The Flight of Swallows (37 page)

Charlotte sighed and sat up. She smiled into his face then leaned to kiss him tenderly.

‘It’s a lovely day. Look at the sunshine . . .’ and they both turned to look through the window. The long stretch of lawn that led down to the small lake had been threaded with wild daffodils which John and Ned had been careful to mow round. There were wallflowers spilling over in the beds, brilliant with colour, and Virginia stock just coming into their best. The lime trees that bordered the drive showed their pale green, heart-shaped leaves waiting for the flowers which did not dangle their delicate blossoms until July.

They walked slowly down the lime tree drive, Brooke leaning carefully on his one stick, his other arm through Charlotte’s. John and Ned were busy on their knees weeding beside the lake, removing the clogged debris of the winter, not speaking much, for they were of a similar nature though there was thirty years’ difference in their age. They stood immediately when they heard the approaching footsteps of their master and mistress, touching the peaks of their battered caps, smiling and ready to chat if they were spoken to.

‘Everywhere looks very smart, John,’ Brooke said. ‘I particularly like the colours in the flowerbeds. Wallflowers, are they?’

‘Aye, sir, I allus did like a bit o’ colour meself.’

‘You’ve done very well. Thank you.’

‘Thank
you
, sir,’ the older man said, nudging Ned who, though he had been at King’s Meadow for years, was considered to be his apprentice.

‘Aye, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘thank yer.’

When the master and mistress turned and began to stroll back to the house, the men resumed their kneeling position.

‘I allus liked t’ master,’ John said. ‘’E tekks notice an’ I’m that glad ter see ’im on ’is feet again. That’s thanks ter’t missis, I reckon.’

‘Oh aye, why’s that then?’

‘Don’t be gormless, lad, wouldn’t she put any chap back on ’is feet. She’s some daft ideas like that ’un wi’ them lasses at Dower ’Ouse, but she’s a good ’eart on ’er. I ’eard ’er old man’s tryin’ ter’t get babby back but she’ll not ’ave it. Anyroad, ’e’d ’ave ter get through me first.’ He pulled viciously at a weed that was proving awkward.

‘Me an’ all.’

That night Charlotte and Brooke Armstrong made love as they had never done before. He was still somewhat encumbered by his injury. She undressed him carefully as he lay on his back on the bed, sliding her hands across his shoulders, bringing her palms slowly across his chest, feeling the springy hair and the soft indentations around his nipples which rose at her touch. She slipped down his body, paying particular attention to his thighs then up again until she reached his mouth. The kiss lasted for a long time and his hands now began the slow exploration of her naked body. He was more than ready, she could feel that, for was not the evidence pressed hard against her belly and she was ready too. He cupped her breasts and rubbed her nipples, groaning. Their breath was ragged as she guided him into the slippery cleft between her legs.

‘Holy God . . .’ he breathed, neither of them knowing that he had just impregnated her again.

‘Indeed . . .’ she quavered, unable to get her breath, collapsing on top of him, her quivering arms unable to hold her up any longer.

‘Did I hurt you?’ she mumbled into his breast and then lifted her head as he began to laugh.

‘Aren’t I supposed to ask
you
that, my lovely, lovely girl?’

There was silence for several minutes while they both dreamily contemplated what they had just accomplished.

‘There’s just one thing.’

‘What?’ Her voice was anxious.

‘Can we do it again?’

24

The salesman at Alcock and Upton’s Quality Carpets in Westgate was a tall, perfectly groomed gentleman who was reverence personified when Charlotte entered the premises. She was so obviously a lady and he provided carpets and rugs to the upper classes of which she was one. Her manner and her dress, which was elegant and appeared to his practised eye to be very expensive, proclaimed her to be the sort of customer he, as head salesman, always dealt with, leaving the lesser salesmen to the upper middle classes who were wealthy but not deserving of his attention. And her maid was also well, if not as expensively, dressed, as befitted a servant.

Charlotte had left the house with Brooke’s reluctant comments – for had he not made her a promise – and under his disapproving gaze, though he did his best to conceal it since he had given her his blessing. She wore a high-necked, peach-coloured lace blouse with an ankle-length skirt in dove-grey watered silk. Over the blouse she wore what was known as a zouave jacket, in a shade to match her skirt. Her hat was wide-brimmed, decorated with a positive garden of peach-coloured silk roses. High-cut, kid shoes had replaced boots at the beginning of this new century and hers had been dyed to match her outfit. They had a pointed toe, a bar across the instep fastened by a button and two and a half inch Cuban heels.

Jenny, who accompanied her and carried their ‘samples’ in a large canvas bag, was similarly dressed in the fashion of the day but in a subdued deep blue with a white blouse, and her hat, the same shape but smaller than her mistress’s was decorated with dainty white roses, also silk.

They both looked extremely attractive and their progress through the shop was watched by many admiring glances, and not just those of the gentlemen.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said the salesman, having noticed the uniformed coachman and smart carriage from which the ladies had alighted, and which was half blocking the road outside the shop window. He was almost running across the sumptuous carpet in his effort to assist her through the shop door and close it respectfully behind her. ‘How may I assist you?’

He indicated an elegant velvet chair where she might seat herself, snapping his fingers at an underling to bring another for her companion.

‘Good morning,’ Charlotte replied, hoping to God he could not hear her heart going nineteen to the dozen beneath her lace blouse, nor see it literally lifting the material as it thumped erratically. ‘I think it is more a case of how I can help
you
,’ she answered, smiling brilliantly, while beside her Jenny sat frozen to the chair one of the men, who looked in her opinion like tailor’s dummies, had brought for her.

The head salesman, to do him justice, did not allow the expression on his face to alter. He was used to dealing with every kind of lady,
ladies,
mind you, from the very rude who demanded his undivided attention, to the icily polite, many of them from noble families who imagined they were doing him a favour by even sitting on his chair.

‘Madam?’ he enquired.

‘Perhaps I am speaking to the wrong gentleman.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘You are a salesman and I do not suppose you do the buying in this establishment or have anything to do with the manufacture of carpets and rugs. You
sell
what is on display here so perhaps you could direct me to the office of the gentleman who makes the decisions on what you sell.’

‘Madam,’ the salesman faltered.

‘I’m sorry, you must understand I am ignorant of the correct procedure in these matters. Shall you bring the manager or take me and my assistant here’ – turning to smile encouragingly at Jenny who looked as terrified as Charlotte felt though Charlotte did not let it show – ‘to his office? I have something he might be interested in. You sell some magnificent carpets here and a few rugs, I see,’ she said, glancing round her.

The salesman looked mortified. ‘The manager is very busy at the moment, madam. I believe he has a representative from the Axminster manufacturer with him but if you would like to make an appointment to—’

‘What is the manager’s name, if you please?’

‘Mr Martin, madam, but as I say . . .’

Charlotte’s face was like marble, creamy and smooth and her vivid blue eyes froze to the hardness of the jewel to which they were likened. She had become instantly the well-bred and autocratic lady she had learned to be, mistress of her household, director of her servants, wife to one of Yorkshire’s most powerful gentlemen and her expression told him she would not be obstructed by any man who had the temerity to stand against her.

‘I will wait to see Mr Martin,’ she said, rising with such alacrity he was forced to move hastily to one side.

Still he tried. ‘Mr Martin is extremely busy, Mrs . . .?’

‘Mrs Armstrong. Mrs Brooke Armstrong who wishes to discuss business with him, so if you would inform him that I am here I would be obliged. In the meanwhile my assistant and I will look round your shop to see what quality goods you supply,’ just as though there were grave doubts in her mind as to whether they would be up to the standard she required. She turned imperiously on her heel to study the lesser salesmen and their customers who stared open-mouthed at her. Though she was quaking inside like one of Mrs Groves’s delicious jellies, she lifted her chin and then turned back again to the salesman who was dithering at her back, uncertain as yet how to deal with this beautiful commanding woman.

‘Well,’ she said.

Still loth to give up his authority, which was absolute in this establishment, he did his best to meet her eye with the look that quailed salesmen and customers alike but Charlotte had decided that if she was to do business – which she had already achieved with the manager of the shoddy mill – she must stand up to these men who believed a woman’s place was in the bedroom or the kitchen. At that moment a door at the back of the shop opened and two men appeared. They shook hands and one was beginning to make his way towards the door, the other to turn back to the office. The one who turned back caught the small altercation that appeared to be disturbing the calm of his magnificent premises and he hesitated, then, with a stately stride that denoted his place in the smooth running of Alcock and Upton, he crossed the magnificent carpet that had been especially hand-made in the Aubusson style for the shop and bowed to Charlotte, who was obviously a lady of some standing.

‘Is there a problem, Mr Johnson?’ he asked unctuously.

‘This lady would like—’

‘I am Mrs Brooke Armstrong,’ Charlotte told him, ‘and would be glad of a few minutes of your time, Mr Martin.’

‘Mrs Armstrong, this is indeed a pleasure,’ he said as he bowed again over her hand, his eyes approving her young beauty, but very respectfully. ‘Will you not come into my office and perhaps a cup of tea might be in order. See to it, will you, Mr Johnson.’

Tea and biscuits were produced and for several minutes they were very civil with one another while Jenny sat in a discreet corner. He had been sorry to hear of Mr Armstrong’s sad accident and was delighted to hear he was recovering, thinking she was here to place an order for one of his handmade carpets which were much sought after by the upper classes in the area. Their designers were the very best in the land and the Classic collections, botanical, Savonnerie, the silk route, their Rhapsody could be created in any size or colouring, he was saying when Charlotte stopped his words in mid-sentence.

‘I have not come here to buy but to sell, Mr Martin,’ she interrupted him crisply. ‘My . . . my staff produce the most beautiful rugs you have ever seen and Jenny here, who is our designer, has brought several samples to show you,’ turning to Jenny who rose to her feet and opened the canvas bag.

Immediately Mr Martin’s courteously admiring benevolence was wiped away and his smiling eyes turned cold. He was not sure whether this lovely woman was playing a joke on him or whether she was completely mad.

He leaned back in his chair. If she was who she said she was and there was no reason to doubt her, he could not afford to offend a landed gentleman like Brooke Armstrong who was one of the top men in Yorkshire, but at the same time what was a lady of her standing, married to a gentleman of Armstrong’s class, doing, trying to sell rugs, for God’s sake, to Alcock and Upton’s?

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Armstrong, I don’t quite see what it is you want from me.’

Charlotte turned eagerly to Jenny who stepped forward and drew from the bag one of her exquisite rugs, the first made up into a wall hanging. It was of a meadow drifting with wild flowers, ox-eye daisies, yellow rattle, meadow thistle and knapweed and the vivid red of poppies. Jenny had seen it in a book in the library at the big house, and copied it, wondering as she did so who had been interested in wild flowers. She was not to know that Mr Armstrong’s mother had been a passionate botanist and there was certainly a wealth of books from which Jenny chose her subjects.

She held up the wall hanging and for several breathless moments Mr Martin was silenced by its beauty then he recovered himself. He regarded her steadily as he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk. He fingered his chin as though considering what he should say and Charlotte held her breath. Jenny still held up the wall hanging but in her heart knew they were lost. Mr Martin’s next words confirmed it.

‘Well now, Mrs Armstrong, it was very kind of you to consider me and this firm for your . . . goods but we do not deal with – such things in our establishment. We only deal with the highest quality, in our carpets and rugs and in our customers. There is a lot of work, I am sure in producing such a thing—’

‘You have not seen all our stock, Mr Martin.’

He stood up courteously. ‘I’m sure it is as good as the rug . . . or wall hanging you have shown me. A hooked rug, is that what it is? The sort of thing to be found in the parlour of a cottage or . . . or . . .’

‘Mr Martin, can you not see the workmanship?’ Charlotte’s voice was desperate but she did her best to keep up the façade she had adopted as she entered the shop.

‘I can indeed, Mrs Armstrong, but it is not what our clientele want. We sell to—’

‘I have a friend – I had perhaps better not mention her name but she is the wife of one of the leading men in Wakefield and she bought one.’

‘Then perhaps she will recommend you to others of her kind. Or perhaps some other carpet shop in the town or in others, Huddersfield or . . . or . . . there are others, not quite as prestigious as we are who might . . . then there is the market in the Bull Ring but I cannot . . .’