It has been forever, I know, and I'm sorry! Still not given up though – just pacing myself as life gets in the way!
Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews and follows and favourites – they've been amazing and have spurred me on to get this update sent out.
Someone asked me if this will be set during Season 3 with the Russians. To be honest, my only undecided about this story is whether I will add them in or go completely AU. I think the Duchess could be a really interesting addition, but I also really hate her. So I'm undecided! Any opinions, let me know!
Finally, I've officially changed the rating of this story to M. To keep true to the characters, I feel it had to be done. Apologies to anyone that might offend or put off this story.
Now, enjoy!
Tommy could not remember a single night of peaceful sleep since the war. He could not remember a single night without visions of long-dead ghosts moaning and sobbing and wheezing intermittently in the distorted planes and slopes of his hazy mind, while a shovel inexorably scrapes against uneasy tunnel walls, against uneasy flesh and tender tissue. He could not remember not remembering the fear on his skin, crawling. He could not remember not remembering the sweat and blood.
More often than not, he woke up choking on French dirt.
He was used to sustaining himself daily on the hauntings of dead men that twisted themselves through the dark of his eyelids in the vulnerable night.
He was not used to sustaining himself on the images of Mercy Hale, wet and hot and in the throes of insurmountable pleasure on the bathroom floor, while he buried himself inside her over and over and over; was not used to sustaining himself on the picture of her naked body, glowing with heat and sweat and satisfaction; was not used to sustaining himself on the sound of her moans, deep and unbidden and rattling at the bottom of her throat, sore from being thoroughly ravaged by the sound of her unending gratification. From the sound of being thoroughly fucked.
The past week, Tommy had woken up tense and hard, completely alert and with an unfamiliar yearning to fall back into the delusions sleep had offered him. It was an unexpected adjustment in pace, but all things considered, an incredibly welcome one.
The devils that lurked unbridled in the shadowy corners of his mind paused in their chaos, silent, watching instead as he took the purest good he knew in the world and fucked it senseless. It kept them at bay, kept them satiated, before inevitably riling them up with carnal aggression and sending out signals for him to grab the beautiful, innocent, ignorant woman and tear into her until she was spent and broken, and begging him to either stop or never, ever stop.
He needed a drink. A very cold, very large drink.
Shrieks of joyful village children were of no help, as Charlie's birthday party thundered on in his back garden, allowing his heated, fraught mind no reprieve. Small boys and girls paddled in an erected pool, while others petted farm animals, and more played pass-the-parcel in the corner.
Amidst it all, Mercy held tight to Charlie's hands, walking him through the small farm, stopping repeatedly to allow the one-year-old to stroke a cow or laugh at a nosy goat attempting to nip the sleeve of her pretty lilac dress.
Tommy allowed his gaze to linger, postponing his drink a little longer.
Her dark curls were free and caught occasionally on the breeze, dancing across her lovely face, smile bright and easy, lighting up those eyes that teased and captivated him, and spoke to him of hidden nerve, some wit and cheek that she tried to quash when with him.
He wanted to see it all. He wanted to strip her bare in every sense.
He wanted a fucking drink.
On his way to the bar he strode through the garden, nodding at the meddlesome parents of their small guests as they assessed him, their gracious host. Tommy couldn't help the smirk as young mothers blushed and eyed him, while the older ones look upon him with suspicion and some reservation. He paid them no mind.
It was his younger brother – Finn – that interrupted him.
Stood on the concrete patio that wrapped the back of the house, the eighteen-year-old held himself with an arrogance unearned and a satisfaction unhinged. Inevitably, Michael and Isiah flanked him, all of them swirling amber liquid; all of them with dilated pupils and excitable dispositions.
Tommy knew the boys liked to play in the snow, and any party was an excuse to partake.
Apparently, that caveat extended to the first birthday of his infant son.
As Tommy approached, he heard the low whistle from Isiah, saw as the young men fixed their gaze on a pretty lilac dress, watched as they nudged one another.
"Lord, have Mercy on me!" The preacher's son hollered for his friends, and they swelled with an idiotic joy, laughing a boyish laugh that grated on Tommy's ears.
"I don't know how Tommy does it, having her around, looking like that," Michael shook his head with a swig of his drink.
"Better yet, how he doesn't do it." Finn wiggled his eyebrows, and the trio giggled again.
Tommy was in no mood for their comments, directed toward him or not, and with the smoulder of his dream searing its way back up his neck he barked at them in passing: "Shouldn't you three be playing nicely with all of the other children? Go pet a donkey; learn what it looks like to be fucking useful."
And he stormed away, not bothering with a look back at his idiot brother, cousin and employee. He reached the bar and didn't stop pouring the whisky until the rim was wet and ice broke the surface. It was going to be a long fucking day.
Her list of 'Shelbys To Avoid' seemed to be ever-growing.
Each time she met the Shelbys, that streak of irrepressible madness seemed to glimmer more dangerously in each of them: that hint that they could turn to grin at you or grab you by the throat and you would never know which until it happened turned darker, and somehow more distinct.
All of them had it. Just in different forms.
Arthur, though likeable and friendly, had a dash of madness that raged brightly and shook with volatility. He was dangerous and fearsome, unpredictable, yet – compared to the madness of his brother – easy to understand. He was a drunk, but seemed to have a light heart that had been corrupted by life and death. He was married, but unsettled. Happy, but deeply shattered.
Mercy didn't mind Arthur. She had no great desire to spend Sunday evenings putting the world to rights with him over a roast dinner, but he was nice enough to greet in passing.
His wife, however. That was a different story.
Linda Shelby, with her pristine, coiffed blonde hair, red lips and slightly squashed face turned Mercy's blood. The woman was not particularly rude, was not particularly mean, was not particularly anything, really.
Except zealous. Zealous in her beliefs. Zealous in her religion.
There was something in the knotted, tight muscles of her shoulders and stoic, unflinching simpering of her expression, alongside this religious commitment that repelled Mercy. That reminded her of her childhood. More pointedly, of her grandmother.
The thought caused her throat to constrict, and bile to burn.
Linda was on the list.
Beneath her name, Aunt Polly's.
It wasn't a dislike of the older woman: Mercy had always been fond of her intelligent ideas and quick wit. She was a loyal woman, and, admirably, in equal parts soft and hard. It was the moment Mercy had brought Charlie to her that morning that signed Polly Shelby's name on the list: the moment Polly's clever, dark eyes had caught sight of the warmth in her cheeks when Mercy had seen Mr. Shelby for the first time that morning.
For the first time that week, really.
Mercy had tried to cool the rising blush before it blossomed on her face, but had little success, and had hoped it could merely have been excused by the hot sun, and rushing to ready the one-year-old for his party.
Polly had obviously not allowed her that excuse, and the suspicious look the older woman cast between Mercy and her employer told her as much.
Not that there was anything to be suspicious regarding. Mercy had barely seen her employer the week leading to Charlie's party, but the echoes of their last conversation still wound around her mind. In her sleep, she could hear his voice: the deep timber an almost whisper that tickled her skin and sent a vibration straight through her.
Most mornings she woke sweaty and wanting, something she had never face before. It unnerved her and excited her all at once.
In that moment, as she removed Charlie's shoes to allow him to be paddle-ready, she locked eyes with the older woman once more, and felt her mind spill open at the woman's feet, though she sat at a patio table with her niece, ten yards away. She felt open and unguarded, and Mercy quickly turned her eyes and attention away.
Mercy did not know Ada well: the older woman lived in London, and so visited less frequently. When she did, she liked to take Charlie for days out with her own son, Karl, and Mercy appreciated her commitment to family. Her blue eyes always seemed to bite with truth, and edged toward a short temper. Typically, Mercy felt comforted by frank people – it was one of the reasons she had found herself so attached to Margaret – but in combination with what she knew of the other Shelbys, she wasn't sure Ada's particular brand of sharpness and bluntness would settle her. She wasn't sure it wouldn't be unlike playing with gunpowder, lit cigarette in hand.
And so, to the last, and first, and somehow most on her list.
Tommy's madness was a cold glimmer: all steel and shadow and fragmented. It did not grow and it did not shrink, but it revealed something new of itself at every turn. It left her breathless as it sharpened beneath the surface, always, while on the outside her employer remained controlled, expectant, waiting…
It wasn't that Mr. Shelby's madness frightened her that made her want to avoid him. That kept her skirting his presence – his all-consuming, captivating, complicated presence – at every turn. It wasn't that Tommy chased her away with his dangerous smiles and cold, clever eyes.
It was that it didn't.
It was that he didn't.
So she skirted. She skirted out of fearing her lack of fear. She skirted from the danger. And with it, her desire for it.
The day had drawn on and the cake had been served. People had stuffed themselves on the beautiful gourmet food catered by Glenn, and dwindled away with their little party bags in hand, smiling and waving with happy 'thank you's.
Their little tokens of brown paper had been stuffed with small games and sweets, a task undertaken by Mercy that Tommy hadn't know about, and for the first time since their 'dinner' together – if it could be called that – Tommy caught her eye.
She was helping the housemaids pick up the remnants of wrapping and food and drinks, carrying with her a sack to deposit the rubbish. There was a tired sheen across her forehead as she sank to her knees, collecting the discarded newspaper wrapping that had been eagerly torn away during pass-the-parcel, caring, it seemed, not at all of the stains of mud it dashed her dress with. He supposed that was why she frolicked around in those tight little jodhpurs of hers: she didn't care enough to protect a pretty dress. She had no penchant for fine things.
Feeling his eyes on her, Mercy lifted her gaze. Tommy was a few metres away but could see the sleepy, hazy sun cast a glow, causing amber eyes stun like an undying fire. Tommy paused for a beat and she held his scrutiny, her head tilting ever so slightly. He tried not to think about his dreams, of having her on her knees, bright-eyed and eager and willing and filled with desire and –
He finished his drink abruptly. Raising one of the little brown bags with his other hand, he simply mirrored his movement by lifting an eyebrow in question.
Mercy had the grace to blush a little, though there was a defiant and proud smile lingering at the corners of her tempting lips. She shrugged innocently, fluttering her lashes slightly.
He couldn't help it. Rolling his eyes, he plundered the bag, fishing out the pink and blue bon-bons that had been tied with a bow, shaking them side-to-side at her to display them. Biting the corner of her lower lip, the whisky-eyed beauty just watched him, evidently a little less confident now as Tommy persisted with the matter.
He did not approach her, though. Only shook his head a little mockingly with a small tut. It was the lifting of a smirk that seemed to ease and confuse her all at once. Tommy would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.
Gently and without effort, Tommy tossed the bag of sweets at Mercy, and she released her rubbish bag to catch it with deft fingers. There was a pause where she was unsure what to do, before a brilliant smile broke free across her face and her voice carried her 'Thank you' on the breeze.
Tommy's only response was to call out: "That's maids' work. You're done for the day." And he turned on his heel and stalked away from her.
Mercy was at a slight loss, not unusual after her encounters with her employer – no matter how brief – and found herself kneeling there a little longer as the sky darkened around her, alongside the looks the maids shot her way. At this rate she'd find a dead rat under her pillow, or her sheets and clothes dusted with white powder and pepper. More fuel for the house staff to douse their fire of disdain with.
She looked down at the bon-bons in her hand and couldn't help but smile all the same. A worrying sign, she thought to herself, a very worrying sign.
With little else to do, she stood from the ground, not bothering to dust off her knees despite her awareness of the state they were in. Charlie had inevitably been taken from her during the unwrapping of presents and eating of cake, and passed around his family members. The last time Mercy had seen him was with Ada.
Though as the young woman walked toward her with strong purpose but an easy smirk (not unlike her older brother's), Mercy could see he was no longer in her possession.
"You and I, those sweets and a bottle of whisky. What do you say?" Painted red lips grinned, and with them Ada's face lit up, sharp cheek bones giving way to rosy, soft apples. Mercy couldn't help but smile in response, noting the glittering of blue eyes as they held her gaze.
Despite her reservations of Ada, Mercy's burning curiosity about what on earth could have tempted the Shelby sister to invite her into conversation overrode any half-baked concern. Looking at her now, Mercy thought the young woman seemed rather gentle, and with a spark of kindness and humour, rather than temper, dancing in her expression.
Not only that, but Mercy couldn't remember the last time she had spoken to a woman of around her own age. Most of her friends from the village were older, family women, and Margaret – while brilliant – had rather a different perspective on life.
Even as a young girl, her grandmother had not liked her making friends with other children in the village. It was only in her teenage years, when she had escaped the tyranny of the small cottage of her youth, had Mercy's sociable disposition been allowed to prosper. And still then, it had not been easy finding like-minded people.
"Make it a cup of tea and I'm all yours." Mercy grinned, accepting the invitation.
Ada grinned, "Good, because I was never planning to share the bottle of whisky, anyway."
Ada led them to library, and they settled easily into the comfortable, cushy chairs that book-ended a small, circular table. Mercy wondered if Ada knew, somehow, that this is where she felt most comfortable in the house: surrounded by great, towering shelves of old stories, protected by their fiction and happy endings.
Curling up, Mercy placed the open packet of sweets on the table and lifted the heated china cup to her lips. Straight from the kettle: exactly how she preferred her tea.
"So how has the Arctic Circle been treating you?" Ada joked, gesturing around her as if to suggest the manor. "Is it all you dreamed it could be?" She pulled from a tumbler of whisky, the same way Mercy had seen her brother do many times, and raised a questioning, perfectly plucked eyebrow.
"It's like heaven." Mercy responded seriously, "Charlie is amazing; this house is amazing; the food –"
Ada started nodding, "You grew up poor." Mercy wondered if she should have been offended, but the straightforwardness of Ada's tone didn't cause a flush of embarrassment or insult, just cold truth. Mercy nodded, and Ada smirked wickedly, "Ok, so there are lots of amazing things here." She poised a pink bon-bon – "How does my brother measure up?" – and popped it in her mouth, eyes glittering with mischief.
Tactfully shaking her head and laughing, Mercy allowed her dark curls to pass in front of her face, grateful for the shield they provided her; so pleased that her hair tie had snapped that morning and left her no choice but to keep them free. She paused as if thinking, allowing her blush to dissipate before raising her eyes to meet Ada's again.
"He pays me well." There was a hidden spark of something Ada couldn't pick out in the nanny's honey eyes, and a light dash of pink across the bones of her cheeks. Ada recognised the withdrawal of information and laughed happily, swigging from her glass.
"I should hope so! It's been over a year, and has he ever even given you a day off? That's against labour rights, you know."
Mercy knew Ada was teasing, but had also heard of Ada's socialist favour at the dinner table before, and sensed the factual tone in the click of her tongue, punctuating the end of her sentence.
"Recently he's been taking Charlie on Sundays, so I have some time to myself then. Not that I much know what to do with it, to be fair. I just wait for Charlie's return to feed him, bath him and put him to bed. A bit pathetic, really." Mercy conceded, wrapping her tongue around a raspberry flavoured bon-bon with a hum of contentment.
Ada scoffed, swinging her legs up to rest over an arm of her chair, leaning her back against the other, "Of course you don't know what to do with yourself: you're in the middle of fucking nowhere! And on a Sunday! Unless you think the priest at the local parish is attractive –" Mercy pulled a face of disgust, causing Ada to grin, "- well then, what choices have you got! You should come to London with me: you'd never have a chance to be bored."
"But what would my handsome priest say?" Mercy teased.
Ada laughed, "Better to ask for forgiveness than permission!" She finished the final sweet, and fixed Mercy with a pointed look of experience.
"And what would I need forgiveness for? What terrible things would await me in London?" There was a hint of sarcasm in Mercy's voice, though she wondered what Ada was up to. It wasn't as though she owed Mercy anything, or as if they knew much of one another.
It was easy conversation though, and Mercy found herself relaxed for the first time with a Shelby that was capable of forming a coherent sentence. Interesting.
"Oh awful things! Greed and vanity and pride! Essential components for shopping at Selfridges!"
Mercy raised her own eyebrow at Ada's excited disposition. "Shopping? Is Selfridges even open on a Sunday? And isn't it rather expensive?" Mercy thought of her little money stash in the wardrobe of her bedroom, and wondered what it would be like to splurge on something nice for herself. She'd always been rather practical – it was one habit from her upbringing she seemed incapable of shedding – and thought a treat could be a nice change of pace.
"You said it yourself, my brother is many things, but stingy he is not! And it would have to be an overnighter: Saturday to Sunday would work best, I should think."
Shocked, Mercy's throat closed around her tea and she coughed a little at the abrupt disruption of her air supply, "Overnight at a weekend? I'm really not sure Mr. Shelby will be willing to-"
Ada was already waving her hand to dismiss her objections, "Let me handle Mr. Shelby: one benefit of growing up with three brothers, it gets easy to convince them of all sorts of things. Consider it done." And she sent her a grin of victory, looking suspiciously like the cat that got the cream.
A feeling somewhere between excitement and caution laced Mercy's stomach, knotting it uncomfortably. She couldn't help but smile back, grabbing her tea cup, Ada's tumbler and the sweet wrapper as the older woman flounced away with a wink, and with it, a promise of mischief.
I love Ada. Pleased to be getting her involved! Stay tuned for next time when she has to persuade Tommy to let Mercy go!
Review? Please?