The Flight of Swallows Page 11

  Jenny began to cry. A soft sobbing that spoke of her utter hopelessness in the face of her desperate situation. Charlotte longed to put her arms about her, comfort her, for she was such a fragile little thing and how was she to cope with what lay ahead of her? She had soft silver curls that fell to her shoulders, shining after her bath. She was small, ethereal with delicate features and pale blue-grey eyes. Her neck was long and slender, her shoulders narrow; she had thin wrists and long-fingered hands and Charlotte could see why a man, any man, would find her attractive. She also wondered how such a fragile little creature had managed to do the hard work expected of a housemaid!

  She stood up briskly. ‘Now, before you go chasing off to this job you are so certain is yours, you will have a decent meal and an outfit to put on. Unless you mean to traipse across Yorkshire in that nightgown. My friend, who is also a servant in this house and so is not grand or inclined to despise you or she would not be my friend, will show you where you are to stay. Yes, stay, for until your child is born you are going nowhere. I will brook no arguments, Jenny. Can you sew?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I was to become Miss Marian’s maid until they discovered . . .’

  ‘Good, then you can earn your keep by sewing, looking after my clothes and . . . and Robbie is always tearing something or other.’

  ‘Robbie, ma’am?’ Jenny’s eyes had begun to shine through her tears.

  ‘My little brother. Now I’ll go and find you something to wear.’

  As she walked briskly towards the bedroom she shared with her husband her heart quailed, because in the challenge of caring for this poor deserted creature who had stumbled into her life she had forgotten she still had the problem of how she was to break it to Brooke.

  9

  He came tearing into the house seeming to be in much the same rage as he had left it. She was still upstairs with Jenny but the sound of his horse’s hoof-beats scattering the gravel on the drive alerted her to his arrival. Percy, realising his master’s mood, came running in a lather round the corner of the house to grab Bruno’s reins, then the sound of the front door banging violently to brought Charlotte to the top of the stairs. She held a bundle of clothing in her arms, dresses she had foraged from her wardrobe hoping to find something for Jenny, something simple, suitable for a maidservant.

  She didn’t know how to address him. Where have you been all evening? Why did you not come home? The memory of last night – was it only last night? – and the expression on his face when she had taken Robbie’s hand and moved towards the door with the intention of putting him to bed, was still fresh in her memory and she was sorry, for she knew she had been in the wrong. Robbie could easily have gone with Kizzie and she, Charlotte, should have remained with her husband then none of this would have happened.

  She smiled hopefully, not knowing how the smile tore at his heart. He had spent the night at his club in Wakefield, drinking and brooding and declining the offers of other members to engage him in the sort of games they played there. A game of poker perhaps, Jack Ackroyd suggested, wondering why Brooke Armstrong, with a young and pretty wife at home, was lounging in the smoke room with a glass of brandy in his hand. Billiards was discussed but Armstrong politely declined, burying his nose in his brandy glass.

  ‘Brooke, you’re home,’ she said, shifting the garments from one arm to the other.

  ‘As you see. I think a change of clothing is in order.’ He moved up to the top of the staircase and she stood to one side to allow him to pass.

  ‘I was just . . .’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorting through some of my things. I have so many dresses and this girl . . .’

  ‘Girl?’ He moved towards the open door of their bedroom, clearly not interested.

  She followed him hesitantly. ‘She came to the kitchen door this morning. Very young and in . . . in trouble; so I said . . . well, I told her she . . . Mrs Groves was furious but it wasn’t altogether the girl’s fault and I felt so sorry for her. Mrs Groves isn’t speaking to me and the others . . . Oh, I hope you won’t tell me to turn her out because really, I would have to . . . to disobey.’

  At the door to their room he stopped and slowly turned to face her. His face was totally without expression and she, who had been right behind him, clutching her armful of dresses, almost bumped into him. Her spirits sank, for though she knew he was a good man, generous and kind-hearted – look at the way he had put up with Robbie’s tantrums all these weeks – he was her husband and the master of this house. If he said no how would she manage to help poor Jenny, poor pretty Jenny whose silvery curls and slender figure had attracted the attention of young Master Joel Denton?

  ‘Would you like to explain what the hell you are talking about?’ he asked her coldly.

  ‘Oh, Brooke, I’m sorry about last night, really I am and you were right to be angry.’ She said it placatingly and again his heart hurt him. His love for her, the protective tenderness in which he longed to wrap her burned within him and he thought he didn’t give a damn what she was after, since it was clear it was something; he would gladly let her have it if only she would go on looking at him as she was doing now. But instead he continued in the same cool vein.

  ‘What do you want, Charlotte?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Well, it’s not for me but for this poor girl who came to the kitchen door today,’ she continued eagerly. ‘The other servants despise her and I know they won’t work with her so I thought that if you would let me I would put her in the . . . well, they said it was called the Dower House and she could sew for me. She was to be a lady’s maid, she said, before Lady Denton found out about her condition and when Jenny, that’s her name, told them it was Joel who had seduced her Lady Denton went wild and turned her out. That was a week ago—’

  ‘The Dower House,’ he interrupted and the way he said it made her heart sink. ‘My grandmother lived in the Dower House when my grandfather died and my father brought my mother as a bride to King’s Meadow. That is what it is for. To house the mistress of King’s Meadow when a new bride comes. It is not for housing pregnant maidservants, which you seem to be telling me, maidservants who are no better than they should be, so I would be glad if you would give the girl some money and send her on her way. That is the end of it, Charlotte, and now I shall have a bath and some lunch and ride out to see Jack Emmerson’s bull which is to service my . . . well, that is hardly a subject for young ladies so—’

  ‘I can’t believe you said that, Brooke. No, not about the bull but about Jenny. Are you so pitiless that you would—’

  ‘Please do as I say, Charlotte. I presume you have fed this . . . this girl and are to put her in one of your dresses so if you would get on with it we will forget it.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she hissed, ‘we will not forget it.’ Her fury exploded so quickly she herself was surprised. Brooke took a hasty step back as she advanced on him. ‘You will have to throw me out with her, for I will not have this child – she is but seventeen – turned out to fend for herself while that . . . that bastard who got her in the family way gets off scot-free. I am amazed by your attitude, for I mistakenly thought you were different from the gentlemen with whom you mix. I imagined that if you had done the same as Joel Denton you would at least have made some provision for . . . for the mother of your child but it seems you are the same as the rest. I shall put Jenny in the Dower House and there she will stay until her child is born and then she shall choose what she wants to do. The child can be adopted if Jenny wishes or she shall keep it and I will help her in whatever she chooses to do. She is in a room upstairs and when she is dressed she will go to the Dower House and Kizzie will go with her.’

  She was panting with fury and Brooke felt the hot rage and the even hotter passion rise in him. He wanted to tear the dresses from her arms, drag her to the bed and take her like a common whore. Throw her down, fling her skirts about her head, tear down her drawers and subjugate her to his will. His will. God, she was q
uite glorious in her madness, that magnificent, recalcitrant mass of her hair flowing about her head and shoulders like a banner, but he had had years in the army where discipline and self-control had been instilled into him.

  He turned away as though in complete indifference. He had spoken. His word was law and he expected it to be obeyed. She glared at his back for several moments then whirled away and ran from the room. He heard her footsteps run along the hallway and up the stairs to the next floor. A door banged and then there was silence. His whole body sagged and his chin sank to his chest. Dear sweet Jesus. First that blasted boy, her brother, and now this. What was he to do? He could not bear the thought that she might do as she threatened and run off with this girl. He didn’t think she would but she had been so white-hot with anger, with him and his absolute refusal to see this her way that she had said the first thing that came into her head. Hadn’t she?

  Well, bugger it, give her time to come to her senses and realise that it just would not do and everything would get back to normal. Whatever normal was. They were neither of them happy, he admitted to himself. She had not wanted him as a husband and he, in his eagerness to have her for his wife, had mistakenly believed that once she was his, in his bed as she was in his heart, he could make her love him as he loved her. Her brother would settle down, find his own life, his own friends at school and would barely impinge on the life he and Charlotte would have together. Not only had that not taken place but now she had dragged in some creature from the streets and proposed to give her a home until the slut’s child was born. Sweet Jesus, what was he to do?

  He wandered to the window, pushing his hand through his hair, staring sightlessly across the deepening autumn landscape, his mind busy and yet at the same time not really focusing on the problem, since it seemed insoluble, when a movement caught his attention. Two women walking slowly across the gravel towards the wrought-iron gate in the wall that divided the main house from the Dower House. A third woman followed carrying a great bundle of what looked like clothing. The three had evidently just come from the front door, which stood directly below the windows of the bedroom he shared with Charlotte.

  Charlotte had her arm about the figure of a girl who was so thin the bulge of her belly seemed enormous and following them was Kizzie, like a shepherd guarding two of her flock and making sure they reached the safety of the fold. They passed through the gate and vanished from his sight. He pressed his forehead against the glass of the window and groaned. Then he turned violently and headed for the bathroom. He ran the bath, stripped off his clothes and plunged into the water, lathered himself, washed his unruly hair, leaped from the bath, towelled himself dry, flung on his breeches, a warm jumper, his riding boots and ran from the room as though devils were after him, which he felt they were.

  He badly startled the servants in the kitchen as he raced through, then did the same to poor Percy who had only just finished settling Bruno and was grumbling to Arch about the master, who was definitely not himself lately.

  ‘Fetch Bruno,’ he shouted.

  ‘But, sir, he’ve only just . . .’ the bewildered groom gabbled.

  ‘Never mind, Max will do and be quick about it.’

  The four dogs, including Taddy, excited by the unexpected outing, followed him, barking madly. He galloped across the park, which was studded with enormous oak trees, until he reached the woodland and it was here that he finally felt the madness slowly ebb from him as he began to notice the onset of autumn and the hint of winter to come. He loved this place and the peace and emptiness of it reached into him, steadying the wild thoughts of his lovely wife and her seeming inability to return any of the feelings he had for her. She was friendly, polite and accepted his attentions in their bed with equanimity. But that was all!

  He sat on a fallen tree trunk and looked about him, the dogs sprawled at his feet with the exception of Taddy who was too young to lie down calmly with the others. They watched him tolerantly. The sun was low in the sky and drifts of leaves littered the ground and Taddy snuffled and dug vigorously in them. Brooke noticed there was some fine timber in the park itself: a group of birch trees looked quite glorious, the tiny leaves on the pendant branches resembling showers of gold. Taddy barked frantically and chased a rabbit foolish enough to pop its nose over a clump of grass. There was a flock of thrushes and finches busy with hawthorn berries and a woodpecker laughed somewhere. The dogs cocked their ears and with a sigh, one now of peace, Brooke rose, called to Taddy and unhurriedly mounted Max, directing him towards the edge of the wood and home.

  A fire was brightly burning in the kitchen range and a basket of logs stood beside it. The kitchen was old, almost what might be called a cottage kitchen with a floor tiled in pinks and browns and creams, well scrubbed. The previous occupants, Brooke’s grandmother and those before her, had been ladies and had never entered this part of the house but those who had, the kitchen-maid, the cook, the housemaid who had looked after them, had never been asked if it suited them. They had, after all, come from cottages with kitchens similar to this. An enormous dresser was crammed on every shelf with good, hard-wearing English stoneware in pleasing patterns of trailing willow, enough, Charlotte thought, to cater to a staff of a dozen. Dinner plates, side plates, cups, saucers, soup tureens, gravy boats, sugar bowls and milk jugs, all obviously meant to be used by the servants. The range was blackleaded, its brass handles were polished to shining magnificence, and it was set in a sort of chimney space. Above it a wide shelf held meat platters, candlesticks, big jugs and a colourful vase in which someone had placed a few humble wild flowers. From the shelf hung bunches of herbs, which filled the room with their fragrance. There were three rocking-chairs with padded cushions in a cheerful scarlet and four rush-seated chairs surrounded a big, well-scoured, oblong table.

  ‘I must remember to praise Mrs Dickinson when I return, Kizzie. I must say she has kept this place spotless. Now, you sit there, Jenny,’ placing the speechless girl in one of the rockers before the fire, ‘while Kizzie and I look at the rest of the house to see which bedrooms you are to use. Now don’t start that again,’ as Jenny began to cry. ‘There’s no need for it.’ Charlotte knelt at Jenny’s feet and took her hands in hers. ‘You shall make yourself useful in many ways, won’t she, Kizzie? You shall have good food and when your baby comes . . . oh, please, Jenny, don’t . . .’ for the girl cried as though her heart would break and even Kizzie, who thought her young mistress was out of her mind, felt the compassion well in her. What with one thing and another, the master being furious at the whole event, which he was sure to be, and then the problem of young Master Robbie, Miss Charlotte was storing up a lot of trouble for herself.

  Charlotte was wise enough to send Robbie over to the Dower House to ‘see if you can help Kizzie and the new girl Jenny who badly need the services of someone like yourself. And have your dinner with them, if you like,’ which flattered him enormously. She dressed carefully in one of her new evening gowns, a pale duck-egg blue, low-cut to reveal the slope of her white breasts and inclined to slip off one shoulder. In her hair she had threaded a duck-egg-blue satin ribbon, leaving curls to tumble beguilingly about her neck and shoulders. She felt sly in a way, for she was aware she was dressing to please Brooke but when she entered the drawing room where he was standing by the fireplace, one arm along the mantelshelf, a glass of brandy in his hand, she could see he was charmed. She was ashamed really, something of a fraud, artful, she supposed she would have called it in another woman, lulling Brooke into a false sense of . . . well, she didn’t even know what she meant. She only knew she wanted him to be in a better frame of mind than he had been this morning. ‘There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it to death with cream.’ Now who had said that to her? It seemed a bit foolish but she knew what she meant and if she was to get her own way in this – in what? – she must have Brooke’s approval, even if it was reluctantly given.

  ‘You look very nice, Charlotte, very nice indeed. That colour suits you. Now, wo
uld you like a drink: sherry, perhaps, or . . .?’

  ‘Sherry would be lovely.’ Then before she had time to think or even wonder at her own daring, she moved across the carpet to stand before him. Reaching up she placed her mouth on his and kissed him lingeringly. She felt him respond at once and for a moment she knew only brilliant happiness. His mouth was smiling beneath hers. His arms came round her, his hands clasped one another in the small of her back and he strained her to him. Their lips folded and caressed, for Charlotte had learned many things about the human body and what pleases it from her husband in their bed since that first awkward night and though she had never reached that strange rousing that Brooke did, she knew she had the power to stir it in him. His mouth wandered down her chin and the lovely arch of her neck. Her head went back and she made a small sound in her throat which he answered helplessly. This was the first time since their marriage that she had begun what seemed to be the preliminaries to making love and she could sense he was delighted. His hand fell to her naked shoulder, pushing down the neck of her gown and exposing the lovely, rosy-peaked globe of her breast. His lips took the nipple and bit gently and for some reason Charlotte began to moan and a delicate filament in the pit of her stomach unfurled and shivered. For a moment Brooke lifted his head, turning it as though looking round for somewhere to lay her, but at that moment the door burst open and in flew a small figure, babbling and laughing excitedly at the same time. Hastily Brooke covered his wife’s nakedness and thrust her behind him protectively to give her time to put herself together. She had begun to laugh quietly and for some reason the sound infuriated him.