Where Seagulls Soar

by Janet Woods

  ‘I think my mother’s bankrupt,’ Oliver said miserably.

  ‘She’s spent our inheritance,’ Lydia said. ‘Now she’s trying to marry us off to old men. I hate her. I wish we didn’t live with her, and I wish Alex hadn’t died. He was the only person who was really kind to us, except you, Oliver. But you were always at sea, or were too busy to have time for us. What will happen to us?’

  ‘There’s Joanna,’ Irene said, and the pair gazed at her.

  Lydia smiled. ‘Mother would be incensed.’

  Oliver stepped in. ‘It’s out of the question, of course.’

  ‘Why is it?’ Joanna said.

  The two sisters exchanged a significant glance.

  Alex was lying in an ebony coffin, his head on a white pillow. Dressed in his linen shroud and with his arms tucked neatly under the sheet, he looked like a soldier at attention. Joanna gave a small, watery smile and ruffled his hair with her fingers. Alex had never slept on his back so tidily, he’d always sprawled.

  James had said his farewell and had withdrawn, leaving her to snatch a few private moments. They knew she would never set eyes on her husband’s beloved face again.

  All the tension had gone from him. But when she bent to kiss his cheek, his skin felt cold and waxy, as if he were a beautiful marble statue. She sensed he was hollow inside, remote from her, as if all that had made him a man had been withdrawn from her.

  ‘Oh, Alex,’ she murmured, a tear falling on to his cheek. ‘Toby and I loved you so much. Why did you leave us?’ Gently, she wiped away the tear with her handkerchief, knowing it was wasted on him. He’d gone.

  Two days later they buried Alex’s body. There was quite a crowd attending. Men she didn’t know. To Joanna’s relief, Clara Nash was absent. Oliver looked harassed and his twin sisters clung to one another, weeping. Joanna held her son in her arms. As if aware that the occasion was a solemn one, Toby behaved himself.

  When Toby smiled at someone standing behind her, Joanna fought the urge to turn. She had a fancy that perhaps Alex’s spirit had joined them, and Toby could see his father, watching them both. The skin at the back of her neck prickled.

  When the service was over, she turned. Lord Durrington stood behind her, grey whiskered, stooped and distinguished. There was something about him that repelled her, however – something she couldn’t identify. His dark eyes glowed in the pouched and wrinkled skin of his eye sockets, his gaze was intimate and assessing.

  How great the resemblance of this man to Alex, who was his bastard son. Alex had loathed the man. But he was Toby’s grandfather, Joanna suddenly thought.

  ‘My commiserations, Mrs Morcant,’ he said, and he tickled Toby under the chin, making him chuckle. Lord Durrington smiled. ‘A charming child, with a strong resemblance to his father. Has he a name?’

  Feeling a sudden urge to protect her child from the old man, Joanna’s arms tightened around her son. ‘Tobias Alexander.’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ he said.

  The undertaker sidled over to her and cleared his throat. ‘May I talk to you for a moment, Mrs Morcant?’

  Lord Durrington turned politely aside, but stayed within earshot.

  ‘What is it?’ Joanna said, lowering her voice.

  ‘A question has arisen over who is to pay for the funeral. Although Mrs Nash made the arrangements, I understand she has now gone abroad. The account totals over one hundred pounds. If I cannot be assured that the bill will be paid, I must make other arrangements for the body to be buried. You do understand what I’m saying?’

  A pauper’s grave, he meant. Joanna couldn’t bear the thought, and she offered the only thing of value she had on her. ‘Perhaps my wedding ring will cover the cost.’

  Lord Durrington turned to say quietly. ‘You will not worry Mrs Morcant with such a trivial issue in her time of grief. You may send the account to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The undertaker bowed and moved away. A signal with his finger and the gravediggers began to shovel earth on to the expensive coffin Clara had chosen.

  ‘Thank you,’ Joanna said as the mourners began to wander away. ‘That was kind.’

  ‘Noblesse oblige. It was the least I could do for my son. Do call on me if you need anything else.’ A cruelly derisive smile touched his mouth. Then it was gone. Doffing his hat, he walked off towards his carriage, leaving her with a feeling of unease.

  Escorted by James and the Lind family, Joanna and Mrs Bates walked home, not talking much, Toby riding astride Joanna’s hip. As they turned into the gate they heard the sound of hammering. A man was boarding up the windows.

  Another burly-looking man, stepped from the porch and handed Joanna a paper. ‘I can’t let you in, I’m afraid. Court order. We’ve taken possession.’

  Joanna appealed to James. ‘Can they do this?’

  James perused the paper, and nodded.

  David Lind appealed to the man. ‘Would you allow the ladies ten minutes to fetch personal clothing for themselves and the child?’

  The man’s eyes sharpened. ‘It could be arranged.’

  Money changed hands.

  ‘I’m going off to have a pipe, then. Be back in ten minutes,’ the bailiff said.

  Inside, the house wore an air of mourning with half the windows boarded up and keeping out the light.

  Luckily, James had taken anything of portable value the day before. Joanna swiftly packed a bag for herself and a basket for Toby. As an afterthought, she tied the rolled painting of her mother to the strap, and took the baby carriage from the hall.

  They stood in the road outside, looking at each other, uncertain. Mrs Bates, her change of clothing in a small basket, was quietly weeping.

  ‘I wish we could take you in,’ Tilda said, her eyes full of worry, ‘but we’ll be gone tomorrow. We’re staying the night at the inn, and I’ve left Grace with the landlady.’

  ‘Clara Nash has fled,’ Joanna told them with some satisfaction. ‘This is her fault, so let’s go and stay in her house. Oliver and the girls won’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t be surprised if the same thing happens there,’ James said.

  ‘But not for a day or two, surely. That will give us time to decide what we’re going to do. Mrs Bates and I will probably go to Dorset and throw ourselves on the mercy of my—’ She caught James’s warning glance in time. ‘Mrs Charlotte Darsham.’

  She exchanged a farewell hug with the Linds. ‘Tilda, you’ll tell Mrs Darsham what’s happened, won’t you? Give her my love and tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.’

  After they’d gone, Toby was placed in his carriage, the basket laid across the bottom. James picked up her bag.

  Joanna looked at Mrs Bates. ‘Dry your eyes, Mrs Bates, crying won’t help. Let’s go, before Toby decides he’s hungry and kicks up a fuss.’

  Joanna was the only one who didn’t look back.

  4

  Tilda finished unpacking her few possessions, then tied an apron over her skirt and rolled up her sleeves.

  Not that the stone house they now resided in was dirty, but the windows were dulled from salt borne on the sea air, and a film of pale grey dust had settled on the furniture.

  It was one of the finer houses in Portland, built for one of the quarry owners, and sold to David’s uncle, Richard Lind, when the quarry had changed hands. Pride in having her own home to care for had filled Tilda with the urge to see the place gleam, and she wanted to stamp her own mark on it.

  She would sew some new curtains and cushion covers, she thought happily. And she’d sit by her own fireside on winter evenings and make a patchwork quilt for Grace’s bed, as she had once sat and sewn with Anna Rushmore and Joanna all those years ago.

  ‘Grace, you can dust the furniture and windowsill in your own little room. I’ll help you make the bed when you’ve finished.’

  Tilda had given Grace the room Joanna had slept in when she’d worked as a housemaid for David’s late uncle. It was a small room, so Grace would feel safe in it. The ceili
ng sloped to a window set under the eaves, which, in turn, led the eyes to a view down through Fortuneswell to the glittering sea beyond.

  From here, Tilda could see the roof of the cottage in which Joanna had grown up, a place where Tilda had spent the happiest years of her childhood. She pointed to it. ‘See that orange chimney pot over there. It belongs to the house your Aunt Joanna grew up in.’

  Grace picked up the calico doll Joanna had given her when they’d first met, the doll Joanna had made for her on the voyage home from Australia. Now the girl cuddled it against her and Tilda smiled at the sight. The doll’s face was unintentionally cross-looking, with frowning eyebrows, spidery eyelashes, a red pout and black woolly curls. Grace adored it.

  Tilda’s smile faded as she thought of Alex. How sad his death was, coming so soon after that of Joanna’s first husband. Her friend deserved some lasting happiness. Perhaps she would come home when she discovered the Rushmore family no longer lived on the island.

  Tilda’s father had died in her absence. Gin had addled his widow Fanny Rushmore’s brain. Partially crippled from a beating inflicted on her by her husband, her mind failing her from time to time, Tilda’s mother lingered on in the local infirmary, where the doctor had sent her. ‘A baffling case,’ the man had said. ‘She has long periods of lucidity, then just as I think she’ll be able to manage for herself, she relapses.’

  Her mother was as sly as a fox, Tilda thought uncharitably. She wouldn’t do anything to help herself unless she was forced to.

  Of Tilda’s three brothers, Peter had been shot trying to escape the revenue men. Brian was in prison, serving a life sentence after viciously raping a young girl. He would never set foot on the island again. But if by some chance he did, the girl’s brothers had vowed to hunt him down.

  Tilda shuddered, for she’d suffered badly at Brian’s hands herself. If Joanna hadn’t rescued her and nursed her back to health . . . But she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse over her family’s demise, even if it wasn’t as Christian an attitude as David would expect from her. She had flatly refused to take her mother in and personally care for her. Now David was talking about installing her mother with a carer, in a church-owned cottage over at Southwell. Tilda wished he’d leave well alone.

  Only her eldest brother was left behind. Leonard lived in Poole with his wife and two children, where he worked on a paddle steamer. Her eldest brother had changed since she’d last seen him. He’d become more confident and he’d smiled at her when she’d greeted him, something she’d never seen him do before.

  Grace tugged at her skirt. ‘Can we visit Aunt Joanna and Toby, Mama?’

  ‘The house is empty now, my angel. But when we’ve made this place our home, we’ll go and look inside Joanna’s cottage and tidy it up, in case she comes to visit.’ Tilda was reluctant, though. Now she was back on the island the memories of her abuse had become sharper, and more painful – something she hadn’t expected.

  She suspected Joanna’s cottage would have been left as it was when Brian Rushmore had been arrested. Knowing how her brother had lived, it was probably filthy. But the islanders had always been honest with their neighbours, so she had no doubt that the contents would have remained untouched.

  She stroked the child’s silky hair. ‘Just look at the big garden we’ve got for you to play in, Grace. And you can have a little patch of your own to grow things in, though you’ll be going to school during the day.’ Her hands went to her hips as she surveyed the vegetable patch. ‘That’s going to take some digging over to prepare for a winter crop, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m sure we can manage without you growing our food,’ David said from the doorway.

  She turned to him with a smile. ‘You’ll never take the island girl out of me. I’m not too proud to get my hands dirty, and it won’t hurt Grace to learn how to use the soil to her advantage, since you never know when your fortunes are going to change. Look what has happened to poor Joanna. Best to have something put aside for a rainy day, even if it’s only the skill to survive.’

  David nodded. ‘You’d better find me a hoe then. At least I can lend some muscle to the enterprise. From what I can observe, the church here doesn’t have much of a congregation, so digging will keep me gainfully employed.’

  ‘You can build me a chicken coop if you’ve a mind to.’

  He chuckled. ‘I rather thought you might sleep in the house with Grace and myself.’

  She laughed and threw a pillow at him. ‘Don’t give me any cheek, David Lind. Why are you home so early?’

  ‘A letter came from that greeting-card company you sell your work to.’

  The letter contained a bank draft, and there was a request for some more designs. Tilda beamed her husband a smile as she handed the letter to him.

  He gazed at her, his eyes full of pride because her gift for painting was finally bearing fruit. ‘Does this mean I can hire an architect to build the chicken coop?’

  ‘Certainly not. You’re quite capable of doing it.’

  ‘As long as you understand that I’m not the carpenter Jesus was.’

  ‘The hens won’t mind what it looks like as long as they’re warm and dry in the winter and have some clean straw to lay their eggs in.’

  ‘Hmm.’ David’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Perhaps I should build them a little church with a Norman tower, and a bell they can ring when they’ve laid an egg.’

  ‘They kick up enough fuss without a bell,’ she called after him as he walked away.

  Because they had a baby and luggage to handle, and she didn’t want to change trains, Joanna decided to book a passage on a coastal boat. There was a brisk wind to push them along and, although Mrs Bates looked a little pale from time to time, Joanna found the voyage along the coast to Poole an invigorating experience.

  Stepping ashore, their luggage was loaded on to a donkey cart and they followed the lad and his beast of burden up the hill, where it was placed on Charlotte Darsham’s doorstep while they waited for their knock to be answered.

  ‘Good gracious! I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Joanna . . . and Mrs Bates is with you.’

  ‘We had nowhere else to go. You won’t mind, will you? Mrs Bates and I will find work as soon as we can, and I’ll rent a place.’

  ‘You’re both welcome.’ Charlotte’s expression sobered, as if she’d suddenly remembered the reason why they were here. Taking Joanna and Toby in her arms she hugged them tight. ‘Poor Alex, and poor you, my dearest ones. The news came as such a shock. Thaddeus is so terribly upset.’

  Toby patted his great-grandmother on the head with a dribbly hand. Charlotte couldn’t help but smile and, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve, dried it. ‘I’ve never seen a boy so like his father, young man, but don’t think you’re going to rule the roost around here.’ Her glance went to Mrs Bates. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take your things and go through to the kitchen. Stevens will show you to your quarters, and you can help her with the household chores while you’re here.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mrs Bates said humbly. Picking up her bag she trudged off towards the door Charlotte pointed out to her.

  ‘Mrs Bates was going to help me with Toby,’ Joanna said in her defence.

  Charlotte gave her a long, assessing look. ‘It doesn’t pay to become too familiar with servants, dear, and she still can help with Toby.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I can’t afford to pay Mrs Bates. I have nothing myself now so we’re on an equal footing.’

  ‘Nonsense. Class comes from family connection, not from the size of one’s bank account. Anyone who thinks differently has no class, at all.’ She sniffed. ‘Clara Morcant is a perfect example of that.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Clara was an actress in a travelling show when she met Lucian Morcant. He was a nice man, but a fool who was easily taken in, and she had her eye on the main chance. Oliver is just like his father. Take my word for it. Mrs Bates will be happy to work for bed and board if n
ecessary.’

  Joanna chuckled. ‘You’re an awful snob sometimes, Grandmother Darsham.’

  ‘I know. And I’m now Grandmother Scott, since Thaddeus and I were wed just a few days ago; though where my husband is at this moment, I’m not at all sure. Probably at the quay, watching the ships come in and go out. I think he’s going to find retirement hard.’

  Joanna kissed Charlotte’s cheek. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘I am very happy.’ A slightly smug smile touched Charlotte’s mouth and her pale blue eyes began to sparkle. ‘Thaddeus Scott has turned out to be a surprising man. I wish I’d married him years ago instead of mourning John Darsham for all those years in so noble a manner. Such a waste of time, since dead is dead, and no amount of wishing will bring them back.’ Her eyes engaged Joanna’s. ‘You’re young, Joanna. Don’t allow your love for Alex to blind you to the good qualities of other men.’

  ‘My feelings are too raw to contemplate another man in my life yet, and I have Toby to raise.’

  ‘Grieve then, but don’t make a virtue of your widowhood, as I did.’ Charlotte gazed at Toby, who’d begun to wriggle in his mother’s arms and voice a protest at being ignored. ‘He looks as if he needs a nap. You know where your rooms are, don’t you? Come down to the drawing room when you’re ready, my dear, and we’ll have some tea.’

  Joanna fed Toby and placed him in the cradle that had once been hers, rocking it with her foot, as Joseph Rushmore had once done with her. Joseph hadn’t been her real pa, though. A man with a wife but no children of his own, the stonecutter had found her secured in the cradle as it was tossed in the stormy waves off the Portland coast, twenty years before.

  ‘’Twas guided by the spirit of a dead sailor whose soul had entered a seagull,’ her beloved pa had said, and Joanna had since come to believe that the gull had been the spirit of the master of the ship she’d been travelling on, Captain Lucian Morcant.

  Joseph Rushmore had taken her home to his wife, to be loved and cared for. He was a man Joanna remembered with affection for the warmth and security of his love, though he’d died when she was young. Although he’d been in the wrong to keep her, Joanna couldn’t think ill of him.