The Flight of Swallows Read online

  There would be wood violets peeping through the winter grass under the trees, the violet roots sending up little green trumpets of new leaves and the elm trees were just breaking into blossom. She had seen them yesterday as she and the boys had been having what Robbie called ‘adventures’, the games the older boys had devised just before the terrible event that had caused so much distress this morning. Sometimes they were swashbuckling Royalists about to take arms against the Roundheads; sword-play which they practised to get used to sudden ambuscades, or an attack when you were carrying despatches. Their imagination was vivid, garnered from the books they read and she sometimes joined in though she preferred to watch the birds, investigate growing plants, pick flowers when there were any to pick or just daydream, as her father would call it.

  She sighed deeply, wondering how her brothers were. At least they had Kizzie to comfort them, and as if her thoughts had conjured her, the door opened slowly and Kizzie’s rosy face peeped round it. Her usual beaming smile was not in evidence.

  ‘Ista orlright, chuck?’ she asked in her broad Yorkshire dialect. ‘Tha’ pa’s gone off on ’is ’orse. ’Untin’, Willie ses an’ won’t be back while dinner. Them lads is upset, especially our Robbie though Harry reckons ’e don’t care. Poor mites’ll not sit down terday nor termorrer more like. ’Ow about you, lass? Did ’e . . .’

  ‘No, Kizzie, he didn’t beat me, though he tried. I’m afraid I refused to be thrashed so he sent me up here today. By the way, it’s bread and water for me.’

  ‘Gie ower, great daft loony!’ Kizzie’s red cheeks became even more colourful in her indignation. ‘I’m fetchin’ tha’ summat ter eat right now an’ it’ll not be bread an’ water. Bread an’ water be damned. Tha’ was only lakin’. All bairns lake an’—’

  Charlotte stood up and put her hand on Kizzie’s arm as the young woman advanced into the room. ‘No, Kizzie, you know he’ll find out. He always does and then you will be in trouble as well as me.’ She was trying for a bit of humour but she was close to tears. ‘Do you want your “bum” smacked, which is what I was threatened with, or, worse still, do you want to be dismissed? Think, Kizzie, because I couldn’t manage without you.’

  Kizzie’s face softened and she put her strong arms about this girl who had come into Kizzie’s life when she was ten years old and Kizzie four years older. Her mother had just died and the nanny the family employed could not cope with six children, one of them a newborn baby. Kizzie, whose full name was Hezekiah, loved and mothered them all, despite being only fourteen. She had come from a big family who lived in Overton where her pa worked on the land. Eleven of them in a tiny cottage, Kizzie being the eldest. Her mam would miss her, she said sadly, but there was no room for them all, and not on what Pa earned. It was either into service or the pit as a pit brow lass and so with Mam being related to Mrs Welsh, the cook, she had got the job at the Mount. Her relationship to Mrs Welsh was very vague, Mrs Welsh being second cousin to Mam’s auntie, but Mrs Welsh was a firm believer in knowing where those who worked in the house came from and Mrs Banks, who was housekeeper, agreed with her.

  ‘’E’s addled, that pa o’ yourn, an’ I don’t care ’oo ’ears me say it.’

  ‘Kizzie, be careful. If my father heard you, or even realised what you are thinking he would dismiss you on the spot.’

  Kizzie shook her head sadly. ‘Aye, lass, I’m afeared ’e would. ’Appen I’d best keep me gob shut. But tha’ must eat summat. Tha’ pa’ll not be back while ternight an’ tha’ve gorra get summat inside yer. I’ll get Mrs Welsh ter do tha’ some frummenty. ’Ow’s that? It’ll stick ter tha’ belly an’ it’s not what tha’d call real food. An’ if ’e asks me I’ll lie in me teeth an’—’

  ‘No, Kizzie, no. Lord, I can manage a day without food. What you’d call proper food. Bring me a couple of slices of Mrs Welsh’s freshly made bread and a jug of water.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘You can put butter on the bread and ice in the water and when he asks, if he asks, you can say truthfully I’ve had nothing but bread and water.’

  Within ten minutes Kizzie was back with a tray spread with a beautifully laundered cloth. On it sat a platter of bread thickly plastered with creamy butter, the bread straight from the oven, the butter from the dairy, and a fluted glass jug with a lid, filled with water liberally speared with ice. There was also a vase filled with hothouse roses, tiny pink buds decorated with baby’s breath.

  Charlie felt a lump come to her throat and when Kizzie had placed the tray on the table beneath the window she put her arms about her and hugged her.

  ‘Food fit for a king, Kizzie. Thank you.’

  ‘Mrs Welsh sent them flowers, lass. Tha’ knows they’re all wi’ thi’ an’ them lads. Mind, ’e said nowt about them ’avin’ bread an’ water so tha’ve no need ter worry about them starvin’. I’ll tekk ’em up a good dinner. Mekk ’em feel better. Now tha’ get tha’ teeth inter that there bread an’ butter an tha’ll not go far wrong.’ She hesitated. ‘Tha’ knows keys in’t lock. He ses tha’ve ter stay ’ere but I reckon tha’ll need the wotsit so tha’ just ring tha’ bell an’ I’ll be up directly. Eeh . . .’ She shook her head sadly. ‘What’s ter become of us all, tell me that?’ just as though the whole household were in grave danger.

  Charlie ate the lovely fresh bread, still warm from the oven, with lashings of the good butter Sally Harper made in the dairy. The iced water was refreshing and she wondered idly why it was that water with ice in it tasted so much better than without it. She wasn’t really hungry. Her mind was too active with the problem of what she would do next. Her brothers, Robbie so vulnerable and James not much stronger; how could they stand up to the life their father imposed on them? It wasn’t as if they went to the local grammar school where at least they would be out of the house for a good part of the day. The older boys, Henry and William and John, could withstand their father’s indifference, his . . . she was going to say cruelty which she supposed it was, though apart from the beatings, which seemed to give him some perverse pleasure, he barely infringed on their lives. They were well fed, clothed and slept in warm beds. The servants were fond of them and did their best to bring some warmth into their lives but they were growing up afraid of their own shadows, always looking over their shoulders to see if Father was watching them, even in the most innocent of pastimes such as the game of football in which the ball had landed on the conservatory roof. An accident.

  She sighed and after ringing the bell to be let out of her room to visit the bathroom, this time by Nancy, the parlour-maid, Kizzie being busy with the boys, she changed into her nightdress and allowed Nancy to make up the fire and put her to bed.

  ‘Sleep well, Miss Charlie,’ the maid said sympathetically, wondering, as they all did, what was to happen to this courageous young girl. It was the first time she had stood up to her father, cruel bugger that he was, though she wouldn’t dare say that in the presence of Mrs Banks or Mr Watson. But the way he treated these children of his was a crying shame, the servants all agreed. She sadly turned the key in the lock before returning to the kitchen.

  It was exactly ten thirty the next morning when Arthur Drummond summoned his daughter to his study. He was in a good mood, for he had enjoyed his day’s hunting and his meeting with Miss Elizabeth Parker who, though twenty-five years old and a mystery to her family and friends as to why she was not yet married, had made a big impression on him.

  But it made no difference to Arthur Drummond. His daughter must be taught a lesson. She had defied him and it was up to him as a parent to make sure she was made to realise that he ruled the house and his family. Spare the rod and spoil the child had been his father’s motto and he felt the same.

  ‘You will take your punishment now, Charlotte, or would you like Henry, or perhaps even Robert to take it for you? It is up to you.’ He smiled as he smacked the palm of his hand with the switch. He knew her answer, of course.

  She wept, not only with the welts that criss-crossed her buttocks but with
humiliation as she ran up the stairs, every step an agony, to her room where Kizzie waited for her.

  2

  Brooke Armstrong handed his last guest into her carriage on the smoothly brushed turning circle at the front of his home then stood back, the courteous smile clamped to his face.

  ‘It’s been a lovely weekend. We have so enjoyed it, haven’t we, Clive,’ gushed Lady Parker while her husband nodded pleasantly and her daughter fluttered her long eyelashes at Brooke before casting them down modestly, which he thought ludicrous in view of her age. She had been doing her best to draw him into her net all weekend, for she was ruthless in her search for a husband she considered suitable. He supposed he must fit into that category. Thankfully, she had turned her charms on Drummond when she realised she was wasting them on himself! She was very pretty with dark hair and green eyes, had an impeccable pedigree and was the only child of Sir Clive and Lady Parker who were wealthy and desperate to get her married. Twenty-five was really an old maid. She had had her chances, many of them, but had been too choosy and somehow they had passed her by.

  Brooke Armstrong was, he supposed, one of the most sought-after bachelors in Yorkshire and meant to remain that way until he had met the woman with whom he might find it possible to live for the rest of his days. That woman was definitely not the spoiled Elizabeth Parker. She had been outrageous in her pursuit of him and he had found himself in some tight corners where it had taken all his tact and diplomacy, even downright rudeness, to extricate himself. He was ready for marriage, or so he was told, and his vast wealth and social position attracted every marriageable female for miles around which could become extremely tedious. Matchmaking mamas had thrown their simpering sixteen-year-old daughters in his path ever since he had returned home but he had adroitly managed to avoid them and the matrimony they had in mind.

  The last ten years had been good ones, for when he was twenty his father had bought him a commission in the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry where he had served with distinction and had even won a medal or two. He had fought in many battles: on the North-West Frontier; Khartoum in the Sudan and the small mountain state of Chitral, were he was wounded. His father died that year so Major Brooke Armstrong was forced to resign his commission and return to Yorkshire to look after the family estate of King’s Meadow. He found, to his surprise, that he enjoyed it!

  He watched the smart carriage drive round the circle then disappear along the avenue of stately lime trees that led to the wrought-iron entrance gates half a mile away. The lime trees were still bare since they did not open their leaves until April, the denuded branches delicate against the frosty winter sky. In the summer they provided a cool, sweet-smelling walk and he believed his cook, Mrs Groves, dried the flowers and made them into a refreshing lime tea. They had been planted by the first of the Armstrongs generations ago, said to have done service to George IV – of what sort was something of a mystery – who had granted them the land, and given the name of King’s Meadow to the thousand or so acres that made up the estate. There were several farms, cattle and arable, a grouse moor, woodland, wild moorland over which Brooke and his weekend guests had hunted, a lake, a stream where good fishing might be had and he was pleasantly occupied in the management of it all. His mother had also left him a woollen mill in Dewsbury which brought him more wealth but he had a manager and efficient overseers to run that.

  He turned and entered the front door of the house, calling to one of the maids to tell Percy to saddle up, bending to the sudden swirl of dogs who escaped through the kitchen door into the wide hallway.

  ‘Get down, you fool, and leave Nellie alone: you’ll have her over. Come along, don’t get left out . . . yes, yes, you can come with me. I know you don’t like being shut up all weekend but I can’t have you leaping about over fine ladies like—’ He stopped speaking abruptly, aware that the housemaid was all ears and it was not polite to criticise his guests, but, God strewth, he was glad they were gone. He’d done his duty to all those who had entertained him in the past and now he could get down to something he enjoyed, which was riding round the estate and having a word with – and casting a sharp eye on – his tenants. After the weekend he had just spent playing the dutiful host to some rather boring guests, though he had enjoyed the hunting, he felt like an amble on old Max to see what was coming into growth in his woods and fields and perhaps have a beer with Jack Emmerson, one of his tenants whose wife brewed the best ale on the estate. Jack had just purchased a bullock which was said to be extremely hard to handle. He was the largest of King’s Meadow tenants, leasing one hundred and ten acres. He was a good farmer, hardworking and punctual with his rent. Fuller’s Farm, as it was called, again the origins of its name lost in the mists of time, had a pretty farmhouse with a small orchard between it and the lane that ambled through the woodland to the main road to Overton.

  ‘Come up, Max,’ he said to the horse, nodding at Arch, the stable lad who opened the gate for him, setting the animal to a canter while the dogs, a black Labrador, a Jack Russell and a retriever who was the wrong colour, raced ahead of him, delirious to be out of the stable yard and away from the sedate walks Percy and Arch allowed them when Mr Armstrong had guests.

  Mrs Emmerson’s kitchen was old, as was the farmhouse, with a floor of buff and pink and primrose coloured tiles. It had an old-fashioned wide hearth with the spits and the oven to the side and a big black dresser set with bits of brassware and pewter plates and mugs. The farmhouse had been in the Emmerson family for as long as the Armstrongs had been at King’s Meadow and each housewife had seen no reason to change it. He was offered a glass of Mrs Emmerson’s cowslip wine and a piece of her best plum cake, or would he prefer some home-brewed ale. He chose the ale!

  The two men drank their ale hanging over the stout fence that stood between them and the enclosure where the new bullock eyed them suspiciously. He was certainly a fine-looking beast. He was docile enough now, Jack said, but the bugger’d have to be watched for he had a nasty mean streak and that’s why he’d got him cheap.

  ‘Tekks two on us ter move ’im, that’s why theer’s a ring through ’is nose, like. A couple o’ poles fastened to it an’ us’ll ’ave ’im. Yon’s a right good beast, Major, an’ already I’ve chaps waitin’ wi’ their cows. Tha’ve only ter say’t word an’ that lad’ll serve thine an’ all.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind, Jack. Now, I must get on. Those dogs of mine are bristling up to yours so if we don’t want a fight . . .’

  ‘Nay, mine’ll do as tha’re told.’

  ‘Well, good luck with him, Jack,’ his landlord said as he mounted the patient grey on which he always did his rounds. Stand without tethering, would Max, and could be led on a thread but he did like a good gallop, one that accorded with his age. They set off along the edge of Seven Cows Wood, the bare trees to his right, going at full speed through the knee-high grass which in spring and summer would be carpeted with poppy, clover, meadowsweet. Going flat out, or at least what Max could manage at his age, Brooke’s nose almost on the grey’s neck, he was on the girl who ran out of the belt of woodland before he had time to shout a warning and when she went down his heart came to a shuddering stop before restarting and beating so fast he could hardly breathe. Max whinnied in distress, rearing up on to his hind legs as he did his best to avoid the prone figure so that Brooke almost slid from the saddle but scarcely had the horse’s forelegs touched the ground again than he was off his back and bending over the figure of the girl. She lay flat on her belly, her arms stretched out, her face pressed into last year’s rotting leaf mould. She rolled over as he reached out a trembling hand to her, for she had frightened the bloody life out of him, and though he could see she was dazed she seemed to be uninjured. At once he was furious, like a mother whose naughty child has just run into danger and survived; he wanted to lash out at her but her expression cleared and he found himself looking into the most amazing eyes he had ever seen. They were a vivid aquamarine blue surrounded by thick lashes
the same shade as her hair and eyebrows. She was not exactly beautiful for none of her features was perfect. Her mouth was wide, a bright poppy red, her cheekbones high and flushed with a delicate wild rose, her jaw square with an obstinate set to it and her hair was what he could only call tawny-coloured. Neither brown, nor ginger, nor chestnut but perhaps a mixture of them all.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ he snarled, reaching down a hand to help her up but she ignored it, getting to her feet unaided. ‘What the hell were you doing, dashing from the tree-line like that without even stopping to see if—’

  ‘This is not a high street, sir, where one can expect traffic. I was running . . .’

  ‘I could see that, woman, but surely you must have heard my horse’s approach. Or are you deaf as well as half-witted? Besides which you are trespassing. This is private land.’

  ‘I am not here to poach your game or snare your rabbits. I was merely walking.’

  ‘Walking! You were doing no such thing and you can count yourself lucky that Max here is old and has the sense that a younger animal might not have.’

  ‘You are extremely rude and your language is quite offensive. It is not the language of a gentleman and I would be obliged if you would get out of my way and allow me to continue my . . . my walk. I was not aware that I was trespassing, and for that I apologise. Your land must run beside my father’s. I shall make sure in future that I stay where . . .’

  The three dogs ran back and began to nose at the hand of the girl and at once she turned to them, smiling, then squatted down to pet them in turn. She seemed to wince a little as she knelt and Brooke’s expression of indignation turned to one of concern. ‘You’re hurt,’ he said, but she shook her head and as she did so a glorious mass of hair became unpinned, falling about her shoulders and down her back in a bright, gleaming cloak. At the sight of it, and combined with her incredible eyes, something in his chest moved painfully. He studied her, wondering where on earth she had come from though she had spoken of his estate running beside that of her father’s. She had the well-bred voice of the gentry so he deduced she was not a farm girl, nor a maidservant out for a walk, if maidservants had time for such exercise, and her outfit seemed to prove that. She wore a well-made tweed skirt that reached her ankle bone in shades of coffee and chocolate-brown fleck with a short fitted jacket to match, brown lace-up boots, sturdy for walking. On her head, clinging for dear life by a hatpin, was a woollen beret with a pom-pom on top, her hands were encased in brown’ leather gloves and a long, woollen scarf was wrapped around her neck.