The Flight of Swallows (12 page)

He was not at breakfast the next morning and when Kizzie enquired casually of Mr Johnson where the master might be she was told that he had breakfasted early and ridden off but no one had been told to where or when he would be back.

Robbie was at school where he was taken each morning in the gig by one of the outdoor servants. After idling about in her bedroom for half an hour, picking up a book and putting it down again, Charlotte opened her wardrobe and without calling for Kizzie – after all she had dressed herself for most of her life – threw on clean underclothes and her riding habit, tied her hair back with a silver satin ribbon, pulled on her boots and the kid trousers she wore under her skirt and flew downstairs, her hair swinging down her back in a most unladylike way.

The servants watched her open-mouthed as she flew past them in the kitchen, Kizzie ready to stop her. She had thought her young mistress was ensconced by her bedroom fire with a book and here she was like a mad thing dashing into the yard and calling for her horse.

‘I shall go out alone, Percy,’ as the groom moved to help her into the saddle, the side saddle he expected her to use. ‘Oh, and I would be glad if you would put me astride. Now you know we have practised it several times so don’t pull that face at me.’

‘But, Mrs Armstrong, ma’am, master’d ’ave me ’ide if I was ter let yer go out—’

‘The master will never know unless you tell him, Percy, for I shan’t.’

‘Oh, please, ma’am . . .’ The groom was almost crying but he took off the side saddle and fetched another from the tack room while she tapped her foot impatiently.

‘You must teach me how to saddle my own horse, Percy,’ she said, ‘then I will have no need to bother you.’

‘’Tis no bother, ma’am, but will yer not—’

‘No, I will not.’

‘I must come wi’ yer. Yer might come off in a ditch an’ then where’d us be,’ he mumbled as he cupped his hands to help her into the saddle but before he could say another word she was through the open gateway and across Old Lady Brook Meadow towards Clough Wood several miles away.

She managed to stay on though she found it strange to ride astride after so many lessons in the side saddle but she drew Magic, who was a placid, good-natured mare, chosen for these qualities by Brooke, to a trot and then a walk and when she reached the wood she scrambled off, wondering idly how she was to get back on, tied the reins to a branch so that Magic could graze and sat down in the roots of a great oak, leaning her back against its trunk and her arms on the roots as though she were in an armchair.

She was startled when the four dogs suddenly and joyously scrambled all over her. The yard gate which had been left open for her return had enabled the dogs, when let out of the stable where they spent the night, to race after her. They licked her face energetically in greeting then settled down companionably beside her, Ginger, the retriever, resting her muzzle on Charlotte’s lap. She stroked the silky head and stared up into the branches of the tree. Drifts of leaves were falling and settling on the ground and in this mixed woodland the hawthorns and beeches were beginning to close down for the winter. It was rather sad and though she and Brooke had so far rubbed along pleasantly enough she could see storms coming. There was the constant friction with Robbie and she made up her mind to encourage him to bring home a school friend other than the faithful Webb. The trouble was that none of Brooke’s acquaintances seemed to be young. The Emmersons, the Eveleighs, the Nicholsons, the Killens, who were all tenant farmers on Brooke’s land, had children, for she had seen them playing about the farms when she rode out with Percy but they attended the little local school in the village of Overton. She wondered idly if it might be possible to send Robbie there until he went to Barton Meade with his brothers. She might wander down there one day and have a word with the teacher, find out her views on education and assess what benefit it might be to Robbie.
And to Brooke and herself!

The dogs dozed in a patch of sunlight and she allowed herself to dream a little, though what about she was not sure for her thoughts circled languorously in her head. A sudden movement on the far side of the small grove caught her attention and to her amazement a fox cub wandered out of the undergrowth and began to follow the movement of a leaf that floated past its beautiful little face. The dogs, who she would have supposed might have caught the cub’s scent, dozed on in oblivion and she scarcely dared breathe lest she wake them. From behind the cub, hidden in a clump of fern, another face appeared, or rather just a pair of gleaming eyes above a pointed nose. The vixen, surely mother to the cub, stared at her with those yellow eyes as though assessing the danger before she made the tiniest sound and at once the cub stopped its frolicking and as if at some maternal command slipped back into the undergrowth which barely moved with its passage. Then there was nothing and Charlotte knew they were gone.

And these were the lovely animals that Brooke and others would kill! These shy creatures whose babies played like young children, unafraid but obedient to their mother’s call.

Slowly she rose and at once the dogs rose with her, lazily wagging their tails, ready to go with her wherever she wanted them to go and for a moment the thought crossed her mind that the dogs, the horses like the one who carried her safely about the estate, even the cat which curled round her legs in the kitchen, purring ecstatically, were so trusting and eager to be her friends. Brooke was casually kind to his animals and would not deliberately be cruel but there was such unfairness in this world and she did nothing but accept it. She lived a life of luxury and ease. She had a cook to make her any dish she required, maidservants to clean her home, a laundry-maid to wash her garments the moment she took them off, men and women to wait on her, enabling her to sit by her fire all day and do absolutely nothing.

So what was she to do with the remainder of her life? She had been married since June and every night – apart from last night – her husband made love to her and yet in all these months he had not impregnated her. Was she not to be a mother? If not, what was her purpose in this world that Brooke had created for her?

Finding a fallen tree trunk she managed to steady herself and Magic and gain the saddle, find the stirrups and with a sound that Percy had taught her, urged the mare forward. The dogs swirled about her then raced ahead and slowly, reluctantly, she moved across the fields until she reached the stable gate where Percy was waiting for her.

‘Oh, ma’am, thanks be yer ’ome,’ he babbled as though she had been to London and back. He helped her to dismount and as he led the mare towards the stable a young girl moved dejectedly away from the closing kitchen door. Her head was bowed and when she lifted it there was such a look of despair on her face that Charlotte hesitated and put out a hand.

‘What is it?’ she asked, but the girl merely shook her head.

‘Come inside,’ Charlotte said gently, ‘and tell me.’

8

They all stopped what they were doing and stared in amazement as their mistress entered the kitchen with an arm round the strumpet who had just been sent on her way by Mrs Dickinson. Even Kizzie who was usually big-hearted and not at all judgemental, frowned at the sight and Mrs Groves seemed unable to restrain her mouth.

‘Well,’ she snorted, ‘it didn’t take you long to find a fool to sympathise with you. The mistress has a soft heart and God knows she is—’

‘That will do, Cook, if you don’t mind,’ Charlotte snapped. ‘Fetch a chair for this poor girl and put a cup of tea in her hand, and be quick about it,’ since they all appeared to be frozen with shock and unable to move.

‘But, Mrs Armstrong, ma’am, we’ve just sent this . . . this woman off with a flea in her ear. Can you not see what she is? I’ll not have such trash in my kitchen among decent girls.’

‘
Be quiet,
Mrs Groves. This is my kitchen, not yours as it happens to be in my house. My husband’s house and I will have in it whom I please. Now then,’ turning with a smile to the girl who hung her head so that her hair, which was uncombed and knotted, hid her face. Reluctantly she sat down on the chair Charlotte pulled out for her and when the cup of tea was flung down on the table before her she grabbed it eagerly and sipped the contents until the cup was empty.

Ignoring the servants who still watched with fascinated stares, Charlotte knelt down at the girl’s feet and took her hands in hers.

‘Now tell me what troubles you,’ she began.

‘Hmmph,’ Mrs Groves spluttered, ‘’tis plain as the nose on your face what troubles her. Got herself in a—’

‘That’s enough, Mrs Groves. I’m surprised at you, really I am. Have you no compassion for someone who—’

‘I’ll not have my girls corrupted by a—’

Charlotte stood up and rounded on her cook. ‘Mrs Groves, I thought you were a Christian. You go to church on a Sunday, for I’ve seen you set off. Now then,’ turning back to the girl who sat dejectedly in her chair, totally unaware, it seemed, of the currents of disapproval that eddied about her. These women who worked in the kitchen, good women who had never been in trouble and probably had never even had the chance to
get
into trouble, looked down on her, despised her and she knew it. But still, the lady had been kind and she had had a reviving cup of tea.

She stood up shakily, for it was a while since she had eaten. ‘I’ll be on me way, ma’am,’ she said quietly and was amazed when the lady turned on her indignantly.

‘You will do no such thing. I wish to hear your story and see if there is something can be done to help you. Mrs Groves shall cook you something nourishing and then we will see.’

‘No, I will not, ma’am, beggin’ your pardon. Let her take her . . . her belly elsewhere.’

‘You will do as I say, Mrs Groves, or you can find other employment. I will not have a servant speak thus in my own kitchen. Now then, what have you bubbling on the stove? It smells good. I’d be obliged if you would put a bowl of whatever it is . . . pea and ham soup, thank you, Rosie,’ to the little scullery-maid. ‘Pea and ham soup it is.’

Watched by them all, including Kizzie who, though she did not approve, was elated that her young mistress had not backed down before the imperious Mrs Groves, the girl tucked in hungrily to the soup and as though by magic a faint colour crept into her cheeks. She ate daintily, and when she had finished she murmured a faint thank you to Mrs Groves.

‘Now, tell us your name,’ the mistress of the house, and the situation, asked the girl.

‘Jenny, ma’am. Jenny Wainwright.’ She looked humbly down at her empty bowl.

‘And where are you from, Jenny?’

But Jenny just shook her head.

Charlotte understood. The servants, all of them, even Kizzie, were standing round in an intrigued circle, eager to hear the story of this young girl, who, it was obvious, was in the middle stages of pregnancy. Her skirt was hitched over a plainly visible swelling, pulled up slightly at the front. She wore an old shawl, much patched, which had fallen back as she ate.

‘Come with me, Jenny,’ Charlotte told her, ignoring the gasp of horror that came from the maidservants. Surely the mistress was not going to take this bad girl into the house, the
front
of the house where she and the master lived, perhaps into the drawing room, but she turned and smiled at them all and for some reason that smile smoothed their ruffled feathers somewhat. They did not approve, of course, for women who got themselves with child without a wedding ring on their finger were, once upon a time, driven from a village on a rail to the sound of rough music, as the saying went. This girl had already been turned away when she had asked for work, any work, casual work, at the back door and had the mistress, who was known to be kind-hearted, not come in at that moment, would have been halfway to wherever she was going.

‘I shall put Jenny in my bath and see if I have something for her to wear. She shall rest and have a nourishing meal and then we will discuss what is to be done with her. What is to be done
for
her,’ and with that she led the stunned girl from the kitchen.

‘Well, what d’yer mekk o’ that, Mrs Dickinson?’ Mrs Groves asked, reverting to her native dialect in her astonishment.

‘Nay, don’t ask me, lass,’ Mrs Dickinson replied, reverting to hers.

The girl, five months pregnant, she whispered to Charlotte, as she cowered in the bathroom, had been bathed, her hair washed and put in one of Charlotte’s nightgowns. With the grime removed she proved to be very pretty! After eating a hot meal of lamb cutlets, roast potatoes, fresh cabbage and gravy followed by syrup sponge and custard, part of the meal Cook had meant for the servants’ dinner, she was asleep in a spare room.

They were just sitting down to it before they prepared luncheon – for one – for their young mistress, when they were again thunderstruck as the mistress burst into the kitchen. They stood up as one and she stopped in her tracks.

‘Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, I did not think but really, please go on with your meal. I just wanted to ask for the keys to the building on the other side of the gateway at the front of the house. I’ve never been through there and I’m sure you must have them, Mrs Dickinson.’ Mrs Dickinson had a great bunch on a chatelaine fastened to her belt and Charlotte was certain the ones she wanted must be there.

‘The building next door?’ the housekeeper said faintly, obviously wondering what the dickens her mistress was up to now. They were all aware that she had put the trollop, as they all called her, into one of the spare beds after feeding her, so what did she want with those particular keys?

‘Have you the keys, Mrs Dickinson?’ Charlotte asked patiently.

‘To the Dower House? Well, yes, I have but—’

‘The Dower House? I see. Is that what it is? Well, may I have them?’

‘But . . .’

‘Please, Mrs Dickinson, I haven’t got all day.’

They had all sat down again at the table but could not bring themselves to resume eating with their mistress present. Hesitantly Mrs Dickinson took several keys from the chatelaine and handed them over to her mistress.