The Flight of Swallows Page 34

  Arthur Drummond shook his head as though at some puzzle. ‘Perhaps you had better keep a braver dog by your side when you venture out and those girls of yours had better watch their backs.’

  Charlotte stood before him, her loveliness illuminated by the sunlight and the reflection from the frost that hung from every tree and sparkled on every stalk of sleeping bracken. Her hair, a tawny gold and silver, lay down her back, unconfined and streaked by the light, her startlingly blue eyes glinted and her skin, touched by the cold, was rose at her cheeks and as flawless as porcelain. Her beauty had matured since she had married Brooke and become the mother of two children, three if you counted Ellie. She was desperately afraid and it passed snake-like through her mind that it might be the best thing to allow this madman who was her father to have his way with her. It might protect the others, her beloved children, the girls who worked so hard for her, their children and even Brooke, for this man was capable of anything. All these months he had brooded on what had been done to him and what he would do to exact revenge and now it was to begin again.

  Just as suddenly as he had appeared he turned and vanished between the trees. For several minutes she stared at the spot where he had been, beginning to tremble, not realising how rigid she had kept herself, the trembling spreading and spreading until she shook like an aspen tree. Then she turned and her legs flashing in a gathering of speed she ran in the direction of the house. But she could not enter the kitchen because the servants would know that something had happened to her while she had been out. The men in the stable yard would stare in astonishment, for how was she to contain herself and act normally as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened to her? And what about Brooke? He would sense at once what had happened, or that something had and would shake it out of her and before she could stop him would gallop over to the Mount, probably taking a couple of their men with him, and beat her father to pulp. Perhaps kill him and end up in gaol. Dear God . . . Dear sweet Jesus, what am I to do? God in heaven, what am I to do?

  Without coherent thought she found herself at the door of Jenny and Todd’s cottage – and Kizzie. Who else was she to turn to but the woman who had loved her, guarded her, comforted her, held her while she wept, followed her since she was ten years old, guided her through girlhood and brought her to the safe harbourage of her marriage to Brooke? And was still there, still shielding her back, ready to die for her.

  Without knocking she burst into the warmth and sanity of the cottage where Todd, his pipe between his teeth, his face beaming with joy, was seated by the fire holding his son who was thirty minutes old. He turned to Charlotte and so absorbed was he with his own delight and thankfulness that he did not seem to notice his mistress’s agitation. Leaning against him was Jenny’s daughter Rose, gazing down at her new brother with little interest, for she had been surrounded by babies all her young life.

  ‘See, missis, we’ve got us a lad. A little lad not half an hour since. By Gow, I never thought I’d see’t day when—’

  ‘Where’s Kizzie? I must see Kizzie.’

  At this most special moment of his life, Todd, who at forty-two had given up all hope of ever being a father, never mind marrying a pretty lass like Jenny, looked at the mistress affronted, for she was never anything but kind and thoughtful with her servants.

  ‘Why, she’s upstairs tendin’ ter Jenny. She only ’ad babby ’alf an ’our since an’—’

  ‘I must see her. At once. Oh, dear Lord, I must see her. I don’t think I can . . .’

  Todd began to realise that there was something badly wrong with the mistress and though he would have liked proudly to display the bundle in his arms he stood up and moved to the bottom of the stairs that led directly into the neat kitchen.

  ‘I’ll go—’

  ‘No, I’ll go. Oh, I’m sorry, Todd, I’m pleased you have a son but really, I cannot . . .’

  And before Todd could put out a hand to stop her she was halfway up the stairs, but Kizzie had heard the voices below. She stood at the top, a big bowl in her hands which apparently contained the cloths, sheets and all the paraphernalia of birth that she meant to put in the boiler at the big house. Jenny was comfortable and was sitting up in bed sipping a cup of tea and waiting for her husband to bring their son up for his first feed at her breast which was already brimming with milk. It had been an easy birth, it being her second, and she wanted Rose to come first and sit beside her, for there was no sorrier sight than a first child being pushed out by a second.

  ‘What’s up, lass?’ Kizzie asked, but one look at Charlotte’s face made her hurry down the stairs, indicate with a nod that Todd, the baby and Rose were to go up, put down her basin and, when Todd and Rose had scuttled upstairs, draw Charlotte to the fire.

  Charlotte sank into the chair just vacated by Todd and put her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh, Kizzie . . . Kizzie, what am I to do?’

  ‘It’s ’im, in’t it? No other bugger would upset thi’ like this. What ’appened?’

  ‘He was in the wood. He’s recovered, you see. He walks on a stick but he’s up and about and it won’t be long before—’

  ‘What did ’e say?’

  ‘What he’s always said but this time he wants revenge for what has happened to him. He thinks Brooke put those men on to him but the irony of it is, it’s Wallace Chapman who is healing him. I asked him to help my father and now it seems he has and far from being grateful he says the time has come for my “punishment”. He threatened the children, Brooke, the girls at the Dower House and . . . Kizzie, I think he is insane. Really insane. I believe if he had not still been forced to walk with a stick and could have caught me I might have been . . . I think he means to . . . rape me.’ The last two words were spoken in a whisper.

  ‘Nay, lass, nay, not tha’ own father,’ Kizzie protested. ‘’Appen beat thi’ or . . . no man rapes ’is own daughter.’

  ‘What about the girls who have come to us bearing the child their fathers gave them?’

  ‘Nay, lass. Lass, ’e wouldn’t.’

  ‘I do believe I would give in to him if I had just myself to consider but I’m afraid for my children, and Brooke. Kizzie . . . Kizzie, what am I to do?’ She began to weep brokenheartedly. In one swift movement Kizzie was kneeling at her feet, her arms tight round her, shushing her tenderly and it was obvious from the expression on her face that she would kill the monster who threatened this young woman before she allowed him to touch a hair of her head.

  ‘Tha’ve got ter tell master, child. Tha’ can’t manage this on tha’ own. ’E needs lockin’ in’t Lunatic Asylum off Eastmoor. Master’s got a lot of influence. A charge could be . . . well, if ’e were ter speak ter someone, tell ’im truth.’

  ‘My father is a respected member of society, Kizzie. Who would believe it? None of his friends, I can assure you. They would think Brooke was the one who needed locking up for his preposterous suggestion.’

  ‘I’d tell ’im an’t servants at t’Mount. They knew as ’ow ’e used ter beat thi’ an’ them lads.’

  ‘But they are servants, Kizzie. Of the lower classes. I’m sorry, but that is how they would be perceived and anyway, my father would probably bribe . . . or dismiss them without a reference, or he would frighten them.’

  Kizzie stood up, her strong jaw thrust out. She squared her shoulders and picked up her bowl, moving to the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m tekkin’ this lot up ter’t’ouse, Todd,’ she shouted. ‘If tha’ want owt nip over. Can tha’ manage, d’yer think? Or shall I send one o’t girl’s over?’

  Todd appeared at the head of the stairs. ‘Nay lass, ta. Tha’s bin grand. Us’ll manage. Little lad’s ’avin’ a right good feed. Us’re callin’ ’im Edward after t’King. Thanks again, Kizzie. Tha’re a grand lass an’ if there’s owt I can do fer thi’ tha’s only ter ask.’ He hurried back to his family.

  ‘Someone’s ’appy, anyroad,’ Kizzie muttered then moved back to Charlotte. ‘Come on, chuck. Let’s get thi’ ’ome.’
>
  Charlotte was in her bed; after a cup of hot chocolate into which Kizzie had poured a good swig of brandy, exhausted, she had fallen asleep at once. Kizzie debated whether to send for Doctor Chapman but decided against it, as it would mean that there would be somebody else for them to worry about. The doctor might think it his duty to interrogate Arthur Drummond, perhaps take Kizzie’s tale to the police and then where would they be? This must be settled in the family which meant the master and herself. Charlotte was in such a state she was not capable, at least at the moment, of making any decision. She was terrified, willing to do anything, even offering herself as a martyr to protect her family, and until she was stronger, more in control of her keen mind which knew that it would be impossible, she must be kept out of it. Kizzie had no idea what the master could do, or would do but, like Charlotte, he might do something that would throw them all into a deep black hole from which they might never be able to climb. She wasn’t sure she even knew what she meant by that but nonetheless he must be told. Besides which, if Charlotte didn’t tell him he would know at once that something was wrong. They were too close, this husband and wife. They had grown together into a happy family unit over the last two years, what with their own children – so fragile and vulnerable – and the lovely child who was part of it, Drummond’s own child, who was a pawn in this horrific game of cat and mouse the devil was playing. Someone would suffer. They would all suffer in one way or another and she must speak to the master who was the only one who could protect them all.

  Kizzie knocked on his study door where a curious Nellie had told her he had gone. They had all been curious in the kitchen, staring with open mouths as she and Miss Charlotte had staggered through, she almost carrying Miss Charlotte. Mrs Groves had even gone so far as to hold out a hand and say, ‘Eeh, whatever’s wrong?’ but she and Miss Charlotte had continued through the kitchen and up the stairs where she had put her young mistress to bed.

  ‘A hot chocolate fer’t mistress,’ she had thrown over her shoulder as she went by, and then when the chocolate arrived, had slipped down to the drawing room and poured in the brandy with a heavy hand. She watched patiently until Charlotte had drunk it down, satisfied it would keep her mistress asleep for at least a couple of hours.

  Brooke looked up and smiled as she entered. He looked rumpled, his hair all over the place after his energetic play with the children. Even Toby had not been left out, for at almost twelve months he was a sturdy toddler and had been thrown high in the air by his father to the consternation of the two nursemaids.

  ‘Kizzie, I was just going to try and—’

  ‘Can tha’ spare a minnit, sir?’ she began politely. She didn’t bob a curtsey as the other maids might have. She never had!

  ‘Of course, what is it? Nothing serious, I hope.’ He brushed back his thick hair and smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, very serious.’

  ‘Sit down, lass.’

  28

  She was dreaming. There was a man holding her: her father. He leered into her face and she thought he was going to say something like, ‘I’ve got you now,’ and she started to struggle and tried to scream but the voice kept saying, ‘I’ve got you, you’re safe now, my precious love, I’ve got you.’ And she was in Brooke’s arms and he was holding her close, his lips covering her face with kisses and she thought she felt something wet and warm on her cheeks and suddenly she was safe. Safe from the horrors that had overwhelmed her, from the worry, from the fear, for Brooke would take it all from her, tell her what she was to do. She was in her own bed, drenched in sweat and shivering, but it was all right because Brooke was here to safeguard her and her family and the girls and their children. Not only would he share it with her but he would make it right, take it from her. She was loved, protected; she didn’t know how he would do it but she was not alone.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, you daft, sweet, lovely, brave woman? Did you think I would let that man touch a hair on your head, or that of our children? You’re safe now, my sweetness, and always will be . . .’

  She sat up and pushed him away yet at the same time held on to him, for this dear man who was her life, the love of her heart, would never allow harm to come to her; but she was incensed that someone had told him when she meant to keep it from him for his own safety and who could it be but Kizzie!

  ‘I’ll give that woman the rounds of the kitchen when I see her. I told her in confidence—’

  ‘Did you think that woman, as you call her, would let you shoulder this on your own, you addle-pated creature? She can do nothing since she is, as our social equals would have it, of the working classes, the lower classes and therefore would have no notice taken of her. They, the police, or whoever she went to, would not believe her, for she is in their eyes a person of no consequence, but I am. I’ll have to have a – all right, we’ll have to put our heads together and work out a plan that will render your mad father helpless. First I intend to employ several men, men who will patrol the—’

  ‘I thought we were to decide this together, Brooke Armstrong.’ She flung herself out of bed and stormed across the bedroom, the filmy nightdress Kizzie had put her in, the only kind she wore, clinging to her still sweaty body and Brooke watched her with growing attention. He could see her nipples dark against the fabric and the triangle at the base of her belly and as she flared past him he caught her to him and dragged her into his arms. For a moment she nestled up to him as he began to kiss her shoulder and push the nightdress down to reveal her breast but though she longed to respond, for his touch still thrilled her, she pushed him away angrily.

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously, Brooke. I dare not let the children or . . .’

  Suddenly he was grim-faced. He put her gently on the bed and walked away to stare out of the window at the frosted garden beyond. There was no one in sight as it was too cold for the gardeners to put a spade in the ground. He could see smoke wisping from the Dower House chimneys and as he watched, the wrought-iron gate that let into the wall opened and Kizzie hurried through it. She was well wrapped up even for the short walk to the front door of the house and he realised that she had been to check on the young women and their children who lived there. They were vulnerable since there was a gate at the back into the lane and anybody, meaning Arthur Drummond, could easily slip in as he had done last year. Not at the present moment, it seemed, for he could not do much harm with a weak leg but when he was totally recovered there would be nothing to stop him from riding up to the gate, tethering his horse in the lane and frightening the life out of whoever was there. He would wait until all the mothers, Charlotte’s employees, were at work, either in the workshop across the yard, at the stalls in the market or at the shop in Wakefield. Megan was in charge of the children while their mothers worked, three of them and the new girl. A man must be posted to guard them and several others to patrol the grounds. Men with guns. In the meanwhile he would make it his business to have a word with the inspector, or even the chief constable of Yorkshire who were both known to him and knew him as a responsible citizen who was not mad. Many people, however, would think he was out of his mind, since Drummond was well known, liked even, a member of what passed for the upper classes in the area. And what about Wallace Chapman? Could he help? He had been attending Drummond ever since his “accident” and might perhaps have noticed signs of, if not insanity, then eccentricity, a tendency to instability. He and Wallace respected one another and surely if he told the whole terrible story of how Drummond had treated his children, particularly Charlotte, and then this last episode, he might have some advice, even some solution, or at least back up Brooke in his hopes to get Drummond committed. Yes, that was what he wanted, to have Arthur Drummond put away where he could harm no one.

  Charlotte was dressing and he watched her as she put on a grey, ankle-length gored skirt, a white high-necked shirt, a wide leather belt that reduced her neat waist to nothing and a warm cardigan with deep pockets in the same colour as the skirt. She twisted her waist
-length hair into a knot at the crown of her head and thrust pins in it, which held it precariously. Her sleep and the knowledge that she was no longer alone in this dreadful experience had put a rose in her cheek and she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders in a gesture that tore at his heart it was so brave.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said, for anything, her attitude said, and held out her hand to him, which he took. He raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles tenderly.

  ‘God, how I love you,’ he murmured, his lips still to her hand, his silver-grey eyes soft as velvet.

  The servants were not surprised when three large, unsmiling men appeared at the kitchen door a few days later, each carrying a gun broken across his arm. The master had told the servants to expect them and here they were. They had ridden up on the horses Mr Armstrong had supplied them with and they were to ride the perimeter of his land, through his woodland, across his bit of moorland, patrolling the paths and gardens and even the farmlands, though they had been given instructions that they were not to interfere with the farm tenants. At the back of each man stood a dog, not big, nor ferocious, even allowing the stable lads to pat them but they were alert, their ears pricked and it was clear they would be the first to sense any danger lurking in the undergrowth.

  ‘How about a hot drink, lads?’ Mrs Groves asked nervously.

  ‘Ta, that’d be grand, misshiss, but us’ve got ter get ter work, so quick as tha’ like.’

  The maids eyed the men appreciatively, for though they were tough-looking characters they were also extremely polite, young and not bad-looking. Arch and Percy, who had come from the stable block to inspect these chaps, worried they might upset their own animals, approved of the steady way they held their horses and kept their dogs in check.

  While the men, identified as Denton, Mitchell, or Mitch, he said, and Hooper, drank their enormous mugs of strong, sweet tea, the way all the servants, especially the men, liked it, standing just outside the kitchen door, Percy and Arch did their best to question them. Denton, who was obviously the spokesman, told them briefly, and with a note in his voice that said he was unwilling to be interrogated, that Mr Armstrong had given instructions to their employer who ran an agency in town, that this property and all its occupants were to be guarded.