Where Seagulls Soar (26 page)

‘Yes, it all went quite smoothly. Rushmore did his job, and I’ve come to pay . . .’

There came the sound of servants talking together and a rattle of china on a tray from the kitchen. They’d be bringing her husband his afternoon tea. The clock chimed four. Constance
hadn’t been outside for over a week. Red and suffocating, the house pressed in on her.

She backed away from the study door. Taking her warm cape from the hallstand she secured it about her shoulders. They shouldn’t part a child from its mother and she wasn’t going to
allow them to get away with it. Letting herself out, Constance closed the front door quietly behind her.

The sky was beginning to darken, the air had a damp chill to it, yet it was invigorating after the atmosphere in the house. She decided not to go to Seth Adams’s office, for the district
it was situated in was unsafe for an unaccompanied woman, especially when darkness had fallen. Besides, he had given her his card and told her to call on him if she needed help, and his house was
closer.

Constance hurried through the cold and damp streets, hoping she’d find him at home and could get her business over with quickly. A clammy fog was creeping in from the river. She must get
back before her husband discovered she was missing, for she was not allowed out without his permission.

Joanna happened to be crossing the hall when Constance arrived on the doorstep. She waved the servant away and opened the door herself.

The woman standing there seemed agitated. ‘I must see Mr Adams. I can’t wait. If my husband discovers I’m not at home he’ll be furious.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Adams is out.’ After satisfying herself that the woman looked respectable, Joanna allowed her into the hall. ‘I’m Joanna Morcant. And you are . .
.?’

‘Constance Charsford. I’m married to Barnard Charsford, who is Mr Adams’s brother.’ Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘You’re her, aren’t you . . . the
boy’s mother?’

Joanna only just stopped herself from grabbing the woman by the throat and shaking her. ‘You know where my son is?’

‘I overheard Lord Durrington talking to my husband. He said he had the boy.’

Joanna stared at her, her blood running cold. ‘Your husband is involved in his disappearance? Does Mr Adams know?’

‘Of course he does.’ She jumped when a door closed upstairs. ‘I must go. My husband will be incensed if he discovers I’m not home, especially since it’s
dark.’

The woman was as nervous as a cat, and Joanna could sympathize with her. ‘I’ll ask one of the manservants to accompany you. Thank you for coming. I’ll make sure Mr Adams gets
your message.’

Constance Charsford stepped forward and did something totally unexpected. She hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I do hope your son is found safely. My husband sent mine away when
they were very small, to be looked after by servants in the country. I rarely see them.’

A man appeared, seemingly out of the shadows. Powerful looking, he was dressed in street clothes. Joanna didn’t know what his role in the household was.

‘Are you going somewhere, Bart? Would you escort Mrs Charsford home?’

‘I’d be pleased to, since it’s on my way.’ He gazed at her, a warning in his eyes. ‘I advise you to stay indoors, Mrs Morcant. Make sure you lock the door after us.
I’ll be back before too long, most likely with Mr Adams.’

After the door closed behind them, Joanna pulled her shawl around her. She wasn’t going to wait for Seth, since he’d only prevent her from doing what she was about to do – go
to Durrington’s house and demand her son back.

Yellow fog crept around her feet as she hurried through the dark streets, her anger keeping her warm. Seth had forgotten to tell her that his brother was involved in the kidnapping of her son.
Damn him to hell!
He’d deceived her.

She lost her way twice as the fog thickened, but eventually found herself standing outside Lord Durrington’s imposing residence. That her own safety might be jeopardized didn’t even
occur to her.

Marching up the front steps she pounded her fists on the door. It was opened almost immediately. ‘Where’s Lord Durrington?’ she shouted at the hall servant, and pushed past him
into the hallway. ‘Tell him I’m here to collect my son.’

A hand closed around her arm. ‘Hey, you can’t come marching in here like this. Get out before I throw you down the steps.’

A door opened and somebody asked, ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

‘There’s a woman here, demanding to see Lord Durrington.’

‘Is there, by God?’ Bisley’s head appeared and he smiled. ‘Ah, it’s Mrs Morcant. Lord Durrington is out at the moment. Would you like to wait? You can keep me
company.’

‘I’d prefer not to. I’m here for my son, and I’m not leaving without him.’

‘You seem distraught, my dear. Is there anyone I can inform of your whereabouts?’

Remembering Seth telling her his address was to be kept secret, she bit down on her tongue. Not that he deserved any consideration, but there was dear little Kate to think of.

‘Nobody knows I’m here.’

Bisley dismissed the servant and came towards her, his perfect features moulding his smooth, dark skin. It was somehow sinister, that fine-boned, cruelly feline face with its barbarian nose. He
gazed down at her, unblinking. ‘You really shouldn’t have come here, Joanna.’

‘I’m not frightened of you,’ she lied, aware of the tremor in her voice.

‘That’s something I must rectify.’ His hand gripped her elbow and he propelled her towards the room he’d just emerged from. ‘Come, take a glass of absinthe with me
and we’ll discuss the situation. Tell me, is Seth Adams advising you in this matter?’

‘I’m not telling you anything. I’ll wait for Lord Durrington.’

‘I think not, my dear.’ He closed the door and locked it, coming towards her with a smile on his face. Then his hand whipped up and he backhanded her. The force of it sent Joanna
staggering sideways to the floor.

Seth was furious. Just as everything was falling into place, Joanna Morcant had disappeared from his house.

‘What did Mrs Charsford tell her?’ he asked Bart Seager, a colleague whose services he used on occasions when he needed an extra pair of ears and hands.

‘That Durrington has the boy. I tried to discover a little more as I was taking Mrs Charsford home, but she was too frightened of getting caught and she clammed up.’

‘Constance is a brave woman. A pity she’s married to Barnard, who is too grasping for his own good. He’s always been a bully and a boor but I’m surprised to discover how
dishonest he’s become in his pursuit of money. If anything untoward happens to Joanna or her child he’ll be brought to account, by hell he will.’

‘I should have kept a better eye on her.’

‘Neither of us can be in two places at once, Bart. My guess is she’s gone to confront Durrington with all guns blazing. In this fog she could have walked straight into the river. I
suppose I’ll have to go looking for her.’

‘You won’t get very far, since you can’t see your hand in front of your face out there.’

‘I’ll have to wait until morning, then. I swear, Bart. When I get her back I’m going to beat her backside until she can’t sit on it for a week.’

‘You wouldn’t beat dust from a carpet, and I’m damned sure you could think of better things do with a backside like Joanna Morcant’s,’ Bart said, and grinned.

Constance had left her escort at the end of the road. Too frightened to go inside, she stood in the fog for a while. Relieved to find the hallway unoccupied when she finally
ventured into her own home, she gave a sigh of relief as she shed her cape and bonnet. Thinking that her little escapade had gone undetected, she smiled to herself as she hurried upstairs to ready
herself for dinner.

There she found Barnard waiting, his knees slightly apart, his bulging stomach resting on his thighs. There was an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Where have you been, Mrs
Charsford?’

How she loathed him. The thought swelled up inside her, overriding her fright, and giving her courage. She’d never felt so powerful before and spoke without caution. ‘I needed some
fresh air.’

‘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.