Dark Shadows by Jana Petken Page A

anything, it accentuated her somewhat large waist. Her huge bosoms rippled like waves every time she moved an inch. They had trouble remaining within the top frill of her blue silk gown’s plunging neckline. Her hair was bright red with well-defined ringlets and was adorned with various ornaments in gold and ivory. It was a wig, of course. The colour, texture, manicured hairline, and perfection of every curl could not possibly be natural.
    Whilst the woman spoke some way away from the line of girls, Mercy took the opportunity to study her even further, this time concentrating on her face. Her double chin and layered neck sat beneath a painted doll-like face that was old. Even the thick layers of powder and rouge couldn’t hide the fact that she was well past her prime. In fact, her Grandma Sylvie was more attractive and looked younger.
    The round pink patch on each of the woman’s cheeks might have appeared quite comical to Mercy under any other circumstances. She looked like a clown with her perfect bow lips painted on, probably double their real size. However, comical as she appeared, the woman she was studying scared her. Never had she seen such a dispassionate expression. The woman’s eyes held a glint of evil, devoid of emotion and kindness.
    The servants were afraid of her too, Mercy decided. If those who worked for her were afraid, then what terror would she inflict on her captives?
    The woman turned her attention to the girls for the first time. Mercy involuntarily sucked in her breath and prayed that her concentrated, personal deliberations on the woman’s physical attributes had gone unnoticed. She hung her head, hoping to stand invisible among the other girls. She watched through her eyelashes.
    The woman began her inspection at the far end of the line, stopping in front of each girl, lifting chins, opening mouths, checking teeth, and running her hands through newly washed hair. She too ventured far across any line of decency with her physical roughness, behaving like a common farmer looking over horses rather than “the madam”, so called by her cohorts.
    Mercy steeled herself for what was to come.
    The madam stood in front of her now. Mercy’s nostrils took in the scent of her perfume that didn’t quite manage to conceal the smell of alcohol and stale body odour. She stared back at the woman with a defiance that had been absent earlier. This caused the madam to pause after her inspection. Mercy’s cocky glare had not gone unnoticed.
    “What’s your name, girl?”
    Mercy didn’t answer. She wanted to speak, but the madam’s ugliness hypnotised her. She stared back stupidly, noticing now a hairy wart just under the madam’s chin.
    “Answer me, you! What’s your name?”
    Mercy jumped at the grating screech of anger. “Mercy – Mercy Carver.”
    “Well, Mercy Carver, I’ll start with you for your insolence, so I will, and you best not give me any trouble. I can smell trouble a mile off. Take off the shift.”
    “What?” Mercy said in a daze.
    “I said take off the shift – now!”
    Mercy’s lips quivered. “No, I won’t,” she told her.
    The slap to her right cheek stung, but Mercy squealed from the shock of it more than any pain caused. She held her head high, and her eyes met the madam’s cold stare. She was determined not to beg and not to cry. The mad woman staring at her possessed not a compassionate bone in her body. “I’m not stripping off,” she said.
    Madam Du Pont’s fat fingers gripped Mercy’s jawline and dug into her skin, still stinging with the slap. “Take off the bloody shift now or I swear to God you won’t see another day.”
    Mercy’s eyes locked into Du Pont’s painted face. She held her breath, afraid to breathe or utter a sound. Her trembling fingers reached for the silk straps. She pulled one down her arm and over her hand, and then the other followed. The silky material slipped off her body, down her legs, and rested on top of her bare feet. She gasped