The Flight of Swallows Page 8

‘Come on, lad, come wi’ Kizzie. Shall us ask Mrs Groves fer some apples? Horses like apples an’ then tha can get used to ’em.’

  Casting a reproachful look at Charlotte, since he had been sure she would tell Mr Armstrong . . . well, he wasn’t sure what but she should have stuck up for him. Reluctantly he left the room clinging to Kizzie’s hand.

  ‘Now then, Charlotte,’ her husband said briskly. ‘We’ve missed the ten thirty-five but there is another at two fifteen which will get us into London in time for dinner. We’ll still have our trip to London, see the sights but until we know how the King is . . .’

  ‘Could we not stay here, Mr . . . er, Brooke? At least until we know of the King’s condition. Then if—’

  ‘No, Charlotte, we can not. We will go to London, await the news of the King and if he does not recover soon, travel to Paris and then on to Italy as planned.’

  And that is what they did. Robbie was in tears as he waved goodbye to the carriage but she knew she must not weaken. She waved to him until the house disappeared and then leaned back shoulder to shoulder with the man who was her husband, her own heart leaden, for how was she to make a life with this man who was an unknown quantity to her, a man who could do as he pleased with her, take her where she did not want to go, which was away from her little brother who was lost without her. True, Robbie was to have a pony of his own and perhaps he would take comfort from that and from the presence of Kizzie.

  To her quiet delight she found that she enjoyed the company of Brooke, as she called him with increasing ease as the days passed. They were in Florence when the King was finally crowned on 9 August. Apparently he had been struck down with an illness diagnosed as acute appendicitis and an emergency operation had been performed at Buckingham Palace. It had been entirely successful and so the coronation was held.

  ‘Good old King Teddy,’ her husband drawled, a cigar between his lips, a glass of champagne in his hand. They were dining on the terrace of the luxurious hotel, like all the other luxurious hotels they had stayed in where they ate off fine bone china and drank from cut-crystal glasses. First Paris with its delightful round of gaieties, a drive in the Bois de Boulogne, theatres and intimate little suppers afterwards, for there was no doubt Brooke was an amusing companion. They drank a great deal of champagne, bought dozens of chic outfits including a long cape of pale grey fur. He bought her jewellery, a strand of pearls and another of gold, diamonds to set in her hair and drape round her wrist, a negligee with an ermine trim. They made love, or Brooke made love to her every night, often in the early morning and now and again in the afternoon too. She found it quite agreeable once she had became used to his demands which, as the weeks passed, became more insistent. In full lamplight he explored her body from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, returning to the most intimate parts of her that she scarcely knew existed, dwelling there with his hands and his mouth, bringing himself, if not her, to a shuddering climax which she now took for granted. They ate romantic dinners, went to race-meetings and elegant little concert halls and fascinating, pavement cafés, shopping, always shopping, not just for herself but for anyone she cared to spend his money on. He indulged her, amused her, entertained her and had it not been for the nagging little worries she had about Robbie and her older brothers at their new school she would have loved every minute of it. They moved on in easy comfortable stages to Marseille, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and then, at the end of September, they travelled home.

  They were all waiting, the servants in a row in the wide hallway, smiling and bobbing and bowing to greet their new mistress who was not the frightened young girl who had left them three months ago but a beautifully, expensively dressed young woman of some sophistication. Kizzie was there at the end of the line, for as the mistress’s personal maid it was she who would climb the stairs to the lovely bedroom where their mistress’s many, many trunks were waiting to be unpacked.

  ‘Where’s Robbie?’ was the first thing she said and the master frowned, for he had had her exclusively to himself all these weeks and did not relish the boy hanging about her neck the minute she got home.

  ‘He’s at school, madam,’ Mr Johnson told her, nodding to them all to return to the kitchen.

  ‘An’ if he weren’t at school ’e’d be down at paddock,’ Kizzie added blithely. Kizzie had settled in to this comfortable, cheerful household where she found they were all prepared to accept her with great equanimity. Of course, she herself was only too happy, until her young mistress returned home, to help out anyone who asked her. She didn’t mind scrubbing the scullery floor if Rosie was busy scouring pans, she was heard to say, endearing herself to the scullery-maid. Would Jane Porter like a hand in the dairy or Katie Abbott in the laundry? She’d be glad to ‘peg out’ in the garden beyond the stables or even do a bit of ironing with the flat irons. Four of them were kept on the hot plate at a time and used in order. As one cooled, another could be quickly taken up while the others reheated. There was always a great deal of washing and ironing, for there were seven indoor servants including Kizzie and then the family, Mr and Mrs Armstrong and young Robbie. She had fitted in a treat, she was to tell Miss Charlotte once they were alone, and so had Robbie. She studied her young mistress with a careful eye since she was pretty certain the master would be a real man in the ‘bed’ department but there seemed to be no sign of a baby yet, not even in Miss Charlotte’s eyes where, to an expert like Kizzie, the first indication of pregnancy lay.

  Robbie was allowed to dine with them that first night, as a treat, Charlotte told him carefully, since she had got the measure of her new husband by now and he would not take kindly to having a chattering schoolboy at the dinner table each night. Besides which, Robbie was only six years old and would go to bed early. Normally he would eat with Kizzie in his own rooms, a playroom cum study with a bedroom adjoining it.

  He seemed to have settled, like Kizzie, into his new home and routine and his conversation never stopped, causing Brooke to frown slightly, the main reason being his passionate devotion to his new pony, which he could ride without being on a leading rein now, he said proudly, and the dogs, particularly Taddy, who slept in his room. His pony, Merry, was a ‘corker’; or so Percy said, and on Saturday, his new chum from school, a boy called Webb was going to ride over and Percy would take them to Round Hill Wood. They were to gallop across the fields and did Charlotte think it would be all right if Webb stayed the night?

  ‘Webb, that’s a strange name for a boy, darling.’ There it was again, she called her brother darling, an endearment she had never yet bestowed on him! Any endearment, come to that!

  ‘Oh, that’s his surname, Charlie. He calls me Drummond. Christian names aren’t used at our school.’

  ‘And do you like it, dearest? Your school, I mean, and don’t slurp your soup, sweetheart. It’s not manners to eat so quickly.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ he said, continuing to consume his soup hungrily. Johnson moved silently and deftly about the dining room, helped to serve by Nellie, the head parlour-maid. Following the soup came lamb and roast potatoes, a simple dish to suit the boy, Mrs Groves had obviously thought, and then apple pie with lashings of fresh cream. There was cheese afterwards, a platter of Stilton, Cheshire, Cheddar and Gloucestershire with which Brooke drank port.

  ‘Did you know there’s a tennis court at the back of the house, Mr Armstrong?’ the boy asked smilingly. Robbie was enjoying himself immensely. He had no competition from his brothers which, as the youngest, had held him back. He had Charlie’s undivided attention and the man, Charlie’s new husband, seemed disinclined to talk at all which suited young Robbie down to the ground. He was, on the whole, perfectly happy here at King’s Meadow though he had not expected to be, especially since Charlie had a husband now, an unknown quantity to Robbie. The servants made a fuss of him which he had never experienced before. Kizzie was there to mother him while Charlie was away and the future looked sunny. And if he, Robbie, was allowed to eat with them and talk as he had
done this evening, it seemed everything was to turn out as he liked it. School was not bad and Webb was a bonus, his pony another and the discovery of the tennis court had excited him no end. He could see him and Charlie having a lovely time here with no father to subdue them, for it appeared the chestnut mare in the paddock, named Magic, was to be hers. There were lovely walks and rides and now, a tennis court.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Brooke said tonelessly, in answer to his question.

  ‘Do you play then, sir?’ Robbie smiled artlessly at the man who seemed unlikely to stand in his way.

  ‘In the past, I have.’ Brooke was looking at his wife who was also smiling, but not at him. She looked so beautiful, her face flushed and happy as she watched and listened to her brother prattle on. She wore one of her new Doucet gowns, bought in London. It was simple, made of lace the exact colour of the coffee and cream they were drinking and about her neck was the gold and diamond choker he had placed there on their first night as man and wife. Her hair had been brushed to a tawny gloss by Kizzie and then piled carelessly in a tumble of curls on her head and a coffee-coloured satin ribbon threaded through it. She had her elbow on the table and leaned her chin in the palm of her hand as she gazed indulgently at her little brother. Brooke could stand no more but was at the same time ashamed of himself, for this was a child of whom he was jealous. Her small brother who surely was no obstacle to him.

  He stood up abruptly, slapping his hand on the table Mr Johnson, who was standing with his back to the sideboard waiting to clear, jumped a little and almost dropped a tray of crockery.

  ‘Right, young man, time for bed, I think,’ Brooke told him sharply. ‘Your sister and I have—’

  ‘Oh, no, please, Charlie. I have lots to tell you and I want to—’

  ‘That is enough, if you please. And do not interrupt me, or any adult, when I or they are speaking. It is very—’

  Robbie stood up and turned imploringly to his sister. He was enjoying himself so much and after all Charlie was his sister and this man must be made to realise it.

  ‘Charlie, tell him, please. I haven’t seen you for ages and ages and I wanted you to ask John or Ned – they’re gardeners by the way – to do something with the tennis court so that you and I can play as—’

  ‘Johnson, ring the bell if you please, or better yet, Nellie, go and fetch Kizzie. It’s time for Master Robbie to be in bed and tomorrow I will speak—’

  ‘Charlie, Charlie, please tell your . . .’

  Charlotte stood up slowly and moved round the table to take Robbie’s hand in hers. She started towards the door but Robbie made the mistake of glancing back triumphantly at Brooke.

  ‘May I ask where you are going, Charlotte?’ Mr Johnson stood rigidly to attention and Nellie, who was making her own way to the door in order to fetch Kizzie, froze on the spot. Neither of them had ever seen this side of their master before.

  ‘I intend putting Robbie to bed, Brooke. That is what you want, is it not?’

  ‘You are not his nursemaid, Charlotte. You are my wife. Now then, Nellie. Tell Kizzie that Master Robert is ready for bed and to come here and fetch him. You and I will move to the drawing room, Charlotte. I shall light a cigar and since it is a warm, clear night I think a walk in the garden would be pleasant.’

  7

  The first months of their marriage were awkward but polite, the biggest problem in their uneasy relationship the presence of Robbie, who could not seem to accept that she was not wholly his as she had been all his young life.

  Brooke rode out twice a week, leaving their bed – where he had made vigorous love to her the night before and often again before he left – to ride round his estate since he was an assiduous landlord. He had been a soldier all his adult life and had learned discipline and known hardship, but although he knew little about farming, he was determined to learn. He inspected Cec Eveleigh’s excellent Fresian herd at Holly Farm, his pigs and his sheep, moving through the autumn sunshine on to Jack Emmerson’s golden fields of corn and wheat and barley, drinking, as he always did, a glass of Mrs Emmerson’s home-brewed ale or her cowslip wine. He was invited to inspect pigs, geese, laying hens and arrogant cockerels. Even the dairies were not overlooked and he observed that it was no wonder there was such a plentiful supply of fresh eggs, milk, butter and cheese readily available at his table. He had no need really to oversee any of the farms for they were all good tenants, paying their rents on time, keeping their stock in good condition and the farm buildings in repair. Stables were spotlessly clean, hedges trimmed and yard and enclosures pleasant and well kept. He rode through great belts of old timber rising from a jungle of undergrowth, two miles across and about a mile deep with a shallow mere at its centre on which water lilies floated. He made estimates of the value of the timber. He spent many evenings poring over accounts, assessing profits from his land but at the same time wondering what made him so concerned with it all since he could well afford to hire an agent and perhaps spend more time with his young wife.

  As soon as he and Charlotte returned from their honeymoon he took out his guns and joined his neighbours in the shooting season which had begun on 12 August with grouse, continuing with partridge on 1 September and pheasant on 1 October. Many ladies were included, for in the past he and his neighbours held shooting parties where wives were present. When Charlotte was more settled he meant to invite friends from all over Yorkshire to shoot his birds which had been hand-reared by his gamekeeper. In November the foxhunting season would begin and as autumn drew on he and Arthur Drummond, also back from his wedding journey, the Ackroyds, the Dentons and others of the Danby Hunt took the young hounds out ‘cub hunting’, teaching the puppies to hunt. Foxhounds may hunt mammals other than foxes by natural instinct and have to be trained and encouraged to make the fox their only prey. Cub hunting consists of training the young hounds – which were owned by Arthur Drummond who could now afford a pack thanks to his rich young wife – by first surrounding a covert with riders and foot followers to drive back any foxes attempting to escape and then ‘drawing’ it with the puppies, allowing them to find, attack and kill young foxes.

  Charlotte was horrified when Brooke explained it to her and asked her, since she was learning to ride, to come with him one day.

  ‘You will meet and make the acquaintance of many of my friends, which will be a good thing, for we must soon go out into society and return hospitality so it would be an advantage to you if you—’

  ‘How absolutely appalling. Deliberately to train young puppies to attack and kill.’

  ‘But how else are we to train our hounds, Charlotte? The season starts in November and goes on until March or April and I shall be spending a good deal of my time with the hunt. As you are under eighteen you will wear a tweed jacket but I and other members wear scarlet. You must have seen us out—’

  ‘I shall be wearing neither scarlet nor tweed since I shall not be joining you. Oh, I enjoy riding, the little I have learned so far but I shall not be out killing innocent animals. It is barbaric.’

  ‘Charlotte, as my wife you must conform to the ways of our society. I don’t expect you to shoot but ladies are expected to join shooting parties. Charlie Denton of Park Mansion puts up a magnificent luncheon. His servants bring everything out into the woods that surround his house and—’

  ‘Stop right there, Brooke. I shall not shoot nor hunt nor take part in any of the horrendous activities which your friends . . .’

  Brooke’s face became hard and there was visible menace in the set of his mouth. ‘The fox is considered to be vermin by the farmers who fear losing their valuable livestock. Your own father is to be Master of Foxhounds now he has his own kennels, and with the death of old Willy Jenkins the position has become vacant. His wife is keen on hunting and I’m sure she will take you under her wing. I will take you out myself if you prefer.’ His voice was clipped and she knew she had angered him but could be no other way.

  They were seated in the splendid dining room, its walls
papered in pale green watered silk with chairs in the same colour, at the enormous oblong table of English oak. The rich burgundy carpet softened the footfalls of Mr Johnson and Nellie as they served them. The table was set with the heavy silver cutlery, the delicate bone china and cut-glass crystal to which Charlotte was growing accustomed. This evening she had been dressed by Kizzie in what Kizzie thought correct, since Charlotte was not normally overly concerned with her clothes. She wore a crimson silk gown with a low décolletage, pencil slim with a tiny train, while Brooke was dressed in the proper evening wear of black and white even though they were alone.

  The argument, if you could call it an argument, continued since the master was getting more and more enraged. Mr Johnson had worked for him and his father before him and knew that Mr Brooke was a man who contained his feelings and very rarely lost control but his wife’s flat refusal to have anything to do with the activities he enjoyed, and not only him but his friends, was something he had not expected. She, like her brother, had had a birthday recently and was now seventeen but she was extremely young to be the wife of so prominent a landowner. He and Nellie stood like statues by the serving sideboard, waiting to take the master and mistress’s soup plates away and serve the second course but Mr Johnson made a small gesture to Nellie to slip out to the kitchen and inform Mrs Groves to hold the salmon since the master and mistress might be a while yet. Brooke and Charlotte did not notice her go but she could not wait to tell the others of the row going on in the dining room.

  ‘She’ve said she’ll ’ave nowt ter do wi’ ‘untin’ nor shootin’,’ she told them dramatically.

  ‘What!’ Mrs Dickinson was amazed, for that was what the gentry did all winter and how was the young mistress to pass her time if she did not mix with them.

  The cloth with which Kizzie was wiping a bowl slowed and she sat down suddenly. She had seen this coming though she was not quite certain what she meant by that thought. There would be trouble if Miss Charlie did not conform to the rules of the class into which she had married. She had done nothing in her life but be with her brothers while her father gadded about, going nowhere, having no friends, just staying in the schoolroom but now she was the wife of a gentleman who had friends who were gentlemen and she had to fit in. She must see if she could talk to Miss Charlotte and explain to her that if she did not conform her marriage could be rocky. It had not had a good start, for they all knew of the difficulties with Master Robert and his possessiveness of the master’s new wife, beside the sad fact that Miss Charlotte did not love her husband and had only married him because of her father and his threats.