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Margaret had been the reason Mercy had stayed sane her first month as Charles Shelby's caretaker.
When Mercy first arrived at the estate, wide-eyed and jittery, it had been Margaret that had taken her from the front door through the winding hallways, giving clipped instructions about the serving of dinner for the workers, the day-to-day runnings of the household, and the expectations of Mr. Shelby for all of his staff.
Mercy had smiled and nodded as the housekeeper spoke, though she wasn't really taking anything of her words onboard, and Margaret looked unimpressed at the cheerful naiveté Mercy had exuded as her eyes cast around the impressive surroundings of the ornate house. Mercy had been grateful and excited for her new start in life, and had little idea of the reality she was in for.
Margaret had dismissed her as nothing more than wide-eyed and silly, and had walked away with a sharp nod, leaving Mercy in her new quarters.
She was left to unpack and look over her own room – bigger than any two rooms of her childhood home put together, with a single bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers – before wandering through the adjoining door into the nursery. Charles' room was equipped with a lovely wooden crib, a changing table, drawers and wardrobes and toys of all kinds. It was the same size as her own bedroom, and had been painted a lovely yellow tone, offsetting the varnished dark wood floor beautifully.
The nursery was further connected to a small bathroom, with a plumbed-in bath and toilet (the likes of which Mercy had never seen before). It was beautiful – all of it luxury at its finest. Charles' room was conveniently connected to her own, the bathroom, and had an additional entryway from the hallway, for other members of the household to enter the nursery.
It had been designed perfectly for her convenience. At least, that's what Mercy had thought in the beginning.
One week later saw Margaret up at the earliest hours of the morning, an occurrence out of sorts with her usual clock-work routine, and entering the kitchen for a glass of water to quench her dry throat and cool her heated skin. She had not expected to encounter another presence at such a time of day.
It was there at the servants' table Margaret had found Mercy, eyes red and dark curls mussed, sniffling as quietly as she could at the murmuring, dozing baby in her slightly trembling arms. She had looked up violently at Margaret when she turned the light on, chasing the sanctuary the darkness had offered her away, and the older woman felt a niggling of pity at the exhaustion she saw in the caretaker's face.
Mercy had quickly looked down at Charles, tugged him a little tighter into her breast, and shook a little harder with the effort of swallowing the dry lump in her throat.
"The young master is not sleeping well." Margaret had stated rather than asked, as she reached for the pitcher of water on the side and two glasses from the cabinet.
It took a while for Mercy to respond. "Not in his room. He only settles when we walk, or when we're in here. I think he likes the hum of the electricity; I think it soothes him." She was so tired and riddled with shame that her voice was more of a croak than anything else. Being found huddled over the kitchen table in her nightclothes made her feel more pathetic than she thought possible, and while Margaret's eyes were soft the younger woman still feared her judgement.
Margaret sat beside her at the table, poured water into one of the glasses and moved it in front of Mercy before pouring her own. Mercy managed a wobbly smile before moving one of her hands to accept the offering, allowing the cool water to soothe the ache of her throat.
"Perhaps it does. Little minds are difficult to see into, lovey – though their bodies are easier to read." Margaret watched as Mercy rocked Charles gently, a motion to sooth them both, she was sure. The younger girl looked to her, eyes beseeching. "See here, the way the little master is turned towards you? He's listening to your heartbeat. And the way his hand rests on your chest? He wants to be near you; he's looking to ensure you are there still. He is content to be with you, that much is clear, lovey. It's a tough job, to be sure – but you certainly seem to be doing something right with it."
The housekeeper had patted her shoulder comfortingly, and Mercy had almost cried all over again at the sentiment of it all. That week had been the toughest of her life; nothing she had experienced before could compare to the difficulty, the exhaustion, the constancy of attention she had to pay to such a small – but such a loud – duty. She had felt failure throughout her life, but failing someone so small, so fragile and so alone broke her heart.
So she determined to do better. And Margaret had made that easier than anyone else. To start with, Margaret had made their meetings seem accidental. She would conveniently need to check the work of the maids in the playroom when Charlie and Mercy were spending the afternoon in there. She would casually enquire as to the baby's health, and Mercy's too, politely.
Soon, she would approach Mercy with a cup of tea and hand it over to the younger woman as they stood over Charlie's crib, watching him sleep. She would smile a small smile at the caretaker, and ask how the young master was sleeping these days. She would nod as Mercy told her that he was better, but sought comfort in her bed some nights, lying on top of her chest, listening to her heart. Margaret would nod with a knowing glint, say that was good news but not to let the young master make it a habit, and they would sip their drinks in silence.
Their friendship was solidified when Mercy, a happy smile on her face two months after the kitchen incident, breezed into the housekeeper's bedroom on Margaret's day off, almost scaring her to death. She had Charlie ready for an outing, a picnic basket balanced at the bottom of the pushchair, and declared brightly that she had made too many sandwiches and thought Margaret might enjoy a trip to the park (it was such a lovely day, after all!). The older woman had agreed with slight hesitancy, had tied the bow of her hat primly at her chin as they made their way out the door into the sunshine.
And since then the two women had sought the company of one another regularly. So it wasn't strange to Mercy to discuss with Margaret the arrangements for Charlie's birthday party; it was strange to discuss with her the interaction she'd had with the master of the house though. Not that there was much of an interaction to discuss.
"You think him handsome." Margaret had plainly stated over her cup of tea, having watched Mercy throughout her regaling of the afternoon's events, having seen the lighting of a spark in her wide eyes.
Mercy would have choked on her tea had she taken a sip. "I think him intimidating." She retorted, neither denying nor affirming the proffered statement, though she feared the colouring of her cheeks might have condemned her all the same.
"There are guns in every drawer of the house, lovey – you would do well to be intimidated. He is not to be trifled with, is Mr. Shelby." The warning in her tone was clear.
Mercy smirked a little, crossing one jodhpur-covered leg over the other. "Fear not, Margaret, I have no intentions of trifling with the master of the house." She knew she had amused the older woman. Not because Margaret laughed – she wasn't sure she could ever recall such a sound – but because she tutted and gave Mercy's hand a tap of castigation. The younger girl laughed lightly at the predictable reaction of her companion.
"I would hope you have no intentions of trifling with anyone, child. One baby is quite enough to look after, especially one with such a naughty spirit. So much of his father in him."
Mercy tilted her head thoughtfully, "Do you think so? I couldn't possibly say."
"Oh yes," Margaret nodded avidly, "He'll be a sweet little fiend will Charles. Just you wait and see." She looked pointedly at her young friend and finished her tea.
"Is that how you would describe Mr. Shelby? A sweet fiend?" Mercy teased, curious at Margaret's word choice.
Margaret twisted her mouth, "Trouble, lovey, that's how I would describe him. Trouble and trouble with some trouble on top for good measure."
"But you think him a good man? You care for him?" Mercy pressed. She knew Margaret was aware of Mr. Shelby's business – far more than she was. Margaret ran the house after all, she knew nigh on everything that happened under its roof – even Mr. Shelby's secrets couldn't hide themselves completely from her. But still she spoke of her master with affection; with a love one might have for family lacing her words.
Margaret pondered her question. "I care for him, and I take care of him. After Mrs. Shelby died a part of Mr. Shelby was swept away, hidden beneath pain and grief. A kindness. A softness. I care for him because he does not care for himself, and he has no wife now to help him. And you care for Charles, because he has no mother to love him. Together we have our affection for Shelby men, and we care for them because –"
"It's incredibly easy to." Mercy finished, and Margaret smiled a little with a nod. Danger certainly ran in the very blood of the Sheblys: it kept their tempers hot and their minds alert and wanting. But there was something so undeniably charming too, something magnetic and charismatic that it was difficult to deny them what they wanted of you.
The littlest one had yet to even celebrate his first birthday, and still he had Mercy wrapped around his adorable little finger.
Trouble indeed.
It was early in the afternoon the following day that Tommy was driving home. He was earlier than usual in finishing for the day, having been to the betting shop on Watery Lane to check the inventory and speak to Polly. His aunt had been pleased to see him, had worn the same cautious smile she had for the past year as she asked him how he was.
She had seemed pleased when he hadn't ignored her, or thrown something, or said 'fine' without conscious thought or feeling. Pol had thought back to the Tommy who had arrived home from war – numb and darkened and cold – and had seen any progress he'd made in the five years since swallowed into the black hole opened by Grace's death.
So when she received a, "Just checking in, Pol," she could have laughed at the shock of it all.
He had chatted to her a little, asked about how the shop was doing, how John was dealing with the additional responsibilities, if Fin was keeping out of trouble. Pol had been in a suspended state of shocked happiness until she was abruptly removed from it by Tommy's change in conversation.
He was flicking through the betting shop's tickets when he spoke.
"Mercy Hale. You hired her." His tone was purposefully blank, and Pol rolled her eyes with a scoff as her hands found her hips, dark eyes suspicious.
"We chose her as the successful candidate, Thomas, yes."
"And why did we do that?" The question was simple, but felt loaded.
"Has she done something wrong?" Tommy was beginning to get annoyed at the back and forth, wanted the answer to his question, and thought that Pol might have been the worst member of his family to hold the information he wanted. Because he wanted it quickly, and without his intentions being questioned.
"I just want to know what you saw that made you choose her above the other candidates. She is living in my house, after all." His tone was still plain, but he was beginning to get impatient and Pol noticed. She eyed him suspiciously a little longer, and he met her gaze with emotionless eyes.
"She's been living in your house for almost a year now, Tommy. Why the sudden curiousity?"
Tommy exhaled and gripped the back of the chair in front of him as Pol lit a cigarette. "Polly." He drawled out, and his aunt crossed one arm over her middle and inhaled the cigarette in the other, annoyed at the aloofness of her nephew and the secrets he did so like to keep.
"Kindness. That's what I saw in her. Kindness and joy. Something your house has been robbed of that a little boy needs to grow up around. Satisfied?" She spat at him, feeling little sympathy as she watched his facial expression remain stoic, and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
Pol hadn't liked Grace, it was no secret. But she did love Charlie, and she thought that the best chance he had in life was to feel the affection and care of someone, a constant someone, while his father wallowed in grief and self-pity.
Tommy didn't think he could fault her for that, and as he pulled into the long drive of his ostentatious estate and saw his happy son being placed in his pushchair by the woman in question, he wasn't sure he could say Pol was wrong either.
It was clear the two were heading for an outing. Charlie had his bonnet on, protecting him from the June sunshine; he was dressed in suspenders and trousers, and looked sweet and so grown up that it reminded Tommy sharply of the time he had missed with his son. Mercy had exchanged the riding trousers he had seen her in yesterday for a long skirt, and while she looked ladylike and presentable for narrow-minded villagers, Tommy couldn't help but think how he preferred the figure she cut in jodhpurs and a tucked in blouse.
"Dada!" Charlie's shout made Mercy look to him, watching as he climbed from his car, the rim of his cap glinting in the sunlight. With the first smile Mercy had ever seen from him he travelled over to them, eyes on his grinning son.
"Hello, Charlie." He leaned over the pushchair as Mercy moved to stand behind it, "Are you and Mercy going somewhere nice?"
Eyes that gave a new meaning to the colour blue looked up at her, and she knew she was to answer the question accordingly, even as Charlie clapped joyfully and cried out "Cee-Cee!"
"To the village, Mr. Shelby – there is an artist there that draws pictures for children to colour in. Charlie is quite captivated by them. I thought we might take a walk and pick a new one up for him, and perhaps some new crayons too. He is very fond of greens and blues, and has worn them to the nubs." She directed the last sentence toward the back of Charlie's head with a smile, and gave his sandy hair an affectionate stroke.
Tommy watched as she did so, and thought it was time that he assured the quality of her work. He wanted to see her handle his son in the outside world, wanted to see the relationship she had with the villagers, wanted to see if he had cause to worry about the attention she would bring to his child. He wanted to see her and Charlie together, and the bond they had forged while he wasn't looking.
"I see." He looked back to Charlie, and the softness was there again, "Well, we won't be needing this pushchair, will we, Charlie? How about we take a trip in the car instead, eh?" Mercy stuttered a little, her eyebrows raised in surprise, "I'll drive you both, and we can go for a walk and maybe get ourselves a treat. How does that sound?"
Charlie, of course, had no understanding of his father's words but he clapped joyously at the tone his father used and the smile on his face. Mercy was a little less enthused, and suddenly felt wholly out of depth and unprepared for an outing with both the older Shelby and the younger, especially if the former was going to keep smiling like that.
Never mind the fact that she had never travelled by car before.
But Tommy was already lifting Charlie from the stroller, and though his face didn't show it he inwardly enjoyed the expression of disbelief flickering across Mercy Hale's lovely face.
"Come on, Miss Hale, the village awaits us!" He called to her, not looking back as he walked with happy child in arms towards his car.
She thought how, again, a question that didn't require an answer had been posed, and how strange it was going to be to deal with an entire afternoon filled with that kind of conversation. Mercy would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous to spend an hour or two with Mr. Shelby, a man who had learned her name only yesterday; who was trouble by all accounts; who controlled her position in the household, or if she would have one at all.
But she took a deep breath, rearranged her face into something smoother and more akin to composure, and picked her feet up, hurrying after her criminal boss and his cheeky son.
She was in for a strange afternoon.
Thank you for reading! I hope you like the way the relationships are being formed – more for Tommy and Mercy next time!