Free The Flight of Swallows by Audrey Howard

marry this chap, Miss Charlotte?’ she had asked anxiously as she bathed her swollen eye. ‘Only it’s bin that sudden we’re all of a flummox in’t kitchen since none of us knew it were in’t wind, like. Oh, we know ’e’s bin ’ere a time or two but tha’ve never sed owt.’
    ‘There was nothing to tell, Kizzie. I’ve met him twice in the wood with his dogs and then he brought Taddy but I had no idea he was interested in me – that way, I mean, and then my father told me he . . . Mr Armstrong wished to marry me. The boys were to go to school and I was to marry Mr Armstrong. They arranged it there and then, so I was told, and it seemed I had no choice.’
    ‘But wharrabout you? What dost tha’ think o’ this arrangement?’ Kizzie’s face hardened. ‘It’ll be ’er,’ she said. ‘’Er what’s ter marry’t master. Wants rid, she does. I never liked ’er from’t start. But just wait while she’s wed ’im, she’ll be sorry. I tell thi’ I’d not like ter be wife to ’im.’
    They were in Charlotte’s bedroom to where she had been banished when her father blacked her eye and where she was to remain until she was fit to be seen. They all knew, naturally, in the kitchen, for such an incident could not be hidden. They had been shocked to the core by what had happened to Miss Charlotte. They had known the master was . . . well, strict with his children when he got his dander up for they had heard the little boys crying after a beating and Kizzie had had her doubts about what he did to Miss Charlotte, but she was a servant and what could she do about it? But the smack across the face was the last straw. Kizzie ranted and raved and Mary and Nancy, the parlour-maids, talked of giving in their notice as they were fond of Miss Charlotte who was always nice to them, but then they might not be given a decent reference by the new mistress.
    ‘I have no choice, Kizzie, and Mr Armstrong is a very nice man. He seems kind and . . .’ She sat listlessly on the window seat staring sightlessly out at the lush green of the lawn and the bold colours of the flowerbeds. Kizzie had brought her up a bowl of Mrs Welsh’s delicious and nourishing soup with some of her fresh bread straight out of the oven. Kizzie had reported that their little mistress was not eating so Mrs Welsh had set to with her special skills to make up some dish to tempt her. She prepared a syllabub made with white wine, nutmeg, sugar and milk with whipped cream on top, an egg custard and a tall glass of her own orange wine.
    ‘If that don’t put a lining on her stomach at least it’ll make her feel better!’ she told them all, referring to the wine as she set out a dainty tray with a small vase of rosebuds from the garden.
    Now Charlotte allowed him to lead her across the gravel towards the house and a smallish door under a verandah. She had to admit it was a lovely house built of the honey-coloured stone of the district. It had eight windows across the top storey and a large bay window to the left of the terrace and several more further to the right. Wicker chairs and a small round table stood on the verandah. To the left was a high stone wall in which was set an arched wrought-iron gate leading to another garden and a smaller adjoining house. Beyond that, though she could see little, seemed to be several buildings, presumably stabling and what appeared to be a dovecote.
    ‘I thought we could have coffee or chocolate out here since it is such a lovely day,’ he told her, ‘after you have seen the house and perhaps you could tell me what you would like in the way of . . . of . . . well, if there is anything you would like changed. Your . . . your bedroom perhaps. I don’t know your taste . . . in furniture, I mean, or colours but whatever . . .’
    He was aware he was babbling but she was so composed, so silent, so . . . so dignified he felt the need to fill that silence with words, any words that might make her