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Authors: Audrey Howard

Tags: #Sagas, #Historical, #Fiction

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BOOK: The Flight of Swallows
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She was brought down to his study later in the afternoon and he was startled at the state of her face. His temper had got the better of him but he had not realised he had hit her so hard. She had best be kept to her room for a while until she was fit to be seen. She had the beginnings of a black eye and her cheek was red and swollen but she stood proudly before him, meeting his eyes with her own which revealed her defiance. He had discussed it with Elizabeth and she had been adamant that the girl must be made to see how advantageous this marriage would be and that if she proved difficult there must be some pressure that could be brought to bear to
persuade
her. It was not that Elizabeth Parker wished Charlotte to marry Brooke Drummond for any particular reason. She had wanted him for herself. Arthur was second best but she did want the girl out of the house. The house that would be hers. Charlotte was far too pretty to have at Elizabeth’s dinner table, and far too young, which might not show Elizabeth up in a good light. Elizabeth did not like competition. She was twenty-five and at the height of her beauty but that would not last for ever, and as for those great boys, the sooner they were sent away to school the better. She might – she hoped not – but she might have a child herself and she wanted no rivalry between her child and these others. She did not say this to Arthur, of course, but she congratulated herself that she had persuaded him to see matters in the way she wanted him to see them. She was handed into her carriage for her return journey to her home, smiling with satisfaction, not knowing that she had had not the slightest influence on her future husband, for he knew exactly how to handle his children and needed no advice from her, though at the moment it pleased him to let her think that she had some hand in the running of her future home.

‘So, Charlotte, now that you have had time to think about it may I assume that you are willing to consider Brooke Armstrong’s proposal of marriage? I would like to think you will make no objections for, believe me, whatever they may be I shall overcome them. You should know that. He is a very suitable match and—’

‘No, Father, I do not wish to marry Mr Armstrong. He is an old man and I do not love him.’

‘It seems he
loves
you,’ her father sneered.

‘I’m sorry for that but there is absolutely no chance—’

‘Really!’ Her father, who had been lounging in the chair behind his desk, stood up and walked to the window, noting with some satisfaction that she flinched as he moved past her. He looked out into the garden, studying with complacency his lawns, his flowerbeds, the placid smoothness of his lake on which ducks glided, finding them all in perfect order just as his life was. His gardeners were busy in a shady border giving the soil a good dressing of something or other ready for planting stocks and asters, all very pleasing to the eye, but suddenly a small shape flew across his perfect lawn and began to frolic about Malachy’s legs. The man dropped his spade and looked about him furtively then picked up the puppy, for that was what it was and with a word to Denny, the second gardener, hurried across the lawn and disappeared round the corner of the house towards the stable yard.

He could feel the explosive rage well up in him. He hated dogs, he didn’t know why, particularly puppies, nasty little yapping things and this one, presumably belonging to one of the outdoor servants, had been introduced into his household without his permission. He opened the window and shouted to the remaining gardener who had resumed his work, unaware that his master was watching him.

‘Hey, you there,’ Arthur Drummond called out, ‘come here at once.’

Denny, looking thoroughly intimidated, ran across the lawn and stood at the window. ‘Yes, sir?’ he quavered.

‘That bloody dog. To whom does it belong? I want the person to come—’

A voice from behind him made him swing round in amazement and at the sight of the battered face of the master’s daughter, the gardener’s heart missed a beat in sympathy. He had heard, in great detail and with considerable fury from Kizzie, about the state of Miss Charlotte’s face and who had caused it.

‘It is my dog, Father,’ Denny heard her say calmly.

‘Your dog?’ her father asked her menacingly. ‘And may I ask how you acquired it?’

‘It was given to me by Mr Armstrong, Father. The man you wish me to marry. He meant it for us all, Henry, William, John—’

‘Yes, Charlotte, I know the names of my sons. What I would like to know is when this . . . this creature came into your possession?’

Denny stood indecisively by the open window, wondering what he was supposed to do but the master had moved away. Malachy was just rounding the corner after taking the escaped puppy back to the stable so with a wave of his hand and a mouthed word or two, Denny and the head gardener beat a hasty retreat.

‘We met Mr Armstrong while we were walking in the wood and he had his dogs with him. We . . . the boys and I were . . . well, the next time we saw him he brought one of the puppies for us. I saw no harm.’

‘You take a great deal upon yourself, Charlotte. You did not think to ask me?’

‘You would have said no, Father.’ Charlotte sighed for she knew whatever she said, or did, in any matter, it would be wrong.

‘Yes, I would and I think it is time you realised who is the master in this house in which there is no mistress, yet. So, let me say this to you. I will have my way on this marriage of yours, Charlotte. You will marry Brooke Armstrong at St Luke’s Church as soon as it can be arranged and that is an end to the matter.’

‘I don’t think so, Father. When the parson asks me if I do, or whatever the words are I shall just say “I don’t” and then—’

‘Madam, you cannot possibly imagine you can get the better of me. If you do not obey me in this it is not you who will suffer but your brothers. They are to go to a boarding school in Northumberland which you will appreciate is a great distance from here. I believe there is a sort of preparatory school that will take Robert.’

‘Oh please, Father, not Robbie . . . not Robbie . . . He is so young and will fret.’ She almost fell to her knees in entreaty.

‘He will be with his brothers. At least at the same school but in a different part, of course, and I’m sure—’

‘No, I beg of you. Can you not send him – them – somewhere nearer?’

‘They all need discipline, my dear, which it seems I am unable to give them, but, of course . . . well, there is another school I am considering somewhat nearer . . .’

‘Please, please . . .’ Charlotte’s face twisted in her agony for her brothers but particularly for her little brother who was still a baby in many ways. Without her he would not survive the rigours of a public school; away from home, even one such as this, he would not . . .

‘The answer is in your hands, Charlotte. There is a school, a decent school near York where the older boys could go and which, of course, is within easy travelling distance. You and your Mr Armstrong could get over there in a day, or have the boys to stay with you at King’s Meadow. I doubt they would wish to stay here with myself and my wife but they would be quite welcome if they did. I also wondered if Mr Armstrong would be willing to have Robert to live with you at his home, after you are married I mean, since you seem to think he would not be able to cope with boarding school. There is a very good grammar school in Dewsbury, I believe. He seems very eager to have you for his wife so I’m sure he would be agreeable to this plan. If not, or if you feel you cannot bring yourself to marry this very rich, very pleasant gentleman then you must make your own arrangements for your future. I believe there is always a need for governesses. Of course, the boys will still be sent to boarding school, all of them.’

There was a long silence, a silence heavy with the threat of a strong man who would have his way whatever the consequences to others. At one fell stroke he was to rid himself of his family, at least the housing of them. He was willing to pay for an expensive education for them; after all he was, or would be, well able to afford it and besides, his friends would not comment on it adversely since it was entirely proper to send older boys to public school. Most families of his class did. And it was quite understandable that a newly married man would want to have his bride to himself. Further, what could be more natural than to have his daughter, who was of marriageable age, wed to a man of means and property, a man with a good name?

He sat down behind his desk, reached out and took a cigar from the box, put it to his lips and lit it, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. He smiled. Charlotte watched him and her eyes glittered with such contempt, such hatred, such loathing even, that another man might have looked away in shame. But Arthur Drummond was no ordinary man as his behaviour towards his children, especially his daughter, in the past had shown. He was a dark, perverted man and for a strange moment Charlotte felt sorry for the woman who was to be his wife. She had no idea what kind of man she was to marry but then what was that to her,
now
!

Charlotte turned on her heel and walked towards the door, her head held high, her shoulders squared, her back straight. She opened the door and without another word walked through and up the passage to the hallway. Kizzie was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for her. Kizzie had bathed her face earlier, her own wet with tears, no word spoken, at least not between them though Kizzie had had enough to say in the kitchen.

‘Lass?’ she questioned, putting out a hand then withdrawing it as Charlotte walked past her. Later Charlotte would break down and cry in her arms but at that moment she was caught in an icy world from which she could not escape.

‘I’m all right, Kizzie. I’ll have a cup of tea.’

‘Let me bring tha’ summat ter eat. Tha’ve ’ad nowt since—’

‘No, please, just a cup of tea and then I must go and see the boys. Is Miss Price with them?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, I shall send her away for I must talk to them. I believe I shall have the power to do that now, Kizzie, at least for a while. It really is quite amazing . . .’

‘What is, chuck? ’Asta got summat—’

‘It seems I am to be married, Kizzie, and very soon.’

‘Lovey . . .’ Kizzie’s voice was no more than a whisper.

‘So you see I must go and talk with my brothers. I’d be obliged if you would tell the others. In the kitchen, I mean, then . . .’

‘Oh, my lass . . .’

5

Their new King, to be called Edward VII, was to be crowned on 26 June so Brooke asked his bride-to-be if she would like to spend a few days in London after the wedding and watch the procession. They were to go on to Paris and perhaps she would care to travel to Italy; Florence was lovely at this time of the year but it was up to her, he added, struggling to fetch the girl who was to be his wife on 23 June out of the polite passivity that seemed to have come over her since he had presented her with the puppy. She was not the same warm, lively person who had been so rapturous about his gift.

He had not seen her for ten days after the conversation he had had with her father, the explanation given that she was unwell, a slight summer cold, which surprised him since she had not struck him as the sort of young woman who would take to her bed on such a slight indisposition. Arthur Drummond had been most hearty when he had called at King’s Meadow to tell Brooke that his daughter was agreeable to being his wife and had wanted, naturally, to come with him to tell Armstrong herself. As soon as she was recovered she would drive over with her maid to discuss the arrangements for the big day. He could not stay long, he said, since he was off to York with his older boys to see them safely installed at Barton Meade, a public school with a good reputation, but he had just wanted to inform Brooke that all was well. He went on to explain.

‘My sons have had a good grounding with Miss Price but I feel they need the rough and tumble of living with other boys to finish off their education. Yes, thank you, a quick whisky, if you don’t mind, and the preparations for my own marriage are taking up some of my time but as soon as she is improved my daughter will be in touch with you. I beg your pardon? . . . My youngest son? He is to go to the grammar school in Dewsbury until he is eight when he will join his brothers at Barton Meade. I believe my daughter has a request of you, Brooke – I may call you Brooke, mayn’t I, since we are to be related? Thank you – but Charlotte will speak to you very soon, I’m sure.’

She drove over with her maid a few days later, ostensibly to be shown her new home and to tell him how honoured she was by his proposal but it seemed to Brooke she was distant, cool, as though she had been well rehearsed in the pretty speech. She was very correct, gracious even, but she appeared to be totally disinterested until he was forced to ask her outright, as was his way she was to find out later, if she was certain that this was what she wanted.

‘When I spoke to your father it was with the intention of . . . in the future, asking you to be my wife. He was somewhat precipitate in speaking to you since we barely know one another and you are very young. I want you to know that if this . . . if I’m not to your . . . well, no one is forcing you, Miss . . . no, I shall call you Charlotte and you must call me Brooke. We can become friends, if you are willing but I will not . . . not . . .’ He ran his hands through his dark curling hair which was already dishevelled, and Charlotte felt her frozen heart move a little, for this man was not an enemy and was doing his best. ‘I do not wish you to be
made
 . . . your father is . . .’

He was leading her across the gravel from the carriage. There was a circle of grass in front of the house with a statue of some sort in the middle and the carriage had driven round it, coming to a stop by the front door. Kizzie followed them, decently dressed in a plain outfit as befitted a maidservant. She liked him. This was the first time she had met him and when Miss Charlotte had said vaguely that ‘this is my maid’ he had turned and smiled and asked her
her
name. She liked him and thought that Miss Charlotte would be all right with him.

BOOK: The Flight of Swallows
5.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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