The Flight of Swallows Page 3

  Suddenly, some likeness, he didn’t know how, perhaps the colour of her hair or the thrust of her little chin, reminded him of someone in whose company he had recently been.

  ‘You’re Drummond’s girl,’ he gasped, amazed at the way he had reacted to her and also to whose daughter she was. She was only a child really, though she was well developed, eyeing her full, well-rounded breasts. Fifteen . . . sixteen perhaps but why should it make any difference to him? The way she had darted out from the woodland, heedless and unthinking, not even hearing the hoof beats of his horse, could have caused a nasty accident, to her, to him and to old Max. He didn’t know why he should be so furious, after all nothing had happened to any of them, but for some reason he was incensed.

  ‘Do you normally dash about like some wild thing, uncaring of whom you may hurt?’ he heard himself saying. ‘Max did well to avoid—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped, all defiance leaking away. She bent her head to that of Ginger who was licking her face kindly as though she knew the girl was troubled. ‘I . . . I wasn’t thinking . . .’

  ‘Well,’ he said, his own anger ebbing, ‘perhaps you will be more careful next time.’ He felt a bit of a fool actually, for no harm had been done but she had given him a fright. Max was calmly nibbling the grass where the meadow edged the wood and for a minute or two nothing further was said. Charlotte buried her face into the dog’s silky fur, wrapping her arms about her and the animal wriggled in ecstasy; when eventually she rose to her feet all trace of the tears she had shed had vanished into the animal’s coat. She looked at the man in front of her, knowing who he was but since they had not met before and she was a well-brought-up young lady, she offered him her hand.

  ‘Charlotte Drummond,’ she told him abruptly.

  ‘Brooke Armstrong,’ he answered, taking her gloved hand.

  She saw a tall, lean man with well-muscled shoulders dressed for riding in a tweed jacket of similar colours to her own, buff-coloured breeches and knee-high well-polished riding boots. Under the jacket he wore a buff-coloured jumper, warm and hand-knitted, and he also had a woollen scarf wrapped about his neck. He was quite old, she decided, but not unattractive, dark-complexioned, his face slashed with dark eyebrows, his chin thrusting arrogantly and his mouth firm though it curled up at the corners as if laughter were not far away. He had a dark, vigorous head of hair which the breeze had whipped about his head and which was tumbling over his eyebrows. His eyes were compelling as though they had searched far horizons, with fine lines fanning out from the corners, and almost colourless, a pale, silvery grey with very black pupils, as startling in a way as were hers and they looked at her in a way she found quite disconcerting.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get back,’ she murmured. ‘They will wonder where I am.’

  ‘They?’ He was intrigued, he didn’t know why.

  ‘My brothers.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your father told me he had sons though he didn’t mention you.’

  ‘He wouldn’t!’

  She had turned away, ready to walk back the way she had come but suddenly he wanted her to stay, again he didn’t know why.

  ‘Won’t you sit down for a moment and get your breath?’ indicating a fallen tree trunk on the edge of the woodland. He was startled when she began to laugh, in a manner that might have been described as hysterical though he could not think what he had said to evoke it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said through the laughter, ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Why not, Miss Drummond, are you . . .?’

  ‘Please, don’t ask. It would be too difficult to explain.’

  ‘Very well.’ His voice was cold. ‘I will detain you no longer.’ But somehow he found himself unable to move away. She looked so unutterably sad – was that the word? – as though she had a troubled mind and he knew that Ginger, who was older than Dottie and Floss, sensed it by the way she leaned against the girl’s leg. He glanced away to collect his thoughts, his very strange thoughts, and noticed, almost absently, great flocks of rooks and starlings down on the fields of Holly Farm and a pair of beautiful bullfinches in a hawthorn bush. Spring was coming, he thought absently. The gorse on the moorland just beyond the fields had been in blossom but the sharp frosts of the past week had nipped off the bloom. It had been a mild winter up to then and the hazel catkins were out. He saw this with the part of his mind that was not occupied with the drooping figure of the girl who had hurtled so precipitously across his path and who was beginning to make her slow way back towards the wood that led to the Mount.

  ‘Miss Drummond,’ he called out and she turned back to him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you ride?’ he asked, astonishing himself.

  ‘No.’ She was astonished too. ‘My father won’t . . . we have no . . . No, Mr Drummond, none of us has been allowed to ride. My father does not believe in it. At least not for his children!’

  ‘You just walk, you and your brothers . . . in these woods, perhaps, or . . .’

  ‘I really must go, sir. I am pleased to have met you.’

  Her young dignity touched him in the way the tumble of her hair and the compelling colour of her eyes had done.

  ‘Then good-day, Miss Drummond.’

  He caught Max by the rein and gracefully mounted him then, without a backward glance, put him to the gallop back the way he had come. The last Charlotte heard of him was his voice.

  ‘Come, Ginger, come, Dottie . . . Floss.’

  Ginger glanced back at her then raced to catch up with the others and her master.

  She didn’t know why but she often found her thoughts returning to that day when she had met Mr Drummond at the edge of Seven Cows Wood. During the next few months she sometimes thought she heard his voice coming from downstairs when her father gave a dinner party, wondering why it should remain in her memory and still be so clear that she should recognise it. She and Robert, and sometimes James, would hang over the banister to watch Father’s guests arriving, noticing particularly one very pretty woman who seemed to appear frequently. She wore the most gorgeous evening gowns in pinks, blues, reds, a rich ruby which was a particular favourite in honour of the coming coronation. They were ‘two-piece’, with a skirt and bodice, the bodice neckline square-cut or round and low to show the tops of her splendid white breasts. They had transparent sleeves or what was known as an angel sleeve, a long square panel floating from the armhole and reaching almost to the ground. The bodice was decorated with beads, or spangles or artificial flowers, another gown with silvery lace and ribbons of silver tissue, all from Poiret in Paris, though Charlotte was not aware of it. Very expensive, she was sure and absolutely up to the minute. She had a tinkling laugh which was often heard above the polite conversation around the dinner table and once coming from a dark corridor that led to the back of the house and was seldom used since it gave access only to the gun room. It mingled, strangely, with that of their father. She was, so Kizzie told them, the daughter of a baronet.

  It was in April that she saw him again. She was walking with Robert in the little spinney that lay on the edge of Father’s property and through which ran a tiny stream, a particular favourite with the boys. There was a graceful willow covered all over with great golden catkins around which bees were humming busy gathering pollen, and stretching as far as the eye could see was a vast carpet of wild daffodils.

  ‘Look, Charlie,’ Robert called to her as she sat herself on a fallen tree trunk, dreaming of nothing in particular, ‘look at the tadpoles. They’re going mad in the water wagging their dear little black tails. Come and see. What a shame the others aren’t here. You know how John loves tadpoles.’

  The four older boys were having lessons with Miss Price who had released Charlotte and Robert, saying that Robert was too young for algebra and Charlotte too old. She had, of course, asked permission from the children’s father and had found him surprisingly acquiescent, quite amiable in fact which was not often the case. They had all, meaning the servants
and the children, noticed that the head of the house had been in an unusually good mood these last few weeks, Charlie more so than the others, for though they had all been beaten several times for minor misdemeanours, it had not been on their bare buttocks. She and her brothers had been particularly careful not to anger their father, as best they could, since many times in the past they had been unaware that they were sinning. He had been out with the hunt until the season ended and away from home visiting friends, house parties, Kizzie explained, though they were not awfully sure what that meant. Sometimes he had people to stay at the weekends, most of them, including the lovely lady whose name was Elizabeth Parker, Kizzie told them, spending a ‘Friday to Monday’. Kizzie seemed to find out a lot about Father’s guests and kept Charlotte, James and Robert, at least, entertained with her descriptions of the activities, charades and fancy dress affairs and such, though Henry, William and John considered themselves too old to listen to such gossip!

  She was startled when a voice that was not Robert’s interrupted her reverie.

  ‘Miss Drummond, it seems it is my turn to trespass. I do beg your pardon and please forgive the little beggar who is trying to eat your skirt. I’m trying to discipline him without the others exciting him but it seems . . . Taddy . . . Taddy, come here at once, sir. Oh, damn it . . . will you . . . I’m sorry . . .’

  The puppy, a mixture of black Labrador and another unknown breed, was leaping all over Charlotte, licking her face and nipping at her hands, yipping with delight, and at his onslaught Charlotte fell in a most unladylike way over the back of the log and landed in a clump of daffodils flat on her back with her skirts up, showing a great deal of black stocking and frilly white petticoat. Her laughter rang out, bringing Robert hurrying from the stream to join in the fun and for several minutes, until Brooke swept the pup into his arms, there was joyful chaos.

  Brooke Armstrong was curiously silent though his lips twitched in what wanted to be a smile. The reason was Charlotte herself. He was enchanted, he could think of no other word. She enchanted him with her unaffected laughter, her unconcern with the amount of leg and petticoat she had revealed, her childlike delight with the small animal which was struggling to get back to her. Her hair, which he realised had a life and direction of its own, was once again tumbling about her neck and down her back, the April sunshine painting it with the glow of autumn leaves. The boy, her brother he supposed, was fiddling with the puppy in Brooke’s arms which now turned his attention to the boy and he happily handed the animal over to him. The boy put him down and began to run and in the way of small animals the pup ran after him and with a sigh of relief Brooke sat down next to Charlotte on the fallen log.

  ‘I do apologise for the bad manners, mine and the pup’s. Give me a month and I’ll have him obedient.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t break his spirit, please. I have seen what—’ She stopped speaking abruptly.

  Wisely Brooke did not question her on what she had been about to say. He had seen the cruel twist to Arthur Drummond’s mouth and the sudden coldness surge in his eyes and he had heard rumours concerning his strictness – to say the least – with his family. He had learned that the girl who sat beside him was sixteen, probably almost seventeen and not the child he had first thought her, and each time he had dined at the Mount he had hoped that she would perhaps be present for she was old enough. This was the first time he had seen her since he had almost run her down on Max.

  They talked politely for ten minutes; about the coming coronation of their new King which was to take place in June; the death of his own father and Brooke’s part at Chitral; the ending of his career as a soldier and taking up the running of his family estate.

  ‘And you, Miss Drummond, what do you intend to do with . . .’ He was about to say ‘the rest of your life’ when he knew quite definitely what he hoped that would be!

  ‘Me? Mr Armstrong, what can I do? I am a woman and the only career open to me is to stay at home until some offer for me is made to my father. That or become a governess.’

  Brooke wanted to smile, since if he had anything to do with it, and he meant to, she would never be the latter!

  3

  They were in the schoolroom when Father and Miss Parker entered. Miss Price was supervising their reading, all six of them with a book suitable, in Miss Price’s opinion, to their age. Charlotte was deep in Jane Eyre which she had read before but the charismatic Mr Rochester had her mesmerised and she could understand exactly how Jane felt in loving him. King Solomon’s Mines was Henry’s choice, William’s was The War of the Worlds, John was bent over Kidnapped and James was reading the new book by Rudyard Kipling called Kim. Robert did not read very well; Charlotte privately believed it was the influence of his father that made him slow, and he was stumbling through a book of nursery rhymes following Miss Price’s finger. When the interruption occurred he was murmuring hesitantly:

  Blow, wind, blow! And go, mill, go!

  That the miller may grind his corn;

  That the baker may take it,

  And into rolls make it . . .

  They all looked up as the door opened and at once the boys, on seeing the lady at Father’s side, got to their feet. Charlotte rose more slowly and for some reason her heart missed a beat. Miss Price was twittering and simpering, as it was not often her charges’ father deigned to visit the schoolroom, but with a regal lift of his hand, Arthur Drummond silenced her.

  ‘Good morning, children.’ He smiled. ‘And what a pleasant morning it is to be sure.’

  It was all they could do not to exchange startled glances but the lady let go of Father’s arm and sauntered over to the round table, glancing down at the books that were spread out on the red plush cloth.

  ‘Jane Eyre! Mmm, I used to love Jane Eyre, did you know that, Arthur, when I was a girl, which was not so very long ago,’ she lied.

  The children exchanged furtive glances, for they had never heard anyone call their father by his Christian name. He was smiling in the strangest way, standing by the open door and watching the lady as she moved round the table studying the books the boys had been reading. Miss Price jumped hurriedly to one side or she would have been swept away since the lady seemed not to see her or even acknowledge her existence and Charlotte was immediately aware that the lady was accustomed to ignoring those she believed to be beneath her.

  ‘Miss Price, you may leave us, if you please,’ her employer told her. ‘I have something to discuss with the children.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Miss Price scuttled from the room like a little mouse getting out of the way of a prowling cat.

  ‘Now then, children,’ when Miss Price had closed the door quietly behind her. ‘This lady is Miss Elizabeth Parker and she is to be your new mother.’ He walked across the room and lifting Miss Parker’s hand put it possessively in the crook of his arm. ‘Yes, I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that she and I are to be married quite soon. Next month, in fact, and you, Charlotte, are to be a bridesmaid.’ He smiled thinly, then was astonished when the lady on his arm shook it gently, interrupting him.

  ‘Now, Arthur, don’t go so quickly, if you please. You must not take things for granted. You know I have many female friends who will all want to be part of my wedding day. And I have cousins too. I am not sure whether it will be possible for – Charlotte, is it? – for Charlotte to be a bridesmaid.’ Particularly as she is so pretty and might take the limelight from me, though this, of course, was not spoken. Like a great many pretty women Elizabeth Parker only had plain friends! ‘And you have not yet introduced me to your family. This is Charlotte, that has been established, but will you not tell me the names of your sons.’

  Charlotte saw the expression that flitted across her father’s face and knew exactly what it meant. This lady who was to be, or so it seemed, his new wife, had the upper hand at the moment but just let the marriage take place and she would quickly learn who was the master in this household. She would be mistress but only on the domestic side and for
the rest, like the rest, she would do and be exactly what Father told her to do and be. She wondered if she would be beaten with her drawers round her ankles, then flushed a bright, rosy pink at the terrible picture this evoked.

  The introductions were performed, the boys making their polite bows, their faces absolutely expressionless as they had learned, showing no emotion, though she guessed at what they were feeling. Would this lovely young woman make any impact on their lives? Would Father treat them any differently? Perhaps the softening effect of a new wife would lessen the absolute power, the strict discipline their father cast over them. Would he be kinder, leaving them to their own devices as he became involved with the domesticity a new wife would bring? Would the beatings become more moderate? Only this week they had all been summoned to his study to take their punishment for not acting as the children of a gentleman should. The lake was a draw to the boys and had been ever since Nanny had taken them down to feed the ducks. On this occasion they had made paper boats which Thomas, the coachman, who had grandchildren of his own, had shown them how to do and unfortunately James had got his feet wet doing his best to retrieve the one Robbie had made. Charlotte often wondered how Father knew when some small disaster overtook them but he did and they had been ‘chastised’ as he called it for the misdemeanour! Perhaps the lady, Miss Parker, who was to be Mrs Drummond would divert Father and bring a new, relaxed routine to the schoolroom.