The Flight of Swallows (11 page)

As soon as he and Charlotte returned from their honeymoon he took out his guns and joined his neighbours in the shooting season which had begun on 12 August with grouse, continuing with partridge on 1 September and pheasant on 1 October. Many ladies were included, for in the past he and his neighbours held shooting parties where wives were present. When Charlotte was more settled he meant to invite friends from all over Yorkshire to shoot his birds which had been hand-reared by his gamekeeper. In November the foxhunting season would begin and as autumn drew on he and Arthur Drummond, also back from his wedding journey, the Ackroyds, the Dentons and others of the Danby Hunt took the young hounds out ‘cub hunting’, teaching the puppies to hunt. Foxhounds may hunt mammals other than foxes by natural instinct and have to be trained and encouraged to make the fox their only prey. Cub hunting consists of training the young hounds – which were owned by Arthur Drummond who could now afford a pack thanks to his rich young wife – by first surrounding a covert with riders and foot followers to drive back any foxes attempting to escape and then ‘drawing’ it with the puppies, allowing them to find, attack and kill young foxes.

Charlotte was horrified when Brooke explained it to her and asked her, since she was learning to ride, to come with him one day.

‘You will meet and make the acquaintance of many of my friends, which will be a good thing, for we must soon go out into society and return hospitality so it would be an advantage to you if you—’

‘How absolutely appalling. Deliberately to train young puppies to attack and kill.’

‘But how else are we to train our hounds, Charlotte? The season starts in November and goes on until March or April and I shall be spending a good deal of my time with the hunt. As you are under eighteen you will wear a tweed jacket but I and other members wear scarlet. You must have seen us out—’

‘I shall be wearing neither scarlet nor tweed since I shall not be joining you. Oh, I enjoy riding, the little I have learned so far but I shall not be out killing innocent animals. It is barbaric.’

‘Charlotte, as my wife you must conform to the ways of our society. I don’t expect you to shoot but ladies are expected to join shooting parties. Charlie Denton of Park Mansion puts up a magnificent luncheon. His servants bring everything out into the woods that surround his house and—’

‘Stop right there, Brooke. I shall not shoot nor hunt nor take part in any of the horrendous activities which your friends . . .’

Brooke’s face became hard and there was visible menace in the set of his mouth. ‘The fox is considered to be vermin by the farmers who fear losing their valuable livestock. Your own father is to be Master of Foxhounds now he has his own kennels, and with the death of old Willy Jenkins the position has become vacant. His wife is keen on hunting and I’m sure she will take you under her wing. I will take you out myself if you prefer.’ His voice was clipped and she knew she had angered him but could be no other way.

They were seated in the splendid dining room, its walls papered in pale green watered silk with chairs in the same colour, at the enormous oblong table of English oak. The rich burgundy carpet softened the footfalls of Mr Johnson and Nellie as they served them. The table was set with the heavy silver cutlery, the delicate bone china and cut-glass crystal to which Charlotte was growing accustomed. This evening she had been dressed by Kizzie in what Kizzie thought correct, since Charlotte was not normally overly concerned with her clothes. She wore a crimson silk gown with a low décolletage, pencil slim with a tiny train, while Brooke was dressed in the proper evening wear of black and white even though they were alone.

The argument, if you could call it an argument, continued since the master was getting more and more enraged. Mr Johnson had worked for him and his father before him and knew that Mr Brooke was a man who contained his feelings and very rarely lost control but his wife’s flat refusal to have anything to do with the activities he enjoyed, and not only him but his friends, was something he had not expected. She, like her brother, had had a birthday recently and was now seventeen but she was extremely young to be the wife of so prominent a landowner. He and Nellie stood like statues by the serving sideboard, waiting to take the master and mistress’s soup plates away and serve the second course but Mr Johnson made a small gesture to Nellie to slip out to the kitchen and inform Mrs Groves to hold the salmon since the master and mistress might be a while yet. Brooke and Charlotte did not notice her go but she could not wait to tell the others of the row going on in the dining room.

‘She’ve said she’ll ’ave nowt ter do wi’ ‘untin’ nor shootin’,’ she told them dramatically.

‘What!’ Mrs Dickinson was amazed, for that was what the gentry did all winter and how was the young mistress to pass her time if she did not mix with them.

The cloth with which Kizzie was wiping a bowl slowed and she sat down suddenly. She had seen this coming though she was not quite certain what she meant by that thought. There would be trouble if Miss Charlie did not conform to the rules of the class into which she had married. She had done nothing in her life but be with her brothers while her father gadded about, going nowhere, having no friends, just staying in the schoolroom but now she was the wife of a gentleman who had friends who were gentlemen and she had to fit in. She must see if she could talk to Miss Charlotte and explain to her that if she did not conform her marriage could be rocky. It had not had a good start, for they all knew of the difficulties with Master Robert and his possessiveness of the master’s new wife, beside the sad fact that Miss Charlotte did not love her husband and had only married him because of her father and his threats.

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-bedroomed 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.