The Flight of Swallows (9 page)

The boy was radiant with delight as, with the struggling puppy clasped in his arms and Kizzie beside them, he was introduced to Merry, a small brown pony who was to be his very own. Percy, the groom, would teach him to ride and when she and Mr Armstrong – who Robbie had understood was Charlie’s husband – returned from holiday she expected to see him riding the animal round the paddock.

All the while this was happening her husband stood, his face quite expressionless, at her side and waited patiently as the day drew in, dusk fell, then darkness – as she tucked Robbie into his new bed with Taddy wriggling beside him – and she was faced with the harsh reality of getting into bed with her new husband.

Kizzie, though she was herself unmarried, had tried to open the subject of what lay ahead of her but they were both so embarrassed it came to nothing other than an earnest belief on Kizzie’s part that Mr Armstrong would be kind to her.

‘’E’ll not be brutal, lass. ’E’ll do ’is best not ter ’urt tha’ . . . well, tha’ll know wharra mean?’ A question more than a statement. Kizzie was a country girl and had been brought up with a knowledge of breeding animals and since she was from a big family she had even helped in one or two of her mam’s deliveries. But Miss Charlotte was gently bred. Her own mother had died when Miss Charlotte was ten years old so there had been nobody for the lass to . . . well, to discuss these things with. Then again, girls from her young mistress’s class were kept in woeful ignorance of anything to do with the marriage bed.

She was horribly shy as she sat waiting in the big bed where Kizzie had put her. Her hair fell down her back in a shimmer of golden copper and her eyes were huge in her pale face. Brooke had given her plenty of time to change from her going-away outfit into the pretty, lace-trimmed nightgown Miss Hunter had supplied. He entered the room without hesitation, for he had decided it must be done at once or it might not be done at all. She was innocent, looking no more than thirteen until the lamp beside the bed revealed the swell of her lovely breast peeping above the bedclothes. He removed his richly patterned dressing gown and to her horror was totally naked beneath it.

‘Shall you remove your nightgown, Charlotte?’ he asked politely, standing beside the bed with what on her brothers had been a somewhat inoffensive little piece of their anatomy, growing huge and distended from a thatch of dark hair between his thighs.

She pulled the coverlet up to her chin. ‘I think not,’ she quavered.

‘Then I shall do it for you. We are husband and wife and I wish to see you as you see me.’

‘No, absolutely not.’

‘If we are to get on, Charlotte, and I believe we will, we must have some understanding between us. I have done my best to accommodate you in the question of your brother and your maid. Now I ask something of you. Do you refuse?’

Her strength came from somewhere; her defiance, the toughness that was hidden beneath her delicately lovely exterior came from a deep well inside her. It had withstood the violence of her father’s perversion and his cruelty to her and her brothers and she had emerged with a stamina that would never be beaten. She threw back the cover, stood up and pulled her nightgown over her head, flinging it to the corner of the room. Her breasts were high and proud, her back was straight and her face bore a look that said that though she was afraid she would not weaken.

She was so resolute in her determination not to allow this man to see her fear she did not hear the quick indrawn breath, nor notice his expression of awe which were both quickly withdrawn.

‘God, but you’re beautiful,’ he whispered, then he put his arms about her and drew her into what she did not recognise as a loving embrace. He put his mouth to her throat, then her breast, taking a nipple into his mouth and making her gasp. Her arms hung flaccidly at her side and when he raised his mouth to hers for their first kiss she was bemused more than frightened to feel his tongue, his teeth biting gently. He laid her down and she was so amazed at it all that the final pain of penetration was over and done with almost before she realised it had happened. He shuddered and groaned and fell across her, his face to her breast and when, five minutes later, she raised her head to study him he was fast asleep.

So that was what all this fuss was about, she thought, as she gently disengaged herself, unaware that women could share the pleasure of it. He turned away, muttering, still asleep and within minutes she was asleep herself. In the night she was awoken by his body pressed passionately to hers but this time, knowing what to expect, she submitted sleepily and then was astounded when morning broke to find herself held fast in his sleeping arms.

6

There was a great deal of coming and going as she and her husband readied themselves for their journey to London with constant interruptions from Robbie who could see no reason why he should not come with them. He was not to start at the grammar school until the new term in September which was
weeks
away and he would love to see their new King crowned . . . pardon, they were not to see the crowning, very well, but at least he would see the procession and then they could go to the Tower of London and—

‘Darling,’ she interrupted him gently. ‘Mr Armstrong and I are married now and we are going on our honeymoon. Do you know what that is?’

Robbie frowned. ‘No.’

‘It is something that happens to people who are just married. A holiday so that they can get to know one another. And they go alone, just the two of them.’

‘That means you won’t want me then.’ Despite the strictness of his upbringing Robbie Drummond was not a surly child, inclined to be cheerful, in fact, due to his beloved Charlotte. Now he was surly because he was bewildered. His whole life had been turned upside down and Charlotte now belonged not to him and his brothers but to this man who was to take her to places he had hardly heard of. He had Kizzie, of course, who was a constant in his life and she had told him that Mr Armstrong was a kind man but how was he to manage without Charlotte?

They were seated on the elegant sofa in the elegant drawing room, Charlotte dressed in her fetching new outfit which Miss Hunter, under instruction from Mr Drummond who had told her his daughter was to be married, weeks ago, had designed and made for her. She had taken all her measurements when Miss Drummond had been fitted with an evening gown. Further evening gowns, day dresses, costumes, called now skirts and jackets, or a suit. Suits for walking and travelling, riding outfits and tennis outfits, a Chesterfield tweed coat, capes with fur linings, footwear, stockings, even parasols, gloves and the finest, prettiest underwear and night attire that money could buy, and the bills, Mr Drummond had instructed her, were to be sent to Mr Brooke Armstrong at King’s Meadow. Her future husband. Miss Hunter was to spare no expense! Today Charlotte Armstrong was dressed for travelling in what was known as an Eton jacket with swallow tails and oval revers under which she wore a long waistcoat with a high-necked collar band and a velvet stock. A mermaid costume skirt completed the outfit and all in a pale shade of dove grey with boots and gloves to match. Her hat was a cartwheel, large-brimmed and covered with tiny white daisies. She looked quite superb! Except for the hat. Brooke didn’t like the hat. She was not that sort of a girl, or woman, he supposed he should call her after last night, to wear a hat. She was a creature of woods and fields, the outdoor, walking, running, laughing, harum-scarum, as he had seen her in the garden, not a fashion plate, but she was still superb. She filled his heart so that it felt it might burst and he wanted nothing more than to kneel at her feet and bury his face in her lap and tell her so. Hold her tight, cling to her as the boy was doing and with shame he realised he was jealous. Of her brother!

At the door he waited impatiently. The carriage was at the front ready to take them to the station at Wakefield and by train from there to London. Their luggage was stored in the carriage and the servants were hanging about as best they could waiting to see the master and their new mistress set off on their wedding journey. Kizzie was in the hall doing her utmost to get hold of young Master Robbie who was clinging frantically to his sister and they all were aware, for they knew him best, that the master was not pleased. And could you blame him? Just married and to be held up from beginning his wedding journey by a six-year-old who was not even related to him, except by marriage!

‘Darling, you must understand that Mr Armstrong and I really have to leave now or we will miss our train.’

‘I’d like to go on a train, Charlie.’

Brooke tapped the step with his foot then got out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
Darling!
Would she ever call him ‘darling’ as she did the boy? He could see her love and concern for her brother and tried to understand it. He knew with a sinking heart that moved heavily, coldly in his breast, that it was the fate of her brothers that had made her marry him and the thought nearly crucified him but he had been so desperate to have her he had not cared at the time. He loved her and surely his love would generate the same in her. He had been gentle with her last night and she had politely given in to him and that was what it was. Her sense of fairness since she had made a bargain and meant to keep to it, and politeness! She would submit to him whenever he cared to reach for her, he knew that, but it was not what he longed for. Give her time, he told himself, ready to curse out loud, but it was hard to be patient. The dogs were swirling about, including the puppy who kept jumping up at anyone who stood still for a moment and the maid was hovering in the doorway doing her best to prise the damn boy away from Charlotte.

‘Charlotte, I must insist that we leave now or we will miss our train.’ But as he spoke the telephone shrilled in the hallway and, as they always did since it frightened the lot of them to death, the servants jumped uneasily, each one hoping another would answer the thing. It was relatively new, at least to them, though Mr Johnson had told them that all the best people had them these days. Mr Johnson was the butler and knew about such things. Theirs was kept on a small shelf under the grand staircase and this alone was enough to put even the bravest of them off, for it was dark and poky though the master had promised to put in one of the new electric lights which he had installed in the rest of the house. The telephone was called a Candlestick model, very smart and very modern.

Mr Johnson walked with that ponderous, majestic walk that seems to be the requirement for all butlers and vanished into the little ‘cubby-hole’ as the rest of them called it; for several moments all was silent until Mr Johnson reappeared.

‘It’s for you, sir,’ he told his master, then herded the servants in the general direction of the kitchens which were situated at the back of the house.

Robbie was still clinging like a vine to Charlotte when he returned and Brooke felt the irritation rise in him again despite the news he was just about to impart.

‘The King is very ill,’ he stated, then turned and walked to the window that overlooked the drive, where Todd, the coachman, stood patiently waiting beside the horses who were growing restive. He was soothing them and looking towards the house as though wondering when the master and mistress would appear. They’d have to get a fair lick on to reach the station to catch their train for London.

Both Charlotte and Robbie stared at Brooke in surprise. The King couldn’t possibly be ill. He was to be crowned in a few days, 26th June to be precise and today was the 24th!

‘Did it say what was the matter with him?’ Charlotte asked at last as though it were the telephone itself that was in the know.

‘That was a friend of mine who works as a journalist in London. It’s just been announced that the coronation is to be postponed but as yet it seems there is no news as to the cause of His Majesty’s indisposition.’

Why does he talk like that? Charlotte wondered. So formal as though he were informing a meeting what was taking place in the capital city. I am his wife and Robbie is a small boy and yet there is a stiffness in our relationship that was not there the couple of times we met in the woodland and the garden and even at the dinner party Father gave that I was allowed to attend. He had been relaxed, ready to smile, she thought. Now he barely looked at her and spoke as though she were a stranger. Which she was, she thought sadly. They had been married a scarce twenty-four hours. They had spent the night together, slept, she remembered, in one another’s arms and now he was different.

Charlotte was too inexperienced to realise that her husband was stiff and awkward because of the boy who was nearly sitting in her lap. He hadn’t wanted him, though she didn’t know it, visualising how it would be with a child forever demanding her attention and his worst imaginings had come true. Her brother was looking at him with suspicion, a competitor in his demand for his sister’s attention and unless Brooke took a firm hand and laid down a set of rules so that he and his new wife could spend time together, alone, which Charlotte would take exception to, it would always be the same. Of course the boy would join his brothers at the boarding school at Barton Meade when he was old enough, but when would that be? Not for a couple of years! Dear God, he had made a rod for his own back here and how was he to make certain that he didn’t get beaten down with it?

He turned abruptly, walked to the fireplace and rang the bell and when Connie, the parlour-maid appeared, bobbing a curtsey, he asked her to send in Kizzie.

Kizzie entered the drawing room but did not, as the parlour-maid had done, bob a curtsey.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Kizzie, I wish you to take the boy away and amuse him. Take him to see the horses or something. I wish to talk to my wife alone.’

Kizzie looked at Charlotte for confirmation but Brooke saw it and his face hardened.

‘I have given you an order which I expect to be obeyed. My wife, I’m sure, will agree with me that he cannot expect to . . . well, just take him away and—’

‘I don’t want to be taken away, Charlotte,’ Robbie told her, wrapping his arms about her neck in the obvious belief that she would tell Mr Armstrong that though he couldn’t go to London with them, when she was here she wanted him with her. She had always, as far as she could with Father, protected him, cherished him, been not only his big sister but his mother.