Where Seagulls Soar (5 page)

‘You’re a wind-ship sailor,’ the ship owner said to Oliver. ‘Get yourself an engineering degree and I might have something for you. If I hear of an opening anywhere
I’ll let Alex know.’ His eyes shifted. ‘It might serve you better to try another port.’

Oliver looked disappointed.

Alexander shrugged. He was feeling restless and needed to release some tension after a week behind his desk poring over figures and trying to make sense of them. ‘It’s early days
yet. Let’s go to the theatre. There’s a new revue being touted at the
Pantheon
. I wouldn’t mind seeing it.’

‘I can’t afford theatres.’

Alex took some money from his pocket book and stuffed it in Oliver’s pocket. ‘Now you can.’

They were late for the start, but managed to get a table near the stage, and bought an overpriced bottle of wine. The night was balmy, and the room so filled with noise and smoke it was a wonder
the actresses could be heard, or the dancers find the breath needed to fuel their energetic efforts.

In the interval the roof was wound back to loud cheers. Debris showered the patrons, but the night was filled with stars. There were several catcalls until a row of dancers trooped on to the
stage, holding huge fans made of feathers.

In the mood to unwind, Alex put his fingers to his lips and gave a strident whistle. Sally O’Leary was in the line-up, a woman whose favours he’d enjoyed in the past. Sally peeled
off her glove, came to the front of the stage and dropped it into his lap. ‘Who’s your friend, Alex?’

‘My brother, Captain Oliver Morcant.’

She dropped the other glove in the grinning Oliver’s lap and blew him a kiss. ‘Get Alex to bring you backstage afterwards, sailor. We’re having a party.’

She’d hardly got back in line when the orchestra began to play. In unison, the girls slowly brought their fans up their bodies, exposing a length of naked thigh.

A roar of approval went through the audience. As the dancers began to twist and turn, feathers floated through the air.

Alex hadn’t intended to be unfaithful to Joanna. He’d drunk too much over the course of the show, and he consumed more at the backstage party.

Oliver had disappeared into the dim recesses of the theatre with Sally O’Leary and Alex had been led to one of the private boxes with a pert piece of goods called Bridie Johnson.

Dressed in nothing but a flimsy robe over a spangled but grubby corset and chemise, Bridie gave him a wide and inviting smile, then proceeded to divest him of his coat and trousers. She threw
his garments over the chair. Her hands cupped him. ‘There’s a nice big boy,’ she cooed, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Her robe fell open, her body smelled of sweat and musk.

‘I’m married,’ he said defensively and rather ineffectually, for the pertinent part of him responded to her attention and surged into her hands. Even so, he didn’t find
the woman particularly attractive.

Placing a finger over his lips she said, ‘Shush . . . I won’t tell anybody.’

She was an expert at arousing a man, and was willing to be used. Her price was modest. Alex thought of Joanna, clean smelling, willing and responsive, of the way her teasing kisses turned into
passion. Fuelled by the image of her, he used Bridie with reckless abandon, but fell short at the end. He felt none of the ecstasy he enjoyed with Joanna, just the relief of releasing his immediate
need. He felt disgust when she bucked and squealed noisily in faked delight.

He paid the girl what she asked and, feeling soiled, declined a second ride.

‘I have a baby at home to support,’ she told him as she went in search of a better prospect.

The pain in his guts began to gnaw at him. ‘So have I,’ he muttered guiltily.

He dressed and waited for Oliver in the foyer, where several posters advertised coming attractions. Zanders Cavara, the mesmerist from Cuba, with his wild eyes and even wilder hair, seemed to
display a tendency towards lunacy. There was an Indian maiden called Little Lone Star, with her famous dancing stallion, Cherokee. Straight from the American West.

Turning his head to one side, Alex examined the underside of the horse more closely. When Oliver turned up, looking happy and relaxed, Alex asked for a second opinion. ‘You’ve been
to America. Does that horse look like a stallion to you?’

‘Not yet.’ Oliver took the stump of a pencil from his pocket, licked the end and industriously added the required appendage. ‘There, that’s better.’

‘Very realistic, if rather on the large side.’

‘I used myself as a model,’ Oliver said with studied modesty.

Alex punched him on the arm and grinned. ‘Let’s go home.’ He was beginning to wonder how he’d face Joanna in the morning.

The brothers made their way home unsteadily, their footsteps lit by a white moon riding high in the sky. Alex was obliged to heave into the gutter a couple of times.

‘Cheap booze and loose women,’ Oliver said sympathetically, thumping him on the back as if trying to empty him out. ‘There’s nothing worse for a man, but if you’d
gone to sea at an early age you’d have learned how to handle both.’

The pain in Alex’s stomach grew worse. As his hands clutched over the site of it, he promised himself he’d do what Joanna had told him to do – visit a doctor in the
morning.

When they arrived home the house was in darkness, except for an oil lamp, which had been left burning low in the hall. He gave it to Oliver to hold.

Somehow, they managed to make it upstairs without making an unholy noise.

Entering Toby’s room, Alex gazed down at his son. The boy’s sweet, innocent face was washed by moonlight. Such a beautiful gift Joanna had given him. For some reason he felt like
crying, but his mouth trembled into a smile.

Joanna was asleep in the room next door. Her hair was spread all about her on the pillow. Gently, he touched her cheek, wishing there had been no tonight.

He felt ashamed of himself. If he got in beside her she would turn into his arms. He would make love to her gently, so her body was unresisting and open to him, and she wouldn’t wake until
they reached the moment of climax.

When the pain clawed savagely at him, he was hard pushed not to gasp. Perspiration soaked through him. He could smell the cheap scent of the dancer on his body, and knew he wouldn’t touch
Joanna again until he’d bathed.

Not that he could have touched her, with the severe pain he was suffering at that moment. Leaving the bedroom he crept into the room across the hall, the one Charlotte Darsham always used when
she visited the Southwark house. The bed had a mattress, but no sheets.

There was a blanket in a cupboard. Divesting himself of his clothes, he pulled it over himself and lay down. Drawing up his knees he hugged his aching stomach.

On the river, a steam tug hooted.

Alex was nearly asleep when he thought he heard someone groan.

He opened his eyes. A charcoal dawn was creeping through the gap between the curtains. He lay in the dampness of his own sweat, in so much pain that the intensity of it scared him. His body was
on fire.

‘Joanna,’ he whispered, because that was all he could do, even though his body was screaming.

There was another groan, louder this time. It was coming from his own mouth. He began to sink into unconsciousness, yet could still feel the agony of it. He didn’t know how long it went
on, the agony and the groaning.

There came the patter of bare feet.

‘Alex! Oh, my dearest. How long have you been like this! Oliver, come quickly. Help me!’

Oliver’s voice. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I don’t know.’ A cool hand was laid against his brow. ‘He’s burning up. Mrs Bates, fetch me a bowl of water and a flannel. Oliver, go and tell the doctor to come
as fast as he’s able.’

She sat there, bathing his face, his beautiful Joanna, her blue eyes filled with anxiety. Nobody had ever loved him before, and he’d let her down.

‘I’m sorry, Joanna,’ he muttered. ‘You won’t stop loving me, will you?’

‘Hush, Alex. How could I ever stop loving you? Sleep if you can. I’ll look after you until you’re better.’

He heard Toby rattling the bars on his cot. Soon, his son would roar for his breakfast.

Alex sensed rather than saw Joanna leave. The initial demanding roar turned into chuckles. After a moment came the reassuring rustle of her skirt. He opened his eyes. Seated in a chair next to
the bed, she suckled their child at her breast.

Her blue gaze was fixed on him, though. Tears trembled on her dark lashes. She looked beautiful with their son’s head held against her breast. Joanna and Toby were the best thing that had
ever happened in his life.

‘I love you, Joanna,’ he whispered, and tried to smile.

The doctor had purged Alex with a dose of laxative, and had given him a generous amount of laudanum to ease his pain.

That had been the night before. He’d slept a little during the night, but the effects of the treatment had exhausted him. Grey faced, he lay in his own sweat, too tired to do anything but
whimper.

Worried almost to the point of sickness herself, Joanna fed Toby and gave him to Mrs Bates to mind. As she bathed her husband’s heated body with lukewarm water to cool him, she noticed his
stomach was swollen and rigid. His teeth suddenly began to chatter, his body to shiver violently.

She abandoned the task of bathing him, instead tucking the blanket back up under his chin. Soon he broke out in a sweat again and began to mutter.

‘I’ve sent Oliver to fetch the doctor again, my love,’ she told him, but Alex didn’t respond to her voice.

The doctor was a long time coming.

Her observation on his tardiness was treated sternly. ‘A man can’t work on an empty stomach. I was eating my breakfast,’ he said in an entirely disapproving manner. He looked
comfortably full with his stomach bulging under his frock coat. A streak of grease smeared his collar.

‘Damn your breakfast,’ she said under her breath as he got on with his examination.

‘As I feared, peritonitis,’ the doctor informed her a few moments later. ‘His appendix has probably ruptured.’

‘Will my husband be all right?’

He avoided her eyes and rocked back and forth on his heels. For some reason he consulted his watch, sliding the heavy gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and flicking open the cover with
his thumb. He closed it with a click. ‘I’ve done all I can for him.’

Which was exactly nothing, she thought.

‘He needs a surgeon now, I’m afraid.’

He
was afraid. A thrill of fear ran through her as she exchanged a glance with Oliver. ‘He’s in so much pain already. Is it necessary? I don’t want him to be
hurt.’

The doctor said loftily, ‘My dear woman, he will be under anaesthesia. I assure you, your husband won’t feel any pain during the procedure, for he’ll be in a deep sleep. Come
to the hospital tomorrow. It should be over by then.’

Joanna was vaguely aware that anaesthesia was a state of unconsciousness brought about by the inhalation of poisonous vapours. If it would ease Alex’s pain during the operation she was
thankful.

A horse-drawn ambulance came an hour later. Two men carried Alex down the stairs on a stretcher. He groaned at even the slightest jolt. Stooping to kiss his cheek, she wondered if he could hear
her when she said, ‘I’ll be praying for you, my love.’

Oliver put a comforting arm around her shoulder, pulling her to one side as the door closed behind the men. ‘I’ll go to the hospital after I’ve told my mother the news.
I’ll stay with him.’

‘Would you also tell the company lawyer and Henry Wetherall?’ she asked him.

He nodded. ‘Try not to worry too much, Joanna. Alex is strong. I’ll let you know how he is.’

‘Thank you. I’d appreciate it.’

As the vehicle trundled off, Joanna burst into tears. An uneasy and frightening thought had surfaced that Alex had disappeared from her life for ever.

It was a long day. Toby picked up on her edginess and became fractious. Outside, the weather turned gloomy, the sky was low with clouds, the day damp and drizzly.

Joanna tried to keep herself busy. She cleaned the drawing room and hall, scrubbing with a stiff brush, so her hands became red and blistered, her knees sore. As she wandered through the house
that had once belonged to her father, cleaning the dull mirrors and removing the dust, she remembered to pray for Alex. But there was resentment in her that somebody with his strength could
suddenly become so weak.

‘What sort of God makes people suffer for no reason?’ she shouted out in frustration, and her voice woke Toby from his nap. She snuggled her son against her, wondering if Alex was
being punished for the sin of conceiving their beloved son out of wedlock.

Oliver hadn’t returned by evening. Joanna had forgotten she’d invited Tilda and David Lind to dinner. When she opened the door to their knock later in the day, her face crumpled as
she said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Whatever is the matter, Joanna?’ Tilda said immediately.

‘It’s Alex. He’s ill. They took him to the hospital this morning and I’m worried sick. The doctor said he’s suffering from something called peritonitis. He told me
to visit the hospital in the morning, but it’s so hard waiting. I forgot you were coming to dinner. What must you think of me?’

Tilda took her in her arms. ‘Hush, Joanna. I’ll think of you as I always have, that you’re my friend and I love you. I’ll talk to Mrs Bates, see what’s in the
larder, for you need to eat something yourself. Where’s Toby?’

‘I’ve fed him and put him to bed. There’s a pot of soup in the kitchen, I think. Oh, I can’t think of food. I’m too worried about Alex.’

David’s smile had faded. ‘I’ll go to the hospital and see what I can find out, if that will help.’

He was back within an hour, his face so grave that Joanna knew that her worst nightmare had come true.

‘Alex is dead, isn’t he?’ she said dully.

‘I’m afraid so, my dear. I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

The world seemed to retreat from her. The tick of the clock sounded loud, like Alex’s heartbeat against her ear after they made love.
Dead! Dead!
She couldn’t believe
it.’