The Flight of Swallows Read online

  There was a long silence, a silence heavy with the threat of a strong man who would have his way whatever the consequences to others. At one fell stroke he was to rid himself of his family, at least the housing of them. He was willing to pay for an expensive education for them; after all he was, or would be, well able to afford it and besides, his friends would not comment on it adversely since it was entirely proper to send older boys to public school. Most families of his class did. And it was quite understandable that a newly married man would want to have his bride to himself. Further, what could be more natural than to have his daughter, who was of marriageable age, wed to a man of means and property, a man with a good name?

  He sat down behind his desk, reached out and took a cigar from the box, put it to his lips and lit it, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. He smiled. Charlotte watched him and her eyes glittered with such contempt, such hatred, such loathing even, that another man might have looked away in shame. But Arthur Drummond was no ordinary man as his behaviour towards his children, especially his daughter, in the past had shown. He was a dark, perverted man and for a strange moment Charlotte felt sorry for the woman who was to be his wife. She had no idea what kind of man she was to marry but then what was that to her, now!

  Charlotte turned on her heel and walked towards the door, her head held high, her shoulders squared, her back straight. She opened the door and without another word walked through and up the passage to the hallway. Kizzie was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for her. Kizzie had bathed her face earlier, her own wet with tears, no word spoken, at least not between them though Kizzie had had enough to say in the kitchen.

  ‘Lass?’ she questioned, putting out a hand then withdrawing it as Charlotte walked past her. Later Charlotte would break down and cry in her arms but at that moment she was caught in an icy world from which she could not escape.

  ‘I’m all right, Kizzie. I’ll have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Let me bring tha’ summat ter eat. Tha’ve ’ad nowt since—’

  ‘No, please, just a cup of tea and then I must go and see the boys. Is Miss Price with them?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, I shall send her away for I must talk to them. I believe I shall have the power to do that now, Kizzie, at least for a while. It really is quite amazing . . .’

  ‘What is, chuck? ’Asta got summat—’

  ‘It seems I am to be married, Kizzie, and very soon.’

  ‘Lovey . . .’ Kizzie’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘So you see I must go and talk with my brothers. I’d be obliged if you would tell the others. In the kitchen, I mean, then . . .’

  ‘Oh, my lass . . .’

  5

  Their new King, to be called Edward VII, was to be crowned on 26 June so Brooke asked his bride-to-be if she would like to spend a few days in London after the wedding and watch the procession. They were to go on to Paris and perhaps she would care to travel to Italy; Florence was lovely at this time of the year but it was up to her, he added, struggling to fetch the girl who was to be his wife on 23 June out of the polite passivity that seemed to have come over her since he had presented her with the puppy. She was not the same warm, lively person who had been so rapturous about his gift.

  He had not seen her for ten days after the conversation he had had with her father, the explanation given that she was unwell, a slight summer cold, which surprised him since she had not struck him as the sort of young woman who would take to her bed on such a slight indisposition. Arthur Drummond had been most hearty when he had called at King’s Meadow to tell Brooke that his daughter was agreeable to being his wife and had wanted, naturally, to come with him to tell Armstrong herself. As soon as she was recovered she would drive over with her maid to discuss the arrangements for the big day. He could not stay long, he said, since he was off to York with his older boys to see them safely installed at Barton Meade, a public school with a good reputation, but he had just wanted to inform Brooke that all was well. He went on to explain.

  ‘My sons have had a good grounding with Miss Price but I feel they need the rough and tumble of living with other boys to finish off their education. Yes, thank you, a quick whisky, if you don’t mind, and the preparations for my own marriage are taking up some of my time but as soon as she is improved my daughter will be in touch with you. I beg your pardon? . . . My youngest son? He is to go to the grammar school in Dewsbury until he is eight when he will join his brothers at Barton Meade. I believe my daughter has a request of you, Brooke – I may call you Brooke, mayn’t I, since we are to be related? Thank you – but Charlotte will speak to you very soon, I’m sure.’

  She drove over with her maid a few days later, ostensibly to be shown her new home and to tell him how honoured she was by his proposal but it seemed to Brooke she was distant, cool, as though she had been well rehearsed in the pretty speech. She was very correct, gracious even, but she appeared to be totally disinterested until he was forced to ask her outright, as was his way she was to find out later, if she was certain that this was what she wanted.

  ‘When I spoke to your father it was with the intention of . . . in the future, asking you to be my wife. He was somewhat precipitate in speaking to you since we barely know one another and you are very young. I want you to know that if this . . . if I’m not to your . . . well, no one is forcing you, Miss . . . no, I shall call you Charlotte and you must call me Brooke. We can become friends, if you are willing but I will not . . . not . . .’ He ran his hands through his dark curling hair which was already dishevelled, and Charlotte felt her frozen heart move a little, for this man was not an enemy and was doing his best. ‘I do not wish you to be made . . . your father is . . .’

  He was leading her across the gravel from the carriage. There was a circle of grass in front of the house with a statue of some sort in the middle and the carriage had driven round it, coming to a stop by the front door. Kizzie followed them, decently dressed in a plain outfit as befitted a maidservant. She liked him. This was the first time she had met him and when Miss Charlotte had said vaguely that ‘this is my maid’ he had turned and smiled and asked her her name. She liked him and thought that Miss Charlotte would be all right with him.

  ‘Dost tha’ want ter marry this chap, Miss Charlotte?’ she had asked anxiously as she bathed her swollen eye. ‘Only it’s bin that sudden we’re all of a flummox in’t kitchen since none of us knew it were in’t wind, like. Oh, we know ’e’s bin ’ere a time or two but tha’ve never sed owt.’

  ‘There was nothing to tell, Kizzie. I’ve met him twice in the wood with his dogs and then he brought Taddy but I had no idea he was interested in me – that way, I mean, and then my father told me he . . . Mr Armstrong wished to marry me. The boys were to go to school and I was to marry Mr Armstrong. They arranged it there and then, so I was told, and it seemed I had no choice.’

  ‘But wharrabout you? What dost tha’ think o’ this arrangement?’ Kizzie’s face hardened. ‘It’ll be ’er,’ she said. ‘’Er what’s ter marry’t master. Wants rid, she does. I never liked ’er from’t start. But just wait while she’s wed ’im, she’ll be sorry. I tell thi’ I’d not like ter be wife to ’im.’

  They were in Charlotte’s bedroom to where she had been banished when her father blacked her eye and where she was to remain until she was fit to be seen. They all knew, naturally, in the kitchen, for such an incident could not be hidden. They had been shocked to the core by what had happened to Miss Charlotte. They had known the master was . . . well, strict with his children when he got his dander up for they had heard the little boys crying after a beating and Kizzie had had her doubts about what he did to Miss Charlotte, but she was a servant and what could she do about it? But the smack across the face was the last straw. Kizzie ranted and raved and Mary and Nancy, the parlour-maids, talked of giving in their notice as they were fond of Miss Charlotte who was always nice to them, but then they might not be given a decent reference by the new mistress.

/>   ‘I have no choice, Kizzie, and Mr Armstrong is a very nice man. He seems kind and . . .’ She sat listlessly on the window seat staring sightlessly out at the lush green of the lawn and the bold colours of the flowerbeds. Kizzie had brought her up a bowl of Mrs Welsh’s delicious and nourishing soup with some of her fresh bread straight out of the oven. Kizzie had reported that their little mistress was not eating so Mrs Welsh had set to with her special skills to make up some dish to tempt her. She prepared a syllabub made with white wine, nutmeg, sugar and milk with whipped cream on top, an egg custard and a tall glass of her own orange wine.

  ‘If that don’t put a lining on her stomach at least it’ll make her feel better!’ she told them all, referring to the wine as she set out a dainty tray with a small vase of rosebuds from the garden.

  Now Charlotte allowed him to lead her across the gravel towards the house and a smallish door under a verandah. She had to admit it was a lovely house built of the honey-coloured stone of the district. It had eight windows across the top storey and a large bay window to the left of the terrace and several more further to the right. Wicker chairs and a small round table stood on the verandah. To the left was a high stone wall in which was set an arched wrought-iron gate leading to another garden and a smaller adjoining house. Beyond that, though she could see little, seemed to be several buildings, presumably stabling and what appeared to be a dovecote.

  ‘I thought we could have coffee or chocolate out here since it is such a lovely day,’ he told her, ‘after you have seen the house and perhaps you could tell me what you would like in the way of . . . of . . . well, if there is anything you would like changed. Your . . . your bedroom perhaps. I don’t know your taste . . . in furniture, I mean, or colours but whatever . . .’

  He was aware he was babbling but she was so composed, so silent, so . . . so dignified he felt the need to fill that silence with words, any words that might make her relax, but she merely answered politely.

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Armstrong, I wouldn’t dream of altering anything in your home.’

  ‘It is to be your home too, Charlotte,’ he answered roughly.

  ‘No. Oh, yes, I see what you mean but everything seems to be lovely so . . .’ Her voice trailed away as though she were in a dream, a hazy unreality that had nothing to do with Charlotte Drummond. That’s how she felt, as though she were watching some other girl drifting through this beautifully furnished, lavishly carpeted house, looking at pictures hung on plain walls, pictures of the sea and tiny boats and vague outlines of buildings, a galleon on fire reflected in water, the sun rising, or perhaps setting over water, all delicately framed.

  ‘I’m fond of Turner,’ he told her quietly.

  ‘Really, they’re lovely.’

  ‘And that’s Constable, all of them only prints, of course,’ pointing to a picture that seemed to be nothing but clouds with blue and grey and greens and she bent forward to peer at it, the first time she had shown an interest since she had stepped from the carriage.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked her.

  ‘I know nothing of art, I’m afraid.’

  It was the same wherever he took her. One lovely room after another, all furnished not in the Victorian style which was heavy and overpowering but in an earlier period she did not recognise but which was light and airy and uncluttered. She followed politely in his wake as though he were a guide in a museum and behind her Kizzie did the same but she was fascinated and thrilled with what she saw and believed that when Miss Charlotte was this man’s wife and herself again she would like it too.

  ‘Have you any preference for a colour scheme or a particular piece of furniture in this room? It will be your bedroom . . .’ and mine too, though he did not say so. ‘It looks out over the garden at the front of the house and has its own bathroom through here . . .’ opening a door that led into a magnificent room which even Charlotte found amazing despite her stupefied state. It was large, square, with two decorative windows set with panes of coloured glass. Beneath one of them was a large white bath on fluted legs, adorned with gleaming brass taps from which water spouted as he demonstrated. There was a holder across it containing scented soap, a loofah, snowy white face-cloths and next to it a white-painted towel rail covered with thick white towels. On another wall stood a white hand-basin, again with soap, this time in the shape of a shell, with brass taps and supported by fluted, decorative sides. Over it hung a large plate-glass mirror with an etched border. The floor and the walls were all done in glossy white tiles painted here and there with blue flowers. The water closet had a plain wooden lid but was itself decorated with the same pale blue flowers and the high-level cistern above it had a china chain-pull.

  The luxury of it took Charlotte’s breath away and she had a fraction of a second of pleasure, for though she did not want to marry this man and be parted from her brothers it seemed there would be some compensation for doing so! During the school holidays her brothers would be able to stay with her, and perhaps, since she was to have a rich husband, they could have horses. She would be able to do so much for them, give them a life they had not had with their father.

  ‘Is it to your liking?’ Mr Armstrong asked her diffidently and she was not to know that he was the least diffident man in the world and that he had the strongest desire to take her by the shoulders and shake her until her glorious hair fell about her. She was tearing his heart from his chest with her neutral acceptance of her surroundings, which he was offering to her with more love than he could ever have imagined himself feeling. It was not that she was inattentive. Her eyes moved from one object to another but never looked at him. She glanced behind her every now and again and he realised she was making sure her maid was still with them. What did she think he might do? Throw her on one of the beds and ravish her? Her one remark, or rather question, was about her maid.

  ‘And where is Kizzie to sleep?’ she asked. ‘I wish her to have her own room.’

  ‘Kizzie?’ He was bewildered.

  ‘My maid,’ turning again to indicate the quiet woman at their backs.

  ‘She is to come with you? I thought you might care for one of—’

  ‘Oh, no! Kizzie will come with me, and then there is . . .’ She hesitated, her gaze going off somewhere over his shoulder so that he was tempted to turn round to see what she was looking at.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  She moved to the window of the room that was to be hers, the room that she had not yet realised she was to share with him, he was sure. He followed her and stood beside her looking out over the gravel drive and the circle of grass.

  ‘There is my brother, Robbie. I suppose Father told you he is to go to the grammar school in Dewsbury. He is too young for the school in York where his brothers are going and until he is I wish him to remain with me.’

  There was a long silence while he digested this request. His face was totally without expression and she might have just asked him if it would be all right for her to have her dog with her. She did not turn to look at him. It was not really a request she had made but a demand. I wish my brother to remain with me! To live with them. To be there at every meal. To sit with them in the evening when he had hoped to spend time alone with her. At all times except when he was at school there would be a six-year-old boy forever hanging about her skirts. It was intolerable.

  ‘You do not agree,’ she said sadly as the silence lengthened, and when he still did not answer she sighed and turned away.

  ‘You see I cannot leave him on his own with Father and . . . and that woman, so if you do not wish it I cannot marry you. I must have him with me. Father tells me that I must find a post as a governess or . . . or perhaps in a school. I think I could teach young children and he and I could find lodgings somewhere. But . . . Oh, dear God . . .’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘I had forgotten, Father swears that . . . well, I suppose I will have to . . .’ She turned to him passionately, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please say you will take
Robbie. I will keep him out of your way as much as possible but if I don’t become your wife as Father says I must he will send the boys, all of them, including Robbie, to a school up in Northumberland and I will . . .’

  Again his heart wrenched in agony, her agony, but this time he gave way to his feelings and with a small sound in the back of his throat he put his arms about her, drawing her to him gently, calming her, just holding her as friend holds friend and it began then. Kizzie felt a lump come to her throat and without a sound drifted from the room and left them alone.

  ‘Don’t, Charlotte, don’t worry so. You may have your Robbie to live with us as long as you promise that you and I can spend time together on our own.’

  ‘When he is at school, Mr Armstrong.’ Her face was radiant.

  ‘And providing you call me Brooke.’

  ‘I will. Oh, how can I thank you, you are the kindest, best man.’

  ‘No, no, do not make me into a saint.’ He was laughing now and so was she and when they left the room Kizzie saw that they were holding hands.

  She really was the most beautiful bride any of the congregation had ever seen. Her eyes shone with the blue-green depths of aquamarine like the waters of the sea off the Cornish coast, one guest remarked, and her cheeks were flushed with rose. Her tawny hair had been brushed and brushed to the gloss of copper by Kizzie, and was in a full roll about her head like a small crown. Her gown was of white satin with a separate back-fastening bodice with small puff sleeves and the skirt was padded at the hem and gathered into a small train. Her full veil was fastened to a small Juliet cap that nestled in the crown of her hair and was made entirely of white rosebuds and she carried a small posy of the same flowers in her white, elbow-length-gloved hands. She was smiling at her handsome groom who was immaculate in a dark grey frock-coat with a light grey waistcoat and grey gloves. Her five brothers stood in a row behind her, as she had insisted they be present to see her married and for the moment she held the upper hand with her father. He gave her away then turned to the woman who would be his bride the following week.