The Flight of Swallows (17 page)

Without thought she jumped in and grasped the girl’s hair which appeared on the surface and with a great heave and a lot of rude words she had heard in her father’s stables, pulled viciously until the girl, who had begun instinctively to help herself, for the mindless clinging to life was in us all, clambered on to the bank.

‘You great gormless beggar. There is no reason for you to drown yourself and if we don’t get you, and me, back home we’ll both catch our deaths.’

‘Yer shoulda left me,’ the girl mumbled.

They were both shivering and Charlotte knew that they must get home as soon as possible. With her arm round the girl she dragged her, stumbling, to the gig where the pony waited for instructions. She shoved the girl, dripping and shivering, into the gig and with a quivering ‘Get up, Misty,’ she set off in the direction of King’s Meadow.

Kizzie did not bother asking questions! This was another of Miss Charlotte’s lame ducks, pregnant like the other and she wondered how many more they would have before the master put his foot down. Ruth sat in front of the roaring fire, wearing one of Jenny’s capacious nightgowns, spooning broth into her mouth. She had been put in the bath, which had filled her with awe and had been struck speechless by the splendour of it all and by her luck in landing up here. She was not pretty like Jenny who was hovering round her like a mother hen, urging her to eat up but she was plump and good-natured and simple. She had obviously attracted the attention of some man several months ago but when asked who it was she could not remember.

‘There were a couple who give me a bob or two, worked at colliery wi’ me pa. Nice chaps,’ she told them equably, causing Kizzie and Jenny to exchange glances, for at least Jenny had been in love with the gentleman who had seduced her. Ruth was evidently not a full shilling, in Kizzie’s opinion, and when Miss Charlotte came over, after having a hot bath and dressed in a warm woollen gown and her good winter cloak, they sat and looked at this girl who had somehow fallen into their care.

The kitchen was in an uproar, Charlotte said, and when she had spoken sharply to them they had turned sullen.

‘Mrs Armstrong, ma’am,’ Mrs Dickinson had begun, clearly on her high horse. ‘We’re all that sorry for these girls what get themselves into trouble, though I must say an’ t’others agree with me that they’ve only theirselves ter blame. None of my girls’d dream of allowin’ any man ter interfere wi’ them . . .’ Mrs Dickinson was losing her grasp on the rather high-toned way of speaking on which she prided herself.

‘Your girls have a steady job and a safe place of work, Mrs Dickinson. They know that their lives are sheltered and that people care about them. You care about them. Mrs Groves cares about them. This is a good place to work and I should think you would be ashamed of yourself for the unchristian way you treat Jenny and Ruth.’

‘Ruth, is it?’ Mrs Dickinson tossed her head but Charlotte walked out of the kitchen with her own head held imperiously high and what Mrs Dickinson had to say on the subject of Ruth was lost.

Ruth was not as personable as Jenny, in fact she was rather coarse. She had kicked up a fuss and caused a great deal of trouble by flinging herself dramatically in the reservoir, but that was not all. She was heard to say in Kizzie’s hearing, though she didn’t know Kizzie was listening at the time, that she was made up with her position at the Dower House and it was obvious she was not in the least interested in learning the art of rug-making which Jenny promised to teach her.

‘Wha’ for?’ she asked. ‘I like it ’ere wi’ nowt ter do an’ that lad in’t stable’s not ’alf bad. I could earn meself a bob or two if—’

She was astonished to find her ear caught in the sharp pincers of Kizzie’s fingers.

‘D’yer know ’ow lucky you are ’avin’ a good ’ome like this wi’ you in the state yer in, lady? Mrs Armstrong shoulda left yer in bloody reservoir in my opinion an’ if I ’ear yer’ve bin seen ’angin’ about stable lads I’ll ’ave yer outer ’ere afore yer can say “knife”. Is that clear?’

The next day Ruth had gone and Nellie, in Wakefield on her day off, reported triumphantly she had seen her on the arm of some burly chap, drunk as a lord!

11

It had snowed in the night, a light fall which had frozen the moment it touched the ground and the gardens were a silvery delight, sparkling in the winter sunshine, but it was not a morning to linger.

Charlotte, Kizzie and Jenny were sitting with their knees up to the kitchen fire, the three of them sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Charlotte was complaining that even on the short journey from the big house to the Dower House her nose had gone dead and it hurt her to breathe the air was so cold. Everywhere had been silent on her walk from the back kitchen door – accompanied by the disapproving glances of the servants – through the stable yard, across the vegetable garden to the kitchen door of the Dower House, a strange hard silence as though even the trees, the wintry plants and the animal life that usually rustled about the garden were struck dumb by the iciness of the day.

The kitchen was full of steam, billowing from kettles and pans, for hot water was needed or would be very soon as Jenny was near her time. She sat in the rocking-chair, full and fecund and rosy, her silvery hair brushed and shining, a very different Jenny to the one who had begged at the back door in the autumn. The fire crackled and leaped up the chimney and Kizzie rose to check the supply of coal in the brass coal scuttle. She was the eldest in her family and was well used to the drama of birth – and death – and she knew quite positively that the girl who sat so placidly opposite her would shortly go into labour. It was an instinct brought about by the occasion of her mother’s yearly confinements. Jenny had been well cared for over the last four months and was strong, sturdy, young and would stand the hard task ahead of her. She was patiently working on one of her rag rugs, in a lovely design, a perfect flower spreading in its centre. She was blending various shades of pink for the petals, two shades of yellow for the centre, worked on a large piece of hessian dyed an attractive blue for the background. The edges of the petals were outlined in black. It was quite exquisite, resembling a pink lotus, each petal shading to a darker pink at its point.

They were startled when there was a rapid tattoo on the kitchen door and without waiting for one of them to admit her and the door being unlocked, Rosie the scullery-maid burst into the kitchen, her nose like a beacon, her cheeks blazing with the cold, the shawl she had evidently thrown hastily about herself hardly enough for the frozen world through which she had obviously hurried.

‘Rosie, what on earth . . .?’ Charlotte began, for it was not often that the servants from the big house came here where the ‘scarlet woman’, meaning poor Jenny, resided.

‘Oh, mum, yer ter come at once, if yer please. Mrs Groves’s in a right takin’ an’ ses after all this time an’ on a day like this ’un yer’d think she’d’ve kept to ’er own fireside but ’ere she is, large as life an’—’

‘Rosie, what on earth are you talking about? What does Mrs Groves want with me, for goodness sake? Can you not—’

‘Oh, please, mum, I’ve not ter stop, Mrs Groves ses, ’cos the kitchen table’s only ’alf scrubbed an’—’

‘What . . .’

But Rosie had turned on her heel and scampered for the door to the passage and was out and dashing across the back yard as though the hounds of hell were at her heels, which to her was what Mrs Groves, who owned her to all intents and purposes, was in the kitchen.

‘I’d better go, I suppose,’ Charlotte said doubtfully. ‘To be summoned like this . . . it must be important.’ She reached for her ankle-length fur-lined cape and threw it about herself, then, with a light touch on Jenny’s shoulder, she moved towards the door. ‘I won’t be long,’ she told them because she knew that Kizzie was expecting Jenny’s labour to begin today and needed her help.

She entered the house by the kitchen door and found the place in an uproar. Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves had still not recovered from the sudden, though not unexpected, arrival of the mistress’s three brothers from their school near York at Christmas. Big rowdy lads with appetites to match who had kept them busy from morning until evening, cooking and baking, quite apart from the normal Christmas meals. Mrs Groves said she had never made so many mince pies in her entire life and the Christmas cake, an absolute masterpiece and expected to last until Twelfth Night at least, had been demolished by the end of Boxing Day! And the muck they brought in! Despite the time of the year they had enthusiastically played
tennis
, would you believe, putting up the net and rattling round on the court until they were scarlet-faced with their exertions. The stumps and bats had been rooted out and they had had a go at cricket on the front lawn and then, with Mr Brooke’s permission, had taken turns on Magic, Max, Misty and Merry and though they had never ridden in their lives owing to their father’s lack of interest in them, they had put up a good performance, or so said Arch who had watched anxiously in case one of his beloved animals should be distressed. The eldest lad, who was apparently called Henry and who was sixteen, had spent the Christmas holidays with a friend in York, but the other three, William, fourteen, John, twelve and James who was eight had descended on King’s Meadow like a horde of locusts, eating them out of house and home before they had gone back to school. Robbie, excited by the presence of his brothers, had been a real handful and the master, it was plain to see, had been hard pressed to keep his temper.

Charlotte had been amazed at the difference six months away from their father had achieved. Her brothers had been confident, articulate when round the dinner table and despite their loud and bumptious ways, had become favourites with the servants. They were good boys, polite and obedient, thanks to their father’s upbringing but it was a relief when they returned to school.

They did not visit their father and he did not invite them!

‘It’s Mrs Ackroyd, ma’am,’ hissed Mrs Dickinson now.

‘What is?’ Charlotte asked, bewildered.

‘She’s come ter call. I’ve put her in the drawin’ room. Well, with you not here I didn’t know what else ter do. Her carriage is on the drive and that coachman of hers must be frozen so I—’

‘Oh, bring him in, Mrs Dickinson and give him a hot drink and then I suppose you had better serve something; what do ladies drink?’

‘She asked if you were “at home” and really, Mr Johnson didn’t know what to say. We knew you were over there’ – with a contemptuous nod of her head towards the Dower House – ‘so he said you were but were . . . well, he didn’t know what ter say. Yer first caller, you see, and so she—’

‘Yes, very well, bring in some . . .’ She was at a loss as to what was the accepted drink at this time of the day.

‘Hot chocolate, ma’am?’ Mrs Dickinson ventured.

‘Yes, that will be warming on such a cold day. Now, I’d better go in.’

Mrs Dickinson looked quite horrified and the others exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, for what else could you expect of their decidedly unorthodox young mistress.

‘Not in that gown, ma’am, I beg of you.’ Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves were clearly appalled.

Charlotte looked down at the plain grey drill, the fabric like a stout twilled linen, that she had donned this morning. Eminently suitable for delivering babies, which she had expected to help with today, but certainly not for greeting a caller of Mrs Ackroyd’s apparent standing. But surely Mrs Ackroyd would not stay long. Charlotte was eager to return to Kizzie and Jenny to whom, though she knew nothing of childbirth, she might be of invaluable help.

‘What’s wrong with it, for goodness sake? I am tidy and—’

‘But Mrs Armstrong, Mrs Ackroyd is the wife of an influential gentleman, an acquaintance of Mr Armstrong and will expect to find you in morning attire, as she is. Very smart, if I might say so. I had occasion ter speak to her, explaining yer wouldn’t be long. A lovely colour of coffee au lait, a separate bodice an’ skirt with a three-quarter-length jacket of what I am sure was sable an’ her hat was the very latest. Nellie gets this magazine, yer see, an’ it’s the thing to have bird’s wings and ribbons and . . . well, she’s very – what’s the word, Nellie? What? Yes, that’s it, “chick” but listen ter me going on. Please, ma’am, run upstairs and put on—’

‘Oh, fiddle-de-dee, I haven’t time to be bothered with callers today. And what I want to know is why she has taken so long to come. I have been here for nearly six months and not one lady has . . . well, I don’t know what the correct procedure is since we never had callers at the Mount but I suppose . . .’ She made her way towards the door that led into the hallway and was watched by them all, for was this their young mistress’s introduction into society which, so far, had completely ignored her? Mrs Dickinson held her hand to her mouth since in her opinion the manners of the mistress of the house reflected on her servants and what was their caller to make of theirs?

Charlotte was seriously put out as she did not want to miss the birth of Jenny’s baby and if this woman, whoever she was, detained her long it might be over by the time Charlotte returned.

Her caller was standing in front of one of the wall hangings that Jenny had done and which Charlotte, liking it so much, had hung on a wall opposite the window so that the full light fell on it. If one had not known better it might have been mistaken for a painting. It was of a carpet of bluebells under a canopy of sycamore and ash trees in the woodland at the edge of Brooke’s land. It must have been spring, for the leaves of the trees were young and tender and mixed in with the bluebells were toothwort, yellow star of Bethlehem and yellow archangel. Jenny, of course, had never seen such a magical place but had copied something similar from a picture she had seen in a book Charlotte had retrieved from Brooke’s library and the colours were glorious. The sun shone on the trunks of the trees and where it touched they were a pale reddish brown and on the other side the colour of dark chocolate. Even Brooke had admired it and made no objection to it being hung in his drawing room.