Where Seagulls Soar

by Janet Woods

  ‘You didn’t seek my permission to leave the house.’

  ‘I was going to but I heard you talking to someone in your study . . . Lord Durrington, I believe. Besides, I’m not a prisoner, am I?’

  When his smile was replaced by an expression of alarm, she experienced a little flare of triumph. Good, she’d rattled him

  ‘Did you overhear the conversation between myself and Lord Durrington?’

  Constance thought fast, then kept her voice deliberately vague. ‘You were discussing a play, I believe . . . ah, yes, he said you would have enjoyed the performance.’

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t like to think my wife would eavesdrop on my business conversations, since I’m associated with powerful men who would expect – no, demand my discretion.’

  How discreet was it to ruin young girls who were just emerging from childhood? Discretion would certainly be required by someone who held himself up to be a pillar of society – a man who deprived children of their mothers and mothers of their children. Men like her husband should be lined up against a wall and shot. How she despised him.

  Just daring to think such a thought was so liberating that she wanted to laugh from the freedom she felt. Why not laugh? she thought, so she did, but it came out as a nervous titter. Afterwards, she stared at him in defiance. Then, from behind his back he brought out the cane he used to humiliate her with.

  ‘From now on you will remember to ask my permission before leaving the house. Ready yourself for punishment, Mrs Charsford.’

  Punishment usually consisted of stripping down to her drawers and bending over the back of the chair while he beat her repeatedly with the cane and called her insulting names. He raised welts and bruises and sometimes drew blood, but never where it was visible to others.

  Sometimes, if he was in a particularly aggressive mood . . .? Constance tried not to think of that particular humiliation. The name calling of whore and slut while he expended himself on her like a dog was the most vile punishment for her. Since Constance had no choice but to obey her husband, she took pleasure from the fact that he lacked the self-discipline to control his disgusting urges.

  What if she refused to accept punishment? Her unexpected rebellion against his treatment surprised even her, and her heart began to beat very fast. Surely it couldn’t make matters any worse since she already lived like a prisoner in her own home – a home her dowry had brought to the marriage.

  ‘If you cane me again I’ll go to the police and tell them you assaulted me,’ she said quite clearly, and her heart was pounding now.

  ‘What, you dare to defy me!’ he roared, and he thumped his fist on the table, setting the crystal beads on the lampshade tinkling, and making her jump.

  Constance backed away from him as he advanced on her, so incensed that foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. She shouted, ‘I’ll tell the police you helped abduct a child, too.’

  He stopped, his hand still raised, staring at her while colour ebbed from his face. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Joanna Morcant’s son.’

  He threw the cane aside and thundered, ‘What do you know of the matter?’

  ‘That you arranged it. You’re a fool, Barnard. That woman isn’t like me – too frightened to demand that I be allowed to bring up my own sons. I hope Joanna Morcant pursues all those involved in his abduction, and I hope she exposes every one of you.’

  As Barnard stepped closer the unpleasant smile returned. ‘My, what a loyal wife I have. So, you’re prepared to see your husband go to prison.’

  ‘Yes, and hang by the neck until dead. I’d even travel to Newgate to watch the event myself, unless . . .’ Giddy with the euphoria of being liberated from her fear of him, Constance scooped in a breath and completed her sentence. ‘Unless I’m allowed to go and live with my sons.’

  ‘My sons, Mrs Charsford. You were merely the vessel who carried them for me.’

  Her husband turned away. Thinking he was about to leave she relaxed, and was unprepared when he snatched up the heavy brass poker and swung around again.

  She raised her hands, heard the splat of metal against flesh as she tried to defend herself. Pain shot through one arm as it fell to her side. Her heart began to flutter and all strength suddenly left her when a second blow smashed against the side of her head.

  When Barnard had expended his rage sufficiently, he stared down at Constance, lying so still on the floor. Panic rapidly set in. What the hell had he done? He’d killed her! The panic was replaced by animal cunning. They’d hang him for this. But not if he made it resemble an accident, he told himself.

  He wiped the blood from the poker, then threw his handkerchief into the centre of the fire. He then arranged his wife’s body so that her head rested against the fender. As an afterthought, Barnard turned the edge of the carpet up so it looked as though she’d tripped over it and banged her head on the fender.

  Creeping down to his study he poured himself a brandy with shaking hands. His teeth chattered against the rim of the glass, unnerving him even more and causing him to spill the brandy across his desk as he found himself making terrified snivelling noises.

  Constance’s maid would find her in a minute. She’d scream and raise the whole household. Barnard could almost feel the noose tightening around his neck. Falling to his hands and knees he crawled across the room, wedging himself in a corner between two bookcases, his knees pressed against his stomach, his head down, as he used to do as a child when hiding from his father’s wrath. To his shame, he wet his trousers.

  Barnard didn’t know how long he huddled there, waiting for something to happen, but he was suddenly startled out of his funk by the dinner gong sounding in the hall.

  Nobody had seen what had occurred between himself and his wife, he told himself. He must behave as if nothing untoward had happened. He’d go into dinner, as usual, then feign annoyance at her absence and send one of the servants to look for her.

  Feeling a fool at having lost control, Barnard dusted himself down, mopped the sweat from his forehead and sucked in a few deep breaths to steady himself before going upstairs to change into dry trousers and linens.

  He took his place at the dinner table and allowed the manservant to ladle soup into his bowl. He started to eat. The soup had no taste.

  Bile rose to his throat and he threw his spoon into the bowl. Liquid splashed on to his clothing. He rubbed at it with his napkin and it came away red with her blood. He’d got some of it on him. ‘Oh God!’ he said out loud.

  The servant stared at him, puzzled.

  ‘What are you looking at? Where’s Mrs Charsford? Go and find her.’

  The door crashed open against the wall and she stood there, swaying. Ashen faced, her eyes were wide and accusing as she stared at him. Blood trickled from under her hair.

  Barnard could have screamed with the relief he felt, and had the wits to say for the servant’s benefit, ‘Constance, my dear, what has happened to you?’

  She passed a shaking hand over her brow. ‘I don’t know. I think I fell and hit my head.’

  Jubilation filled him. She couldn’t remember. He was on his feet in an instant, his arm around her. ‘Help me get her upstairs, man, then fetch Dr Phelps. He lives five houses along, so you can’t get lost in the fog.’

  He helped his wife into bed, then rang for her maid and hovered – the embodiment of the solicitous husband – while Constance was undressed and put to bed.

  He watched as the maid gently washed the blood away from the wound on her head. There was a purple bruise on his wife’s arm, where she’d tried to defend herself from him, another on her shoulder. They could be explained by the fall, he just hoped the doctor wouldn’t look at her buttocks, thighs and back.

  He crossed to Constance when the maid went to empty the bloodied water from the bowl and, hearing the heavy tread of the doctor on the stairs, whispered, ‘Are you sure you don’t remember how you hurt yourself ?’

  She gazed at him directly then, her
mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘Of course I remember. I want to see my sons, Barnard.’

  He recoiled from the hate in her eyes, saying to Phelps as he came in, ‘Mrs Charsford has fallen and hurt herself. Her mind is wandering a little, I’m afraid. I was thinking of sending her to the country to make a full recovery.’

  Constance smiled at him. ‘I’ll be pleased to reacquaint myself with our sons . . . unless they’re being kept prisoner too.’ Her words began to slur and tears rolled down her face. ‘I doubt if I’ll come back.’

  Dr Phelps nodded. ‘It does sound as though Mrs Charsford’s mind is wandering a little. Her brain might be concussed. Now, perhaps you’d prefer to go outside while I examine my patient in private. Don’t look so anxious, man. Things could be worse. At least your wife is alive and conscious.’

  Now Barnard had got over his fright, he began to wish she wasn’t, for she’d ruined a perfectly good dinner.

  Seth’s card was presented to Lord Durrington.

  ‘His lordship is too busy to see you at present,’ Bisley told him with an oily smile. ‘But he’s holding a small dinner party tomorrow evening in honour of his house guest, and has asked me to extend an invitation for you to attend.’

  ‘A m I to take it that Mrs Morcant is that house guest?’

  ‘Mrs Morcant came to us last night, looking for her lost son. She seemed to be under the impression he was here, and was quite beside herself. His lordship couldn’t send her away in her distraught condition, especially since the fog was so thick. Fortunately I was able to calm her down and she has accepted the earl’s invitation to remain here as his guest.’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you would allow me to speak to Mrs Morcant, since up until yesterday she was my house guest, and I’ve received no instruction from her that she no longer wishes to take advantage of my hospitality.’

  Bisley merely smiled. ‘May I suggest it was a poor sort of hospitality, since Mrs Morcant arrived here in an exhausted and hysterical state. She’s still asleep, and I’d prefer not to wake her. You may see her at dinner tomorrow.’

  Inwardly, Seth gave a sigh. The man was playing games with him and he wasn’t going to bite – not yet. Nodding, he made his retreat and marched over to James Stark’s office, then the pair headed towards the Joanna Rose to inform Edward Staines of the new development.

  ‘Do you think you can get her out?’ Edward asked him.

  ‘They’ll be using her son like a carrot under a donkey’s nose. If there’s the slightest whiff of them leading Joanna to Toby I doubt if she’ll listen to anyone’s counsel but her own.’

  Edward rocked on his heels. ‘If only we could get our hands on the boy first.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s still in Portland. I’m just as convinced that Durrington intends to pick the boy up before going on to Ireland.’

  ‘D’you think he’ll bring Joanna on board?’

  ‘It’s unlikely. There’s a possibility that she’ll just be made to disappear, or he’ll simply leave her behind. I’ll have to get her out of there and get her on board myself. If we use other means of travel it’s unlikely that we’ll reach Portland before you. Would you risk your employer’s wrath by hiding us, though?’

  Edward nodded, as though this sort of thing happened every day of the week. ‘Easy enough. As for my employer, since the ship is up for sale, my position is already forfeit, along with my entitlements, I’ve been led to understand.’ He gave a faint grin. ‘I’m of a mind to break the man’s balls. On a financial level, Durrington is sailing too close to the wind, I believe.’

  And his half-brother had underwritten the man. Now, that was interesting to know. Seth laughed. ‘I’m sure you could think of many ways to achieve that, especially while you have command of the ship. I understand you already have a cabin set aside for Mrs Morcant and her son.’

  Edward’s eyes flicked his way. ‘Do you?’

  Seth wouldn’t like to play cards with this man. ‘It took some persuading to get it out of Joanna, but she finally told me the truth. I’m under the impression there’s a conspiracy between the whole lot of you, too.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ James said, exchanging a grin with Edward.

  ‘Detection is my profession, gentlemen. I’ve also reached the conclusion as to why flight has become necessary.’

  ‘Have you, by God? State it, then.’

  ‘You’re a cagey bugger, aren’t you? Well, the fact is that I know Tobias Darsham is still alive. And in case you’re wondering why I’ve taken such an interest, I’ll tell you something else. I intend to pursue Joanna Morcant to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Edward grunted, exchanging a glance with James, which made Seth wonder if he’d missed something.

  ‘We understand each other, then. Can you delay the ship’s departure after Durrington’s party comes on board. Is that possible?’

  Edward gave an incredulous chuckle. ‘Not if they come on board at the last minute.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see . . . the tide.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we can’t overlook it. But there are other considerations, like being in line for the towing services.’ Edward sighed. ‘I can always delay the ship in Portland until you get there and the matter is resolved. Why don’t I just lock them in their cabins?’

  Seth viewed the captain with some alarm. ‘We don’t want him to know you’re involved. The person who’s holding Toby prisoner in Portland might decide to dispose of him if there’s a possibility that the sorry affair has been discovered.’

  Brian Rushmore was going crazy. ‘Shut that brat up, would you, Ma?’

  Fanny glared at him. ‘Ah . . . shut up yerself. The boy’s hungry. He needs some food and we haven’t got any.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to wait until it’s dark, since I can’t go out in case somebody recognizes me. Then I’ll go and pull up a few cabbages and turnips and wring the neck of a hen.’

  Leaning on the sticks she used as crutches, Fanny Rushmore made her way rapidly across the floor. She was blind in one eye and her foot was twisted under her, the result of a severe beating inflicted on her years before by her late husband, after she tried to leave him.

  ‘Get me a drop of gin while you’re out, our Brian,’ she whined. ‘I’m running short.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘Yes you have. You could sell that ring you’ve got hidden to the Barnes brothers. And you took money from that Ada Cooper, who does for me. Where is she, anyway? The child’s beginning to stink.’

  ‘I sent the nosy old witch away, so you’ll have to clean him yourself.’ Brian had in fact strangled the Cooper woman and thrown her over the cliff into the sea after she’d threatened to fetch the constable. Her body would be halfway to Ireland by now.

  ‘What did you send her away for? I can’t remember things sometimes, and I need her to fetch and carry. I’m blind and crippled, thanks to your pa. I haven’t got the strength to look after a young un.’

  ‘You never looked after us when you did have the strength, you stupid old hag.’

  ‘You show some respect when you speak to your mother, Brian Rushmore. You’re just like your pa, bad through and through. I heard about that girl you forced yourself on. ’Tis said she walks around with a mazed look on her face, and cries and trembles when a man speaks to her. Her brothers have sworn to spill your guts if they set eyes on you in these parts again, so you better watch out.’ Alarm suddenly filled her voice. ‘I thought you were in prison. Did you escape?’

  ‘They found out that somebody else hurt that girl, and they let me out.’

  Brian adjusted his crotch, cupping his genitals in his palm. He could do with a woman. He closed his eyes and thought of Joanna. She owed him one, and she’d been widowed for over a year now, so he’d heard. She would be begging to have a man between her thighs, same as him. He should have stuck it into her, right there in the yard. But she’d been unconscious and, when he did stick it in, he wanted her to know it was punishment for s
corning him all those years ago.

  His tongue slid along his lips. There were women living in the Rushmore cottage, too – a ripe pair of uppity creatures, with skin soft and fair. Not that he cared what their skin was like, only what they had under their skirts. All women were the same in that regard, only some smelled sweeter.

  There was money of his hidden in the cottage they occupied, too. While he’d been living there he’d made a hiding hole under the floorboards. There he’d stash any cash he managed to get his hands on, for he’d discovered that earning a living by stealing, was easier than fishing.

  The brat was screaming now. ‘For God’s sake, shut your face,’ he shouted. ‘See to him, Ma, before I cut his flappin’ tongue out. Give him the rest of the milk in the jug.’

  ‘It’s on the turn.’

  ‘As if I care. Give him the bleddy milk when I tell you.’

  Fanny poured the milk into a mug and took it through to the other room. The boy stopped screaming to stare sullenly at her. His nose was running, his face was flushed and he stank something rotten. Well, that couldn’t be helped, and she wasn’t going to clean up after him. Brian had brought the boy here, and Brian could look after him. Besides, he didn’t have any clothes other than what he was wearing.

  Fanny supposed she could take his reeking trousers off.

  ‘Want Mama,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t have her, you pest.’ She held out the mug. ‘Here, drink this.’

  The boy gulped the sour milk down with barely a grimace at the taste. Rivers of it ran from the side of his mouth, over his chin and down his dirty smock. Vaguely, Fanny wondered whose child it was.

  ‘Want more,’ he said holding out the mug.

  ‘Well, you bleddy well can’t have more because there isn’t any. Go to sleep.’

  ‘No! Want Mama.’ He threw the mug. It hit Fanny on the bridge of the nose and fell to the floor. She slapped his face, then spread a blanket over him and snarled, ‘Another word out of you and I’ll take a stick to your arse, you see if I don’t.’