The Flight of Swallows Read online

  ‘Jenny and I went into Wakefield yesterday and looked at a vacant shop in the Bull Ring. We are making rugs by the dozen and selling them on the market stalls in Wakefield and Huddersfield but I think we ought to be . . . well, why can’t we have a shop in which to sell our goods? And . . .’ She hesitated, placing her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands. She looked unbelievably lovely in the soft lamplight. Her hair was carelessly arranged in a tumble of curls and tied with satin ribbons to match her gown of hyacinth blue, which slipped to one side off her silky white shoulder, revealing the top of one breast and as she leaned forward to speak to him he could almost see her almond nipple. He felt his manhood stir and for a moment was diverted by what he would do with her when he got her to bed, then he cleared his throat feeling quite breathless.

  ‘Yes?’ he managed to say, but he was beginning to grin now and Charlotte laughed for she knew she would win.

  ‘Carpets. Why not carpets, or carpeting which is the correct term for floor coverings? There are Jacquard looms which make carpet weaving easier and, of course, being in the centre of the woollen trade in Yorkshire we shall make it our business to find the best supplier. There is a new phenomenon of wide-width carpet, or broadloom. All we need is a weaving loom and, of course, hand-made carpets are particularly sought after. The shop will need a great deal of money spent on it to bring it up to the standard Jenny and I need, and Jenny, of course, would be in charge. I have been reading about machinery and if you will purchase that motor car we have talked about we will be able to get about and make enquiries on how to start. And then I thought why stop at carpets and rugs? Bedspreads. Or quilts. I’ve heard that a young woman has created a bedspread with a hand-crafted pattern by sewing together thick pieces of cotton with a running stitch. No, please, don’t ask me how it was done for I’m no seamstress, but it was apparently stitched on to unbleached linen, clipping the ends of the yarn so it would fluff out. It would have to be carefully looked into—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, darling girl, you are stunning me with your enthusiasm; quilts, carpets, motor cars – whatever next?’

  ‘Oh, Brooke.’ She stood up eagerly and moved round the table to sit in his lap and Johnson and Nellie didn’t know where to look so, prudently, they edged out of the dining room and fled to the kitchen where Nellie was bursting to tell the others what she and the butler had overheard. But not until Mr Johnson had chivvied Mrs Groves into the small housekeeper’s parlour and shut the door could she impart the news that the mistress was going into business in a big way with a shop in the Bull Ring and the master was to buy a motor car which he had been threatening to do for a long time and what were Percy and Arch, who looked after the stables, to do then?

  It was almost Christmas when the shop finally opened and they had all become used to the glittering machine that either stood in the stable yard or was housed in a disused stable to the side of the stables where the horses remained, to the great relief of Percy and Arch who had thought they would be out of a job when the monster arrived. It was called by the grand name of a Mercedes-Simplex and the master thought it was big enough and was suitable for a family with three children to accommodate, plus their nurses! It had a hood that could be raised in inclement weather, and was embellished with a great deal of gleaming brass which Todd, who had been promoted to chauffaur and taught to drive by Jack Ackroyd’s chauffeur spent a lot of time buffing to perfection. Percy and Arch disdained even to go near it and grumbled incessantly that the beast frightened their horses.

  Charlotte had insisted that their new venture was to be open for Christmas and a sign on the window announced the date. But what a mammoth task it turned out to be. First the premises had to be cleaned which needed three women to scrub it from attic to cellar. There turned out to be a boiler in the cellar which, when it was stripped, cleaned and put together again, would provide hot water. Rotting floorboards and door frames were replaced, walls, ceilings, window frames were painted; and advertisements appeared in the local newspapers to announce the opening of the Carpet Shop, the name Charlotte and Jenny had decided upon. It was simple and said it all, Charlotte told Brooke in the nest of their deep bed where each night, after they had made love to the satisfaction, indeed repletion of both, they discussed what was turning out to be a joint venture. Much to Brooke’s surprise, he had begun to catch Charlotte’s enthusiasm as he drove her and Jenny from place to place, such as Axminster where superb carpets were manufactured, Kidderminster where Brussels carpeting was made and Halifax which was the home of the Wilton. Brussels carpets were made up so that the pile was left looped or bouclé and Brooke told his dearest love that his head was spinning with it all; he was amazed by how she not only absorbed the information like a sponge but retained it so that when she was in the shop she could give instructions to the girls who were already employed there about what they would be selling.

  ‘By God, I fell on my feet when I married you, my sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘We shall be millionaires before we know it,’ he said as they stood in the centre of the Bull Ring next to the recently erected statue of Queen Victoria and admired the Carpet Shop the day before it opened.

  It was what could only be called elegant, though some of those who wandered past just to get a look considered it plain. Charlotte had fitted out one whole window as a drawing room with some good furniture brought from King’s Meadow. The carpet was a silvery grey with a design of pale pink roses in each corner, and the electric light fittings in delicate wrought iron were the work of a craftsman Charlotte had found. On the back wall, which had been papered to look like linen and painted white, hung two of Jenny’s wall hangings, framed to look like paintings. A final touch, echoing the carpet were the hothouse roses in crystal vases, again brought from King’s Meadow. The whole effect was stunning. The display caused quite a bottleneck as folk stopped to gawp, as did Brooke’s Mercedes, parked in front of the shop, which gathered a crowd about it.

  Trams rattled past, for the electric tramway had recently started operating and the Bull Ring was busy and bustling with carriages, riders on horseback, bicycles and delivery wagons. A row of horse-drawn cabs waited in line for custom, the horses with weary heads hanging down, some with nose bags munching patiently. Charlotte was enchanted, since it seemed she had chosen the right spot for her young business enterprise.

  There were many smart carriages bearing ladies on a shopping expedition, all with their hoods down, for it was a sunny day though cold, all except one which was closed. In it crouched a man in a tall top hat who stared with venom at Charlotte and Brooke as they crossed to the pavement in front of the shop, arms linked, laughing up at each other. The man’s lips curled and he whispered something to himself before rapping smartly on the roof to tell his coachman to get a move on!

  27

  It was intensely cold but bright. The hoar frost was so thik on the lawn the gardeners’ feet sank an inch into it as though it were a layer of snow and their breath hung in a hazy cloud about their heads. The trees were black and deep maroon against the sun, a round pink disc hanging motionless behind them, but every branch of the trees and every twig on the bushes were outlined in a silvery white tracery against the pale pink of the winter sky. Masses of red berries hung on the holly bushes and the birds hovered waiting for the coast to be clear before they descended on the feast. The sun was palely beaming and the grass, crisp and stiff, was tinted a pale pink. The cold hurt your chest as you breathed and Charlotte wondered whether it would be wise to take the children out in such a biting chill. She herself was well wrapped up in a fleece-lined jacket and an ankle-length heavy woollen skirt and she wore her riding breeches underneath, as well as stout boots and thick woollen stockings. Round her neck was wound a hand-knitted scarf worked for one of the boys by Kizzie. She wore no hat as she sauntered down to where John and Ned were contemplating the frozen ground with gloomy expressions. They turned when they heard her approach and whipped off their caps.

  ‘No digging today I
shouldn’t think, John. The ground is as hard as a rock.’

  ‘Aye, tha’s right there, Mrs Armitage. Me an’ Ned was thinkin’ o’ puttin’ in the celery at back o’t’ouse in’t rows we got ready a few weeks back but us’ll not get us spades inter’t ground terday, I reckon. An’t bairns’ll be stuck indoors, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Taddy, who had followed the men from the back of the house, leaped about her skirts, his tail going nineteen to the dozen, then he began to forage under the holly bushes, following some scent his keen nose had picked up, probably that of a fox who had crept out in the night. Chickens were kept in a hen coop at the rear of the vegetable gardens but they were secure in their well-built abode and the fox would have gone hungry. Nevertheless the young dog chased off on his trail.

  ‘Well, I should stay cosy in the kitchens if I were you, men,’ Charlotte told them and they nodded smilingly, though they could not see themselves getting under the feet of the maids. There would be indoor jobs to be done in the workshop, which was where they finally headed.

  Percy was surprised when the missis appeared by the stable door where he and Arch were mucking out and with a bright ‘good morning’ she walked by, stroking and patting the soft noses of the horses who peered curiously over their stall doors. Magic whickered a welcome, nudging her shoulder and the men watched her with as much interest as the horses.

  ‘I think I’ll take her out today, Percy, if you’ll saddle her up for me,’ she began, but he protested at once.

  ‘Nay, ma’am, not in this weather. Ground’s that ’ard if tha’ fell tha’ could be ’urt bad, not ter mention Magic. Break ’er leg tha’ could an’ tha’ know what would ’appen then. When a ’orse breaks a leg there’s only one way . . .’ His voice was anguished, for Percy loved horses. A horse could be talked to and would respond. A horse was intelligent and all those in his care were well looked after, treated with affection, and even if he had to fight the mistress he’d not let her take out the mare in today’s weather.

  Charlotte sighed. ‘You’re right, Percy, I don’t know what I was thinking of. I’ll wait until the thaw comes but it’s . . . well, never mind. Sorry, Magic, I know you’re as restless as me and would love a gallop.’

  Percy sighed with relief. ‘Good lass,’ he said, forgetting he was speaking to the wife of his master, or perhaps he was talking to the mare.

  Charlotte wandered from the stable and across the yard. It was Sunday. The shop was closed, the girls who lived in the Dower House were all ensconced by the fire enjoying their day of rest, nursing their children or, those, like Jenny, who wanted their offspring to have a better childhood than they had had, were reading to them, or teaching them to read for themselves. Rose, Jenny’s daughter and the eldest, was already identifying the letters of the alphabet and in the small cottage which she and her mother shared with Todd, was nestling on her new father’s knee, while in the bedroom Jenny was giving birth to Todd’s son.

  Up in the nursery Lucy, Ellie and Toby were enjoying a game of lions and tigers that Brooke had invented in which he hid under the plush tablecloth that covered the nursery table and then pounced out roaring while the children screamed hysterically, not sure whether to be frightened or delighted. Toby was barely aware of what they were doing but joined in enthusiastically. He had pulled himself up on to unsteady legs a week or so ago and was walking after a fashion. Charlotte had left them to it, raising her eyebrows at the two nursemaids as though to say she’d had enough and without Kizzie to chide her, had dressed in her warmest clothes and ventured out, calling to Mrs Groves as she went through the kitchen that she was just going to get a breath of fresh air.

  ‘Daft besom,’ Mrs Groves murmured as the door closed. ‘She wants to stay where it’s warm on a day like this.’ Nobody disagreed!

  Charlotte opened the gate and sauntered down to the empty paddock, her mind brimming with the steady progress made by the Carpet Shop. They were busy from first light until early evening. She had purchased from the Wilton manufacturers several carpets to start her off, having them made to Jenny’s design, and showed them on a special display in the shop. Every week the window was changed with a new carpet and furniture filched from King’s Meadow, one week a dining room, the next a drawing room or even a bedroom. In the second window she and Jenny had draped the beautiful handmade quilts which, quite by accident, Josie Garth, who lived in the village and took the new tram each morning into Wakefield, mentioned casually that her grandmother made. Her grandmother, who had been making quilts since she was a girl, not only made them by hand but designed them too. Each quilt required many small pieces of material of every colour imaginable which were carefully pieced together with a running stitch into patterns of breathtaking beauty and sewn on to a backing, beginning at the middle and working outwards. Charlotte was now providing her with the materials needed and Josie’s grandmother was delighted to be paid for work that she loved. She had often sold her quilts, of course, since they were much in demand but now she had a ready market, sitting by her fire in her cosy cottage and patiently working to the designs Jenny passed on to her.

  Charlotte sauntered beside the paddock then, picking up her pace as it was not a day for sauntering, tramped briskly into the denuded woodland known as Beggers Wood. It was quite enchanting. The sun was stronger now, highlighting the frozen trees to a fairyland of white and silver, still, silent, apart from an occasional crack as a frozen strand of bracken snapped. Tracks indicated where the fox had ventured, probably the one Taddy had scented and as though she had conjured him up with her thought, there was Taddy, frolicking by her side, stopping to sniff the frozen air, one paw raised, then rushing on ahead, his nose to the ground.

  Suddenly he stopped and began to growl, his muzzle lifting back from his teeth. She moved towards him, startled, for what could be hidden in this frozen woodland to alarm him? When the man stepped out from behind a group of lacy saplings she froze, then backed away nervously. The sun silhouetted him against the dazzling frost-laden branches and when she saw who it was she became quite still, like a young animal that senses a trap and she was deathly afraid.

  ‘Well, daughter,’ the man said, ‘here we are at last. After all this time we meet again. You are well, I trust. You look quite blooming with your cheeks so pink and your eyes like blue stars. I must say—’

  ‘What do you want?’ She almost called him ‘father’, the habit of a lifetime hard to break. But he was no father to her or his sons, for a father was warm, loving, protective and not one such as this man. Her voice was as icy as the weather and though she feared him dreadfully, it was steady. She was furious with herself for venturing so far into what was a deserted fairyland with no one to hear should she cry out, but she would not let him see it. Taddy continued to snarl, his tail tucked between his legs, huddled against her skirt, wanting to protect his mistress but he was small, a young dog who was trying to be brave despite his fear.

  ‘Now, Charlotte, is that the way to greet your loving father?’ His smile was lazy but his dark brown eyes raked her from head to foot and his voice was thick with menace.

  Her heart was thudding furiously but she managed a defiant answer.

  ‘Loving father! When have you ever been that to me or your sons?’ The memory of their last meeting was sharp in her mind. The implication of what he had said to her then rang still in her ears and she wanted to run, pick up her skirts and take to her heels in the direction of the house and safety but her pride would not allow it.

  He sensed what she was thinking and smiled playfully. ‘So at last we are alone and time to tell you exactly what you are to do or the consequences for you and that idiot husband of yours will not be pleasant. Tell me, how has that business of yours fared since last we met? It has been a long time, has it not, and I should think you imagined it was all over. Your punishment, I mean. Believe me it is not. Do you know where I have been these last nine months?’ His teeth glinted between his lips, not in a smile this time but a rictus of venom.
‘Do you, Charlotte? Well, let me tell you. I have been confined to my bed, to my house and all because of you. Oh, yes, I know it was you or that husband of yours who arranged for me to be beaten, to have my bones broken, to be confined to a wheelchair then crutches. I have been unable to do all the things that make life pleasant. I cannot ride my horse, nor even get to my club and it is all due to you and—’

  ‘No, no, you brought it on yourself with your perverted ideas and by your threats to take Ellie to live with you and treat her as you treated us, my brothers and myself. You are cruel and—’

  ‘You have no idea how cruel I can be, daughter . . .’ And it was then that Charlotte realised that her father had slipped over some invisible line between viciousness and into madness. His eyes continued to flicker over her and a fleck of white frothed at the corners of his mouth. He was sweating and his face was scarlet with some inner rage. It was then she noticed that he leaned heavily on a walking stick. He saw her eyes move and he laughed as though at a huge joke. ‘Oh yes, you would easily outstrip me if you bolted for it but there are other times as I grow stronger. I have a man who comes in each day, funnily enough recommended by your Doctor Chapman, who massages and manipulates me and I grow stronger weekly. Strange, is it not, that if you had not insisted that he was the better man I might still be confined to the house by that old fool who first attended me. Life is ironic, is it not, Charlotte?’

  He smiled benignly as though they were discussing the state of the weather, then made a sudden lunge and at her side Taddy backed away, turned and fled in the direction they had come.