Excerpt From: His Mistress

© Copyright Treva Harte, 2002

Chapter One
2002

His breath hesitated, then began again. Mercy watched it move slowly in and then out. There was a pause. The hospice nurse came in and watched as he began to suck the air into his lungs again.

"It won't be long now," the nurse whispered. She touched Mercy's shoulder and Mercy fought not to shudder.

Mercy wanted to argue. But she looked up into the face of the nurse. The nurse knew. The eyes in that face knew everything.

Luke wasn't in pain. Not now. Not as far as Mercy could tell. She ought to be happy for that. She was happy. A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away, impatiently. The tear was for her, but she could do that later. Right now was for Luke. The last right now he'd ever have, they'd ever have.

Without Luke, who was she?

Mercy looked down at herself, wondering if she was physically becoming as invisible as she felt. Luke was her brother, her twin. They'd been born together. Would they die at the same time? She felt dead already.

Luke's breath drew in, made a gurgling sound. Then nothing more.

Mercy bent her head into her hands and fought herself.

"Let me give you something." The nurse's voice was soothing, but not as quiet as before. She no longer felt the need to whisper. "To sleep for a while."

Mercy wanted to say no. What did she need? She was the strong one. When his friends had heard and deserted him, when Luke grew weaker and more frail, she had been there. Steadying him. The two of them had always been a team. Luke was the one everyone adored. Mercy was the one who took care of things.

But she didn't have to be strong for Luke now. There was nothing more that needed taking care of. Her work was done.

"Yes. I want to sleep." Mercy could hear her voice, slurred and distorted. Was that her voice? Maybe she was disappearing. Maybe she could sleep and be gone herself. Off to oblivion.

1775

"He's dead then."

Mercy pulled the blanket over her husband's head. She took one strong, deep breath. People were depending on her. Those people were waiting outside the half-opened bedroom door. They entered the room after she spoke. She could feel the apprentices staring at her. Her apprentices now.

"Paul, go fetch the undertaker." Mercy made her voice calm and firm. "There are things that need to be done here."

She heard Paul clattering down the hall, eager to be gone.

James stayed. She could feel him watching her. He always watched her, saying nothing, stepping forward to help when he saw what was needed. For one weak moment Mercy wanted to turn to him, to ask for advice. James was the only one close to an adult in the house now except for her. He was tall and quiet, strong and competent. Her husband had come to depend on him in the shop more and more as he grew ill.

But she was the mistress now.

Mercy thought about all that she needed to do. The shop would close for the day to pay proper respect for George's demise. She did respect George. He'd been a good printer, a fair master, an honest man.

She would have to inform George's cousins. Greedy bastards. They hated her because George had married her – forty years younger, plain and awkward – solely to thwart their desires for his shop and savings.

He'd have preferred a son for an heir, of course. Mercy tucked her pale, ash blonde hair behind her ear. He already had three wives and five children who waited in the churchyard for him. They'd failed him. His fourth wife had failed to get him a child, too. Or he had failed her.

James' voice broke into her thoughts.

"Mistress Baines?"

"Yes?"

"My condolences. Master Baines was a good man."

Condolences? Of course. She was grieving and widowed. She would be receiving many condolences. And she was sad, in a strange, detached way. If she hadn't had to nurse George for so long, watching him slowly fade away, perhaps she would feel sadder. Right now she felt some pain but she wouldn't lie to herself. She also felt relief.

"Yes. Ah...yes." She wasn't sure what to say. The glittering in James' eyes might be tears. But perhaps it was some other emotion she couldn't fathom then. Whatever was in his eyes made words catch in her throat.

"There. That's the last time I'll speak of that." James pushed himself from the wall. "What do you want me to do next?"

What? Mercy tried to think what had been done when her mother died. She'd been younger then but—

"My father!" Mercy recalled. "Please go tell him."

He nodded without saying more and walked out, leaving Mercy alone. She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She'd given James and Paul their orders. But what was she to do next?

She hesitated and went back to the bed.

"Thank you." She wasn't sure precisely why she whispered those words to George. Because he'd married her? Because he'd been fair if not loving? Because now he'd died and she was freer than most women ever were in this lifetime? Perhaps all of that.

At any rate, she was a twenty-five year old widow with a printing business, a house and two apprentices. She had to answer to no one in this world. She was in control.

* * *

"No, Father. I have no intention of selling a thriving business to you." Mercy's head throbbed. All morning she'd dealt with relatives and neighbors and friends. The cousins had been bad enough, but they knew there was nothing more they could do. Her father refused to know that. Well, he'd pushed her into her marriage. He could live with the consequences. "George's shop makes more money that your bookstore ever has. Why would I?"

"Because it won't stay a thriving business when people see a young, foolish wench runs it!"

"I guess I'll find that out for myself." Mercy ignored the nervous little throb in her stomach. Of course she could manage. Hadn't she managed everything for the past few months?

"Damn it!" Her father took a step toward her and she braced herself. If he was going to hit her she see herself in hell before she would cry.

Then he stopped.

"May I see you to the door, sir?" James' voice was emotionless.

Mercy turned her head. James might sound emotionless but her father had been wise to stop. James looked formidable—and he towered over her parent.

"I'll see myself out." Her father allowed himself one last glare. "Mind my words, girl. I didn't marry you off to get nothing!"

"You got George's help with printing all these years and a considerable loan when we married!" Mercy snapped back. She stopped and then spoke more calmly, trying not to smile at her words. "Of course I'll be happy to continue business with you, Father. But you may find me less lenient about extending credit."

Father looked like he might want to continue arguing but first he looked up, past Mercy's shoulder at the apprentice behind her. No one moved. Her father glared for a moment more, then he simply stalked away.

"Thank you, James!" Mercy turned, laughing, reaching out to touch his cheek. She could feel stubble on his chin. Of course he hadn't had time to shave today. "You're a godsend."

That was when everything changed. James moved his head back, sharply, almost as if she slapped him—the way her father had threatened to do to her. She took a step back, startled. Then James stepped closer to her. Mercy stepped back again.

Her breath caught because James didn't stop. He came closer yet.

What did he mean to do? She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel his breath on her hair. His two arms reached out to touch the wall behind her, boxing her in. Should she be afraid? Mercy knew she was starting to shake but not from fear.

"Don't tease." The words sounded forced from him. The voice didn't even sound like James.

"What?"

"It's been months, woman. Months and months. Longer. You've been married a year." His voice grew huskier yet.

"Almost a year."

"And all I could do was watch. Listen. Wait. And hate myself for doing it."

Her brain would not work. Simply not work. He couldn't be saying what she thought he was. He couldn't be wanting what she thought he did. But his hands were on her shoulders now. They closed tight on her and she realized she was shaking even harder...