The Flight of Swallows Read online

  He leaned back in his chair. If she was who she said she was and there was no reason to doubt her, he could not afford to offend a landed gentleman like Brooke Armstrong who was one of the top men in Yorkshire, but at the same time what was a lady of her standing, married to a gentleman of Armstrong’s class, doing, trying to sell rugs, for God’s sake, to Alcock and Upton’s?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Armstrong, I don’t quite see what it is you want from me.’

  Charlotte turned eagerly to Jenny who stepped forward and drew from the bag one of her exquisite rugs, the first made up into a wall hanging. It was of a meadow drifting with wild flowers, ox-eye daisies, yellow rattle, meadow thistle and knapweed and the vivid red of poppies. Jenny had seen it in a book in the library at the big house, and copied it, wondering as she did so who had been interested in wild flowers. She was not to know that Mr Armstrong’s mother had been a passionate botanist and there was certainly a wealth of books from which Jenny chose her subjects.

  She held up the wall hanging and for several breathless moments Mr Martin was silenced by its beauty then he recovered himself. He regarded her steadily as he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk. He fingered his chin as though considering what he should say and Charlotte held her breath. Jenny still held up the wall hanging but in her heart knew they were lost. Mr Martin’s next words confirmed it.

  ‘Well now, Mrs Armstrong, it was very kind of you to consider me and this firm for your . . . goods but we do not deal with – such things in our establishment. We only deal with the highest quality, in our carpets and rugs and in our customers. There is a lot of work, I am sure in producing such a thing—’

  ‘You have not seen all our stock, Mr Martin.’

  He stood up courteously. ‘I’m sure it is as good as the rug . . . or wall hanging you have shown me. A hooked rug, is that what it is? The sort of thing to be found in the parlour of a cottage or . . . or . . .’

  ‘Mr Martin, can you not see the workmanship?’ Charlotte’s voice was desperate but she did her best to keep up the façade she had adopted as she entered the shop.

  ‘I can indeed, Mrs Armstrong, but it is not what our clientele want. We sell to—’

  ‘I have a friend – I had perhaps better not mention her name but she is the wife of one of the leading men in Wakefield and she bought one.’

  ‘Then perhaps she will recommend you to others of her kind. Or perhaps some other carpet shop in the town or in others, Huddersfield or . . . or . . . there are others, not quite as prestigious as we are who might . . . then there is the market in the Bull Ring but I cannot . . .’

  Charlotte rose to her feet, her head high, her eyes a cold and clear blue and Mr Martin wondered what the hell a gentleman such as Brooke Armstrong was thinking of in allowing this exquisite creature to hawk herself and her wares round the town.

  ‘I will take up no more of your time then, Mr Martin. I’m sure there are others who are not so’ – she had been about to say particular as you but decided it didn’t seem quite right – ‘short-sighted as you.’

  ‘Then I wish you good luck with them, Mrs Armstrong.’ He sat down and picked up his pen, drawing a document towards him, the interview evidently at an end.

  As Mr Martin said, there were other carpet showrooms in the town, in Hudderfield, in Barnsley, in Dewsbury. She perhaps had started too high up the ladder with Alcock and Upton and over the next few weeks she and Jenny were driven by the patient Todd from one town to another but it was the same wherever she went.

  By now she was beginning to feel slightly unwell in the mornings and realised that she was indeed pregnant and that if Brooke knew he would stop her at once, but she could not give up until she had tried every outlet for her rugs and wall hangings which were beginning to pile up in the workshop.

  ‘I think it is going to be the market, Jenny,’ she said despondently as they drove home at the end of a gloriously sunny day in July. ‘I feel that what you and the girls have produced is too good for a market stall but not good enough for a carpet showroom, even those at the lower end of trade, so I’m afraid we shall have to make enquiries on renting a stall.’

  Jenny had matured in the almost two years she had lived at the Dower House. Her little girl was the most important thing in her life and the woman who had made it all possible, the child, the home, the work, was the second. She would always, for as long as she lived, be grateful to Charlotte Armstrong who had fought tooth and nail to give a better life to the girls at the Dower House. She had battled with her own husband, with the society of which she was a part and the prejudices of the world in which they lived, with men in business who she needed to get her project started and with some of the girls she sheltered who had proved wilful. There had been Ruth who had abandoned her baby, Pearl, who was being brought up by Kizzie’s sister Megan. There had been poor Maudie who had succumbed to the blandishments of Mrs Armstrong’s wicked father and had died for it, and now and again Cassie and Edna, both as daft as a dormouse, grumbled that they were sick and tired of living out here at the back of beyond and had no ‘fun’ as they called it. They forgot that but for Mrs Armstrong they would probably be working the streets, their children in an orphanage. They could not see that if they got this business working and were given a decent wage they might have their own place, perhaps find and marry a decent chap. They were not bad girls, just young and ignorant and now, with their fears behind them, were restless and sometimes discontented. Violet and Aisling, and herself, of course, were grateful for this chance to better themselves and she felt that if they could encourage Mrs Armstrong, who was beginning to flag, they should make a go of it. Even if it was only on a market stall.

  The carriage had stopped at the front of the house and Todd had jumped down to help Mrs Armstrong to alight. He stood patiently and waited but Jenny, with great compassion, took Mrs Armstrong’s hand as her mistress turned towards her.

  ‘Don’t give up, lass,’ she said, unaware of what she had called her. ‘Don’t stop now. I know . . . I guessed tha’s ter ’ave another babby. Oh aye, I’ve said nowt ter anyone but I reckon Kizzie knows. Tha’ll not be able ter work fer long, not with this business anyroad, an’ tha’ll need someone ter carry on. Let me do it. I can go ter’t market an’ see about a stall an’ me an’ Violet’ll run it. We’ll need a . . . a cart or summat ter tekk rugs an’ I reckon Cassie an’ Edna’ll be made up ter get inter town. They’re only bits o’ kids an’ need a change’ – as though she herself were middle-aged – ‘but I’ll mekk sure they stay decent. Kizzie an’ Meggie’ll look after the kids an’ . . . oh, please, Mrs Armstrong, don’t give up. See, ’ere’s the master come ter see what’s up so if tha’ll come across we can talk about it.’

  It was true, Brooke was on the doorstep, a frown on his face, making it clear he wanted her to come inside at once. He had made it plain recently that he thought it was time she stopped traipsing around trying to find buyers for her rugs and Charlotte knew that the minute she told him she was with child again he would put his foot down and that would be that, but if Jenny would . . . if Jenny was capable of continuing, even in a small way and she, Charlotte, could oversee the running of it from home at least it would not be a total failure.

  ‘Are you to sit in the carriage all day, Charlotte Armstrong?’ Brooke demanded to know, walking unaided across the gravel path and glaring at her from the carriage door. But his eyes were soft, tender with his love and his enormous pride in her.

  ‘No, my darling,’ she said, for neither of them cared if the servants heard their endearments. ‘I am just waiting for you to help me down and then I think I will have a rest and . . .’

  At once a worried look crossed his face, for Charlotte never rested. He almost lifted her from the carriage and Todd hovered at his back, for the master was not totally recovered from his accident, though he thought he was. He could walk alone but could he carry the mistress at the same time?

  ‘Bugger off, Todd. I can carry my wife so you take
Jenny round to the Dower House and put the horses away. We may be some time, my wife and I . . .’ smiling down into the equally smiling face of his wife.

  ‘Yes, I think we need to be alone, sweetheart. We have something to discuss.’

  ‘Have we? Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘No, something you will like.’

  Jenny and Todd exchanged a look, their own faces reflecting the delight that was all about them. Eeh, this was a grand place to work.

  Toby Armstrong was born on a pleasant February day just after lunch, which was a lovely time to come into the world. The sun was shining, it was mild and the spring flowers were there to welcome him, a sunny day for a sunny baby, for so he proved, no trouble to anyone, not even his mother who gave birth to him as easily as peas are shelled, as Kizzie said. They had sent for Doctor Chapman at the first pang but the lad was already in his mother’s arms, waiting only for the good doctor to cut the cord that bound him.

  Charlotte sat up in bed, a bright blue ribbon tying back her tangled hair, a clean and very pretty nightgown slipping from her shoulders, demanding strawberries and cream from her besotted husband who would have reached the moon from the sky if she had asked him, and had it been night-time, he told her, kneeling by the bed with an arm wrapped round the two little girls, neither of whom were sure they cared for this intruder.

  ‘Well, this is a pretty picture.’ The doctor smiled but, having heard Charlotte’s demand for strawberries and cream was not sure if this was a good idea. ‘It seems I am too late to be the first to greet your son, Brooke,’ for by this time Brooke and Charlotte were on first-name terms with Wallace and Emily. During Charlotte’s pregnancy they had dined regularly at King’s Meadow and their hospitality had been reciprocated. ‘I think a little of your good Mrs Groves’s broth would be more the thing, Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh, fiddle-de-dee, I was in the greenhouse with John only yesterday and the strawberries were at their peak. And I’m sure Lucy and Ellie would like some too. Here, Brooke, take your son’ – for Wallace had made short work of the umbilical cord – ‘and let the girls come up here with their mama.’

  In a flash the girls, both of them fourteen months old and talking nineteen to the dozen in their own well-understood language, were being cuddled by their mama as they both called her. Ellie was too young to understand that Charlotte was in fact her sister and when Lucy called Charlotte Mama, so did she.

  Charlotte, as she spooned strawberries into the rosy, pursed mouths of the two toddlers who cuddled against her, looked back over the last six months which had seen a satisfactory outcome to her plans for the business she had set up. This was thanks to Jenny Todd, as she was now, for she and Todd had married and shared a small cottage at the back of the vegetable gardens with Rose, her daughter who was almost two years old, and their own baby they hoped to have some day. But Jenny was not prepared to sit at home and be a coachman’s wife, which she told Todd in no uncertain terms. She had Mrs Armstrong’s trust that she would run her project to employ homeless girls and manufacture the rugs which she was to sell on a market stall in Wakefield.

  She and Violet, who was as dependable as Jenny, had taken the small gig, driven to Wakefield and sought out the superintendent of the market and arranged to rent a stall. They brooded over the dozens of rugs that had been made during the past eighteen months, trying to decide which would appeal to the women who did their shopping in the market and not the shops, which were much more expensive. On their first day, three weeks later, they were driven by Todd, this time on the flat cart borrowed from the garden at the back of the house, and had set out their stall, Todd helping them to arrange their goods to the best advantage and agreed a time when he should return to pick them up.

  They had sold only two!

  Later, Jenny and Charlotte wandered round what they called the warehouse where the rugs were stored and agonised over why only two of the rugs into which such a lot of work had gone, were sold.

  ‘I think you should take your rugs, Jenny, the special ones you have made. They are the more eye-catching.’

  ‘But a lot o’ money, Mrs Armstrong. More than these housewives will want ter pay.’

  ‘Then we will sell them cheaply. We need something to draw the women to the stall.’

  ‘They can make t’cheap ones theirselves, tha’ see, ma’am, so they—’

  ‘But they can’t manage those you make, Jenny, and surely when they see the beauty of them and at a price they can afford they will perhaps be persuaded to purchase the others. We have to get the pricing right, don’t you see. Perhaps if you stayed at home and made your own with Violet’s help, Cassie and Edna can work on the stall.’

  It took four months to begin to show a profit and it was Jenny’s creations that brought the housewives of Wakefield to their stall. It was enough to dampen Jenny and Violet’s enthusiasm to see such workmanship sold at rock-bottom prices but by word of mouth and a desire to own such lovely rugs and wall hangings and have them adorn their own small cottages, it was noticeable that more and more women flocked to see what was on offer at the Rug Stall, as it was named, since Charlotte was aware that it would not do to have Brooke’s name used in such an enterprise. Christmas helped, as their wares made lovely Christmas presents and Jenny noticed that the class of woman who frequented their stall had changed and not only working-class women but those of the middle classes stopped to study the colourful array of rugs on show.

  Now Jenny was talking of renting a stall in Huddersfield where a similar market took place. And if a stall, why not a shop, a smart shop in Wakefield where the upper middle classes might take an interest, or even the gentry! An ambitious woman, Jenny had become, and an enterprising one and Charlotte was of the opinion she had done well to marry a gentle, easy-going man like Todd, Charlie Todd, as they realised he was called, who seemed not to mind what his lovely wife did. In the Dower House another young woman was employed to help with the children, one of Wallace Chapman’s pregnant misfits who had taken shelter there. There was talk of a teacher for the children, of whom there were five, soon to be six when Hetty’s baby was born. Charlotte had, with Brooke’s reluctant consent, worked each day over at the Dower House, as she was what she called the accountant. She and Kizzie, in the early days of her pregnancy, drove over to Victoria Mills to instruct Mr Scales on the quality of the shoddy he sold them and since he had a telephone it was arranged that she would be in touch with him on the amount they would need. It would, as the small business grew, increase, and as she lay in a euphoric haze in her lovely bedroom, her son held tenderly in his father’s arms and the two little girls drowsing beside her she pondered on how good life had been to her and how splendidly her venture was succeeding, with Jenny and Violet as enthusiastically involved as herself.

  Her husband lifted his head from his contemplation of his son and smiled, mouthing the words, ‘thank you’.

  Kizzie saw it and smiled as she tidied the room after the short battle that had just taken place in the birth of Master Toby Armstrong, then, turning to the window, wondered idly who the man was who loitered at the edge of the small woodland.

  25

  A partition had been erected in the workroom in order to form an office for Jenny and Charlotte. With business beginning to grow and the need to keep accounts this was where Charlotte spent some part of each day. She had a telephone installed and meticulously recorded every penny spent and received for her goods, wages, transport charges and the cost of setting up the office itself. Desks, one each for her and Jenny, filing cabinets, samples of their rugs and wall hangings, books and illustrations from which Jenny created her designs and a fireplace built in which they kept a cheerful fire on cold days. There were a couple of armchairs and on the walls they hung several pieces of Jenny’s designs. On a table under the window stood a lovely copper vase filled with a great bunch of hothouse roses, pink and cream and just coming into bloom. One window in the office looked out into the workroom and another overlooked the courtya
rd and the gate that led into the lane at the side of the property through which the shoddy was delivered. There was also a door that opened into the courtyard put there for some reason when the building had been used for other purposes.

  Jenny’s marriage had left an extra bedroom in the Dower House, while Aisling resided in the nursery with Rosie Hicks and the three children in their care. Of the other bedrooms, one bedroom was shared by Cassie and Anne, her daughter, another by Edna whose son, Arthur, was the same age as Anne, and the third by Meggie. Hetty, whose child was due any minute, lived in the attic space. With Meggie, who had been with them for two years now, in charge of the children while their mothers worked, Kizzie moved back to the big house and once more became a sort of general caretaker in overall charge of Charlotte’s household, though she did not infringe on the duties of Mrs Dickinson. But it was generally accepted that, as Mrs Dickinson was getting on in years and would shortly be retiring to a small house in Harrogate which she would share with her sister, Kizzie would take over as housekeeper. She was always busy though it was never quite certain what she did. Mrs Dickinson ruled the maidservants and Mrs Groves was cook but whenever Charlotte needed her Kizzie was always there. Charlotte simply called her ‘my friend’! There were three new girls in the workshop, girls from the village whose mothers were widows – men died young in the coal mines – and who were glad to let their daughters work with the lady of the manor up at King’s Meadow. Josie Garth, Betty Hobson and Nellie Sidebottom came from Miss Seddon’s school which had benefited vastly from Mrs Armstrong’s benevolence. They were simple, country girls, not clever, but nimble with their fingers and had been recommended by Miss Seddon who had equally recommended Charlotte to their mothers as the need for more needlewomen grew.