The Flight of Swallows Read online

  ‘What’s this, lads?’ he said smilingly. ‘I’ve nothing on me worth stealing because I lost it all on the cards this evening so you’d best go about your business and let me go about mine.’

  He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides, prepared to move on, but one of the men leaped forward and grabbed the bridle while the other two pulled the rider from the saddle. The horse was left to make its own terrified way to its stable while the three men systematically began their task of mangling and mauling the shrieking man on the ground, their fists striking in unison, on and on until they had reduced him to a bundle of bleeding rags. There was none of the usual bloodlust that prevails when men beat each other, just a cool, precise, almost rhythmic landing of fist or boot on flesh, and though the man on the ground had drawn up his knees to his chest trying to save his eyes and his teeth, he lay there as one dead. Blood poured from his nose, one cheek was gashed to the bone, both eyes were closed and would certainly be black by morning, his leg was damaged and by the way he breathed his ribs were surely broken.

  It was several hours before he was discovered. His stable lad had long since gone to bed, for the master’s horse was accustomed to being left to stand in the yard when the master fell off it and made his way to his own bed.

  The three men were at their labours the next morning, for April was ploughing time and the farmers for whom they worked were ready to plant their crops. None of them had a mark on him, placid men who would help a toddling child to its feet, pat a dog with a gentle hand, ask a small girl the name of her doll, ordinary men who had given a helping hand to another, decent men who could not abide an injustice.

  26

  The news did not reach Charlotte and Brooke until they were about to sit down to their evening meal. The servants had been highly excited and not a bit sorry when they heard of it, for none of them gave a tinker’s toss whether the mistress’s father died or not. Had not the whole household been in a state of constant terror for many months because of his diabolical threats against his own children, keeping each and every one of them looking fearfully over their shoulder in case the devil should be there ready to snatch back the lovely child in the nursery who every single one of them adored? And what about poor Maudie who, even if she was a naughty girl and had an illegitimate child, had died because of him? Oh, he hadn’t killed her with his own two hands, they knew that, but he’d apparently driven her to take her own life and that of her innocent child. The mistress and them boys had been terrified of him so good riddance to him if he actually died from his injuries.

  It was Malachy O’Brien, the gardener at the Mount who was on friendly terms with John Dudley, the Armstrongs’ head gardener, who brought the news of the attack on his master. They exchanged gardening tips with one another and had been known to share a pint at the local pub in the village. He was bringing John some cuttings in exchange for some new seed potatoes he and John thought might do well. He was pressed to sit down and drink a mug of tea while he described to them the state of his master’s injuries.

  Kizzie was the one who told Charlotte and Brooke. They were surprised when she burst into the dining room, for they had been expecting Johnson, the butler. Brooke had been through a trying time with Charlotte during the hour they had spent dressing for dinner and in the drawing room and was looking like thunder, since she would not tell him what was wrong.

  ‘There’s something bothering you, my sweetheart, and I want to know what it is,’ he wheedled her. At first. Then he became more and more belligerent as she became more and more obstinate, swearing that there was nothing wrong, she had a bit of a headache, that was all.

  ‘Stuff and bloody nonsense. Don’t you think by now I don’t know when you have a headache or . . . the other . . . your monthly thing and you don’t act as though it’s the end of the damn world then. But you look like death.’

  ‘I’ll wear some rouge if you think I look so ghastly.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I’m your husband. I love you. I love you so much, being without you would be an agony I couldn’t abide and I can’t bear to think there is something troubling you and you can’t or won’t tell me. Bugger it, Charlotte, don’t—’

  He was clawing her heart to rags and at that very moment Kizzie burst into the room and they both turned in amazement to look at her. But it was to Charlotte that she spoke.

  ‘Tha’ pa’s badly,’ was all she said but her eyes gleamed with what looked seriously like triumph.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Brooke asked, but without much interest, for the mention of his wife’s father was anathema to him.

  Charlotte stood up slowly, pushing back her chair. She knew that whatever it was that Kizzie was trying to tell her was good news and that . . . that somehow . . . somehow Kizzie had a hand in it. Brooke watched Charlotte. He had a trick of wiping all expression from his face when he wished to and since he was an intelligent man he was aware that something had happened concerning Arthur Drummond and the threats he had made almost a year ago and that Kizzie was telling Charlotte that she need not trouble herself with it any more. He too stood up.

  ‘What happened to him?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Someone thrashed ’im. Injured ’im real bad or so Malachy ses. Malachy’s gardener at t’ Mount an’ ’e come round ter speak ter John Dudley about summat ter do wi’t garden an’ ’e told us what ’appened. ’E were found this mornin’. ’Is ’orse come ’ome wi’out ’im so they searched fer ’im an’ found ’im in’t lane beside Beggers Wood. An’ God bless them what done it, I say. A devil ’e were an’ deserved all ’e got.’

  Kizzie was getting carried away with herself and Charlotte knew that if she didn’t stop her telling what had happened, whatever it was would all come out. Not that there was any fear Brooke could do anything about it for it was, apparently, already done. And that had been what she dreaded almost as much as the things her father had threatened. Brooke was not involved! That was all that mattered for the moment and, for the moment her father was out of action. She had no idea how badly he was injured but if it kept him at home for a few weeks it would give her and Kizzie time to decide what they were to do to protect the children, and her staff, and, of course, herself from the damage he would inflict if he did not get his way.

  But Brooke was not satisfied. ‘What exactly do you mean by that remark, Kizzie? I am aware that Drummond warned me and Charlotte that he would take Ellie from us if . . . if we did not . . . he wanted money, he said, but why should he terrify you and Charlotte? You say bless whoever has done this to the man and that he was a devil who deserved what he got. So, what evils has he promised both of you that you should be relieved he is now . . . well, we don’t know what he has suffered but it might be—’

  ‘I ’ope ’e’s crippled, so I do and I’m not ashamed ter admit it.’

  ‘Has he hurt you, Kizzie?’ Brooke said softly, but he was looking at Charlotte as he said it.

  ‘Nay, not me but—’

  ‘Who, Kizzie, if not you? Perhaps my wife, the children?’

  ‘Us all know what ’e did ter Maudie. Promised ’er all sorts an’ then turned ’er away. Them girls is all at risk, sir, ’specially them what go ’ome at night. An’ then there’s bairns . . .’

  ‘The outside men will guard them.’

  ‘It didn’t stop ’im comin’ in at back yard and forcin’—’ She stopped abruptly and put up her hand to cover her mouth, for she suddenly realised in her fear of Arthur Drummond and her joy at what had been done to him she was saying far too much.

  ‘When was this, Kizzie?’ There were sounds from the kitchen as Johnson prepared to serve the first course of the splendid dinner Mrs Groves, as always, had just cooked. Dusk had fallen, for it was almost the end of the day and from beyond the window came the sounds of birds settling sleepily in the trees. The three babies were all peacefully asleep in the nursery, cherished by Aisling and Rosie, after Lucy and Ellie, watched by a wide-eyed and fascinated Toby, propped on
Rosie’s lap, had played a game of squealing piglets with the master.

  One of the dogs was barking at the back of the house but it did not alarm anyone now that that bastard was fastened to his bed. Malachy had not known the complete extent of his master’s injuries except that the doctor had been there most of the day and a nurse was in attendance and would be night and day.

  Kizzie looked at Charlotte and shrugged helplessly. Was she to lie to the master or was Charlotte to tell her husband the truth? Kizzie had been so delighted with the success of her scheme to incapacitate Arthur Drummond she had let her tongue run away with her. Her three brothers, who were mild men, big men but with a goodness in them that could not stand cruelty to the weak and helpless, had done their job well. They thought the world of Kizzie and of Mrs Armstrong who helped out anyone in need and Mr Armstrong was a decent man who looked after his tenants like their mam and pa. It was only a few acres of scrub they rented at the edge of Mr Armstrong’s property but Mam and Pa had worked all hours God sent to make it worthwhile and only last autumn the bugger up at the Mount had led his hunt across their land and ruined the harvest. The lads no longer lived at home, all of them finding work on neighbouring farms, married men with children, but they were glad of the chance to pay the sod back. They’d not done as much damage as they thought he deserved but, by Gow, he’d not sit on a horse for many months nor manage the journey to town to gamble away the money he was demanding from Mr Armstrong. If he’d got it. They were simple folk who knew nothing of the doings of the gentry but their Kizzie had told them that Drummond was trying to blackmail Mr Armstrong and terrify her mistress. It had been enough.

  Charlotte sighed and sat down heavily on a dining chair, putting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Kizzie quietly left the room and as she entered the kitchen told Mr Johnson he had best wait until the bell rang before serving the master and mistress with dinner.

  Brooke sat down beside his wife and put an arm about her shoulders, pulling her into the circle of his arms. He tucked her head beneath his chin and waited for a moment before he spoke.

  ‘Tell me, my darling.’

  So she did, from the moment her father had silently entered her office until he slipped away unseen, leaving nothing out. She told him of her and her brothers’ childhood and the punishments they had received at his hands. The beatings, the anger and cruelty, the isolation, the terror he had instilled into them so that finally Brooke began to understand why Robbie Drummond had been as he was. This woman, who had been only a girl then, had defended him and that was why he clung to her. The boys would probably bear unseen scars for the rest of their lives but at least they were recovering thanks to Charlotte and to himself, he supposed. So Charlotte had married him to get her brothers away from their father. That was what he must face now and he did. But he was sure in her love and in the love of the two children she had given him. She had surrounded him with care when he was hurt. He was sure of her devotion and was at peace in the happy home she had created. In his heart he knew where love was and his senses told him that he had nothing to fear. She loved him as he loved her.

  There was silence for several minutes. Inside Brooke Armstrong a great volcano was slowly coming to life and creeping up his body until it could find the outlet it needed to erupt. But there was none, was there? All that needed to be done, for the moment, had been done by men who Kizzie knew, of that he was sure. She had three brothers, big chaps, but with the sense not to overdo it, who surely must be the perpetrators of this crime, for crime it was, and when Drummond was recovered Brooke himself would see that his family and those who sheltered beneath his roof, including the young women who worked for his wife, were safe.

  ‘Come, my love, let me take you to bed. Let me make love with you. First we will have some champagne; yes, a celebration, for if ever a woman needed her life celebrated it is my wife. You’re a bloody brave woman, Charlotte Armstrong, and when I get you to bed we will drink to our life together, to the future which I promise will hold no more fears for you or your brothers, or the children up in the nursery.’

  The agent turned the key in the lock and opened the door of the empty shop with a flourish that implied this was one of the finest buildings in Wakefield. It was, in fact, quite dreadful. There was a double-fronted bay window from which the paint had peeled almost to the bare wood and the door, when it was opened, had shrieked in protest.

  ‘Just needs a bit of oil,’ Mr Whitehead, the agent, murmured optimistically, pushing the door against the rubbish that was piled behind it. The filth on the floor was thick and even, undisturbed for months, and cobwebs were draped like lace from corner to corner. But the actual shop area was large with plenty of room for what Charlotte had in mind. There was a door at the back of the room that led into another, equally large, and then another behind that with a sink, a fireplace and a big cast-iron range, plenty of cupboards and in the centre a table so big it had evidently been too cumbersome to remove. It was a kitchen, in fact, where a meal might be made, where tea could be brewed or perhaps coffee, or hot chocolate, or even a glass of wine poured, since the type of establishment Charlotte envisaged would be prepared to serve whatever the customer asked for while they perused her goods. At the back of the kitchen a door led to steps going down to a yard and a back gate.

  ‘Wonderful . . . wonderful,’ Charlotte said.

  Stairs, again appallingly dirty, went up to a landing on to which two enormous rooms opened, but what appealed to Charlotte were the unusually large windows which let in a great deal of light in every room. She turned to Jenny with a satisfied expression on her face.

  ‘This will do very nicely. Don’t you agree, Jenny?’

  It was a time of great peace and content that summer, which Charlotte had thought she would never know again. Apart from a sprinkling of rain at night, it would be dry and sunny until the beginning of October. Brooke rode out unaccompanied every day to oversee his little kingdom, completely recovered now, though he would stay well away from bulls in future, he told Jack Emmerson.

  But it was his wife’s happiness that brought him the most pleasure and despite himself he found he was beginning to enjoy becoming involved with the venture she had started with two or three battered young women almost three years ago. First there was Jenny who had been turned away from the kitchen door at King’s Meadow but who had been found by Charlotte and against the wishes and with the total disapproval of the other servants, she had given her and her unborn child a home in the Dower House. And from Jenny’s clever fingers came the first creation that was to be the start of his wife’s fast growing business.

  They were at dinner several months after Arthur Drummond had been attacked on his own land. He was, of course, confined to his home with a broken collar bone, several fractured ribs, a great deal of bruising and a leg with a compound fracture which prevented him from climbing on a horse for many months. It had been rumoured that the break in his leg might necessitate amputation but Wallace Chapman had managed to save it, though Drummond had raged at being attended by his daughter’s physician. Finally his own sense of self-preservation prevailed and he dismissed old Doctor Dutfield who would chop off a limb even if it was only bruised and was beginning to recover though it would be many months before he was up and about again.

  So all at King’s Meadow let out their breaths, relaxed and resumed their daily routine.

  ‘You know the premises at the Dower House are becoming woefully small,’ Charlotte said, spooning Mrs Groves’s rich soup delicately into her mouth. ‘I have an . . . well, it came to me that if we had a bigger workshop we could employ more girls and . . . and . . .’

  Brooke smiled, shaking his head as though in wonderment at his wife’s agile brain but he said nothing, letting her flounder on until she came to the point of her deliberations. The soup was a consommé of Mrs Groves’s own devising and there was a great leg of pork waiting to be carved on the sideboard. Johnson stood to attention with Nellie beside him, waiting
to serve the next course, moving forward to refill his master’s glass with the fine white wine he had chosen. It had been a dull day for once, threatening rain and the children had been restless, confined to the nursery. It was the end of August. Lucy and Ellie were twenty months old and were accustomed to toddling about the grounds with their two nurses, the dogs bounding along with them, running after poorly and inaccurately thrown balls – an activity that the little girls delighted in. They tripped and tumbled and laughed and picked themselves up, fending off Taddy’s enthusiastic attentions, for he was still only a young dog. The gardeners who were never far away watched indulgently, ready to run and pick up a fallen child while Toby, six months old and sitting up, yelled his displeasure at not being able to join in. He had begun to crawl and could see no reason why he should be confined to his perambulator.

  But today Aisling, Rosie and Charlotte had been at their wits’ end with three bored children who were used to the outside world, the attention and adoration of the servants, and it was a relief finally to get them into their small beds and cot and have a breather, praying that tomorrow would be fine.

  ‘I want to start a new . . . a new line, Brooke,’ Charlotte said abruptly. ‘And I think it might be helpful if you were to . . .’

  ‘You want my help?’ Brooke did his best not to allow his smile to deepen. He had got the measure of his Charlotte by now and knew he would never tame her. By which he meant she would never be as other wives were. And did he want her to be? She never neglected her children, or him for that matter. She was always at the table when he was and in their bed she was as passionate and eager as he was. She loved him and showed her love in the most intimate way, sometimes embarrassing the servants with her attentions! To himself, of course. But she would not entertain those people she thought fools and nincompoops, which was how she saw the Dentons and the Parkers and the Pickfords, though she seemed friendly enough with Patsy Ackroyd who called every few weeks and who she said made her laugh. Society had stopped inviting the Armstrongs to their own dinner parties, balls and garden parties, to their tennis parties and on the outings they took en masse during the summer months.