The Flight of Swallows Read online

  ‘Not unless he agrees to it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But he is cruel. My wife and her brothers could testify to that. He beat them all.’

  ‘A man is allowed to chastise his children, Mr Armstrong. It is not against the law.’

  ‘Then there is nothing . . .?’

  The solicitor shook his head sorrowfully. He had heard of Arthur Drummond’s supposed connection with the young girl who had taken her life and that of her child in the mere, and who had been buried only the day before and but for Brooke Armstrong’s influence it would have been in a suicide’s grave. Mrs Armstrong, her maid Miss Aspin and, strangely, Doctor Chapman had been the only mourners.

  Wallace Chapman called the next day and sadly told Charlotte that he did not think he should bring any more girls to the Dower House. It might not be safe, especially for the thirteen-year-old who was recovering at his own home in his wife’s care.

  ‘With a man such as your father luring young women as he appears to think is his right, and as they are all ignorant and, though I do not like to say it, easily tempted, he has only to accost one and . . . well, I will say no more. You will know what I mean.’

  Brooke brooded for days on his own inability to do ‘bugger all’ as he said coarsely to his wife, the only time he showed any sign of peace when he nursed the two babies on his knee. They were his joy, both of them, and so alike apart from the colour of their eyes they might have been sisters. As spring drifted into summer and they began to crawl they no longer wanted to be nursed but struggled to escape his loving grasp and explore the many things in the room. Brooke was now attempting to manage on his crutches and the day he stood up and took his first faltering steps was a day for champagne, he declared, and every member of his household must drink a glass. He could not manage the stairs but with the help of two of the men was carried down them and out into the sunshine. A rug was spread on the lawn and the babies placed on them but they were off before their parents, as they thought of themselves, had barely got settled and the gardeners were kept busy heading them off from the small lake and the flowerbeds, which were filled with lupins in every colour of the rainbow, French marigolds, sweet william, larkspur and stock. They scuttled about on their bottoms, since neither seemed to get the proper concept of crawling on hands and knees, their plump, dimpled hands reaching for anything that took their fancy: worms, daisies from the grass, great fat bumble bees lazily drinking from the blooms. They yelled furiously together, as they did everything, when they were placed in their perambulator. Aisling and Rosie were heard to complain that they might as well sit by the nursery fire as the master and mistress took over what they considered was their work but as Brooke said, if Drummond should take it into his head to intercept the two young maids while they were out alone and help himself to his own daughter, they would be too terrified to resist him. They both were aware of the danger, as were all the staff and the babies were always in view of one or two of the men.

  They often drove the small pony and trap, which could easily be manoeuvred about the grounds, Brooke at the reins, travelling round the paddock to feed the horses with apples and lumps of sugar and down to the lake to throw bread for the ducks. Had it not been for the fear of her own father, Charlotte thought it was the happiest time of her life. Brooke was beginning to walk about the house unaided and was talking about getting a motor car! Their love-making was a joy to them both though they were careful not to exert too much pressure on Brooke’s wound. Damn, bloody thing, he called it, as a sudden movement, of which there were many, for how the hell could you make love to your wife without a bit of energy, caused him agony. The only flaw in their idyllic days was the work at the Dower House which was slowly drawing to a halt. Jenny and Kizzie did their best to keep the girls busy but with their own children growing and needing more supervision it seemed they were becoming restless, wanting to go into town, take the money they earned and enjoy themselves. They had all recovered from their experiences and like all young things tended to forget what they had gone through. Maudie’s death had alarmed them and Kizzie had warned them to beware of the ’toff who had lured her away, but again, being young and healthy they did not take a great deal of notice.

  Charlotte and Brooke sat for hours during the unseasonably warm spring in the comfortable chairs put out for them on the terrace by the servants, watching Lucy and Ellie wrestle with one another on the newly mown grass, studying the motor magazine Autocar, discussing the merits of the Lanchester, the Daimler, the Mercedes and though neither of them, even Brooke, knew the first thing about the new mode of travel it appealed to them both and took their minds off the constant, quiet worry of Ellie Drummond.

  ‘I wish we could change her name to Armstrong,’ Brooke reflected one day out of the blue.

  ‘He wouldn’t allow it,’ Charlotte answered flatly. ‘It might give us an advantage over him. Tell me, has he asked you for anything yet? I mean money. I know you had a telephone call the other day but—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘A hundred guineas. A gambling debt,’ he said, ‘and he’d seen a horse he liked the look of. A hunter, but he’d let me know . . .’

  Charlotte put her hands to her face and bent her head. ‘Dear God, can we live with this hanging over us, my love?’ The two little girls, almost walking now, one determined to keep up with the other, were shouting in a language only they seemed to understand, falling down, getting to their feet, chasing the dogs on unsteady legs, laughing, showing their new teeth, rosy with the golden tint to their flesh from the summer sunshine. She groaned and Brooke held out his hand, drawing her from her chair to sit on his knee. Her arms were round his neck and the two babies began to stumble towards them to join in what they evidently saw as a game.

  It was then that Johnson came from the house, a silver salver in his hand on which rested today’s newly delivered third post. Still curled up on her husband’s knee, the children swarming about them, what they had thought was almost unendurable proved not to be almost but absolute.

  It was a letter from Arthur Drummond. It was couched in a polite and even gracious tone. He wished to invite both his daughters to take tea with him one afternoon at their own convenience, of course, as he wished to discuss something with Charlotte. If she could let him know by return he would be most obliged!

  23

  Brooke wanted to come with her but when she insisted that her father would prove awkward – which was a ridiculous word to describe how he would really react – he reluctantly allowed that if she took Todd to drive the carriage he would let her go alone with Ellie, then if she met with any difficulty at least she would have one of their own men to defend her. He was not quite sure what he meant by that but his instinct told him that Arthur Drummond could be a dangerous man to defy.

  Mr Watson, the butler who answered Todd’s sharp tat-tat on the door, was clearly astonished to find Miss Charlotte, a baby in her arms, standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Miss Charlotte . . .’ he stammered, then remembering who she now was, hastily changed it to, ‘Mrs Armstrong, we were not told you were expected.’

  ‘Were you not,’ Charlotte answered crisply. ‘My father asked me to call with . . . with his daughter so if you would tell him we are here I would be obliged.’

  ‘Very well, madam; perhaps you would wait in the drawing room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ making her way through the familiar hallway.

  ‘I’ll be in’t carriage, Mrs Armstrong,’ Todd told her with a warning glance at the butler’s retreating back, a remark that conveyed to her that she had only to shout or scream or make some commotion and he’d be inside the bloody house before that jumped-up butler could say, ‘Aye up’.

  ‘Thank you, Todd.’

  Mr Watson made no other appearance and Charlotte was thankful to sit down on the sofa, her knees almost giving way beneath her, doing her best not to tremble. It was almost two years since she had been in this house and the very atmosphere seem
ed to be redolent with the terrible dread under which she and her brothers had lived. Ellie squirmed in her arms, a lively bundle at five months old, her vivid green eyes filled with curiosity as she peeped about her. Her little arms waved enthusiastically and she turned to smile up into Charlotte’s face. She and Lucy seemed to have brought each other on in their development, one watching the other and then copying a movement, a sound, a concerted effort to sit up. She was lively and alert and smiling. It was May now, for Drummond had allowed a few weeks to pass before inviting his daughters to visit him.

  Had it not been for her destination Charlotte would have enjoyed the short journey from King’s Meadow to the Mount. It had rained during the night and the hedgerows and the wild flowers in the ditches and the newly burgeoning meadows were heavy with what appeared to be sparkling, diamond dewdrops. Primroses were still thick on the banks and many of the apple orchards attached to the cottages along the lane were in full bloom. The oak trees in the woodland through which the lane ran were showing the first signs of golden, bronze foliage. Cowslips, red campion and wild hyacinths shouted the approach of summer, the passing of spring, the flowers embroidering the newly green of the waving grasses, and as the horses clip-clopped along the lane, a robin, as though disturbed by their clatter, flew directly from the hedge over the carriage. It was mild, almost warm, a lovely day for a drive, but Charlotte’s heart was heavy in her breast. It had been difficult to leave Lucy, who had never been parted from Ellie, and the baby had wailed disconsolately as Charlotte, with Ellie in her arms, had left the nursery. Brooke, rigid with disapproval and with a curious fear, had lifted her from her little bed and did his best to pacify her, but it was plain that both of them had been distressed at being left behind. Aisling and Rosie had hovered restlessly about the room, wondering when they were going to get a look-in as the mistress dressed Ellie and the master cradled his daughter, exchanging glances and raising their eyebrows, sighing with ill-concealed reproach.

  ‘Ah, Charlotte, there you are.’ A silky voice from the doorway startled her, for she had not heard him enter and both she and Ellie turned their heads in that direction. Charlotte had given Ellie an ivory teething ring attached to a rattle to amuse her as they waited, but the child dropped it and her bottom lip quivered as she studied the unknown man in the doorway. It was as though, young as she was, she felt something pitiless in him, which Charlotte told herself was ridiculous, but Ellie’s eyes brimmed with tears and she turned her rosy face into Charlotte’s breast.

  ‘Not another cry-baby?’ her father sighed. ‘I seem to breed nothing but weaklings, but then—’

  ‘She is only five months old, Father, and doesn’t know you,’ Charlotte stated icily, determined to protect the lovely child in her arms.

  ‘Well, when she returns to her rightful place with her father she will soon learn control, though I must admit I was singularly unsuccessful with you and your brothers.’

  Charlotte clutched Ellie to her with desperate arms. ‘You cannot mean to bring her back here, Father. She is—’

  ‘She is my daughter, Charlotte, but her future depends entirely on you. You have given her a good start but I can see you have been far too indulgent. In fact you have been a very naughty girl and you will remember that I am a great believer in punishment for naughty girls and boys!’

  Dear sweet God, surely . . . surely he did not mean to . . .?

  ‘Please, Father, please, I beg you . . .’

  ‘Come along to my study, my dear, and we will discuss . . . No, leave the child. One of the maidservants will look after her while we . . . talk. I’ll ring the bell for Palmer to take her to the nursery.’

  ‘Let me keep her with me, Father. She knows me and will be afraid if we are parted. I am aware that she would be kind but I really would rather have her with me.’

  ‘She will have to become used to being without you one day, Charlotte, so why?’

  ‘Please don’t take her away from people she knows and who love her.’ She wanted to weep, to place Ellie on the sofa and get down on her knees and plead but her father merely smiled as he reached for the bell.

  ‘Palmer will see to the child while you come with me to my study.’

  He stood directly before her, no more than two feet away and she could clearly see the huge bulge that filled the front of his breeches and his face, as he smiled at her, was suffused with colour. He was breathing rapidly. A terror so great, so overwhelming, a thought that was so absolutely preposterous ran through her veins like a burning stream of molten lava, for it was in the study that she and her brothers had suffered not only pain and fear, but a humiliation too terrible to contemplate. And hers had been, as a young girl, the worst of all. She could hardly bear the memory of it so that even the word ‘study’ brought it all back, and her father’s present behaviour!

  ‘Can we not talk here, Father?’ she appealed piteously. There was a knock at the door, which opened, and a parlour-maid slipped inside, bobbing a curtsey. They were all agog in the kitchen, for this was the first time Miss Charlotte had visited her father since her marriage. There was something funny going on, the girl was aware of that at once, but it was nothing to do with her, was it. Besides, they were all dying to get a scen at the babby who had been whisked away by Miss Charlotte when she was born and the poor little mite’s mam had died. Funny goings-on in this house there had been and still were by the look of it.

  Miss Charlotte turned to her with what seemed to her to be despair. ‘Perhaps we could have some hot chocolate? Is that all right, Father?’ turning back to the master.

  ‘Of course, my dear. Now, Palmer, take the child.’

  ‘No, Father, please, she will be frightened.’

  ‘Take the child, Palmer,’ Arthur Drummond told the confused parlour-maid.

  ‘Where shall I tekk ’er, sir?’

  ‘Anywhere, girl. The kitchen will do and then fetch hot chocolate for my daughter. My elder daughter. To my study.’

  Palmer moved uncertainly across the carpet and reached smilingly for the baby who cowered back from her, then turned and clung round Miss Charlotte’s neck like one of the baby monkeys she had seen clinging to its mother when she and her friend had gone on a day’s outing to the zoo.

  Palmer was startled when Miss Charlotte slapped her hands away to prevent her taking the child. She turned to look enquiringly at the master.

  ‘Charlotte, allow Palmer to take the child to the kitchen where she will come to no harm. Otherwise I myself will take her to the nursery where I shall arrange for a nursemaid of my own choosing who will not be as . . . as tolerant as the girl who has charge of her at King’s Meadow. You really are making a spectacle of yourself, my dear. You have my word she will not be harmed . . .’ for by this time Charlotte, to Palmer’s astonishment, had begun to weep. ‘I feel more . . . more at ease in my study, Charlotte, rather than this drawing room which I always think of as a ladies’ room.’

  ‘Father . . .’ Charlotte whispered piteously, eyeing the bulge in his breeches.

  ‘Come, come, my dear. Hand the child to Palmer. Oh, and I think we will dispense with the chocolate, Palmer. Miss Charlotte and I have something we must talk about and do not wish to be interrupted.’

  Ellie Drummond was returned to her sister an hour later, none the worse for her visit to the kitchen for the servants had made a great fuss of her. They were surprised by Miss Charlotte though. She seemed frozen, one could almost call it stunned and she walked stiffly as if she were in pain. Her face was like chalk but had a round spot of livid red on each cheekbone. Her eyes had a strange look about them as though she did not really see any of them and she trembled like the leaves on the aspen tree that grew on the edge of the woodland.

  ‘She’s a bonny little thing, Miss Charlotte,’ Cook said pleasantly, then stepped back hastily as Miss Charlotte snatched the baby and clutched her to her chest.

  ‘Ista all right, Miss Charlotte?’ she asked kindly, for they all knew what a devil the master was but M
iss Charlotte, without speaking, turned and ran, ran, mind you, through the kitchen door to the hallway and out of the front door giving Watson barely time to open it for her. She flung herself so fiercely down the steps that Todd put out a hand to steady her, almost lifting her and the distressed baby into the carriage. She sat, her face like a stone carving, and positively shouted to her coachman to take her home. Todd turned several times to look at her since she made no attempt to comfort the fretful child, which was not like her, and ignored his anxious concern which again was unlike her.

  Brooke was hanging about in the hallway practising, he told Kizzie who was also hovering nearby, walking with his sticks, or rather without them, because he meant to be his old self again by summer. He was beginning to manage well now with his balance, though when Charlotte tore up the steps and into his arms he almost went head over heels.

  She huddled into Brooke’s arms and he held her firmly, murmuring endearments, words of comfort. It was as though he divined what he imagined had been done and said to her, the dirt and filth and nastiness with which she had been tarnished and wished his own sweet, clean love to wash it all away. He knew Drummond’s perverse ways and what she and her brothers had suffered at his hands and though he wanted to saddle up Max and gallop over there and kill him, failing that, beat him to a bloody pulp, the sad fact was that he could do none of these things, not even saddle his own horse. He was only just learning to walk again and unless he preserved his strength and went at the pace the doctor advised the wound in his groin and thigh would never be completely healed. It was doing well. He was doing well. He could move about the estate in his wife’s little gig, visit his farms, chat to his tenants, keep an eye on his properties, but unless he obeyed the doctor’s orders he would never be as he was. He could only comfort his wife, love his wife, love the woman for whom he would gladly give his life.

  ‘You shan’t go again, my sweetheart. We will fight him through the courts and keep the child with us. He is not fit to . . .’