The Flight of Swallows (18 page)

Mrs Ackroyd swung round as Charlotte entered the room. She was already sipping a cup of chocolate and was indeed as
chic
as Mrs Dickinson had described her. She was also young, pretty and smiling.

‘There you are, Mrs Armstrong. I do apologise for disturbing you at what was obviously a very important task but I said to Jack I couldn’t let another day go by without calling on you. I have been most remiss, I admit, but the season has kept me busy and Jack insists I accompany him, you see.’

‘The season?’ Charlotte faltered, quite bowled over by the friendliness of her visitor. The season was quite unknown to her though, of course, her father had barely been at home as he went about what was obviously a traditional English activity among the upper classes. Just as she knew nothing about callers and calling since her mother had died when she was so young.

‘Yes, you know. You were still away when the grouse began and hunting keeps one so busy. The fox, you see, and my husband is devoted to his hounds and again insists I take an interest. This ends in March as you probably know.’

‘No.’

‘Then there are the point-to-points, the country race-meetings, the organised shoots and I said to Milly – Milly Pickford, you know – we really must do something for Brooke’s new bride. She must surely have settled in by now, so here I am. Brooke is most remiss in allowing you to moulder away here with no sort of fun at all. Have you been presented, Mrs Armstrong? No! Really, what a rogue your father was not to . . . well, never mind. It’s too late now, I suppose. Now I intend to give a dinner dance next month and I am here to extend an invitation to both you and your husband.’ She smiled triumphantly and to her utter amazement Charlotte found herself liking her. For the past five months she had been involved in her own concerns, the Dower House, Jenny, her efforts to become a good horsewoman, her brothers at Christmas and the idea that was still fermenting in her mind but which she had discussed with no one nor done anything about. Now she cast her mind back to how she had managed to pass the time with no consideration for what she secretly knew were her duties to Brooke. She realised that a lady in her position should have been socialising as was the custom in her class but she had ignored her obligations, indeed had given them little thought and Brooke had not seemed to mind.

‘Well, that is very kind . . .’ she began but Mrs Ackroyd had turned back to Jenny’s hanging.

‘I was admiring this lovely thing on the wall. It took me several minutes to realise that it was not an actual oil painting. Did Mr Armstrong’s mother leave it, or perhaps do the work herself? It really is exquisite.’

Charlotte felt herself warm even more to this cheerful young woman who, she dimly remembered, had been at that dinner her father had given last year when he had announced his engagement to Miss Parker.

‘No, it has been worked by a . . . a friend of mine. She is to have a . . . well, she has time on her hands and . . . but please, may I offer you another cup of chocolate?’ indicating that Mrs Ackroyd might like to sit down, but her caller shook her head. She knew the rules of polite society even if her hostess didn’t, rules going back into the dim and distant time of the young Queen Victoria and to which her contemporaries still adhered. A quarter of an hour’s conversation only and then the hostess accompanied her visitor to the door to take leave of her. Mrs Ackroyd had left her husband’s card and her own as was proper.

‘Now don’t forget the date, Mrs Armstrong. I’ll send you a formal invitation.’ And with a last smiling wave Mrs Ackroyd climbed into her carriage where her coachman held the door for her and after tucking a fur rug round her, climbed on to his seat and set off at a fast pace towards the gates.

Charlotte, her thoughts immediately winging back to Jenny, hurried down the hallway, grabbed her cape, raced past the open-mouthed servants and out of the kitchen door. She sped across the vegetable gardens and burst into the kitchen of the Dower House. Kizzie and Jenny were seated exactly where she had left them, sewing placidly. She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘It was Mrs Ackroyd, Kizzie. Daft thing wants me to go to a damned ball or something but I shan’t go. Brooke doesn’t seem to—’

‘Tha’ll go, Miss Charlotte, if I’ave ter tie yer up an’ tekk yer in’t carriage meself.’ Kizzie barely looked up from her sewing and for a moment Charlotte was speechless.

‘What?’

‘Tha’ ’eard.’

‘And what, may I ask, has it to do with you, Kizzie Aspin? If I do not care to go to some silly ball when I would much rather stay at home and—’

‘An’ wharrabout tha’ ’usband? ’Oo, I might say, ’as been mighty patient wi’ yer for the last five months. ’E’s a gentleman wi’ gentleman friends an’ their wives an’ is used ter movin’ in society but out o’ consideration for
you
knowin’ tha’ weren’t used to it ’e give you all winter ter settle inter yer new position in life but now yer gotta consider ’im. It’s no good pullin’ tha’ face at me, Miss Charlotte. You was married to ’im against yer will, I know that, but you agreed to it an’ now yer’ve gotta play your part. Tha’s a lady, married to a gentleman and that’s that. Tha’ll go ter this dance or whatever it is and then, when th’ invitations come in yer’ll accept them an’ send out yer own. Lass, tha’ owe it to ’im. Think on wharr ’e’s done fer them lads. Right!’

Charlotte sat down slowly in one of the chairs at the table and considered what Kizzie had said and knew it to be true. She had done exactly what she had wanted to do ever since she had married and had been content. She enjoyed riding and walking the dogs, her time with Robbie and her visits to the village school in which she was taking an increasing interest. Her brothers were settled. She got on quite well with the man who was her husband. In fact she rather liked him. Apart from the bed thing which she put up with since she had no choice, she was even happy at times. She had Kizzie and Jenny and when Jenny’s baby was born she meant to disclose her plans for the future and they did not include gadding about frivolously from party to party. Nor giving parties and such as Kizzie was implying. She would be too busy for that. Besides, Brooke didn’t seem to mind what she did and she really had no idea how
he
spent his time. She had not even seen her own father and his new bride. Brooke had not suggested she should invite them to King’s Meadow, nor visit them. Really, what had anyone to complain of, particularly Kizzie?

She sighed deeply and both the young women looked up at her sympathetically.

‘Well, you could be right, I suppose. I’ll speak to Brooke tonight and see . . .’

‘Good lass, now I’ll—’

Whatever it was Kizzie was about to say, or do, was interrupted by a sudden gasp from Jenny who leaned forward in her chair and clasped her hands to the small of her back then just as quickly sat up again as the other two sprang to their feet.

‘No, no, it’s all right; just a twinge,’ then threw herself forward again with clenched hands, pressing on the seat of the chair each side of her thighs.

‘Right, that’s it, lass. Up the jolly old dancers wi’ yer an let’s get yer inter bed.’ Taking both of Jenny’s hands, Kizzie drew her gently from the chair and began to lead her towards the narrow hallway and the stairs, accompanied by a hovering Charlotte. Before you could say knife, Kizzie had Jenny undressed and in her bed lying on her side.

‘Now, Miss Charlotte, tha’d best get tha’senn back ’ome an’ leave this ter me an’ Jenny,’ Kizzie began but Charlotte continued to weave about the pretty bedroom, longing to help but having not the faintest idea how to go about it.

‘Oh, ’ere it comes again,’ Jenny moaned.

‘What?’ from Charlotte.

‘Another pain, my lass?’ asked Kizzie in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘Aye.’

‘See, let me rub tha’ back an’ you, Miss Charlotte, if tha’ must stay, let Jenny ’ave a ’old of yer ’ands.’

They struggled for what seemed hours to Charlotte, both women who had never borne a child pausing reverently for the pains that Jenny received with a gasp at their peak which gave Charlotte a chance to rub her crushed fingers.

Some time later Charlotte ran downstairs to inform a worried Tess, who was under-housemaid and was knocking at the back door, sent by Mrs Groves, that she was busy and would be home when she could.

‘Only master’s asking after yer, ma’am,’ apologised Tess. ‘It bein’ dark, like.’

Charlotte looked around her and was surprised to find it was so. ‘Tell my husband I will be home as soon as the baby is born. I am wanted here, you see.’

Tess bobbed a respectful curtsey and scurried away into the blackness of the garden but it seemed to Charlotte that she had hardly got herself up the stairs again when another commotion in the kitchen drew her to the landing.

‘What is it, for God’s sake? Can you not see I’m busy?’ and was amazed when Brooke’s voice floated up to her and was even more amazed at his words.

‘Will I send for a doctor, Charlotte? Is . . . is your friend in trouble?’

She looked down the stairs and standing at the bottom holding a lamp was her husband, still dressed in his breeches and the warm tweed jacket he wore for riding. Underneath was a long-sleeved jersey with a roll collar. His hair, which always seemed to be in need of cutting, curled about his head and over his eyebrows in a most attractive manner.

He looked up at her anxiously. ‘Can I help in any way?’

Afterwards, a long time afterwards, she realised it was then that she had begun to love him.

‘Ask ’ooever it is ter see ter that ’ot water, Miss Charlotte. Us’ll not be long now,’ just as though she and Jenny were in labour together.

Charlotte looked down the stairs into her husband’s eyes. He held the lamp high and she could see an expression in them that told her, she didn’t know how, or even wonder at it, that he was on her side and always would be no matter what was taking place. He had never told her of his feelings except those he felt in their bed and they were more or less unintelligible murmurings that told her of his own pleasure. There was a wariness in his face that seemed to speak of something though the words could not be spoken and she felt a stirring in her breast, a strange stirring she had never known before, but before she could drift down the stairs towards him, as she found she had a great need to do, an irritable voice from above made them both jump and the moment had gone.

‘Wheer the devil’s that water, our Charlotte? Will tha’ get a move on. An’ fetch them towels that’re airin’ by’t fire.’

Brooke smiled. ‘The voice of our leader, it seems. We had better obey, don’t you think, or we might both get a smacked bottom.’

She tried to brush past him and was not surprised when he made no move to let her. As their bodies touched she was surprised by the frisson that passed between them but this was no time to be dwelling on such things. Above, a thin cry wafted down to them and they could hear Kizzie’s reassuring voice murmur something. Charlotte grabbed the towels and Brooke lifted the big pan and the kettle of water which were bubbling away on the fire. Together they climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom where Kizzie was telling Jenny, ‘Push, girl, that’s it, my lass. Soon be over . . .’ Jenny bore down on the pain and both Charlotte and Brooke froze to the spot in awe. Jenny lay with her legs asprawl and as they watched a dark crown appeared, then an ancient face screwed up in what seemed to be annoyance. The child gave a great yell as it almost bounded on to the bed, trailing the cord and Charlotte began to cry in wonderment. She reached for Brooke’s hand and found it waiting for her.

‘How beautiful . . . how beautiful,’ she wept, then turned her face into her husband’s shoulder, glad of his arms about her.

Kizzie, whom nothing seemed to faze, ordered them about as though she were the mistress and they her servants and it was not until Jenny was sitting up, rosy and placid and lovely with her daughter in her arms that she turned in her astonishment to view her master and mistress, both dishevelled but awed by what they had seen here this night.

‘Well, tha’ did right well, both on yer, an’ thank the Lord fer a lass.’

They walked back through the dark, hand in hand. They used the back kitchen door and as they closed it to behind them they were just too far away to hear the arrival of Ruth at the Dower House. She had her newborn child in her arms, the cord still trailing from its navel!

12

They had barely reached their bedroom, both of them charged with some sort of energy brought about by the birth of Jenny’s child and which both were aware heralded a new momentum in their relationship when, closing the door hurriedly behind them, Brooke put his arms around her and drew her fiercely against him. He was murmuring something, she couldn’t make it out, but with a breathless gasp she burrowed herself deeper and deeper into him, her head thrown back as his lips travelled along her jaw line and down her throat.

She did not wait for him to help her but began to unbutton the bodice of her dress, at the same time doing her best to keep as close to him as this allowed. He was fumbling with the fastenings of her skirt, pushing it down to her hips from where it fell to the floor, then it was her underwear until she was totally naked except for her shoes. He lifted her up and she draped her legs about his waist, her arms tight about his neck, the singing pleasure of it coursing through her, quite overcome by the sensation which she had known only once before.

‘Darling . . . darling . . .’ he was moaning. ‘I must . . . let me put you down for a minute . . .’ his voice harsh in his throat. She helped him, tearing at his shirt collar, his breeches, his underclothes, kneeling at his feet to struggle with the confusion of underdrawers and boots, both of them laughing as she did her best to get the former over the latter. When he was as naked as she was they stood for a moment to gaze wonderingly at one another. She thought he was quite, quite beautiful, with the virile, masculine beauty of the male. Long, graceful legs, muscles that were flat and flowing smoothly from the curve of his chest and shoulder to the slight concavity of his belly and thigh. He was tall, powerful, dark, his body shaped by the life he had led as a soldier and the outdoor pursuits he now enjoyed. His back was broad and his muscular forearms structured like the rest of him by the hours he spent in the saddle. His strong, handsome face, flushed with passion, had broad cheekbones and a solid jaw and his mouth was firm, even hard, but it had a sensual lift at the corner which spoke of humour. His silvery grey eyes, had, at this moment, darkened with his lusty need of her but what spoke more tellingly was the lordly lift and thrust of his loins.