The Flight of Swallows (26 page)

Joel Denton rose hastily to his feet, backing away from the menacing figure of Brooke Armstrong and was later to say he had feared for his life and what the devil did the man expect when he brought the most delectable creature in their set to a ball. Was she not to speak to another man, never mind dance with him? He himself had distinctly heard her refuse an invitation from her husband to take to the floor so what were they to make of that?

Brooke sat down in the chair just vacated, first by Milly Pickford and then by Joel Denton. He put the plate before Charlotte and though his face was quite without expression there was an ominous air about him that alarmed her.

‘What happened to Mrs Pickford and Mrs Hill?’ he asked casually.

‘I couldn’t say. They just got up and walked away.’

‘What did you say to them?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘I may have sworn . . . cursed . . .’

‘You swore in the presence of two ladies?’

‘You swear in front of me and besides, Joel was coming over and I—’

‘Joel? You encouraged him to—’

‘No, I did not. I have encouraged none of this, Brooke.’ Her face was pink with indignation and she leaned forward passionately while the room held its collective breath, for it seemed the Armstrongs were to argue in public, and loudly! ‘You insisted I come here so I came. These . . . these popinjays mean nothing to me with their endless talk of hunting and the London season and were we to attend Ascot and how ravishing I look. It is not
real
, Brooke, any of it. Were we invited to the Hamiltons whoever they are, who give the most wonderful weekend parties at their country home near Matlock and then there was Cowes . . . Oh, dear Lord! Do you not see? Joel Denton is the man who seduced poor Jenny. A man I despise and yet you expect . . .’

She ran out of steam, sitting back disconsolately in her chair and he had the wild hope that he had not broken her spirit which he honoured, a thought that surprised him, but at the same time she was his wife and . . . and . . . Jesus, Christ Jesus, what was he to do except what he was doing? He had known when he married her that she was an untried girl who had been denied mixing with her own sort but he had hoped . . . God in heaven, he had hoped! What would happen when it was discovered that she was taking girls off the streets,
with their illegitimate children
, and meant to set them up in a business? It would rock the very foundations of the circle into which he, and she, had been born. She would be ostracised and he would be despised for allowing it. Not that he cared for his own sake but . . . oh, bugger it, why could she not see what it would do to her?

She stared down at her own hands which were twisting in her lap, unaware, as Brooke was not, that the company was watching them with disapproving but fascinated eyes. This kind of thing was not done in their society, for good manners and breeding forbade it. Certainly, as in all walks of life, there were undercurrents, marriages of convenience, older gentlemen, having sown their wild oats, wishing to continue their line. They took young wives capable of bearing children then, when a son was assured, both parties went their own way. Very discreetly, of course, offending no one, least of all one another. In public they were a polite couple, perhaps even fond of one another. They would not dream of scandalising their hostess with public displays such as the one just enacted by the Armstrongs. Patsy Ackroyd and other young wives flirted with the younger sons of good family and even took lovers but it was all done so circumspectly that no one was any the wiser and if they were, had the good manners to keep it to themselves. They were self-indulgent, monied, pleasure-seeking, but never guilty of ill-breeding.

Now this new wife of Brooke Armstrong, who himself came from an old family, had caused this scene. To be truthful it was Armstrong himself who had worsened the situation by snatching her from young Joel Denton’s arms, who was known for a naughty boy, and dragging her from the ballroom, disappearing for ten minutes, and then dragging her back again where he thrust her between Milly Pickford and Maddy Hill, with ice-cold instructions to remain where he had put her. But, according to the two ladies, she had insulted them by swearing like a stable boy!

‘This is not a success, is it, Brooke?’ she said sadly at last. ‘It seems I am not a lady in the eyes of—’

‘You come of a good family and should be conversant in the ways of society,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘I was not trained, as other girls are trained by their mamas, Brooke. I had five brothers and was, as far as my father was concerned, no different from them . . .’ remembering the beatings. ‘Until he decided to marry me to you’ – not realising how she crucified him with those few words – ‘I was treated as they were. I know nothing of running a great house or the conventions of polite society, as you call it, and furthermore have no interest in them. I want to do something worthwhile. I have nothing in common with—’

‘Then you will have to learn,’ he interrupted harshly, his heart bleeding for her. ‘But for now I think it best if we go home. We are an embarrassment to the Dentons so fetch your wrap and we will make our polite farewells. Let us hope—’

‘That they will forgive me,’ she said wryly.

‘Yes.’ His voice was soft now, but not with understanding. ‘It seems you are determined to despise the conventions of the society in which we move. You are determined that ordinary social duties are beyond you and you will not conform to them but, my dear, I’m afraid you must.’

Brooke knew in his wounded soul that he sounded like some pompous, stiff-necked and arrogant fool but it seemed this was how he must be if he was to bring his young and foolish wife to heel. If he did not nip this thing in the bud right now he would never have the life he had envisaged when he married Charlotte Drummond.

He was vastly annoyed when, as they bade their coolly polite host and hostess goodnight and thanked them for their hospitality, Charlotte turned and waved to Patsy Ackroyd who stood in the doorway of the ballroom, a wide grin on her face. Patsy was arm-in-arm with Joel Denton!

They did not speak in the carriage on the journey to King’s Meadow, both gazing out into the moon-lit night, both busy with their own fragmented thoughts. Johnson was waiting in the hall, surprised, they could tell, that they were home so early.

‘I trust the evening was a success, sir, madam,’ he said, as they made their way towards the stairs.

‘Thank you, Johnson,’ the master answered.

‘Will I send Nellie to help the mistress, sir?’ he asked, since Nellie, who was parlour-maid and with Kizzie over at the Dower House, had hopes of becoming Mrs Armstrong’s lady’s maid.

‘No, thank you, Johnson,’ the master said and instead of entering the adjoining bedroom in which he had slept for several weeks he followed the mistress into the bedroom they had once shared, closing the door firmly behind him.

Johnson was not one for gossip. After all he was the butler, the head of the household staff, but he could not help himself when he found Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves still sitting with their feet up before the kitchen fire.

‘He’s gone into her bedroom,’ he whispered to them, though the rest of the servants were all in their beds. They knew at once what that meant.

‘Well, it’s about time an’ all,’ from Mrs Groves with a satisfied expression on her face.

He made savage love to her in their bed that night as though putting his mark of possession on what was his and when he was replete, lying exhausted on her breast, both of them slicked with the sweat of their exertions she told him that she thought she might be pregnant with their child, wanting to add that for all his exhortations to conform to the conventions of their class, it was nature and not his words that were to force her to do just that!

17

Lucy Jean Armstrong was born on the night of 23 December and was the most beautiful child anyone had ever clapped eyes on. The servants who had crowded round her when she was brought down to the kitchen in the arms of her proud father – along with a bottle of the finest champagne to celebrate her birth – even her four uncles who were at King’s Meadow for the Christmas holidays agreed. In fact Lucy’s father quite had his nose put out of joint by their admiration and exuberant presence in the bedroom he shared with his wife and who had all wanted a ‘hold’ of their new niece.

‘Aye up,’ he said smilingly the next day, in a fair imitation of the Yorkshire dialect that was all around him in his own servants. ‘Would you chaps bugger off and let me have a few minutes alone with my wife and daughter? That means you as well, Robbie,’ who would have curled up on the bed beside his sister. Robbie had just begun to realise that with the arrival of Lucy Jean – Lucy for Brooke’s mother, Jean for Charlie’s, and his own, of course – he would have two rivals for his sister’s attention and was doing his best to stake a claim while the ‘kid’, as he called her, was bundled in her father’s arms. For the past three or four months, as Charlie became more cumbersome – apparently, astonishingly, the baby was growing inside her! – he had, when he was not at school or playing with Jed or Tad Emmerson, or Davy Nicholson, accompanied Charlie on ambles through the fields and woodland of King’s Meadow. He had just turned eight now and could be trusted to watch over her, a trust he was proud of and he did not care for the idea that this new kid might spoil things. It was Jed who had told him where the baby was to come from, Jed being a farm lad and knowledgeable about such things. He had not believed him at first but as his sister grew fatter and fatter he was forced to admit it must be true.

Reluctantly he climbed from the bed and followed his four brothers from the room. They all donned warm coats and after teasing the maidservants who were all in a swoon over the new baby as they went through the kitchen and persuading Mrs Groves to give each of them a huge piece of her second Christmas cake, the first being saved for Christmas Day, they dashed out into the drifts of freshly fallen snow to play. Even Henry, who was a great boy of seventeen, threw snowballs with enthusiasm, all the brothers falling about in hysterical laughter as the four dogs chased the snowballs and looked so funny and bewildered when they failed to catch them. They would have galloped off on the horses that their brother-in-law kept in his stables but the snow was too deep, drifting several feet high against walls and hedges. Their high-spirited shouts could be heard even in their sister’s bedroom.

‘Thank God for that,’ Brooke pronounced with a heartfelt sigh, ‘a bit of peace at last,’ moving to the bed where his wife lay. He held his precious child possessively in his arms, unaware, as all of them seemed to be, that the infant was quite ordinary as all other newborns are, red-faced with indignation, with no more than a blob for a nose, an open mouth revealing shining gums and a tongue aquiver ready to give voice. She had not yet revealed the colour of her eyes but her hair was what could only be called ginger, a throwback to Charlie’s side of the family who had all been what had been called ‘carrot-tops’. ‘And where the devil did she get the ginger hair?’ Brooke asked plaintively, accusingly, but grinning just the same, since in his eyes the baby was perfect. ‘And we’ll have to watch those lads and the servants, for the child is in a fair way to being spoiled with all this adoration.’

‘And who is the worst culprit?’ Charlotte asked him indulgently. ‘You would have taken her into your own bed last night if I’d let you, though that nurse you insist should remain would have had something to say. That’s another thing, Brooke. As soon as I’m allowed to put a foot out of this bed she’s out of the door. I swear if she calls me “mother” once more I’ll throw something at her.’

He looked at his wife in her nest of pillows, her hair still lank from the sweat of her labour, her eyes deep and tired in her pale face and his own softened with love. He was distracted for a moment from his doting contemplation of his child and began again the argument which had been going on for the past six weeks when Doctor Chapman had told her and Brooke he had engaged a nurse to be installed a week before the baby was expected.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Brooke had said. ‘I know we can trust you to find some sensible, experienced woman to care for Charlotte and the child. My wife will—’

‘Your wife is quite capable of caring for her own child, thank you, Brooke Armstrong, and will be up and about—’

‘We’ll see about that, lady,’ Brooke had snapped. ‘If Doctor Chapman thinks a nurse is necessary, and I agree with him, then that is all there is to say about it.’ He turned to the doctor who sat awkwardly balancing a cup of coffee on his knee. ‘You will attend to it, won’t you, Doctor?’

‘No, he won’t! Now, Doctor Chapman, you know I am a young, strong and healthy woman, don’t you? Not one of those faint-hearted ladies who insist upon remaining in their beds for weeks on end after giving birth.’

‘Well, yes, Mrs Armstrong, but if your husband wishes you to—’

‘I do, Doctor. I am of the opinion that Charlotte should stay where she is for at least a fortnight then keep to her room and rest. A wet nurse will be needed . . .’

Brooke had explained the matter delicately to Milly Pickford – for it was not quite the thing a lady and gentleman should discuss – in a quiet moment when he was dining with Chris and Maddy Hill. Milly had given birth four times and all her children had lived, so he chose her to explain why his wife could no longer move about in society. Not that Milly Pickford was eager to resume her acquaintance with Brooke’s wife after the fiasco at the hunt ball but it was the custom for ladies in their society to retire from the social scene when they were with child and to stay hidden for at least four weeks after giving birth and she had told him so.

‘Well, I’m not sure I agree, Mr Armstrong,’ the doctor told him now, for Wallace Chapman treated women who, a day after being delivered, were back at their looms or scrubbing buckets, leaving the new infant in the care of the half a dozen children they already had. It was, of course, not necessary for Mrs Armstrong, who had a dozen servants and a doting husband to care for her, but a month seemed overlong to him.