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Rochester, England
Residence of the now-deceased Lieutenant Lewis Masterson
20 February 1818
Late afternoon
A torrential sheet of plump raindrops pinged ruthlessly against the leaded-glass panes partially concealed by lace curtains and the heavy draperies festooning the mullioned windows. The floral brocade’s warm, comforting hues of jade, poppy, gold, pewter, and ivory complimented the cinnamon and saffron striped overstuffed chairs and divan situated near the fireplace.
Surrounded by tufted and tasseled brocade pillows and with a fat, extremely spoiled cat sprawled across her lap, Mercy Feathers and her devastated young charges cuddled on the sofa.
Angry wind gusts pummeled the swaying trees and thrashing shrubs outside but had little effect against the sturdy, seven-decades-old, four-story brick house—other than rendering an occasional jarring, hair-raising rattle to a glass pane.
More than once in the past hour, a particularly fierce blast had battered the house, startling Mercy. Naturally, she endeavored to conceal her discomfit but had quite seriously wondered if the windows could withstand the continued violent onslaught.
Behind a gold-scrolled screen, a robust blaze crackled and hissed merrily within the green-tiled fireplace. Gleaming from frequent polishing and the flickering flames, the carved black walnut mantel framing the hearth stood regal and proud as it had for years.
And yet—Mercy skated a furtive glance about the room—a cloying chill permeated the somber, well-appointed salon this afternoon. A chill the exuberantly snapping and sizzling blaze couldn’t altogether eliminate. A chill which, truthfully, had more to do with the room’s grief-stricken occupants than the petulant weather currently engaged in a toddler’s tantrum outdoors.
The pungent, almost sickening aroma of lilies in the many vases of conciliatory bouquets situated throughout the salon overwhelmed the comforting, familiar odors of beeswax, linseed oil, and burning maple logs.
Six weeks of smelling the blossoms’ pungent odor had become tiresome.
Just when Mercy believed she’d be granted a reprieve from the choking fragrance, more flowers arrived from another well-wisher, having only just learned of the lieutenant’s untimely death from lung fever.
So help her God, any further bouquets would be sent directly to the rubbish bin.
Unless they were carnations or peonies. Mercy would never tire of those blossoms’ subtler essences.
“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,” she sang ever so softly to the girls huddled against her.
“Smiles await you when you rise.
“Sleep, pretty babies, do not cry,
“And I shall sing a lullaby.”
Exhausted, Mercy rested her head against the back of the divan and stared up at the intricately molded plasterwork. A single gossamer cobweb had escaped the diligent maids’ notice and dangled from the ceiling. The strand lazily rotated ’round and ’round as if taunting her, challenging her to rise from her comfortable seat and swipe it away.
A wry, nascent smile edged the corners of her mouth upward a jot.
That was not going to happen.
She was too blasted tired and too dashed comfortable to make the effort. Besides, she’d disturb her young charges.
With her gaze, she followed the twirling thread downward until her attention came to rest upon the fire’s soothing snapping once more. Rain lashed the windows, and the flames fluttered and sputtered against a blast of wind hurtling and howling down the chimney.
A shiver scuttling across her shoulders, Mercy glanced outside. The storm—the wickedest in her memory—showed no signs of abating.
That same slate-colored sky had opened and spilled its contents as Lieutenant Lewis Masterson’s glossy cherry-wood casket was gently lowered into the unsympathetic, cold black earth. The heavens had wept nonstop for four long days afterward, as had the sable-haired little girls now curled trustingly against Mercy.
They were much too young and innocent to experience such loss. Much too young to understand their lives would soon be subjected to more upheaval.
God, comfort these precious orphans. Give them peace and strength, Mercy prayed silently.
She wouldn’t mind a generous portion of both virtues as well.
In the month and a half since the serious but kindly former naval officer had shuffled off his mortal coil and been laid to rest, the rain had continued to relentlessly pelt Rochester several days a week. Miniature streams trickled across the already saturated greens, made muddy rivulets in the gardens, and wended, serpent-like, over the circular brick courtyard.
