The Seekers (30 page)

Lightning glowed. Harriet’s cheeks looked sweaty as she hung on the rail at the fifth riser, trying to locate her husband in the gloom of the lower hall. The wind played with distant doors,
crash
and
crash.
In Gilbert’s old room, Jared’s incoherent voice grew strident.

“Help me, Gilbert!” Harriet cried. “You can’t let that filthy creature touch the child—”

Four steps above, Abraham spun around.

A drunken feeling overwhelmed Gilbert as he staggered around the shards of glass and the spilled rum. His pulse raced. His head buzzed. It was as if he had taken some unfamiliar drug that had coursed through his bloodstream in seconds, affecting his mind—

In the next burst of lightning, he saw Abraham’s wrathful face.

“Such concern!” Abraham jumped down two steps, to tower over Harriet. “Such sudden and unexpected concern for a boy you’ve treated like scum. You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe your little turnabout.”

Harriet cringed away. “You depraved, bestial—”

“You’re contemptible!” Abraham roared. “You pretend to protect Jared so you can revenge yourself on me! The worst dock whore has better morals than you, woman!”

At the foot of the stairs, Gilbert clenched his hands. The wild, dizzy feeling increased. Frustration and fear edged his voice. “I don’t care for your language, Abraham. This is Harriet’s house, and if she wants you to keep away from the boy—”

“The boy is my
son!
”

Abraham whirled and started upward again. Harriet let go of the railing, groped toward him, managed to catch one of his boots.

“I won’t let your diseased hands touch—”

Abraham twisted, kicking out the leg Harriet clutched. Gilbert leaped forward, trying to catch her even as he realized he was in the wrong position. Harriet sagged, tumbled down the stairs, struck his legs and sprawled. She shrieked.

Then, panting, she still managed to wrench her head around, seeking Abraham, blue-limned a few steps above. “You—seem to have—a skill—for harming—women with unborn children—”

“
Goddamn
you!” Abraham howled, rushing down at her. He shoved Gilbert aside, bent and lashed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Gilbert heard the sickening thump as her head hit a riser. She arched her spine, dug fingers into the lavender fabric of her gown. She slid to the hall floor and lay there, eyes closed as she hugged her heaving belly.

Abraham’s mouth dropped open, as if he himself were stunned by what he’d done. He stumbled down one step, one more. Incoherent emotion destroyed Gilbert’s reason. He
knew
Abraham was going to strike her again—

He spun and ran.

In the front sitting room, lightning guided him to the mantel. He jerked the French sword from its pegs. He never recalled returning to the hall, was only peripherally aware of colliding with a woman. A face distorted by fright swam in lamplight as he passed in a rush—

Abraham crouched by Harriet, the sore-marked hand moving toward cheeks that glistened with perspiration. Harriet moaned, struggled to roll out of his reach. Gilbert raised the sword.

“Get away from her!”

“Gilbert, I’m sorry. I—”

“You’d better do as I say!”

“Don’t be a damned fool. Put that sword down. Give me a hand with her—”

“Don’t touch her!”
Gilbert cried. Lightning lit the sword as it slashed down, cutting edge foremost.

The maid with the lamp uttered a cry of alarm. Abraham tried to scramble out of the way, banged against the wall of the staircase, wrenched his head aside—

The blade hacked his left cheek, glanced off.

Abraham swore, jerking his head back and cracking it on the wall. He shot a hand out, clamped Gilbert’s sword arm in a tight grip. The sword fell with a clatter.

The left side of his face streaming blood, Abraham pushed Gilbert hard. Gilbert nearly fell over the maid, who was kneeling beside Harriet.

The hall seemed to tilt as Gilbert skidded, windmilling his arms to regain his balance. His mind cried his anguish:
What has happened in this house? WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Unreasoning terror had driven him to attack—he, Gilbert Kent, who had never used a weapon in his life. The kneeling maid pressed her hand to Harriet’s stomach. Ashen, she turned to search the hall’s darkness.

“Mr. Gilbert? I think—I think the child is coming.”

Gilbert lunged to the dining room door. “Esther?
Esther—!
”

A faint voice replied from the rear of the house, “Yes, sir, what is it? I’m coming—”

“Run for Dr. Selkirk—
run!
”

“Yes, sir, at once—”

Someone slipped past him. The front door banged.

Gilbert wiped sweat from his eyes. Took one shaky step toward Harriet’s convulsing body.

“Let’s move her to the sitting room—”

“I think we’d best not move her at all,” the maid said.

Slowly, Gilbert raised his head. His eyes sought his half brother on the stairway. The maid had set her lamp on the floor. Abraham was visible at the edge of the circle of light, his bearded cheek bloody and one hand as well. He’d touched the deep cut.

That same hand left wet red marks on the wall as he braced himself, then started upstairs.

Gilbert shouted his name.

Abraham turned. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“Get out.”

“Gilbert—”

“Leave this house. I’ve never harmed a living creature in my life, but if you don’t go I’ll pick up that sword and do my best to kill you.”

Abraham started to answer. His dark eyes welled with a grief Gilbert perceived only dimly, and responded to not at all.

Thunder muttered. Lightning flickered. A second lamp was placed beside the first; another servant had come to help.

Gilbert couldn’t bear to look at his wife more than a moment. His mind bore an image of white hands pressing against the great lump of her stomach—

Abraham’s beard glistened with little drops of blood. He bobbed his head suddenly, left a red handprint on the railing as he resumed his climb to the second floor. On the landing, the ball of lamplight shone again. The unseen maid had rushed back from Jared’s room.

“Leave
now!
” Gilbert demanded.

“I want my son.”

He kept on, dragging himself almost as Harriet had, his reddened fingers smearing the railing. Gilbert darted for the fallen sword.

Bent over, he checked, straightened, glimpsed a pale oval at the top of the stairs, recognized Jared’s face lit by the serving girl’s lamp.

Abraham kept climbing toward the boy, his bloodied hand outstretched. “Jared, come to me. We’re leaving—”

Two steps below the landing, he closed his hand on the boy’s gray ankle-length nightshirt. Suddenly Jared seemed to comprehend the meaning of the great red stains on the staircase wall and railing. He jerked back, cowering against the maid’s skirt.

His sudden movement startled Abraham. He let go of the boy’s garment. He and his son both looked down at the same time.

Jared’s nightshirt was sticky with blood.

The boy flung his arms around the maid’s legs, closed his eyes and screamed.

Abraham shouted at the boy—what, Gilbert couldn’t hear above the thunder and Harriet’s sudden wail and Jared’s too. Again Abraham tried to touch his son. The boy literally flung himself away into the darkness. His shrieking rose and rose, a mindless keen—

Abraham’s red-slimed hand was still stretched out toward the vanished boy. Dully, he blinked at it. A peculiar guttural noise tore out of his throat. He peered into the gloom of the landing. “Jared—?”

In a hushed voice, the maid with the lamp said,
“For pity’s sake, sir! Leave the poor child alone!”

A last, low-pitched mutter of thunder died across the night sky. Gilbert leaned weakly against the pillar at the foot of the staircase. Abraham’s hand fell to his side, staining his breeches. His shoulders slumped. He turned and came down the stairs, one slow step at a time.

Gilbert’s head snapped up, his dark eyes venomous. But they found no venom in Abraham’s as the latter went by—only dull horror and shame—

Gilbert pivoted slowly, his malevolent stare following his half brother. Abraham reached the front door. Opened it, leaving a last bloodstain. He stumbled down the steps in the pouring rain, lit in bluish silhouette for a heartbeat’s time—

The lightning faded and he was lost from view.

Slumped in the chair beside his desk, Gilbert heard the library doors open.

On Beacon Street, the first glow of dawn reflected from wet cobblestones. He smelled his own sour sweat. Glanced up to see portly Doctor Selkirk rolling down his sleeves.

“There seems to be no injury to your wife, Mr. Kent.”

Gilbert pushed up from the desk. It was an effort to speak calmly. “Is she resting?”

“Quite comfortably. It wasn’t an easy delivery, but I’m happy to say it was a successful one.”

Gilbert almost wept. “The baby is—?”

“Alive. Alive and nicely swaddled by two of your household women.” Selkirk, a middle-aged man with a lined face, covered a yawn. “The child is slightly underweight, as frequently happens in terms which are prematurely completed. Other than that, there are no problems. You may congratulate yourself on having fathered a splendid daughter.”

Weak, Gilbert sank into the chair. “God, that’s good news. Thank you, Doctor.”

Selkirk drew on his coat. “I’ll catch a bit of sleep, then come back. Meantime, I suggest you have that gruesome mess in the hallway cleaned up. While it’s none of my affair, I’m curious as to who bled so badly.”

Gilbert’s mouth had a dry, metallic taste. Sleepless for the entire night, he felt a hundred years old as he answered, “I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

Selkirk shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned, ready to leave.

“Doctor—”

“Yes?”

“Did you look at the boy?”

“I did. He was talking—or, to be more precise, raving. About someone being hurt.”

“You mean bloodied?”

“He didn’t use the word. That was my inference, however.”

“Did he—did he speak of his father?”

“As I indicated,
speak
is hardly the correct term. Surely you heard his outcries?” Gilbert nodded. “I had trouble making sense out of them. Sometimes the boy seemed to be referring to a man who was hurt. At other times, unless I misheard, it was a woman. He was asking one or both to get up.”

“Did he mention my wife’s name?”

“No. He used the word mother once. I know his mother’s dead—did the boy ever see her injured?”

Hoarsely, Gilbert said, “Yes.”

“Obviously it left him disturbed. Whatever happened here tonight exacerbated the situation, I suspect. I dosed the boy with an opiate tincture. He’s sleeping now. May I take the liberty of asking the whereabouts of his father?”

“I don’t know his whereabouts.”

“I gather he’s not in the house—”

“That’s correct.”

“Will he be returning?”

“Not if I have any say.” Concern for Abraham had disappeared in that moment when Abraham sent Harriet tumbling to the bottom of the stairs.

Outside, a produce cart clattered by. The two countrymen riding the cart were arguing about how much to charge for their cabbages at the day’s market. Dr. Selkirk arranged his lacy stock, rolled his tongue inside his lower lip, then overcame his hesitancy.

“If I may make another comment, Mr. Kent—”

Gilbert looked at him.

“It is my conclusion that the boy—Jared is his name?”

“Yes, Jared.”

“While I don’t know all the circumstances behind his emotional condition, his behavior is far from normal. I believe he needs very careful attention. Affection. A feeling of security to overcome his fears. A new baby in the household will be taxing for you and your wife. It might be advisable to have his father look after him—”

“I’ll see to Jared’s care, Doctor.”

“But—”

“Thank you, doctor. Good day.”

Looking baffled, Selkirk retired, closing the library doors. Gilbert laid his arms on the desk and rested his head for perhaps five minutes.

Then, by an act of will, he raised his head. His eyes accidentally touched the painting of Philip Kent.

Gilbert wished that he had as much courage and strength as that face suggested. Last night he had discovered a capability for blind rage and violence he had never suspected he possessed. The discovery—and the entire night—had been shattering. Abraham fled; Jared terrified and drugged to sleep; his wife delivered of the baby too soon—

He was deeply ashamed of his failure to cope with all that had happened. Ashamed too of his role in precipitating some of it—

A new thought popped into his mind. What would they call the child?

He was too weary to think about it. He slumped at the desk while the dawn brightened the ceiling and suffused the face of his father with light.

Philip couldn’t help him. He was the one who would have to deal with all the problems sure to arise from the tragic events that had taken place in the house.

But his confidence had been shaken. He wasn’t sure he could.

On a steamy morning in the first week of August, Gilbert Kent—more haggard of late than his employees had ever seen him—looked up from some copy he was editing. The story dealt with progress in the construction of Boston’s first Roman Catholic church, due to be completed and dedicated in September.

The reporter, Phineas Morecam, stood at the open door.

“Yes, Mr. Morecam? Any news?”

“No, sir, it’s the same as the last five days in a row: The boys we hired spent all night combing the docks. The whole blasted city, in fact, from Roxbury to the North End. There’s no sign of Mr. Abraham.”

“Damn!” Gilbert tossed his quill aside. “How difficult is it to locate one man? Especially a man clearly marked by a wound on his left cheek?”

Morecam looked gloomy. “There are plenty of fellows who carry scars, sir. I hear that complaint from the boys practically every morning.”

“But how many of those men will answer to the name Kent?”

“I know, sir—it should be easy. But it’s not proving so. Maybe he’s not giving his proper name.”