smiled now, remembering the last time his father had been here with him. He wanted poker, he’d insisted. Instead his father had taken three whores during the evening and had missed the poker game altogether.

Jacob used this clandestine club for business purposes, for the most part. He had gained a new client or two on almost every visit so far, as only the rich and powerful frequented this club. Cotton factory owners, local government officials, immigration officers, judges, and even the mayor came to this mansion, all wondering how Madame du Pont came by her virginal upper-class whores.

Having sex with the younger whores was never on Jacob’s agenda. There was something distasteful about bedding a youngster, even if she was willing. He would take his time and let the others rush to claim the so-called du Pont virgins. He had no desire to break a woman in, preferring a more experienced and comfortable lover.

He grinned at Jack and said, “Well, Jack, who takes your fancy this fine evening?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m in paradise, my boy. I may be getting on, but I feel I could use Madame du Pont’s entire stock tonight. Last time the wife let me in her bed was over a year ago, and I’m not one for going with slaves. It can get messy with half-breed piccaninnies running around the place. So what’s a man to do? I can’t spill my seed when I’m dead, can I? And if I don’t spill them soon, they’ll turn into damn trees and sprout out my damn ass! What about you?” Jack asked. “Is it poker or are you going to do the right thing and enjoy yourself for once?”

Jacob looked from woman to woman, scattered on couches like cushions, and smiled a cheesy grin. “Don’t you worry about me, old man. You just get to it. I’m still looking. I’ll find you later.”

With that, Jacob left the others, crossing the length of the room to stand alone. He spotted Madame du Pont whispering in a man’s ear. He watched her nodding her head in agreement with something the man said and studied her further. Although he disliked her, he also found her amusing in so many ways. Her clownish over-painted face, multicoloured wigs, and exaggerated French accent were all part of her facade and fascination. She was undeniably clever and resourceful. There was nowhere that resembled this place, nothing to compete with the class of prostitutes on display or the exclusive membership that included rich and powerful men who could buy and sell him twice over.

As he watched her laughing now, he couldn’t help but admire her business prowess, which had nothing to do with his personal distaste for her as a human being. He leaned against a wall and shook his head in amusement. Madame du Pont’s fair-coloured wig was bouncing and shaking atop her head as though it might fall off or fall onto her face. Jacob had the urge to laugh. Her hair was so laden with fancy combs and jewels that he was surprised she could even manage to hold her head up. He wondered why no one told the woman just how ridiculous he looked.

A servant refilled his glass, and he continued to study her. She had strict written rules of the house, plainly visible on his membership document. A man could approach a girl, converse with her, but couldn’t touch. Du Pont insisted on formal introductions conducted by her or her head servant, Parker, who’d been around for as long as he could remember. After a girl had been chosen, one of the two women would chaperone the man and chosen girl from the salon and discreetly collect the money once inside the bedroom.

Not all girls were the same price, for some were virgins or had very rarely been touched. Most men were happy to pay the extortionate fee for the pleasure of having one of these girls. It was an extremely civilised way of doing things, Jacob thought, in what was, after all, a whorehouse.

Madame du Pont was now gently pushing the man forward. From his position, Jacob saw a very young girl rise from a green couch. She curtsied. The man kissed her hand and then led her towards the door. Madame du Pont followed, smiling at men as she passed them. Another satisfied customer, Jacob thought. His eyes followed them until they’d left the room. Then they wandered back to the spot where Madame du Pont had stood.

He saw Mercy for the first time, sitting on the couch which had been vacated by the young girl. He sucked in his breath, stared at her, forgetting to breathe and dismissing every other presence in the room. He had not seen her here before tonight. She was a new addition to the house. He had not seen her earlier either, for she’d been hidden from view by the buxom madam and the over-excited old man whose bulging crotch had publicly displayed his enthusiasm for the young girl he was about to purchase.

He steadied his breathing. His heart jumped in his chest. Butterfly wings were fluttering in the pit of his stomach, punching to get out. These were strange sensations, and none he’d ever experienced before. The beautiful creature he beheld was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen.

He moved closer to where she sat, unintentionally bumping into people as he crossed the room. He could clearly see her emerald-green eyes now, staring unseeingly, wide, sad, and, in his opinion, deeply troubled. She held a soft, trembling, and awkward smile that was innocent and forced. Her perfect pink lips were so inviting that he wanted to kiss them there and then. He wanted to caress her heaving breasts. More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms and soothe whatever ailed her.

She turned her head and looked around the room as though noticing her surroundings for the first time. As she moved, Jacob saw the length of her coal-black hair, kissed by candles and chandeliers. Her natural soft curls reached the centre of her back and seemed to shimmer with light, as though entwined with exquisite diamonds.

She wore a gown of pale green. It covered a perfect body shape, from her shoulders to her pert young breasts and down to a tiny waist, where the hooped skirt then spread itself across the entire length of the couch.
Never,
he thought,
have I seen anything so captivating, so beautiful, so fragile, and so seemingly innocent. Why would this beautiful young woman choose this life?
he wondered with a mixture of dismay and curiosity. She did not belong here. She could, in his opinion, grace the greatest of houses in the land with that angelic face and body that had no doubt lain with many men. Madame du Pont certainly trained whores well in the art of innocent seduction, for this girl’s demeanour was notably contrary to her job title!

He had to have her, he decided, walking briskly to the doorway in order to find Madame du Pont. He would pay du Pont’s asking price; he would pay anything just to be close to the young woman who had affected him in a way that unnerved him to the core of his being. He couldn’t explain the depth of his desire. Did love at first sight exist? He bumped into another couple of men on his way out. Had he fallen under some unknown spell, drunk too much, and made himself dull-witted? Or had he simply been at sea for too long?

Jacob reached the hallway and looked left, then right. His eyes travelled up the length of the curved staircase and then down towards the small connecting rooms off the hallway. He cursed. Where was du Pont? He had to find her before the girl was snapped up by another. He turned and strode back into the salon, feeling like a lovesick fool but not giving a damn. He intended to go to her and stand by her side. He would wait there, pushing aside every other man who came near her, until Madame du Pont came back.

Halfway between the door and where the woman was seated, he halted in mid-step. His smiling face froze, as did his body. A jumble of emotions ran through him. Parker, the whore mistress, was introducing his prize to another man, who from the back appeared to be well into middle age.

Jacob turned and made his way to the door, stood there, and watched the girl, the man, and Parker approach. His eyes followed the girl’s every small step. He willed her to look at him; stupid of him, he admitted, for it would lead to nothing. But he needed her to see him.

She walked past him with eyes that stared blindly ahead, and then she was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mercy climbed the stairs, sandwiched between Parker and the old man whose hands were already grabbing her buttocks. She felt physically sick. She was petrified and finally felt the taste of defeat. She had given advice to Julia, who would be going through her own hell right at this very moment, yet she too was failing in courage and finding it impossible to stop a tear from falling. She wiped it away quickly, afraid of being caught by Parker, who would later report her to Madame du Pont. She was supposed to be smiling and happy at the prospect of pleasuring the vulgar old man who was so close behind her she could hear his panting and smell his putrid breath.

They reached the bedroom, halfway down a long hallway. They entered, and Mercy sat on the bed as ordered. The man reached into his pocket and brought out a large sum of gold sovereigns. Mercy couldn’t see how many he gave to Parker, but she could see from her smiling face that Parker was pleased with the transaction.

“Enjoy, sir. You have a rare beauty and innocence in Mercy. As I told you, she is untouched, but she is very willing to please you and is honoured to lose her flower to a gentleman such as you.” She turned to the bed. “Is that not right, Mercy?”

“Yes, Missus Parker. I will make the gentleman very happy,” Mercy answered her meekly.

“I shall leave you and return in one hour, as arranged. Enjoy her,” Parker said, satisfied by Mercy’s answer.

The old man was not listening to Parker and had already begun to undo his trouser buttons.

Parker walked towards the open door. Before closing it, she threw Mercy a threatening look to remind her of what would happen should she not perform.

Mercy looked around the room and then up at the ceiling. Sparkling candlelit chandeliers spread across it like twinkling stars. Candles in ornate silver candlesticks were dotted around the room, on the walls, and on each bedside table. The entire ensemble of the room screamed passion and romance. Yet, like Julia, she wished she had the courage to kill herself.

Mercy moved farther up the bed and sank her body deeper into the mattress. She could not go through with this, she suddenly knew with a clarity that had been lost to her in all the dark and horrible days since her abduction. The man was forgotten. She was now seeing flashing, moving pictures in her mind’s eye. She was reminded yet again of her walk across London Bridge in her beautiful gown, the dirty rag being pressed over her mouth and nose by Eddie and Sam, the journey, putrid smells, and pain. She pictured Madame du Pont’s gloved finger inside her vagina, her naked body on display in front of so many people, including Sam and Eddie, and the shame of it, as strong now as it had been then.

She shuddered, remembering Sam’s and Eddie’s gleeful faces and their rough hands throwing her onto the floor, holding her there spreadeagled. She relived the endless days of watching the despair that surrounded her and then finally crying with the other girls.

She saw again the young woman’s throat being cut and realised then that she couldn’t even remember the poor girl’s name. Images of blood, screaming, and the callous tossing of the girl’s body onto a wheelbarrow as though she were cow dung were crushing her heart. She thought it might break altogether, yet she was conscious of the old man’s movements at the same time. His breath was quickening. He was fumbling with his trousers at his ankles now, moving as though he were racing against the clock.

She regained her senses, leaving past images behind and focusing on what was going on right now. The old man was stroking his cock and licking his lips, his glazed eyes staring at her with a blank expression. She knew and accepted now that she couldn’t bear it a moment longer, any of it.

She slid off the bed and stood on legs threatening to give way. This was the dreadful reality of her present situation. Stabbing pains in her head and nausea rising like a tidal wave were cursing her body, but her mind was in an even worst state. She looked longingly at the window. They were one floor up. She would gladly throw herself on the hard ground beneath and die with a cracked head rather than allow this old bugger to touch her. She could not allow her body to be used like this by a man who looked almost as old her Grandpa Carver. She couldn’t!

Disgust crossed her face, and she swallowed the bile still rising in her throat. Her eyes were drawn to the man’s flaccid old cock, smaller and uglier than she imagined a cock to be, twisting in and out of the man’s palm and tobacco-stained fingers. She realised that her facial expressions were mirroring her thoughts, something they had been repeatedly warned to hide. She remembered Parker’s words: “This is the first and most important rule. Always appear amenable to and pleasured by the gentleman who is taking you.”

Mercy stood in front of the loathsome man and tried to delay the inevitable. She had to think fast. She smiled but felt her lips trembling with the effort to hide her true thoughts, which she felt must be clearly written on her face. He was repugnant to her, and she was sure he saw her revulsion.

“Would you like a sip of champagne before we begin?” The words rang out at an accelerated pace from her mouth and sounded strange. She’d been trying so hard to mimic the other girls’ posh speech. “It would be such a shame not to drink a toast to our union. Maybe you wouldn’t mind celebrating with me. I am
your
virgin. You have the honour of breaking me in. It would please me very much. And it looks inviting, does it not?”

He looked at her, not really seeing her, Mercy thought. He was still stroking himself, but his cock was not growing hard, and this was obviously vexing him no end.

She tried again. “Maybe some champagne would relax you. I can give you a massage. Or I could hold your cock for a while and make you want me.”

“Shut up, girl! I don’t give a damn what would please you or not!” he finally shouted impatiently. “I’m not here for small talk or for drink. Get your bloody clothes off; I haven’t got all night. You’re here to please me, not the other way around. There’s a lot more girls downstairs, and I intend to shove my cock into as many of them as I can this night. I don’t have time for the likes of you taking your time about it. You should be ready for me by now.”

“Ready?” Mercy said stupidly.

“Yes, that’s right. Ready. Get your garments off. Strip. Strip fast. I’ll give you the back of my hand if you make me lose my hard-on!”

Mercy stood mesmerised by the way his eyes suddenly glazed over again. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. His hand was moving faster, and his cock was jumping around in his palm. He was cursing. He wasn’t even noticing her. He was moaning, but he was also angry because it wouldn’t get hard, her instincts told her. He was going to take his anger out on her!

She suddenly found her sanity through the power of fear. She began to disrobe by pulling one arm out of a puffed sleeve and then reaching for the other. Her fingers trembled. She continued to tell herself that even though she was doing as he demanded, the slower she undressed, the more time she would have to think about how to get out. She looked at the door. He stood between her and the exit she so craved.

The old man approached her, cock slightly swollen and more solid now. She stared at it and involuntarily took a step backwards. The man moved towards her with angry strides, threw her onto the bed, and ripped the bodice of her dress. He pulled down the top of her corset to release her breasts and nipples, which were now completely visible from top to bottom. “Don’t you dare mock me, bitch,” he sneered at her. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know your teasing little games. You want me for longer to get more money out me for your whore madam.”

With these words, he pounced, one leg on either side of her hips, straddling her like one would a horse. His heavy weight knocked the air out of her. His hands went to her breasts. He gripped and painfully pulled them towards him. He fondled them, squeezed them, pulling at her nipples until Mercy moaned with pain and humiliation, which spurred him on even more. She looked down at her waist, where his cock rested. It still wasn’t hard. His upper body then leaned towards her until his face was inches from her own. He didn’t kiss her; instead, his head moved again until his mouth reached one of her nipples. She watched him as he sucked it as a baby would a mother’s teat. Then he bit into it. Mercy finally screamed with terror, “Oh God, help me!”

“You like that, girl, don’t you?”

Mercy’s desperation grew, as did the man’s cock. He dismounted and threw her skirts up to cover her face. He tore at the hooped underskirt, and it shimmied down to her ankles. He tossed it over his shoulder and reached for her bloomers. She lay silent and felt his awkward movements as he straddled her once again. She felt his fumbling hands on her upper thighs, attempting to spread them, whilst she tried with all her strength to keep them closed. He was going to enter her!

He slapped her covered head a couple of times and then said, “Bloody fucker, get up for me. Come on; don’t do this to me, you bastard. Get up there!” He let go of her thighs to stroke his cock again. Mercy pulled the crumpled skirt off her face until it lay just below her chin in a bundle of folds. She had endured the horror until now, but her mind was continually screaming, “Enough, enough!” She thought once again of death and the comforting peace it would bring. She twisted her head to the side whilst listening to his loud panting and soft moaning.

For the moment, she was forgotten. She was just a body with a hole to poke and prod; that she knew, but nonetheless she was mystified at the man’s actions, his difficulties, and the ugliness of the sexual act.

She saw the lighted candle sitting in its silver ornately decorated candlestick on the bedside table and concentrated on its light. Suddenly, she stretched out her arm and wrapped her hand around the base. It was heavy.

The old man was concentrating on holding her thighs open, staring at her vagina, and trying to guide himself inside her, still without success. She was not only revolted now but was also filled with hatred and rage. She was possessed by a demon and silently thanked evil for coming to her aid.
No more,
she thought.
No more!

She tightened her grip on the candlestick, the lighted candle shaking precariously atop it. With all her strength, she smashed the object across the side of his face. His head rolled backwards and then forwards. He swayed drunkenly, still straddling her. He seemed disoriented for a second but remained conscious enough to curse her whilst punching her small face.

Mercy’s nose exploded with blood and pain. He put his hand to the open wound on the side of his forehead, and she hit him again, this time catching him just at the centre of his balding hairline. His eyes rolled. He moaned. She smashed the candlestick against his head for the third time, and his body lopped to the side and fell unconscious, head first onto the pillow. He would want to kill her, Mercy thought. She couldn’t stop now.

The candle lay on top of the bedcovers, which were bursting into flames, but the bloodied candlestick was still firmly in her grasp. She sat up and managed to break free of him by unravelling his legs, still straddling her in an awkward position. She clenched the candlestick even tighter and rained it down on his face, her own face receiving the blood splatter coming from his wounds. She was now straddling him, raising and lowering the candlestick, each time hitting him harder and with more rage than the time before. She stopped, out of breath, and for the first time noticing that a fire was spreading from the bedcovers and licking the bottom edges of her dress.

She jumped off the bed and quickly peeled her clothes off until only the corset remained. Instead of trying to put the fire out, she lit the four-poster bed curtains with her gown and then threw the flaming bundle at the window curtains in order to spread it farther. Both sets of curtains ignited. The room was bathed in a bright orange glow.

Mercy was crying with fear, shock, and the knowledge of what she’d just done. She stood in the middle of the room in a blackened and bloodied corset, displaying her full breasts. She tucked them in with trembling hands as best she could and for the first time really looked at the man she’d just murdered. He no longer had a face. His head looked like a fleshy squashed tomato. She had done that. She had bashed his skull in. She had killed this man!

Smoke was filling the room. The flames were growing higher and spreading until she could barely see. Her eyes watered, and she was blinded by smoke and stinging tears coursing down her face. She heard the glass explode in the windows and automatically shielded her face with her arms. Glass shattered into shards. Some hit her, stabbing her bare arms and upper chest as they flew across the room.

She felt no pain. She was a dead woman, no matter what happened now. She would die in this fire or at the end of a rope – or worse, by Madame du Pont’s own hands.

She sat near the door. The smoke was filling her lungs, and she coughed. She didn’t care.
Let the fire take me
, she thought. She coughed again and wondered how it would feel to die. Her father had taken his life because he didn’t want to go on living without her mother. She was now going kill herself too, because even if she could escape this place, she could never go home and allow Big Joe to marry her, defile her, and force her to do what the old man on the burning bed had wanted her to do.

She was not ashamed of her father anymore. She understood him now. She empathised with his decision. The fear of death was far outweighed by the pain and suffering life would surely bring. Her life was over …