The Flight of Swallows Read online

  ‘So what do you say, my dear fellow? Can we expect to receive an invitation to your next dinner party at King’s Meadow? Charlotte is obviously well able to hold her own when it comes to mixing with polite society,’ nodding his head in Charlotte’s direction where two gentlemen were almost engaging in fisticuffs over who should take her into supper.

  He was astounded and mortally offended when his son-in-law brushed him aside, strode across the shining floor and, taking his wife’s wrist in a vicious grip, dragged her, still laughing, towards the doorway that led into the wide hall. They were watched in a silence that was broken only by whispers, though Lady Denton was heard to say ‘Well!’ in a loud and shocked voice.

  Charlotte had already drunk three glasses of champagne, one handed to her as she and Brooke entered the ballroom, another put in her hand by Joel Denton who was enchanted by this hitherto little known wife of Brooke Armstrong, a man he thought to be a dry old stick. Like all the young he considered any man approaching thirty had one foot in the grave. But Armstrong’s wife, who could be only a year or two younger than himself, might turn out to be great fun. She laughed and tossed her head in a most tantalising way so he was inordinately put out when Armstrong snatched his wife away and disappeared into the hall.

  A buzz of conversation broke out in the ballroom as soon as they left, most thinking they understood now why Armstrong had kept his young wife hidden away for so long.

  ‘Now then, madam,’ Brooke hissed to his still merry wife as he propelled her into an ill-lit corner beneath the stairs, ‘may I ask what you think you are doing?’ His face was rigid with anger.

  ‘Doing?’ Charlotte asked, giggling and leaning against him, still clutching her glass of champagne.

  ‘You are making a spectacle of yourself in front of our friends and I demand that you behave as a lady, as my wife should.’

  ‘Why, Brooke, I am only doing what you have asked me to do.’ She hiccupped, then put her hand to her mouth as a child would. ‘I am mixing with your friends as ordered. This is a ball and I am dancing. Is that not correct? The young men are particularly complimentary and I am enjoying myself, as you bade me to. You told me—’

  ‘I did not tell you to get drunk and if—’

  ‘Drunk? Am I drunk? Well, if I am it is a very pleasant way to get through this . . . this . . .’

  He roughly took the glass of champagne from her hand, in the process spilling some on her gown and a passing footman who carried a tray was startled when a hand shot out from beneath the wide, curving staircase and crashed the glass on to the tray.

  ‘We had a bargain, you and I,’ Brooke continued in a deadly voice. ‘You were to perform your social duties as my wife and I was to allow those homeless, pregnant young women you have taken under your wing to remain in the Dower House. Since we married this is only your second entrée into what is known as polite society, the first where you talked of nothing but fallen women, and you now seem to imagine you can dance and flirt with any man who comes within your range. You are making an exhibition of yourself, and of me. Again! Everyone is talking about you and your behaviour and it is doubtful the Dentons will invite us again.’

  ‘It is you who are making a fool of yourself treating your friends to the spectacle of a—’

  ‘Stop it, stop it, or I swear I will—’ Brooke heard his own voice start to rise and with a rush of self-realisation knew that what drove him on was pure jealousy. Sheer, unadulterated jealousy. She was the loveliest and liveliest woman here, drawing the men to her like bees to a flower. She was glorious and his love and need of her was barely under control. He wanted to shake her, hit her, drag her into his arms and kiss her until she, and he, were breathless. Instead he was snarling at her and accusing her of disporting herself in an unseemly manner and turning him into the jealous husband he was.

  She stood away from him, no longer under the influence of the champagne, it seemed, and was watching him coolly, then she spoke.

  ‘Are we to return to the ballroom or would you like to take me home? Either way it is of no interest to me. I have agreed to your terms since I will not see these girls turned out on to the streets and their babies put into an orphanage. I cannot believe that that is what you want either. I have mixed this evening with your friends and have even exchanged a word or two with my father – oh yes, while your back was turned he spoke of dining – so I feel I have kept my part of the bargain. I cannot help it if . . . if the young men ask me to dance. I believe that is what we came for.’

  ‘Besides dancing so recklessly I wish you to sit and talk to the ladies with a view to forming acquaintances. There will be tennis parties, visits to Ascot for the race meets, Hendon and . . . and other events this summer, but if you are to do nothing but flirt and prance about the ballroom . . .’ He listened to himself with horror.

  ‘Is that what I was doing? Well, I’m sorry if that offends you but I do not see Patsy’s husband objecting to—’

  ‘Patsy Ackroyd is not exactly the kind of lady I had in mind—’

  ‘She is lively, which cannot be said of the others.’

  ‘That is not what I meant, Charlotte.’ He was being pushed too far and it showed in the way he dragged his hand through his dark, curling hair, ruffling its carefully brushed smoothness. ‘Damnation, woman, can you not see what you are doing, making a show of yourself? Even your gown is not quite decent.’

  She looked down at herself in genuine bewilderment. ‘What is wrong with my gown? You were with me when I bought it.’

  ‘It is . . . you are not . . . look at you: it is slipping from your shoulder and your hair is . . . is wild.’ She did indeed look enchanting and his aching heart could understand why the men clustered about her but it would not do. It seemed whatever he decided she would be talked about. Let her have her way with the wild scheme she had conceived, a home for dishonoured young women and their children, a factory – God in heaven, a factory – go into business of sorts, or force her into the mould of the wives of his class and have her whispered about because she was beautiful, charming, wildly attractive to men. Whatever he chose he must stand on the sidelines and watch her either disgust them or bewitch them.

  Charlotte watched him dispassionately. She had not deliberately set out to draw these tedious young men – and even older ones like Jack Ackroyd – to her side, to invite her to dance and indeed, in one case, to walk with him on Sir Charles’s terrace. It seemed they were for some reason enraptured by her. It was a fine, mild evening with a full moon lighting the garden and the young man could see no reason why the exquisite, vivacious wife of the elderly husband, who should by rights be playing cards with other elderly husbands, should object!

  But Charlotte, who was young and enjoying the adulation of these rather boring young gentlemen, was wise enough to know that providing she was in full view of Brooke and the other guests she was really breaking no rules.

  ‘I have done no wrong, Brooke. I have done nothing improper and I cannot see what objections—’

  ‘Young Denton swung you off your feet in the polka—’

  ‘Oh really, Brooke.’ She was unwise enough to laugh.

  With a curse he took her hand and tucked it tightly in the crook of his arm. Almost dragging her, he guided her back to the ballroom, which was almost empty since most of the guests had adjourned to the supper room. The small orchestra was taking a break but there were several couples sitting at the small tables set round the room. They watched, open-mouthed as Brook Armstrong towed his somewhat dishevelled wife towards the supper room where he sat her down at a table with Milly Pickford and Maddy Hill who were consuming a dish each of almond soufflé and gossiping about the very young woman who was literally thrust between them.

  ‘I’ll fetch you something to eat,’ he told her curtly. ‘Stay here until I return,’ acutely aware that he was making a fool of himself. He bowed courteously to the ladies then shoved his way towards the tables where the excellent buffet provided by Lady Rosemary Denton
was set out.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ Milly Pickford began, ‘you seem to be enjoying yourself,’ her spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘This is your first hunt ball, is it not?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Charlotte answered politely, her heart sinking as, looking about her, she saw Joel Denton making his way rapidly towards them.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she exclaimed, words she had heard Brooke utter. Mrs Pickford and Mrs Hill were shocked. ‘Brooke will kill me, or him, if that jackanapes does not leave me alone.’

  Milly Pickford recovered her composure. ‘You should not encourage him, my dear,’ she ventured, exchanging a meaningful glance with her companion.

  ‘I do not encourage him, Mrs . . . Mrs . . . I’m sorry, I have forgotten your name. I do not mean to be rude,’ for Mrs Pickford, a well-known and important light in her world, had drawn herself up, her, chest thrust out like a pouter pigeon. She stood up, followed by Mrs Hill, and the pair of them, after bowing politely to her for they were ladies if she was not, glided to another table where Lady Denton chatted to Mrs Parker. Soon their heads were together, their glances cast in her direction so that she knew they were discussing her. And worse still, Joel Denton, smiling with satisfaction, sat down beside her.

  ‘There you are, you gorgeous creature,’ he said, his eyes devouring her half-exposed breasts, his mouth ready, it seemed, to fasten on hers. ‘That husband of yours is an ogre to keep you so imprisoned and when he does let you out watches you like a hawk.’

  ‘Really, Mr Denton—’

  ‘Joel, please, we know one another better than—’

  ‘We do not know one another at all, sir, and I would advise you to take yourself off since that ogre as you call him is descending on us with a face like thunder,’ which was true. He held a plate in his hand which he had haphazardly piled with frosted tangerines, tartlets of salmon, caviar, mushroom pâté, truffles, all mixed together in a most unappetising heap.

  Joel Denton rose hastily to his feet, backing away from the menacing figure of Brooke Armstrong and was later to say he had feared for his life and what the devil did the man expect when he brought the most delectable creature in their set to a ball. Was she not to speak to another man, never mind dance with him? He himself had distinctly heard her refuse an invitation from her husband to take to the floor so what were they to make of that?

  Brooke sat down in the chair just vacated, first by Milly Pickford and then by Joel Denton. He put the plate before Charlotte and though his face was quite without expression there was an ominous air about him that alarmed her.

  ‘What happened to Mrs Pickford and Mrs Hill?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I couldn’t say. They just got up and walked away.’

  ‘What did you say to them?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I may have sworn . . . cursed . . .’

  ‘You swore in the presence of two ladies?’

  ‘You swear in front of me and besides, Joel was coming over and I—’

  ‘Joel? You encouraged him to—’

  ‘No, I did not. I have encouraged none of this, Brooke.’ Her face was pink with indignation and she leaned forward passionately while the room held its collective breath, for it seemed the Armstrongs were to argue in public, and loudly! ‘You insisted I come here so I came. These . . . these popinjays mean nothing to me with their endless talk of hunting and the London season and were we to attend Ascot and how ravishing I look. It is not real, Brooke, any of it. Were we invited to the Hamiltons whoever they are, who give the most wonderful weekend parties at their country home near Matlock and then there was Cowes . . . Oh, dear Lord! Do you not see? Joel Denton is the man who seduced poor Jenny. A man I despise and yet you expect . . .’

  She ran out of steam, sitting back disconsolately in her chair and he had the wild hope that he had not broken her spirit which he honoured, a thought that surprised him, but at the same time she was his wife and . . . and . . . Jesus, Christ Jesus, what was he to do except what he was doing? He had known when he married her that she was an untried girl who had been denied mixing with her own sort but he had hoped . . . God in heaven, he had hoped! What would happen when it was discovered that she was taking girls off the streets, with their illegitimate children, and meant to set them up in a business? It would rock the very foundations of the circle into which he, and she, had been born. She would be ostracised and he would be despised for allowing it. Not that he cared for his own sake but . . . oh, bugger it, why could she not see what it would do to her?

  She stared down at her own hands which were twisting in her lap, unaware, as Brooke was not, that the company was watching them with disapproving but fascinated eyes. This kind of thing was not done in their society, for good manners and breeding forbade it. Certainly, as in all walks of life, there were undercurrents, marriages of convenience, older gentlemen, having sown their wild oats, wishing to continue their line. They took young wives capable of bearing children then, when a son was assured, both parties went their own way. Very discreetly, of course, offending no one, least of all one another. In public they were a polite couple, perhaps even fond of one another. They would not dream of scandalising their hostess with public displays such as the one just enacted by the Armstrongs. Patsy Ackroyd and other young wives flirted with the younger sons of good family and even took lovers but it was all done so circumspectly that no one was any the wiser and if they were, had the good manners to keep it to themselves. They were self-indulgent, monied, pleasure-seeking, but never guilty of ill-breeding.

  Now this new wife of Brooke Armstrong, who himself came from an old family, had caused this scene. To be truthful it was Armstrong himself who had worsened the situation by snatching her from young Joel Denton’s arms, who was known for a naughty boy, and dragging her from the ballroom, disappearing for ten minutes, and then dragging her back again where he thrust her between Milly Pickford and Maddy Hill, with ice-cold instructions to remain where he had put her. But, according to the two ladies, she had insulted them by swearing like a stable boy!

  ‘This is not a success, is it, Brooke?’ she said sadly at last. ‘It seems I am not a lady in the eyes of—’

  ‘You come of a good family and should be conversant in the ways of society,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘I was not trained, as other girls are trained by their mamas, Brooke. I had five brothers and was, as far as my father was concerned, no different from them . . .’ remembering the beatings. ‘Until he decided to marry me to you’ – not realising how she crucified him with those few words – ‘I was treated as they were. I know nothing of running a great house or the conventions of polite society, as you call it, and furthermore have no interest in them. I want to do something worthwhile. I have nothing in common with—’

  ‘Then you will have to learn,’ he interrupted harshly, his heart bleeding for her. ‘But for now I think it best if we go home. We are an embarrassment to the Dentons so fetch your wrap and we will make our polite farewells. Let us hope—’

  ‘That they will forgive me,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was soft now, but not with understanding. ‘It seems you are determined to despise the conventions of the society in which we move. You are determined that ordinary social duties are beyond you and you will not conform to them but, my dear, I’m afraid you must.’

  Brooke knew in his wounded soul that he sounded like some pompous, stiff-necked and arrogant fool but it seemed this was how he must be if he was to bring his young and foolish wife to heel. If he did not nip this thing in the bud right now he would never have the life he had envisaged when he married Charlotte Drummond.

  He was vastly annoyed when, as they bade their coolly polite host and hostess goodnight and thanked them for their hospitality, Charlotte turned and waved to Patsy Ackroyd who stood in the doorway of the ballroom, a wide grin on her face. Patsy was arm-in-arm with Joel Denton!

  They did not speak in the carriage on the j
ourney to King’s Meadow, both gazing out into the moon-lit night, both busy with their own fragmented thoughts. Johnson was waiting in the hall, surprised, they could tell, that they were home so early.

  ‘I trust the evening was a success, sir, madam,’ he said, as they made their way towards the stairs.

  ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ the master answered.

  ‘Will I send Nellie to help the mistress, sir?’ he asked, since Nellie, who was parlour-maid and with Kizzie over at the Dower House, had hopes of becoming Mrs Armstrong’s lady’s maid.

  ‘No, thank you, Johnson,’ the master said and instead of entering the adjoining bedroom in which he had slept for several weeks he followed the mistress into the bedroom they had once shared, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Johnson was not one for gossip. After all he was the butler, the head of the household staff, but he could not help himself when he found Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves still sitting with their feet up before the kitchen fire.

  ‘He’s gone into her bedroom,’ he whispered to them, though the rest of the servants were all in their beds. They knew at once what that meant.

  ‘Well, it’s about time an’ all,’ from Mrs Groves with a satisfied expression on her face.

  He made savage love to her in their bed that night as though putting his mark of possession on what was his and when he was replete, lying exhausted on her breast, both of them slicked with the sweat of their exertions she told him that she thought she might be pregnant with their child, wanting to add that for all his exhortations to conform to the conventions of their class, it was nature and not his words that were to force her to do just that!

  17

  Lucy Jean Armstrong was born on the night of 23 December and was the most beautiful child anyone had ever clapped eyes on. The servants who had crowded round her when she was brought down to the kitchen in the arms of her proud father – along with a bottle of the finest champagne to celebrate her birth – even her four uncles who were at King’s Meadow for the Christmas holidays agreed. In fact Lucy’s father quite had his nose put out of joint by their admiration and exuberant presence in the bedroom he shared with his wife and who had all wanted a ‘hold’ of their new niece.