The Flight of Swallows Page 9

  They were not surprised when the master left the house, calling for his bay and galloping like a madman down the drive, presumably to his club, where gentlemen went to get away from recalcitrant wives!

  Brooke had thought he was content, or would have been had it not been for the minor irritant of young Robbie Drummond. And the fact that Charlotte was not yet pregnant, though he supposed four months was not very long and God knows he tried hard enough! He would dearly love children of his own and if he had, perhaps the presence of Robbie Drummond would not be quite so aggravating. Also, with Charlotte pregnant or with a new baby, her obstinacy over her brother would cease. The boy should be spending more time with that friend of his and not, as now, with his sister. He had believed his wife was beginning to feel at ease in her new home and the life she led, though he often wondered what she did all day. She was learning to ride and to play tennis – the latter from a book that she had found in the library – on the newly refurbished tennis court where she and her brother played what seemed to be hilarious games. He would often hear her voice over the roof of the house begging Robbie to be fair . . . no, that was out and he was cheating and the ball must be inside the line.

  This afternoon he had left Bruno, his tall bay, in the care of Arch who was in the stable yard grooming Samson, hissing softly with each stroke of the curry brush, calming the animal who was inclined to be restive. Walking through the yard and letting himself out of the gate, Brooke had wandered round to the tennis court where Robbie was triumphantly calling out that it was ‘love thirty’ and Charlotte better watch out for he meant to win this game. Charlotte was at the other end dressed in the latest tennis outfit, considered to be quite daring. The dress was of white linen with a short skirt above the ankles and her straw boater had been abandoned and lay on the grass at the back of the court. Her energetic exercise had loosened her hair which drifted round her head and down her back to her buttocks in a thick, curling mass. Of course he saw it like that every night when he joined her in the bedroom but somehow, seeing her like this, impatiently pushing it back from her face, gave him a hollow feeling at the pit of his belly and an uncomfortable bulge in his crotch. If she had been alone he might have drawn her behind the high privet hedge that surrounded the court and in the privacy of the summerhouse beyond, drawn her skirts up and her drawers down and made vigorous love to her. But the damned boy was there.

  Irritably he called out, ‘Who’s winning?’ not caring but wanting her to look at him. Instead his words put the boy off and when he drew back his racquet to serve he hit the ball out of court.

  ‘Oh, dammit,’ he said, ‘you made me lose my swing. I’d have got that point if—’

  ‘Robbie, don’t be rude and you must not swear.’

  ‘But—’

  Brooke had had enough. ‘Go to your room, boy,’ he barked. ‘I’ve had all I can take of your impudence. Your sister makes excuses for you—’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Charlotte challenged.

  ‘No, she doesn’t. You’re the one who spoils it all,’ her brother added.

  ‘Go to your room at once and stay there until sent for.’ There was a pain in Brooke’s chest and throat as he did his best to stop himself, for no matter what he did it seemed the pair of them teamed up against him which was bloody ridiculous. A six-year-old boy . . . no, the little sod was seven now having had a birthday a couple of weeks back. He was white-lipped with sudden anger and something else that was very familiar. ‘I swear to God, if you aren’t out of my sight in two minutes I’ll . . .’

  ‘Yes, what will you do, Brooke? Beat him as my father once did? That would—’

  Before she could say another word he turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come, conscious as he did so that the boy was smiling at his retreating back, having won yet another round. He did not see his wife’s expression, which was one of sadness. She did not want this constant antagonism between her and Brooke over Robbie and she was often cross with her little brother for causing it, yet the boy had known nothing but misery from the man in his life before she married and she did so want to make it up to him. Her brothers would be home at Christmas, four of them to confront her husband. In fact bedrooms had already been designated for them, two to a room at the back of the house and how would things be then? She loved them all and wanted to make up to them what they had missed since Mother had died but if Brooke continued to resent Robbie, which she knew he did but tried desperately to avoid, her life would be wretched. He was her husband and she should put him first, for had he not rescued them all from misery and downright cruelty, besides being owed her loyalty. And she must be honest with herself, she had begun . . . no, she had always liked him. He was a good man . . . oh dear . . . oh dear!

  She watched him turn the corner from her sight. ‘Charlie . . . come on, Charlie, let me serve again. That man spoiled the last one forever interrupting like—’

  With a flash of temper she had not known she possessed she turned on him, flying across the court and even leaping the net though she almost tripped on her long skirt. She grabbed him by the ear and began to draw him towards the house.

  ‘Ow . . . ow, you’re hurting me,’ he yelled, more amazed than hurt, for Charlie never chastised him except in a very soft way.

  ‘I’ll hurt you even more if you don’t apologise to Brooke at once. He is my husband and deserves your respect so we will go at once to his study.’

  ‘Charlie, don’t . . .’ He began to cry and for a moment she almost relented but she had seen and for a split second had understood what was in her husband. Her little brother whom she loved dearly was taking advantage of that love and was doing his best – in his childish way – to separate them. And if she wasn’t sterner he might succeed. She had married Brooke though she had not wanted to but she had seen a secret side of him . . . well, caught a glimpse of it and she found, amazingly, she did not want it to disappear again.

  And now she had further antagonised him by a downright refusal to hunt the fox or shoot the damned birds which seemed to be the only activity he and his friends enjoyed!

  That night, for the first time, he did not come to her. He had a dressing room off their bedroom furnished with a bed with a black bearskin thrown across it, a luxurious crimson carpet and a dressing table, mirrors and wardrobes filled with his expensive clothes, all beautifully crafted in dark wood. His favourite prints hung on the walls and the heavy curtains were crimson. He had not, since they were married, spent one night there. The room they shared was in peach silk and white lace, the bed curtains of the finest, lightest silk drawn up into a gleaming crown and tied back with lace ribbons, the carpet decorated with peach blossom and pastel-tinted clouds. As feminine as his was masculine.

  She lay on her back, her head turned to the wide windows, the curtains of which she had drawn back. There was a full moon and it was almost as light as day. Kizzie had brushed her hair until it snapped round the brush, waiting for Mr Armstrong to appear as he did every night but when he had not come after five minutes of brushing she laid down the brush, sighed and left the room. She had heard, as who had not, of the quarrel – if it could be called that – and the tears and lamentations that had come from Master Robbie; and not only about the tennis court and whatever had gone on there, but the hot and angry argument over Miss Charlotte’s refusal to hunt and shoot and she was sorry, for Kizzie was of the opinion that given a little time to shake down together, husband and wife would do very well. Miss Charlotte, in her attempt to make Master Robbie happy and assuage her guilt at what he had suffered in the first seven years of his life, was causing and widening the rift between husband and wife and now, after only four months of sharing his wife’s bed, he had gone galloping off in a tearing rage and was sleeping in his dressing room. Kizzie’s mam, in the belief that one day her daughter would marry, had said to her that she and her husband must never go to bed on a quarrel. Quarrels, of course, were made up in bed and that was one of the advantages of a small, two-bedroome
d cottage filled with children. There was nowhere else for her pa to sleep so he and Mam had, with a cuddle, become friends again. If only the master and Miss Charlotte could do the same.

  He was not at breakfast the next morning and when Kizzie enquired casually of Mr Johnson where the master might be she was told that he had breakfasted early and ridden off but no one had been told to where or when he would be back.

  Robbie was at school where he was taken each morning in the gig by one of the outdoor servants. After idling about in her bedroom for half an hour, picking up a book and putting it down again, Charlotte opened her wardrobe and without calling for Kizzie – after all she had dressed herself for most of her life – threw on clean underclothes and her riding habit, tied her hair back with a silver satin ribbon, pulled on her boots and the kid trousers she wore under her skirt and flew downstairs, her hair swinging down her back in a most unladylike way.

  The servants watched her open-mouthed as she flew past them in the kitchen, Kizzie ready to stop her. She had thought her young mistress was ensconced by her bedroom fire with a book and here she was like a mad thing dashing into the yard and calling for her horse.

  ‘I shall go out alone, Percy,’ as the groom moved to help her into the saddle, the side saddle he expected her to use. ‘Oh, and I would be glad if you would put me astride. Now you know we have practised it several times so don’t pull that face at me.’

  ‘But, Mrs Armstrong, ma’am, master’d ’ave me ’ide if I was ter let yer go out—’

  ‘The master will never know unless you tell him, Percy, for I shan’t.’

  ‘Oh, please, ma’am . . .’ The groom was almost crying but he took off the side saddle and fetched another from the tack room while she tapped her foot impatiently.

  ‘You must teach me how to saddle my own horse, Percy,’ she said, ‘then I will have no need to bother you.’

  ‘’Tis no bother, ma’am, but will yer not—’

  ‘No, I will not.’

  ‘I must come wi’ yer. Yer might come off in a ditch an’ then where’d us be,’ he mumbled as he cupped his hands to help her into the saddle but before he could say another word she was through the open gateway and across Old Lady Brook Meadow towards Clough Wood several miles away.

  She managed to stay on though she found it strange to ride astride after so many lessons in the side saddle but she drew Magic, who was a placid, good-natured mare, chosen for these qualities by Brooke, to a trot and then a walk and when she reached the wood she scrambled off, wondering idly how she was to get back on, tied the reins to a branch so that Magic could graze and sat down in the roots of a great oak, leaning her back against its trunk and her arms on the roots as though she were in an armchair.

  She was startled when the four dogs suddenly and joyously scrambled all over her. The yard gate which had been left open for her return had enabled the dogs, when let out of the stable where they spent the night, to race after her. They licked her face energetically in greeting then settled down companionably beside her, Ginger, the retriever, resting her muzzle on Charlotte’s lap. She stroked the silky head and stared up into the branches of the tree. Drifts of leaves were falling and settling on the ground and in this mixed woodland the hawthorns and beeches were beginning to close down for the winter. It was rather sad and though she and Brooke had so far rubbed along pleasantly enough she could see storms coming. There was the constant friction with Robbie and she made up her mind to encourage him to bring home a school friend other than the faithful Webb. The trouble was that none of Brooke’s acquaintances seemed to be young. The Emmersons, the Eveleighs, the Nicholsons, the Killens, who were all tenant farmers on Brooke’s land, had children, for she had seen them playing about the farms when she rode out with Percy but they attended the little local school in the village of Overton. She wondered idly if it might be possible to send Robbie there until he went to Barton Meade with his brothers. She might wander down there one day and have a word with the teacher, find out her views on education and assess what benefit it might be to Robbie. And to Brooke and herself!

  The dogs dozed in a patch of sunlight and she allowed herself to dream a little, though what about she was not sure for her thoughts circled languorously in her head. A sudden movement on the far side of the small grove caught her attention and to her amazement a fox cub wandered out of the undergrowth and began to follow the movement of a leaf that floated past its beautiful little face. The dogs, who she would have supposed might have caught the cub’s scent, dozed on in oblivion and she scarcely dared breathe lest she wake them. From behind the cub, hidden in a clump of fern, another face appeared, or rather just a pair of gleaming eyes above a pointed nose. The vixen, surely mother to the cub, stared at her with those yellow eyes as though assessing the danger before she made the tiniest sound and at once the cub stopped its frolicking and as if at some maternal command slipped back into the undergrowth which barely moved with its passage. Then there was nothing and Charlotte knew they were gone.

  And these were the lovely animals that Brooke and others would kill! These shy creatures whose babies played like young children, unafraid but obedient to their mother’s call.

  Slowly she rose and at once the dogs rose with her, lazily wagging their tails, ready to go with her wherever she wanted them to go and for a moment the thought crossed her mind that the dogs, the horses like the one who carried her safely about the estate, even the cat which curled round her legs in the kitchen, purring ecstatically, were so trusting and eager to be her friends. Brooke was casually kind to his animals and would not deliberately be cruel but there was such unfairness in this world and she did nothing but accept it. She lived a life of luxury and ease. She had a cook to make her any dish she required, maidservants to clean her home, a laundry-maid to wash her garments the moment she took them off, men and women to wait on her, enabling her to sit by her fire all day and do absolutely nothing.

  So what was she to do with the remainder of her life? She had been married since June and every night – apart from last night – her husband made love to her and yet in all these months he had not impregnated her. Was she not to be a mother? If not, what was her purpose in this world that Brooke had created for her?

  Finding a fallen tree trunk she managed to steady herself and Magic and gain the saddle, find the stirrups and with a sound that Percy had taught her, urged the mare forward. The dogs swirled about her then raced ahead and slowly, reluctantly, she moved across the fields until she reached the stable gate where Percy was waiting for her.

  ‘Oh, ma’am, thanks be yer ’ome,’ he babbled as though she had been to London and back. He helped her to dismount and as he led the mare towards the stable a young girl moved dejectedly away from the closing kitchen door. Her head was bowed and when she lifted it there was such a look of despair on her face that Charlotte hesitated and put out a hand.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, but the girl merely shook her head.

  ‘Come inside,’ Charlotte said gently, ‘and tell me.’

  8

  They all stopped what they were doing and stared in amazement as their mistress entered the kitchen with an arm round the strumpet who had just been sent on her way by Mrs Dickinson. Even Kizzie who was usually big-hearted and not at all judgemental, frowned at the sight and Mrs Groves seemed unable to restrain her mouth.

  ‘Well,’ she snorted, ‘it didn’t take you long to find a fool to sympathise with you. The mistress has a soft heart and God knows she is—’

  ‘That will do, Cook, if you don’t mind,’ Charlotte snapped. ‘Fetch a chair for this poor girl and put a cup of tea in her hand, and be quick about it,’ since they all appeared to be frozen with shock and unable to move.

  ‘But, Mrs Armstrong, ma’am, we’ve just sent this . . . this woman off with a flea in her ear. Can you not see what she is? I’ll not have such trash in my kitchen among decent girls.’

  ‘Be quiet, Mrs Groves. This is my kitchen, not yours as it happens to be in my
house. My husband’s house and I will have in it whom I please. Now then,’ turning with a smile to the girl who hung her head so that her hair, which was uncombed and knotted, hid her face. Reluctantly she sat down on the chair Charlotte pulled out for her and when the cup of tea was flung down on the table before her she grabbed it eagerly and sipped the contents until the cup was empty.

  Ignoring the servants who still watched with fascinated stares, Charlotte knelt down at the girl’s feet and took her hands in hers.

  ‘Now tell me what troubles you,’ she began.

  ‘Hmmph,’ Mrs Groves spluttered, ‘’tis plain as the nose on your face what troubles her. Got herself in a—’

  ‘That’s enough, Mrs Groves. I’m surprised at you, really I am. Have you no compassion for someone who—’

  ‘I’ll not have my girls corrupted by a—’

  Charlotte stood up and rounded on her cook. ‘Mrs Groves, I thought you were a Christian. You go to church on a Sunday, for I’ve seen you set off. Now then,’ turning back to the girl who sat dejectedly in her chair, totally unaware, it seemed, of the currents of disapproval that eddied about her. These women who worked in the kitchen, good women who had never been in trouble and probably had never even had the chance to get into trouble, looked down on her, despised her and she knew it. But still, the lady had been kind and she had had a reviving cup of tea.