Page 60 of The Secret Word
He came into view, stepping heavily, his face red with anger. With him came a man she had seen before, when they were negotiating the marriage agreement. Father’s lawyer. He must have been in one of the carriages. The other two burly riders were presumably still searching the bedchamber floor.
“I am Clementine Satterthwaite,” Clem said, far more calmly than she felt. “And my son and daughter are with their nursemaids. What is the meaning of this rude invasion, Father?”
“I’ll have my rights,” her father grumbled, brushing her aside to walk past her into the parlor. “Tell her, Harcourt.”
“Yes, Mr. Harcourt. Tell me what my father is about,” Clem said to the solicitor.
Mr. Harcourt would not meet her eyes as he replied. “Mr. Wright has a warrant to take custody of his grandson. He is invoking clause one hundred and thirty-seven A, subclause three of the marriage agreement, Mrs. Satterthwaite. MagistrateBrannock has found due cause to suspect you and Mr. Satterthwaite of… moral turpitude.” He mumbled the end of the sentence, but Clem understood him well enough.
“Show me,” she demanded, holding out her hand. She and Chris had discussed the moral turpitude clause, and even laughed over it. It was meant to be invoked if Father saw his grandson’s welfare being threatened, and they saw no reason to fear it.
But there it was in the warrant that Mr. Harcourt showed her. Chris’s history as an orphan in the streets and then an employee in a gambling den, their ownership of and proximity to a school that took in what the warrant called “children of the worst moral character,” the fact they had chosen Billy O’Hara as godfather, even her decision to feed the children herself. Furthermore, Chris’s horrible grandfather had denounced his grandson as a degenerate.
“And I suppose you own the magistrate,” Clem said to Father.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Father said. “Where is my grandson? I have a magistrate’s warrant and four constables to make certain you hand him over. If you do not do so, I have the right to have you arrested, and I shall do so.”
What would Chris do? He would lie, Clem decided, and if ever there was an occasion for it, it was now. Clem frowned. “But you must have seen him, Father. Did you not check the nursery?”
“He wasn’t there,” Father growled. “Neither was the female.”
Clem leapt to her feet. “My babies!” She rushed to the door, past the now-relaxed constables who did not move in time to stop her, and up the stairs. A thunder of boots behind her must have been the constables, but Clem was pretending that someone had stolen her babies from the nursery without her knowledge, and the pretense led wings to her panicked feet.
She was the first to arrive at the door of the unused nursery. She gaped at the empty cots. Was lying this easy? All you had to do was lie to yourself, first, apparently.
Turning to the constable who had crowded in behind her, she said, “They are gone! Where are my babies? You’ve taken them!”
The very real anger that fueled her acting must have shown on her face, for the men actually took a step back, and one stammered as he replied. “No, ma’am. No one was here when we checked.”
Clem took two more steps into the room, frowning. “Perhaps the maids have taken them out for some fresh air. But they did not tell me.”
Father had arrived, breathing heavily from the four flights of stairs.
“Father,” Clem said. “They are not here.”
“I told you that, stupid girl,” Father said. “Where is he? Tell me, Clementine. I have a warrant to take my grandson, and anyone who stands in my way can be arrested. Do you want to go to prison, Clementine?”
Clem was pretending to ignore him. She was hurrying around the room from place to place, channeling her very real panic into frantic movement, stroking the blankets on the cots, touching the toys on the shelves, setting the rocking horse into slow motion. “The nursemaids must have taken them out for air. Do you not think? They could not have been stolen. Who would take a baby from its own mother? What kind of monster would do such a thing?”
She turned back to the constable who had told her they’d searched the nursery. He stood with one of his colleagues, watching her, frowning as if uncomfortable. And so he should be, the dastard.
“Will you check, please? See if they are out in the garden? Or in the summerhouse? It is too cold for the open park. Thenursemaids must have taken them somewhere, mustn’t they? They must be safe?”
“Two of you search the rest of the house and two of you search the garden,” Father ordered.
“We’ll find him, ma’am, said the constable. “Don’t you worry.”
“Them,” Clem corrected him. “My son Williamandmy daughter Christabel. They will be needing a feeding soon. They cannot be far, surely?”
The tears were a nice touch, and not at all an act. Her fear and concern had them rising without thought or effort on her part, and spilling down her cheeks. “Find my babies,” she begged.
The constables nodded, and hurried away.
She surely couldn’t keep them busy until Chris arrived home, but at least she was giving Martha enough time to take them somewhere safe. But where? And how would Martha and Ann feed them?
Clem sobbed, real tears.
Father snorted, turned on his heel, and stomped out of the room.
