Saving Simona (Alone In The World Trilogy)

  Saving Simona

  Rebekah Blackmore

  Copyright © 2014 Rebekah Blackmore

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:978-1492750147

  DEDICATION

  For Callie. Thank you for putting up with me when I get sidetracked while writing, and for letting me bounce ideas off you, regardless of whether they made sense or not. You were definitely a big help in writing this book. I love you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you www.selfpubbookcovers.com/Roman for the cover of this book.

  Thank you Emily Waters for being such a wonderful editor. You helped bring this book to its potential, and I cannot thank you enough.

  PROLOGUE

  Five Miles Outside of London, January 1863

  It was a piece of warm bread that ruined Mercy Porter’s life, one bite at a time.

  All she had wanted was to stop the rumbling in her belly. Her stomach had been crying out for nourishment for hours, since before Mercy had restacked the firewood for the fifth time after Monty had crashed into the pile of lumber again. I hate that stupid dog sometimes, Mercy thought to herself as she fondled the bread that rested in her apron pocket, her dirt-soiled palms making the solid surface bounce into the softness within with every squeeze. She hurried over to the bushes in the corner of the yard before couching down behind a bush to enjoy her treat without getting caught and scolded for spoiling her evening meal.

  Mercy had only managed to swallow a single bite before she heard her mother calling her name from the back porch. “Mercy Grace Porter, come inside this instant and atone for your misdoings! I told you that that loaf was for supper, not for snacking!”

  Mercy glanced back at the thatch roof from her position behind the bush, the bread in her hands quickly cooling in the winter air. She ducked down further behind the shrubbery, biting into the bread again before sticking out her crumb-coated tongue in the direction of the house. She did not understand what the big deal was. There was still plenty of bread left over for today’s supper, as well as tomorrow’s! It wasn’t like they really needed the bread, anyway. The hens had done well last year, and Mercy knew Ma had sold enough of the eggs to the cooks for the wealthy families in London to cover them for the rest of the year. Besides, Papa would come home soon. Miss Eversnow and he had been out of town for nearly two moons, which meant that he had to be home soon so that he could help Mercy’s older brother, Jesse, plow the fields and help with preparation for this year’s crop.

  Besides, didn’t he miss them? Papa had Miss Eversnow’s baby to keep him company, but didn’t he miss his little girl and his big boy? Mercy missed him. The baby, as well. Papa always said that Mercy and Sara both had their father’s eyes. Mercy often wondered what Sara’s father looked like, but she figured that he must have the same eye color as Papa, because Sara had the same light grey eyes with green flecks around the iris as Mercy did.

  The girl pulled the strings of her bonnet tighter before she looked back down to the bread, making a quick decision. She pushed herself up and walked in the opposite direction of the house, towards the woods that lined the western edge of the property. Mercy would likely get in a lot more trouble with Ma for wandering into the woods this close to dusk, especially without one of the boys, but getting to enjoy her treat next to the babbling brook a half mile into the woods would make Ma’s screaming well worth it.

  It was a rarity that Mercy did not work from sunrise to sunset in the fields and with the animals with Jesse, or around the house with Ma, but today was a special day. Today was her twelfth birthday, and Ma had decided that Mercy’s cousins (who had moved in after Papa had left), Jack, Teddy, and Simeon, plus Jesse, were perfectly capable of finishing up with mucking out the pens, and making sure that all the animals were properly fed.

  Mercy shook her head as she got to the brook, pulling her shawl tighter around herself as snow began to fall all around her, adding softness to the hard-packed ground that had frozen over during the night. She crouched down and pulled the bread back out of her pocket, taking a bite as she ran her fingers over the frozen brook, making out the images of small fish frozen within the ice. The damp hem of her knee-length dress brushed against her wool stockings, leaving dark, freezing lines against her calves that grew colder with every gust of wind. Mercy ignored the chill, however, and crouched down lower, her chest pressed against the top of her bunched-up gingham skirt as she reached out further over the water to grab at a twig that had frozen in its rush downstream.

  After a few pulls, the ice cracked, and Mercy was able to slip the twig out easily. She smiled at it and spun it around in her hand, pretending that she was a fairy and that this was the magical wand that would give her the power to give her family the ability to live in those big houses, and to allow Jesse and Mercy to not work, just like the kids in those families who Ma sold eggs to.

  Mercy flicked the twig at a squirrel that scampered up the icy tree next to her, and imagined that it was to become her new governess. Mercy could recall catching glimpses of these women when she had gone to work on occasion with her Aunt Victoria as a foot maid for a wealthy businessman and his family. Oh, it would be so grand! She would learn her lessons by someone other than that wicked school teacher, and she would not have to listen to her mother go on all day about the quality of Mercy’s floor scrubs! She wished that she really could make the squirrel into her governess.

  The squirrel jumped to another tree after a few moments, breaking Mercy out of her wistful thinking. The brunette smiled at it before turning her glance to her own dress, the dark blue and white checkered gingham and the wool of her shawl and stockings taking her back to another world. She let out a huffed breath before narrowing her eyes at the fabric, twirling the twig around and picturing herself much older, in a fine silk ball gown, the crinolines holding the skirt out far away from her slender body, men lining up to punch her dance card and offering dowries to her father for her hand in marriage. Her hair would be curled and swept up with pins, long tendrils falling down from the top of the bun and just barely brushing where the top of her corset strained across her back. Oh, how Mercy would be the center of attention! All eyes would be on her, the men eager to make her their wife, the women envious of her beauty and grace. She would be a sight to see.

  Mercy was broken from her thoughts by the sound of an animal, something large, cracking and crunching plants beneath its feet as it ran through the woods. Fear filled Mercy’s stomach as she was reminded of the warnings that she had been told growing up about the dangers of being raped or killed that came with a young girl or woman being out on her own, without a male to chaperone her. And that was just the danger of humans. Who knew what type of animals lurked in this wood that could find a girl of her size perfect for its supper! She looked around in panic before spotting a young pine tree, its bottom branches just barely wide enough to fit Mercy within its grasp. She ran forward, desperate to be hidden before whatever was around spotted her.

  Her hand barely brushed the limbs before she heard a man’s voice cry out, “Stop!”

  Mercy stopped in her tracks, her heart running laps around her ribcage as her breathing turned shallow. Please, God, please let me live, she prayed as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, her fingers curling around the pine limb as the dark needles dissolved beneath her grasp. She tried to stay as still as possible, in hopes that the man would not notice her any more than he already had, and that he would just assume that she had been a meaningless animal that he had no need for.

  Mercy’s eyes widened as she felt her dress grow tighter as the man hooked a meaty hand into the back of her collar, yanking her towards his chest.
Her breath caught in her throat as she was spun around, one of the man’s hands staying around her throat, the other clenching the top of her skirt. The man was standing in front of a light brown horse, and was obviously a man of wealth, if his heavy trench coat was any indicator. “Make a single sound and I’ll snap your pretty little neck,” he warned, his dark hazel eyes flashing as he flexed his fingers. “Understood?”

  Mercy nodded, her eyes still wide and fearful. She whimpered at the smirk that came across the man’s face at the nod, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he chuckled. He relaxed the hand around Mercy’s neck until she was able to breathe properly, his palm barely pressed against the sensitive skin. She took a shuddering breath as her trachea expanded back to its full capacity, the air rushing to her lungs in a cold burst, freezing their path in their haste. The man straightened his back and looked down at Mercy through his wire eyeglasses, his dark brown hair glittering as the snow fell upon it. “Good. Now then, child, how about we officially become acquainted, eh?” He bowed before her, removing his hand completely from her neck. The hand on her skirt moved up, though, and the way that it tightened around her waist was a clear sign that while he may be letting her breathe, he still would not hesitate to hurt her if she did not do as he asked.

  Mercy curtsied as best she could with the hand still around her waist, dipping her head low so that she would not meet his eyes. “I-I’m Mercy Porter, sir,” she said softly. She winced as she felt her bonnet being pushed down against her neck and the man’s index finger slip below her chin, directing her face up at him. Mercy continued to avert her eyes away.

  “My name is Leander Browning. Miss Porter, I must request that you look me in the eye.” Mercy did as she was asked, and flicked her eyes over to meet his. When she did, the man’s breath caught. “My, my, what a pretty young lady you are. Let me guess. You are, hmm… I would say, twelve or thirteen years old?”

  “I’m twelve,” she admitted. The man smiled at her before he winked.

  “What a perfect age for a girl to be.” Leander moved his hand up and down her waist, gently stroking her lightly-defined curves through the thin material of her dress. Mercy sucked in her breath, desperately wishing that she was old enough to wear stays so that she would not feel every touch burn against her abdomen. The man placed his free hand on her wrist, digging his nails into the pale skin he found there. “Now, Miss Porter, I believe that there is a name much better suited for a young woman like you before she comes to live with me.”

  Mercy said nothing for a moment until Leander’s words hit her hard. “’Live with you’?” she echoed back, her voice tight and choked as the fear swirling around her stomach made its way up her throat, wrapping her vocal chords in their grasp. She began to hyperventilate as Leander began to move Mercy towards himself before turning towards the mare, who was whinnying impatiently by a tree.

  Leander pulled Mercy with him towards the horse, who had begun to stamp her feet. He hoisted her up on to the saddle before he jumped up as well, holding Mercy close to his chest. “Of course, dear. From today on out, you shall forever be known as Georgiana Fletcher.” He bit the lobe of her ear and tightening his grip around her waist as the horse started to gallop. Mercy gasped at the sudden jolt, her dress bouncing as the horse quickened her pace. Leander chuckled before leaning in and whispering in her ear, “I can’t let you go back to your little farming family now that you know my name, now can I?” He shook his head and laughed, answering his own question. “I think not. Either I take you with me or I kill you, and with a face as pretty as yours, why waste the energy on the second?” He leaned back, making his grip around Mercy’s waist even tighter. He cleared his throat. “Now then, Georgiana, we must travel home.”

  1

  Leeds, Early December 1870

  “Come on ladies, rise and shine! Those bodies won’t sell themselves!” A heavy fist rammed against the door, the sound echoing as a man performed his daily wake-up call. “Up! Up! Up!” Three more knocks sounded before the footsteps faded as the knocker walked away.

  Gia, as Georgiana had shorted her name to when Leander was not around, slowly opened her eyes, shivering as the crisp air of the room hit her consciousness. She shifted from her bedroll on the dirt floor before sitting up, squinting around the room at her sisters as they too arose from their fitful sleep. All around her, thirty or so young women were pushing themselves up off the floor, the scraps of cloth they were laying on bunching up around their figures as they moved in the dirt. Of the girls, there were four others that were given the luxury of having a stuffed roll rather than the fraying pieces of fabric that the rest were forced to sleep upon.

  “You heard him, ladies. We better do as Mister Fingers requests, or we shall see ourselves locked away with him this fine cold night,” a voice came from the corner before light erupted from an oil lamp as the speaking girl turned the knob. A second and third light came from two other corners as well, bathing the room in a light orange as the flame flickered back to its full power.

  Giggles echoed throughout the room at the nickname for Leander’s oldest henchman. His name was really Franklin Cloverfield, but the eldest of the girls had taken to calling him “Mister Fingers” because of his tendency to show up back at the house in the wee hours of the morning, drunk and filled with a desire to get his stubby, sausage-like fingers on every girl that passed him by as they went off to work. He had gained the nickname in his early twenties when he began working for the man who was once Leander’s boss, but even now, nearly twenty-two years later, it was the name that he was best known by to the youngest of Leander’s girls. Gia, herself, did not know Franklin by anything else until her third year in the ring, when she heard one of Leander’s other henchmen chiding him one night for drawing the authorities too near to the house. Even after Gia knew his name, though, it was easier to just stick with Mister Fingers.

  Gia glanced over at her sister, Molly, who was the one who had made the announcement. She was a few years older than Gia at twenty-three, and had dishwater-blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She had been brought in around the same time that Gia was. They had been broken and trained together, and had worked in close proximity to one another the entire first year after they had first been put out onto the street a few weeks after adapting the identities Leander had bestowed upon them.

  After a moment, Gia turned back to her mat before standing up and shaking out her aching muscles. It had been years since Gia had been allowed to sleep in an actual bed, but she had never grown used to the hard-packed dirt floor of the basement of the building that made up her bed. The mat helped some, but it had such a minimal amount of cotton within its confines that it barely felt like she was sleeping on anything. Granted, it was still better than the cloth. Gia arched her back and felt her bones pop as she walked over to the chamber pot in the corner of the room.

  When she was finished relieving herself, she walked over to Molly, who had just begun to pull through her long, flowing locks. “It should be an uncomfortably numb night out there,” Gia commented as she, too, pulled a broken hairbrush off a crate that rested along the wall. She winced as the boar bristles pulled at the tangles in her hair, the dust matting her curls. She pulled harder as the brush became stuck, the strands wrapping around the wood. She groaned as she let go of the handle, the brush hanging limply in her hair, shaking her head to try and loosen it before reaching back up.

  Molly laughed and set her brush down, reaching over to Gia. She gestured for the other girl to remove her hands so that the other girl could help. “It will be,” the blonde agreed, slowly pulling Gia’s hair away from its entrapment as she went quiet. After a few minutes, she spoke again, repositioning her hand on the newly-removed device in order to properly brush Gia’s hair. “God knows it is cold enough in here without the additional wind chilling our bones. It might even be snowing, for all we know.”

  Gia shook her head before she was scolded by Molly for moving. “Sorry,” Gia apologized, sighin
g. “I hate the snow.”

  Molly nodded and agreed before going silent. Gia let her eyes wonder around the rest of the room, at how the other girls were getting ready. A few of the younger girls had trickled in from the adjacent room so that their elder sisters could assist them with their look for the night. It always amazed Gia just how adult some of the women were able to get their younger counterparts to appear, although she could remember being made more mature when she was that age.

  The police would question any woman who appeared to be under the age of sixteen and in the streets late at night and by now, most the girls knew to stuff extra bits of cloth into their chemise and pantalets to fit the shape of the corset better and therefore make themselves appear more womanly, mixed with longer dresses and more elaborate hair styles. Currently, though, everyone was still in their nightclothes: their unstuffed chemises, pantalets and, for those who Leander was pleased with, thick woolen socks that bunched under the hem of the pantalets and blocked out the December chill.

  Gia was pulled back to herself when Molly tugged on the ends of her hair playfully, handing her the brush. “There. I did yours, now will you do mine? Then we can help each other pin our hair up, just like we did when we first arrived here,” Molly asked, shyly.

  Gia smiled at her sister. “Of course,” she answered, gently turning the blonde around and beginning to run the brush through her hair. Unlike Gia’s chocolate hair, Molly’s locks were like spun gold, and had the consistency of silken thread. It was much easier to manage then Gia’s matted mess. It also took a third of the time, which meant that within a couple of minutes, Gia was able to pull Molly’s hair back, braiding it into a singular plait, which was then wrapped tightly around itself several times in order to form a wheel-like shape against the back of Molly’s head. Gia instructed the girl to hold her hair in place while the brunette went to Rhody, the eldest of the women, to gather a few pins to secure the wheel in place.