#skywaits

[criedmercy]

summer held with it its own softness — not the grey streaked rains of spring or the chill of autumn, but the sensation ( the memory ) of countryside visits and estate travelling; of warm linens under sun dappled patches of grass, shaded by weeping willows and bending oaks. christopher mercy stands upon the threshold of it, as he does with so many things ( the season, the world, youth, life itself; perhaps ); lingering as the sun does come dusk, stretching longer into the evenings now as surely as he grows taller every day ( or so his mother said ); gangly and all limb, no muscle. alexander teased him something awful for it, ever the prince without a throne or palace to his name — father had embraced him, told him he had been just the same at his age; and to not take such things to heart. if the lord had not expected siblings to argue, the story of cain and abel would never have become a cautionary tale. 

and if the lord had intended for christopher to grow broad and strong, perhaps he would not have given him a penchant for knowledge; a hunger for it, ambition to match; too. you are so very like me, my son. his mother’s voice sickly sweet in his ear, curling, turning — i am not, he thinks; shoes scuffing against the worn stone of the sheltered terrace of fifty-nine lancaster gate. i am myself, entirely. whatever that meant; for while his siblings, his father, his mother ( his tutors, his mentor, too ) all seemed to know their place in the world; be it within the threads of a larger tapestry or the weaver, the purchaser; god help anyone who tried to tell them otherwise — he did not; and where did that leave a second son of a third son? seventeen seemed much too young to know much of anything. 

 but, seventeen was not too young to know routine — breakfast with his family, squabbling and loud ( and now, much fretting of packing; what to bring and who to visit, and just how quick summer will pass ); dressed and washed on his way to sixty-one lancaster gate before lunch, to stand in the dark and cavernous, crumbling halls of a man of whom, christopher had decided, had little scruples. a land of silence, of slow and twisted things. talent alone cannot open the door to oxford, boy. as if the selling of one’s soul could, either. he knew lighter things, too; the sound of a rarely used laugh and just when the princess might be let out from her tower ( or a canary let out from her cage and to the aviary, alone and solitary — to be watched by a collector ). three taps to the iron wrought gate; ivy and roses ( all his mother’s, prized and lush; compared to the sparseness that he knew lay beyond his own sanctuary. not so much a garden as it was a desert, swallowed by the smoke and fog of london. 

tap, tap, tap. three taps to greet; four to run. his knuckles against the iron, the sound ringing out like the bells of saint paul’s. “ miss barker? ” never johanna; never so familiar despite having known each other all their short lives. it would be too familiar, he thinks. too forward. and miss barker is a dear friend, the gentlest of souls — it is why he is here, after all; pressed to the shrubbery, away from the prying eyes and meddling fingers of his mother, and the cold stare of the judge; stealing just a few precious moments in what time was left to them both outside of sunday dinners and sermons. “ i am surprised you are out today — the sun is high. ” i am surprised you were let out at all. “ not that – not that i am ungrateful, @skywaits. in truth i was hoping that you might — that i might see you a moment longer before we are to travel east prawle and quit london before the heat comes. ”

[criedmercy]

there is a melancholy to london these days that has cast a pall over the long days of summer — stifling and hot and suffocating; and nowhere is it felt more keenly than in the residents of fifty-nine lancaster gate. whatever was left of them. and what was a ship without its rudder, its captain? set adrift on a sea of faces and a maze of streets — not fit for rescue, only pitying stares and whispers from once warm friends and neighbours. 

perhaps mister mercy has run off with some mistress. no, papa would never. perhaps he has run afoul of gambling debts. no, papa did not gamble. perhaps he was set upon after visiting some house of ill repute and left for dead. no, papa abhorred such establishments. none of them knew his father — none of them had loved archibald mercy in the way his youngest children did. to speak so ill of a man so noble; oh, lord — how christopher mercy wanted to scream. to shatter the silence around them and proclaim none in london had so pristine a slate to be throwing stones upon their own house. but that would be impolite. it would draw more glances and whispers and suspicion; and while he would sit in confessional on sabbath and speak of the sin of wrath, it would not change a thing. the congregation, the street — they would still whisper, papa would still be gone; and christopher would still miss him; the warmth of his arms, the quiet of his study, the gentle tread of his steps and the deep timbre of his laugh. 

and it was not just archibald that the youngest mercy missed. time had not been kind to the residents of fifty-nine lancaster gate; their numbers dwindling all the more. his mother had collapsed at the door when the navy had come to collect alexander — his trunk loaded in to a coach; and his brother grim-faced and nervous; with trembling hands and shorn hair that had once curled to his shoulders. he had been afraid; and tried not to show it — christopher had never known his elder brother to be afraid. annoying and irritating and brash, perhaps; but afraid? it was unlike him; unheard of. and while the youngest mercy had comforted his mother and told her that all would be well ( perhaps he was trying to convince himself of that, too ); his mother had wound her arms around him like some dog-strangling vine. thorny and suffocating and never far from him now — a shadow he had never asked for; a nursemaid he has outgrown, as if she was afraid that her youngest boy would be taken too; and all that would remain to her were the sisters that christopher loved so dearly.

you must not go far from me, christopher, my sweet boy. you are all that i have; and you are the man of this house now. he does not feel like one. still a boy in many ways, lingering in the shadow of his mother as much as he tries to pull away. missus mercy does not let go. does not let him out of her sight — the sole reprieve he receives is the short walk between the gardens in the late afternoons between fifty-nine and sixty-one; before the darkness of his neighbour’s house swallows him whole; and he fidgets and frets and does not pay attention to much of what the earl of bridgewater says at all; his thoughts upon his family, and her — dearest miss barker; who had seemingly vanished alongside archibald. tucked away in the dark corners of that bleak house — no more sunday dinners or daily walks; glimpsed, perhaps, from a window like some grey lady, or the back of her during mass, when he would take her in like a dying man; count the freckles upon her nose before she turned away, trace the features upon her face before her bonnet obscured her entirely; straining in the study to hear her footsteps, praying that she might peek over the bannister as she had before. it never comes. 

even their garden meetings, sweet and tender as they were, had stopped. to his credit, young master mercy had tried; but he would get no farther than the door to the sunroom that lead to the garden before his mother would appear and ask where he was going; would clutch at his sleeves and fix him with a look so wounded he could not keep his hand upon the door; and he would not betray miss barker by telling his mother where and who he was meeting. 

johanna had smelt of the world after a rainstorm when he had first kissed her at that gate; clean and fresh and utterly still — and they had never spoken of it since. what it might mean, what it might bring in the future; the way his heart had always beat so fast whenever she drew near — and how could he? she, who had always been his dearest and sweetest friend; now abandoned, and fate had not given the young mercy any recourse to explain, not given him any time to clutch her hands and tell her that he had not forgotten her, could never — would never — but that he could not steal away to her as much as he tried.

it is victoria who is to be his saviour ( their saviour ); ever her father’s daughter and just as sensitive — she had pressed his hands to her chest that morning after breakfast had been clearer away, blue eyes ( their mother’s eyes; shared between all five children ) watering with tears that always seemed to come these days. i know you meet with our jo before luncheon. i have seen you — and it seems she has been vanished away with papa. her lower lip had trembled; eyes glassy — hands too tight upon his. you must go to her. you must. i am worried, we have not seen — i will take care of mama, but you must be quick. you must. i will knock upon the windows thrice if she takes leave of me, but you must see jo. 

with that solemn agreement between them, he had stolen away like some thief within his own home; avoiding creaks in the floorboards that had been there since his childhood and had heralded the steps of his siblings, his parents, the servants — now to be avoided lest the madame of the house glimpse him. then, all would be for naught — and all would be lost. christopher’s tender heart remembers what time has taken away from his routine. the path of paving stones, warm in the mid-morning sun before it rose too high and the city slumbered in the heat — fifteen past ten; when they had always meet near every day if they could manage it; quick conversations and reassurances, a thousand things said with the eyes alone. i am here, and i will not leave you. pressing against the shrubbery, still kept pristine; even now — his hand trembles where it once was so sure, tapping against the gate. tap, tap, tap. 

“ miss barker? ” the youngest mercy dares not think on what he will do if she is not there — if she has given up on him, on this, on them ( and dare he even hope that there is such a thing as them? ); his voice a strained whisper. truly, he would not blame her if @skywaits had. “ johanna. ” her name from his lips — there is no sweeter word in existence to him. johanna. it is his hands that tremble now, fingers curling around the wrought iron until his knuckles whiten and strain against his skin. were it any other day, were it any other month — had nothing and everything happened, if it had all been the same; he would have stayed there, pressed to the hedges; hidden from view. instead, he presses against the gate, searching the desolation for her — she, who he would know anywhere; at any time, in any life.

“ please tell me that you are here. ”

[criedmercy]

sundays were always thus — a small parade through the garden of fifty-nine lancaster gate; silken slippers and patent leather shoes marching through a well worn path upon the grass ( now covered in paving stones at the missus mercy’s insistence ). such a spectacle had been easier to manage when they were children, when they had needed a hand to hold and could be quieted by a gentle hush or a stern look; the very image of domesticity — now, it had become difficult to do thus, with children now all adults far more eager to be independent, always bickering and whispering ( alexander had stepped on elizabeth’s hem, victoria had bumped into elizabeth, elizabeth had stepped on the back of christopher’s heel, christopher had tripped into alexander ); a symphony of sound against archibald’s low baritone, soothing and pleading in turn, for quiet — that all of this might be sorted later, when they were not within earshot of the street, perhaps? a look from the matriarch, cold and pinched and wicked, followed by a shrill series of words — i could pitch myself into the thames and not one of you would cease your bickering to see it happen, let alone jump in after me! that finally brings quiet, aside from the shuffle of feet and the whisper of cotton. 

the sabbath were kept holy within the walls of both households; the mercys, at least, knew how to keep them thus — the maids had scrubbed the floors and walls until all had shone, polished crystal and silverware and bone china until reflections could be seen. there had been an argument in the strange space between mass and dinner; when travelling shawls and bonnets and top hats were littered in the foyer, when the children were sat in the parlour — and both master and mistress of the home had gone into his study, a world normally closed to all but victoria and christopher. must such a farce continue, long past any chance of finding humour in it? as if all of london did not know of such a closeness between two houses — christian neighbours, good and true. and shall we abandon miss barker, who is most certainly waiting for us this very minute? would you leave her with him? that had ended any further dissent, just as the missus mercy preferred. 

it is why they are here now; arm and arm at the head of the line, passing through the wrought iron gate that seemed to give entrance into a vastly different world; no longer pristine and lush, but soot-stained and greying, choked by the smog of london. god bless archibald and his soft heart, all too easy to push and prod when needed — when warranted. it is a good thing that the man looks forward, or else he might see the smirk upon his wife’s features. and it is young christopher, at the end of the line as always, who shuts the gate behind him; who looks up to the window he knows miss barker will be in, a bright spot in the gloom — how he smiles; unabashed, unashamed at the sight of her, lighting up his features as he stretches up, up, up — and waves as though they were children of six and seven once more. he would stay there, too; a moment too long, falling behind — until victoria turns to glimpse the house, and hisses to come close before mama sees you acting thus! 

for a moment, he scrambles in the gravel path, closing the distance in a few short strides ( and earning such laughter from his elder brother, until his eyes roll back in his head ) in what must be a moment of luck sent by the good lord himself, straightening his waistcoat, his cravat — before both of his parents have turned to examine their brood. they must be perfect, all, in their mother’s eyes ( it was always father who never begrudged them a childhood scrape or stain ). and never was there a gaze more unkind than hers; a hand to elizabeth’s jaw — chin up, my dear, your posture is poor these days — a smile for alexander, as always. 

“ i need not say it, but i shall regardless — i do expect you all to be on your best behaviour here. ” a pointed look to alexander, then; an incline of his head. how low archibald’s voice is; rumbling and soft — a quiet authority that would, perhaps, be misplaced in a courtroom, but suited him more than enough when it came to managing his own house. as if he would allow the most honourable judge a smug smile when it came to his own children, or a comment about undue influence upon his ward — strange girl, stranger circumstances — hand moving to rap thrice upon the side door they had entered through for near sixteen years. 

the gloom is worse after crossing the threshold, old and dark and damp — dust filtering in silvery light through velvet curtains. victoria, ever delicate, sneezes. there is no valet, no butler; never in all of their sunday visits has there been anything but a long-faced footman to take their coats and gloves and hats, piling up into his arms one by one until it is a miracle he can see at all. 

“ not even a butler, still – ” “ hush, my dear. ” pale blue meets green then; frozen in a tableau of challenge in the weak light that comes from the still open door behind mister and missus mercy; not broken until archibald decisively reaches over his wife, and firmly ( gently ) shuts the door. a commonplace occurrence, none of the children bat an eye at it, elizabeth instead shifting nervously, stepping forwards; only to be quickly passed by christopher, his steps determined, his gaze focused on what can only be seen as a pale blur.

“ miss barker! ” how wide his smile is, how overjoyed — he reaches forwards, then stops himself, falling just short of grabbing @skywaits hands. it is not proper, not here; at least, and to bring trouble to such a kind and strong soul would be, in his opinion, a terrible sin. victoria is the one that closes the gap in a flurry of satin and lace; cotton shawl at her elbows flying behind her, to grasp at johanna’s hands; pale ( so pale ) next to her own rosy ones, warmed by summers at the coast. “ johanna! how are you faring, my dear? we hardly spoke at mass today, there was no time, so you must forgive me — besides, lady brighton’s daughter was there, and did you see her gown? it is a wonder that she was allowed to leave the house! ”

[criedmercy]

there is a storm on the horizon. the thought takes centre stage as lillian's pale eyes focus on the sky - dark, dark clouds to the east; the air so thick she swears she can feel it with every breath. a storm like any other, many would say - noting that london had weathered many. but lillian had grown up by the sea - and in her opinion, that made her an expert on the matter. there is a storm on the horizon. perhaps a few hours off - she can feel the dampness on her cheeks; working its way through her pelisse. there was still time - not much, but perhaps just enough for what she had come for. nothing was never nothing.

" i hope you are not yet cold, dear girl. " comes that soft voice; pitched and breathy - pale eyes leaving the sky for but a moment to focus on @skywaits. her mouth twists - held in such a way to suggest worry; perhaps even displeasure; johanna ought to be asking lillian that first - she was, after all, the older companion ( no, not too old, not yet, not yet - ); and if not that, then at least out of respect for her station. the girl never talked much - perhaps it was her upbringing; seen and not heard. missus mercy could respect that. she could. but now, when it did not suit nor please her - merely hindering any progress she might make with johanna on their walks, few as they were. pretty thing, all locked up with nary a taste of the world.

her hands move - brushing against johanna's shining curls - gold, so gold. her own had been like that, once. no - her own had been prettier. her mouth pulls tight - tight - tight - puckering like she'd tasted something sour. a flicker of irritation shining in her eyes. the touch, were it from anyone else, might have been comforting. lillian intended it to be as such - as if johanna had known anything else. it wasn't as if she had been spoilt by too much physical affection as a girl, god knows. and lillian herself so rarely rewarded her own daughters with affections; they did not deserve it. johanna, however.... gloved fingers linger, then - brushing against her temple, the soft curve of her jaw; landing upon her shoulder - not heavy, but present all the same. " have you been told when you will be put out into society, johanna? " blunt as a dull kitchen - hardly subtle. lillian mercy had her charms: subterfuge was not one of them.

[criedmercy]

fifty-nine lancaster gate is a clinical world — bright and spotless; not a speck of dust upon the mantles and bannisters, not a single item out of place ( the magazines angled just so; tastefully, staged – cutlery and silverware polished, arranged in equal, measured spaces ); a shell of what it had been when its master had breathed, when clutter and all manner of belongings had been present – scuffed shoes at the door in haphazard piles, books left open, coats and hats upon benches and hooks – all signs of life well lived; of a family that came and went as they pleased, no longer. an illusion of life; but much like its sole owner, simply not there.

but even in such a purgatory, sanctuaries exist. two bedrooms – one on the third floor, the other upon the second – mussed and beyond the reach of the staff; littered with books and clothes and studying materials, half used make-up palettes and post-it-note highlighted law books; charging cables and socks that had not made it to the laundry chute. it gives the madame a headache, even now — though she does not look upon it; lillian mercy knows that there is a blemish there; upon her home, her mind; a rot she cannot cut out no matter how much her hands ache to clench and her voice wishes to raise. such a mess made them happy; and if it was she who was the arbitrator of such happiness, then so be it. 

now, lillian – i’d like us to explore how your impulse to manipulate and control others shows up for you. doctor everett’s voice is always in her head these days; more so, after archibald. after gretna green. after… everything. what underlying needs or vulnerabilities is that masking? she wants to open the door; for even johanna’s room is part of her domain – and she needs no permission to enter within her own home. once we identify those insecurities, we can work towards ways of functioning that do not harm you or anyone else. that elegant hand of hers, pale and flashing with rings ( a georgian wedding band from the prawle estate, a signet ring from the victorian period ), knocks upon the door – once, twice – firm; unyielding; though to her credit, missus mercy does not dare to open it. instead, she stands – a quiet shadow within her own home, face impassive. blank.

this will harm johanna no matter the function that the madame will pantomime. two years of therapy after all of it ( the elopement, the inheritance, his death, archibald’s disappearance ); paperwork and court hearings, her hand on johanna’s shoulder, on christopher’s too; her own rage, simmering still ( it was too quick and too clean for him and all that he did ) and most days seemed the same. halting. slow. trembling. but she has been good ( johanna has not thanked her yet – and missus mercy reminds herself that she may never get a tearful thanks from the girl; but that she is grateful all the same ); calm. encouraging. supportive when it mattered, with or without an audience. to be the architect of such growth and peace was to find pleasure with or without being thanked. some days, she swears she feels it. 

“ johanna? ” but the girl is not a girl any more. not really. and lillian mercy has no interest in shielding adults from the harsh realities of the world that children were meant to be protected from. to do so would only prolong the inevitable – make them weak and susceptible to things far worse than her that prowled london. 

lillian, i need you to shift the lens of your thinking. you can support your children as adults without needing to control who and what they become. her jaw sets. a flicker of irritation in her expression. as if this was easy for her. to be so open, so frank — to let @skywaits see her.

“ doctor everett has arrived for my session. i want you to come down with me today — ” a pause. she blinks. “ — please. ” please, though her tone brokers no refusal; flat and monotone, not pitched or breathy as it had been when johanna was young — as it had been upon her birthday this year before she had lost all reason to lie. “ i have something to discuss with you that is… it is important. ” the missus mercy speaks slowly; every letter enunciated; every word thought of as though she cannot quite remember how to string sentences together. “ i want him present. ”

[criedmercy]

 sunlight spills gold and glorious through mottled glass panes; a bright june afternoon rivalled only by the sky — rarer still; robin’s egg blue and utterly cloudless; unchoked by the smog and smoke that so often plagued london in the colder months. it paints the parlour of fifty-nine lancaster gate almost garishly; pinks and reds and mauves over saturated until the carefully picked damasks and mahogany, the rich carpets that the missus mercy had spent hours ( no, days; months ) pouring over to grace the hardwood floors of the townhouse looked more like the scrawl of a child’s drawing than a realm of luxury; ostentatious and obscene in its display of wealth. perhaps that is why only @skywaits has the sole honour of receiving an afternoon invitation — ivory stock, embossed and gold foiled, the slanting and sprawling hand of the missus mercy so chique one could hardly read it ( dearest miss barker; it is our utmost honour to invite you to join both myself and miss victoria mercy for an afternoon tea this friday. i look forward to your acceptance. yours, missus lillian mercy. ); an effort, perhaps, to make up for every missed evening function; balls and dinners the poor girl would have glimpsed through the amber glow of windows come evening, when the house was full and laughter sprawled out into the street. or, perhaps, a way to fill the day when intendeds and beaus are unavailable to promenade through hyde park; and the youngest mercy daughter begs and pleads for ‘ sweetest johanna ’ to be brought from ‘ that gloomy and awful house next door, oh please ’ — until the mister mercy, weak willed thing that he is, leans to his wife during dinner, hand upon her sleeve, and bids her ask. 

and perhaps it is why she sits just outside the door now; needle flashing in the light as she works, a sentinel only half listening to what she knows to be mindless chatter. 

“ oh, i wish you were able to walk with us – especially on a day like today. ” a day like this should be felt so fully — head turned up until the sun kissed the youngest mercy daughter’s cheeks pink despite the bonnet shielding her from the sun; to run through grass and trail fingers through cool waters. they’d done so in their youth, had they not? grass stains upon their pinnafores and tangled curls. how different must they seem now; nearly women grown — though victoria’s eyes still gleam with that same mischief even now, perched just so upon the chaise lounge in her fine taffeta and linen gown, as pale a blue as her eyes; tassels and lace and she turns her head, dark curls swaying, to gaze out of the window and on to the street for a moment. you are going to get freckles and resemble some country bumpkin if you keep that up. it is her mother’s voice that speaks within her mind; needling, sickly sweet. look at dear johanna; practically perfect. why can you not be like her? and here she sits, in shadow even now; as if the very sun itself might burn her within the parlour. is it jealousy or pity that she feels now — the former unwelcome, unwanted, unchristian of her; and latter unhelpful. johanna is nothing if not her dearest and oldest friend — much more of a sister than elizabeth, closer than dear emmeline, too; they’d learnt to walk and run and sing and read alongside each other; teased about height and begged the maids to measure them, for surely they had grown more in a minute, an hour — now memories she holds so very dear.

in some ways, johanna is still a girl; kept away from the world while it kept turning; isolated, even here, amongst friends. and they are friends — dearest friends. there is no soul in london who knows more of her childhood sins and secrets than the pale girl before her; no girl to whom is so kindred a spirit as she is; and her skirts whisper as she moves, leaving the warmth of the sunlight and her long cold tea to join her in the shadows, ringed hands clutching johanna’s, squeezing — bringing them to rest against the lace of her collar.

“ i must introduce you to my theodore when you attend a ball here next, i simply must. he is going to propose soon, jo, can you believe it? me, to be married — i would have you in the wedding party, my maid of honour. there is no one else i would rather have. oh, please say you will — you must. i will not take a no from you, my dearest friend. ”

[criedmercy]

KNOCK KNOCK, BITCH

is this any way to speak to your future mother in law who has been planning the outcome of your life since you began to walk????