The Flight of Swallows (41 page)

Brooke sat down beside his wife and put an arm about her shoulders, pulling her into the circle of his arms. He tucked her head beneath his chin and waited for a moment before he spoke.

‘Tell me, my darling.’

So she did, from the moment her father had silently entered her office until he slipped away unseen, leaving nothing out. She told him of her and her brothers’ childhood and the punishments they had received at his hands. The beatings, the anger and cruelty, the isolation, the terror he had instilled into them so that finally Brooke began to understand why Robbie Drummond had been as he was. This woman, who had been only a girl then, had defended him and that was why he clung to her. The boys would probably bear unseen scars for the rest of their lives but at least they were recovering thanks to Charlotte and to himself, he supposed. So Charlotte had married him to get her brothers away from their father. That was what he must face now and he did. But he was sure in her love and in the love of the two children she had given him. She had surrounded him with care when he was hurt. He was sure of her devotion and was at peace in the happy home she had created. In his heart he knew where love was and his senses told him that he had nothing to fear. She loved him as he loved her.

There was silence for several minutes. Inside Brooke Armstrong a great volcano was slowly coming to life and creeping up his body until it could find the outlet it needed to erupt. But there was none, was there? All that needed to be done, for the moment, had been done by men who Kizzie knew, of that he was sure. She had three brothers, big chaps, but with the sense not to overdo it, who surely must be the perpetrators of this crime, for crime it was, and when Drummond was recovered Brooke himself would see that his family and those who sheltered beneath his roof, including the young women who worked for his wife, were safe.

‘Come, my love, let me take you to bed. Let me make love with you. First we will have some champagne; yes, a celebration, for if ever a woman needed her life celebrated it is my wife. You’re a bloody brave woman, Charlotte Armstrong, and when I get you to bed we will drink to our life together, to the future which I promise will hold no more fears for you or your brothers, or the children up in the nursery.’

The agent turned the key in the lock and opened the door of the empty shop with a flourish that implied this was one of the finest buildings in Wakefield. It was, in fact, quite dreadful. There was a double-fronted bay window from which the paint had peeled almost to the bare wood and the door, when it was opened, had shrieked in protest.

‘Just needs a bit of oil,’ Mr Whitehead, the agent, murmured optimistically, pushing the door against the rubbish that was piled behind it. The filth on the floor was thick and even, undisturbed for months, and cobwebs were draped like lace from corner to corner. But the actual shop area was large with plenty of room for what Charlotte had in mind. There was a door at the back of the room that led into another, equally large, and then another behind that with a sink, a fireplace and a big cast-iron range, plenty of cupboards and in the centre a table so big it had evidently been too cumbersome to remove. It was a kitchen, in fact, where a meal might be made, where tea could be brewed or perhaps coffee, or hot chocolate, or even a glass of wine poured, since the type of establishment Charlotte envisaged would be prepared to serve whatever the customer asked for while they perused her goods. At the back of the kitchen a door led to steps going down to a yard and a back gate.

‘Wonderful . . . wonderful,’ Charlotte said.

Stairs, again appallingly dirty, went up to a landing on to which two enormous rooms opened, but what appealed to Charlotte were the unusually large windows which let in a great deal of light in every room. She turned to Jenny with a satisfied expression on her face.

‘This will do very nicely. Don’t you agree, Jenny?’

It was a time of great peace and content that summer, which Charlotte had thought she would never know again. Apart from a sprinkling of rain at night, it would be dry and sunny until the beginning of October. Brooke rode out unaccompanied every day to oversee his little kingdom, completely recovered now, though he would stay well away from bulls in future, he told Jack Emmerson.

But it was his wife’s happiness that brought him the most pleasure and despite himself he found he was beginning to enjoy becoming involved with the venture she had started with two or three battered young women almost three years ago. First there was Jenny who had been turned away from the kitchen door at King’s Meadow but who had been found by Charlotte and against the wishes and with the total disapproval of the other servants, she had given her and her unborn child a home in the Dower House. And from Jenny’s clever fingers came the first creation that was to be the start of his wife’s fast growing business.

They were at dinner several months after Arthur Drummond had been attacked on his own land. He was, of course, confined to his home with a broken collar bone, several fractured ribs, a great deal of bruising and a leg with a compound fracture which prevented him from climbing on a horse for many months. It had been rumoured that the break in his leg might necessitate amputation but Wallace Chapman had managed to save it, though Drummond had raged at being attended by his daughter’s physician. Finally his own sense of self-preservation prevailed and he dismissed old Doctor Dutfield who would chop off a limb even if it was only bruised and was beginning to recover though it would be many months before he was up and about again.

So all at King’s Meadow let out their breaths, relaxed and resumed their daily routine.

‘You know the premises at the Dower House are becoming woefully small,’ Charlotte said, spooning Mrs Groves’s rich soup delicately into her mouth. ‘I have an . . . well, it came to me that if we had a bigger workshop we could employ more girls and . . . and . . .’

Brooke smiled, shaking his head as though in wonderment at his wife’s agile brain but he said nothing, letting her flounder on until she came to the point of her deliberations. The soup was a consommé of Mrs Groves’s own devising and there was a great leg of pork waiting to be carved on the sideboard. Johnson stood to attention with Nellie beside him, waiting to serve the next course, moving forward to refill his master’s glass with the fine white wine he had chosen. It had been a dull day for once, threatening rain and the children had been restless, confined to the nursery. It was the end of August. Lucy and Ellie were twenty months old and were accustomed to toddling about the grounds with their two nurses, the dogs bounding along with them, running after poorly and inaccurately thrown balls – an activity that the little girls delighted in. They tripped and tumbled and laughed and picked themselves up, fending off Taddy’s enthusiastic attentions, for he was still only a young dog. The gardeners who were never far away watched indulgently, ready to run and pick up a fallen child while Toby, six months old and sitting up, yelled his displeasure at not being able to join in. He had begun to crawl and could see no reason why he should be confined to his perambulator.

But today Aisling, Rosie and Charlotte had been at their wits’ end with three bored children who were used to the outside world, the attention and adoration of the servants, and it was a relief finally to get them into their small beds and cot and have a breather, praying that tomorrow would be fine.

‘I want to start a new . . . a new line, Brooke,’ Charlotte said abruptly. ‘And I think it might be helpful if you were to . . .’

‘You want my help?’ Brooke did his best not to allow his smile to deepen. He had got the measure of his Charlotte by now and knew he would never tame her. By which he meant she would never be as other wives were. And did he want her to be? She never neglected her children, or him for that matter. She was always at the table when he was and in their bed she was as passionate and eager as he was. She loved him and showed her love in the most intimate way, sometimes embarrassing the servants with her attentions! To himself, of course. But she would not entertain those people she thought fools and nincompoops, which was how she saw the Dentons and the Parkers and the Pickfords, though she seemed friendly enough with Patsy Ackroyd who called every few weeks and who she said made her laugh. Society had stopped inviting the Armstrongs to their own dinner parties, balls and garden parties, to their tennis parties and on the outings they took
en masse
during the summer months.

‘Jenny and I went into Wakefield yesterday and looked at a vacant shop in the Bull Ring. We are making rugs by the dozen and selling them on the market stalls in Wakefield and Huddersfield but I think we ought to be . . . well, why can’t we have a shop in which to sell our goods? And . . .’ She hesitated, placing her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands. She looked unbelievably lovely in the soft lamplight. Her hair was carelessly arranged in a tumble of curls and tied with satin ribbons to match her gown of hyacinth blue, which slipped to one side off her silky white shoulder, revealing the top of one breast and as she leaned forward to speak to him he could almost see her almond nipple. He felt his manhood stir and for a moment was diverted by what he would do with her when he got her to bed, then he cleared his throat feeling quite breathless.

‘Yes?’ he managed to say, but he was beginning to grin now and Charlotte laughed for she knew she would win.

‘Carpets. Why not carpets, or carpeting which is the correct term for floor coverings? There are Jacquard looms which make carpet weaving easier and, of course, being in the centre of the woollen trade in Yorkshire we shall make it our business to find the best supplier. There is a new phenomenon of wide-width carpet, or broadloom. All we need is a weaving loom and, of course, hand-made carpets are particularly sought after. The shop will need a great deal of money spent on it to bring it up to the standard Jenny and I need, and Jenny, of course, would be in charge. I have been reading about machinery and if you will purchase that motor car we have talked about we will be able to get about and make enquiries on how to start. And then I thought why stop at carpets and rugs? Bedspreads. Or quilts. I’ve heard that a young woman has created a bedspread with a hand-crafted pattern by sewing together thick pieces of cotton with a running stitch. No, please, don’t ask me how it was done for I’m no seamstress, but it was apparently stitched on to unbleached linen, clipping the ends of the yarn so it would fluff out. It would have to be carefully looked into—’

‘Whoa, whoa, darling girl, you are stunning me with your enthusiasm; quilts, carpets, motor cars – whatever next?’

‘Oh, Brooke.’ She stood up eagerly and moved round the table to sit in his lap and Johnson and Nellie didn’t know where to look so, prudently, they edged out of the dining room and fled to the kitchen where Nellie was bursting to tell the others what she and the butler had overheard. But not until Mr Johnson had chivvied Mrs Groves into the small housekeeper’s parlour and shut the door could she impart the news that the mistress was going into business in a big way with a shop in the Bull Ring and the master was to buy a motor car which he had been threatening to do for a long time and what were Percy and Arch, who looked after the stables, to do then?

It was almost Christmas when the shop finally opened and they had all become used to the glittering machine that either stood in the stable yard or was housed in a disused stable to the side of the stables where the horses remained, to the great relief of Percy and Arch who had thought they would be out of a job when the monster arrived. It was called by the grand name of a Mercedes-Simplex and the master thought it was big enough and was suitable for a family with three children to accommodate, plus their nurses! It had a hood that could be raised in inclement weather, and was embellished with a great deal of gleaming brass which Todd, who had been promoted to chauffaur and taught to drive by Jack Ackroyd’s chauffeur spent a lot of time buffing to perfection. Percy and Arch disdained even to go near it and grumbled incessantly that the beast frightened their horses.

Charlotte had insisted that their new venture was to be open for Christmas and a sign on the window announced the date. But what a mammoth task it turned out to be. First the premises had to be cleaned which needed three women to scrub it from attic to cellar. There turned out to be a boiler in the cellar which, when it was stripped, cleaned and put together again, would provide hot water. Rotting floorboards and door frames were replaced, walls, ceilings, window frames were painted; and advertisements appeared in the local newspapers to announce the opening of the Carpet Shop, the name Charlotte and Jenny had decided upon. It was simple and said it all, Charlotte told Brooke in the nest of their deep bed where each night, after they had made love to the satisfaction, indeed repletion of both, they discussed what was turning out to be a joint venture. Much to Brooke’s surprise, he had begun to catch Charlotte’s enthusiasm as he drove her and Jenny from place to place, such as Axminster where superb carpets were manufactured, Kidderminster where Brussels carpeting was made and Halifax which was the home of the Wilton. Brussels carpets were made up so that the pile was left looped or
bouclé
and Brooke told his dearest love that his head was spinning with it all; he was amazed by how she not only absorbed the information like a sponge but retained it so that when she was in the shop she could give instructions to the girls who were already employed there about what they would be selling.

‘By God, I fell on my feet when I married you, my sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘We shall be millionaires before we know it,’ he said as they stood in the centre of the Bull Ring next to the recently erected statue of Queen Victoria and admired the Carpet Shop the day before it opened.

It was what could only be called elegant, though some of those who wandered past just to get a look considered it plain. Charlotte had fitted out one whole window as a drawing room with some good furniture brought from King’s Meadow. The carpet was a silvery grey with a design of pale pink roses in each corner, and the electric light fittings in delicate wrought iron were the work of a craftsman Charlotte had found. On the back wall, which had been papered to look like linen and painted white, hung two of Jenny’s wall hangings, framed to look like paintings. A final touch, echoing the carpet were the hothouse roses in crystal vases, again brought from King’s Meadow. The whole effect was stunning. The display caused quite a bottleneck as folk stopped to gawp, as did Brooke’s Mercedes, parked in front of the shop, which gathered a crowd about it.