Blood Moon (15 page)

Elizabeth stared at the blood gurgling from Margaret’s mouth, yet she was still afraid for her life. She stumbled backwards and watched, fascinated with Margaret’s feeble attempts to move her hands towards the blade. Margaret was finished, she thought. There was no need to fear her anymore. “This is my house, Margaret,” she said. She looked down at the dying woman and panted, “I told you it was mine – so you can go to hell.”

Margaret looked up once more. She managed to grab the hem of Elizabeth’s dress. Elizabeth kicked Margaret’s head and watched it roll to the side like a puppet without a string to hold it steady. Margaret closed her eyes and lay still – until her body twitched with a last long breath.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elizabeth stood over Margaret Mallory’s body, panting for breath and feeling quite nauseated at the bloody and ugly sight before her. Margaret was completely still, and her face was already taking on the grey pallor of a corpse whose blood had stopped running through its veins. Though sickened, Elizabeth continued to stare. She was curious about the physical appearance of someone that had just died. She had never seen a corpse, nor had she witnessed a human being in his or her last moments, taking that last long breath, and staring at the remnants of life with terrified eyes. 

She felt nothing but relief wash over her, for she no longer had to think about Margaret Mallory or be burdened by the Englishwoman’s cruelty. The house was rightfully hers now, just as it should have been all along, and Margaret could no longer threaten to throw her out of it.

Margaret looked vulnerable, Elizabeth thought, cocking her head to one side. With death, her heartlessness, foul language, and malicious intentions had been nullified. She was just as helpless and as pitiful as any other soulless pile of rotting flesh and dried bones. She felt the urge to touch the body’s skin. Her mind was consumed with the entire concept of mortality. She was fascinated with the corpse’s expression. She could no longer call that face Margaret’s, for the wild anger in the eyes and the thin-lined grimace on the lips did not look human at all. She was like an odd sculpture, Elizabeth decided. Yes, that was the only way to describe what she was looking at.

She sat on the couch by the window and lifted a small bell which sat on a side table, ringing it for a good few seconds. She stared again at the body, noting this time that blood was beginning to dry up around Margaret’s wound. She hadn’t realised that the human form was so soft and spongy. It had not been easy to pierce the gown’s layers of fabric with the blade, but once it had gone through to the skin, it had been like cutting into butter. Strange, she thought again, that a body could be so vulnerable.

Charles, the slave, opened the door to the drawing room and was immediately met with the horrific scene. He had heard the screaming and the noise of hands slapping but had thought it best not to interfere with the two crazy women who owned him – never had he been beaten so much in so short a time by a white mistress. She seemed to enjoy whuppin’ him.

He opened and closed his mouth without uttering a sound and then approached the dead body lying on the rug. He stared at it for a second or two before raising his eyes to Elizabeth, sitting primly on the couch. She had not taken her eyes from Mistress Mallory’s dead body since he had entered, and she hadn’t even looked at him.

“You done murder, Miss Elizabeth? You done killed Mistress Mallory?” He looked again at the body and then back to Elizabeth. Her face was a picture of calm curiosity. She looked neither sad nor afraid, just engrossed in the sight of death.

“Why, yes, Charles, I believe I have killed her, but I’m sure I didn’t mean to,” Elizabeth replied, without taking her eyes off the corpse.

“Lord have mercy. What you gonna do, Miss Elizabeth?” He watched her staring at the body, her head cocking to one side and then the other. Her eyes were fixed and unblinking, as though she were in a world of her own. He felt his heart pumping wildly. Lord, he had seen some sights, but never a white woman killing another white woman. Nope, he had never seen nothin’ like this. Miss Elizabeth was in shock, he thought. Or she had gone mad. “You want I fetch the doctor or the undertaker – maybe the sheriff?”

Charles hovered between the body and the couch. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Miss Elizabeth was not aware of the gravity of her situation, he knew that for sure. She seemed oblivious to her bloodied dress and hands. She was also, for the most part, still unaware of his presence. The only evidence of her being awake was her wide eyes and cocked head. Lord above, when folks found out, he would be sold and Miss Elizabeth would be hung, he thought.

Mistress Margaret had been a cruel, evil woman, and he was glad she was dead. Miss Elizabeth had been badly treated, but thankfully she didn’t seem to want to take her anger out on him for locking her in her bedroom every day. She was smiling. He had never once seen her smile like that.

“I think I would like some tea, Charles,” Elizabeth said, “and I suppose you had better bring me some white cake too. I missed breakfast, and I’m feeling a little peckish.”

“Miss Elizabeth, you gone killed Mistress Margaret stone dead!” he said more forcibly. “This ain’t no time fir drinkin’ tea and eatin’ white cake! Lord, I real scared with what you gone done.”

“Well, I’m sure no one needs to know about this,” Elizabeth told him. “After all, I would just hate for you to get into trouble. Why, I don’t believe I could run this house without you, Charles, not if they hung you. No, I wouldn’t like that at all. Mistress Margaret was mean and spiteful, and I don’t see why you should have to suffer just because of her nasty, nasty ways – she will just have to leave this house now. Don’t you think so?”

Charles felt fear rush through his veins. She was not taking responsibility for what she had done, he thought. She was completely at ease with the sight of the body and her conscience. He would hang, not her. Who would believe a nigger? No one would. He felt panic spread like a plague infesting his body. He had no way out of this. He clasped his hands on top of his head and tried desperately to come up with some sort of plan. He was dealing with a dead white woman who couldn’t possibly have, under any circumstances, died of natural causes. It was murder, pure and simple. “Should we hide her?” he whispered.

“Hide her, Charles?”

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth. I can put her in the basement. Would you like that?”

“Why, no, Charles, I don’t believe I would. What if she starts to rot down there? Why, I believe she might stink as bad as an old pig’s carcass. I’m sure she will eventually. No, I don’t want her in my house. Can’t you just take her away? I don’t want to live with her anymore.”

Charles felt tears gather in his eyes. He had not cried since he was a boy, not even when Mistress Margaret whupped him so badly he wanted to die. He was scared. He had never been so afraid. He stared at Elizabeth again. He would get no sense out of her. She was in some crazy world where nothing was real. “Miss Elizabeth, I will make you some tea. I’ll tell Rose to bring it to your room – but you gotta take off them garments. I don’t reckon you want Rose to see you all covered in Mistress Margaret’s blood, now do you?”

Elizabeth finally looked at her gown and hands. “Yes, you’re right. I do feel sullied. I think I will have my tea upstairs. You take Mistress Margaret out and don’t you go letting her back in. This is my house, not hers – do you hear me, Charles?” She rose from the couch and walked to the door. She put her hand on the doorknob, stopped, and turned her head to look once more at the body. “No, Charles, on second thought, I think I’ll stay here, just for a little while longer …”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jacob filled his glass with peach punch and walked towards the doorway between the entrance hall and the ballroom. He felt uneasy and impatient, and his muscles were tense at the prospect of seeing du Pont twice in one day. Their mutual hatred for one another was like a bad habit that had to be broken, for all that was achieved after their acrimonious bouts was anger and an even greater desire to best each other.

He leaned against the wall to the left of the doorway and cast his eyes around the room. No expense had been spared, he thought. The ballroom was beautifully decorated. Chrystal chandeliers hovered above waltzing couples like a starlit sky. Food was laid out on long tables down one side of the room. Glasses sparkled and rattled in rhythm with the orchestra’s music. A blaze of colours adorned the invitees – grey and gold uniforms, ball gowns, and government officials in exquisitely cut evening coats and silk cravats.  The glorious South was putting on a show tonight, Jacob thought, and should there be a Union spy attending, he would go back to the North and attest to the Confederate’s unified display of proud swagger.

Jacob’s eyes found General Magruder speaking to the president, Jefferson Davies. He watched the ease in which the two soldiers talked together and hoped the conversation between them would lead to new battle plans. Life had come to a standstill. Jacob was tired of his mundane existence in Yorktown, where his thoughts were not on war but on Mercy. He would accompany her to a ball like this one day, he thought.

“Good evening, Captain Stone,” a petite woman said, appearing next to Jacob.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Jacob answered with a bow and pleasant smile. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“I’m Mrs Regina Bartlett. My husband is Senator Jerome Bartlett. That’s him right there, the small stocky one wearing the pink cravat.” She pointed to a man just a few feet away. “I did tell him not to wear that one. I do detest that colour on him.”

              “It’s an honour to meet you, ma’am. Pardon me if my memory is amiss, but have we already been introduced?” Jacob asked, wondering why she had singled him out.

“No, we have not, but after I was informed of your presence, I just had to seek you out. I declare, I do feel a little uncomfortable meeting you without being properly introduced, but it’s necessary on this occasion, Captain, on account of your wife, Elizabeth.”

“You know Elizabeth? I was hoping she would be here. I tried to see her today at her house, but unfortunately I was not successful.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that. That horrible woman, Mrs Mallory doesn’t allow anyone to see poor Elizabeth. I should know – I’ve tried to see her just about every day during the past two weeks, but I was almost forcibly removed from her porch in a most ungracious manner.”

“I see …”

“No, I don’t think you do, Captain Stone. You see, I believe that Mrs Mallory is holding Elizabeth prisoner.”

Jacob’s eyes widened, and he was stunned into silence at the forcefulness and gravity of Mrs Bartlett’s words. He had been desperate to see Elizabeth walk haughtily into the ballroom, head held high and with her usual confident manner. Only when he had seen her with his own eyes would he be satisfied that his worries about her safety were unfounded. Mrs Bartlett’s summations were very serious indeed. She didn’t know du Pont, her history, or that she was talking about an old murdering whore. He was sure that Mrs Bartlett would not have gone anywhere near Elizabeth’s house had she known about the dangers she was putting herself in.

This situation had to end tonight, he thought. He could easily slip into Elizabeth’s house through an open window and slit du Pont’s throat. He would be in and out in five minute, and the world would be rid of her.

“Mrs Bartlett, please be so kind as to tell me why you suspect Mrs Mallory of holding Elizabeth against her will,” he said. “It has been months since I have heard from my wife. Sadly, we were not compatible in marriage and are separated, but I am very fond of Elizabeth and won’t tolerate any injustice aimed towards her.”

Mrs Bartlett shook her head in condemnation. Her smile was replaced with a disapproving scowl, and her relaxed stance became rigid and tense. “I am very aware of your separation. Elizabeth, poor girl, told me all about you and your affair with the Englishwoman. Had our meeting been under any other circumstances, Captain, I assure you that I would have given you a piece of my mind; however, I believe there are more pressing matters for us to discuss, so I will keep my thoughts about your behaviour to myself.”

“I agree,” Jacob told her respectfully, giving a gentlemanly bow. He would not be drawn into any conversation that would eventually end in insulting innuendos about Mercy. He had suffered society’s wrath for long enough, he thought, remaining poised and with the right amount of charm. “Please continue, Mrs Bartlett.”

“Yes, well, first you should know that Mrs Mallory has been very devious – very underhanded indeed. She somehow managed to persuade Elizabeth to allow the name of Mallory to be inscribed on the deeds to your wife’s new house. I personally witnessed the conversation wherein Mrs Mallory declared that the house deeds were in
her
name for safekeeping but that the property was in fact purchased in full by Elizabeth. I really don’t know why a sweet, innocent woman like Elizabeth was not protected against a pariah such as Margaret Mallory – and Mrs Mallory dared to say that the Yankees were going to invade Richmond! Why, I’ve never met anyone so disagreeable.”

              Jacob was silenced. Thoughts were crowding his mind. Disbelief and rage were tumbling over each other. His heartbeat thumped wildly, making his breath quicken. Du Pont had won another victory, using Elizabeth’s naivety to steal the property he had paid for.

Her next logical step would be to get rid of Elizabeth altogether, he thought. Elizabeth would become a liability, just like some of the innocent women du Pont had killed in Liverpool.

              “Please tell me more,” Jacob said quietly.

“Why, I don’t know what else I
can
tell you. I believe I’ve said enough to make anyone worry.” She sighed heavily, flipped her fan open, and began cooling her face. “I declare, I cannot sleep at night for fretting over poor Elizabeth. I have not been able to find out how she is, and she has not been seen in public for at least two weeks – by anyone! I think you should go back to that house at the very first opportunity and find out exactly what is going on there. Elizabeth is still your responsibility, whether you like it or not.”

“This is very true, Mrs Bartlett, and I will do everything I can to help her, should she ask for it. Were both Elizabeth and Mrs Mallory invited tonight?”

“Yes, they were, and Elizabeth was especially looking forward to it. She was also eager to pay me a visit two weeks ago; however, she did not appear, nor did she send her apologies.” She took a step closer to Jacob and whispered, “I excluded Mrs Mallory from the invitation. I could not bear that woman’s company for another moment, not if you paid me in Confederate gold.”

Jacob took a quick look around the ballroom to make sure Elizabeth and du Pont had not slipped by him while he was listening to Mrs Bartlett. He had been here for at least an hour, and Southern etiquette dictated that it was the height of bad manners to arrive late at a ball, especially this one, where the very first Confederate president was in attendance. Something was very wrong with Elizabeth, he thought, for she was too much of a lady to arrive tardy to such an important function. He turned to Mrs Bartlett, who seemed to be waiting for a satisfactory conclusion to the conversation.

“This is a mighty kind thing you’re doing for Elizabeth,” Jacob began. “Thank you. Her well-being is very important to me.”

“I am very glad to hear that. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take your advice and go back to Elizabeth’s house. I have a feeling she might not be coming tonight, and that’s a mighty worrisome thought. I know how much she enjoys balls. I’m anxious, Mrs Bartlett. I don’t think I will be missed if I leave discreetly, do you?”

“It’s worrying indeed. I am going with you,” Mrs Bartlett said.

“But …”

“But nothing, Captain,” she interrupted. “My husband and the Richmond ladies can do without me for a while – and poor Elizabeth might need my comforting hand. Why, what kind of Richmond ladies’ society are we if we don’t support our own kind? My carriage is right outside.”

Jacob smiled to himself. Mrs Bartlett was determined to have some excitement tonight. Her eyes were flashing like a huntress, and he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could say to dissuade her from accompanying him. “Ma’am, please understand that this situation is somewhat delicate, so I insist you ask permission from your husband and that you tell him where you are going and why.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right, I suppose. Jerome will worry. We’ll take his aide, John, with us. Now don’t you move from that spot, Captain Stone, do you hear me?”

Jacob nodded. His meeting with Mrs Bartlett had been fortuitous, he decided. She would keep du Pont in check, and her husband’s aide would make a credible witness should anything go wrong at Elizabeth’s house. Du Pont wouldn’t dare act up in front of the senator’s wife. She valued her reputation too much, and she had already lost her good name in Portsmouth, thanks to Jacob’s few choice words in Sheriff Manning’s ear. Jacob had wondered for a while why Elizabeth had not heard the truth about her dear friend Margaret, until Manning had enlightened him, saying that he would rather keep the information to himself because he was too damn embarrassed to tell anyone that he’d been bedding a whore madam for months.

Jacob watched Mrs Bartlett speak to her husband from his position next to the double doors. From behind, she looked like a child talking to a father on tiptoes, so slight was she of frame and height. She turned and pointed to him. He lifted his hand in greeting and then waited until he was called over to be introduced. This was going to be a very important night, he thought, walking towards the senator, for games with du Pont were well and truly over. Tonight all outstanding issues would be dealt with, one way or another. He was only sorry that Mercy could not be here to see her torturer’s downfall.