Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Mr Farron don’t be ’ere. I can’t say where he is to be found.’

  ‘Then as wharf manager perhaps you can tell me is the clay Mr Daniel Roberts ordered brought from Cornwall delivered?’

  Moses frowned, his fingers still stroking his hair. ‘Daniel Roberts… you don’t be no daughter to ’im.’ Callista shook her head again, a sprinkling of blue black lights glistening like gems among her hair. ‘No, I am no kin, he is my employer.’

  ‘But Daniel Roberts don’t let nobody see to ’is clay. He only ever does that hisself, so why don’t ’e come now?’

  Callista’s glance had wandered to the narrow boats, some tied up at the wharf, others waiting in the basin, but each being serviced by men scurrying like so many ants. This could be another world, a universe away from the quiet afternoon walks she had enjoyed with her parents, her father explaining how the networks of canals were the giant arteries and veins of industry carrying products from factory and workshop to the dockyards, the barges returning with goods from so many foreign countries; while her mother spoke of gentler things, berries in the hedgerow, flowers growing beside the towpath, and she would smile when the naming of one of them would have her husband immediately recounting the myth of which it was a symbol.

  ‘I asked why ain’t Roberts ’ere hisself?’

  ‘An accident…’

  ‘I have heard of no accident!’

  The peace engendered by her thoughts suddenly shattered. Bringing her glance to the man walking across the cobbled space between canalside and warehouses towards her, Callista stiffened. That walk, the way he held himself! She had seen it before, seen the confidence of him, the self-assuredness; but most of all she remembered the voice. It was the voice of the man who had intervened that evening in Wednesbury market place, the same one had spoken to Oswin Slade in the way the rent collector hated, the way which said that was exactly what Oswin was and no more. But this time there was no Oswin threatening her and she definitely required no interference. Pinpricks of irritation glistening amid the soft violet of her eyes, her voice clipped, she answered. ‘The fact that news of Daniel’s accident has not reached Farron’s Wharf does not mean no accident has occurred.’

  Daniel! First name terms! Michael Farron’s eyes narrowing slightly was the only intimation of the sudden coldness settling like a stone in his stomach. The girl did not let the grass grow under her feet; the owner of a pottery might not be what she aimed for but it was a precaution should her first choice not prove catchable after all. Daniel Roberts and Phineas Westley, both were men a little past their prime and neither was impervious to the flattery of a young woman. Daniel Roberts was not a widower – but what difference did a wife make to Callista Sanford!

  ‘She be after enquirin’ o’ Roberts’ clay.’

  ‘Thank you, Moses. You may leave this with me.’

  Cap replaced on his head, Moses Turley turned away to the boats. Weren’t often he seen that look on Farron’s face but when ’e did ’e were glad it were not directed at ’im for it always heralded a rollockin’.

  ‘Would you care to explain?’

  Having reached the wharf office Michael asked the question, the brusque demand of it immediately adding to Callista’s irritation. Who did he think he was, what gave him the right to any explanation!

  ‘No!’ she snapped. ‘My business is with Michael Farron.’

  A slight smile accompanying a bow of the head portrayed the very essence of contempt.

  ‘Then that business is with me. I am Michael Farron.’

  He had thought to throw her. It was obvious from the look in his eyes. He had thought the revealing of his identity would have her meek and apologetic. Maybe weeks ago it would have; were she still at Trowes Court with a sick mother to put before her own feelings she would do just that; but Callista Sanford no longer lived in Trowes Court. The lessons she had learned from the knocks of constant refusal, the horror of Oswin’s attempt to rape her, had worked their transformation. From now on Callista Sanford would speak for herself regardless of whom it was to. Head lifting, determination coloured with a new confidence, she made no indication of his words having achieved any effect.

  ‘I asked your wharf manager had Daniel Roberts’ order of clay arrived and now I am asking you. Or do you expect me to bring a note of permission to deal with his business!’

  Feisty! Michael smiled to himself. Lord, a man must look out for himself when dealing with this one.

  ‘How Daniel Roberts conducts his business or who he conducts it with does not concern me.’

  ‘Then why ask for an explanation?’

  The girl was either changed since her first meeting with Phineas or else she had the abilities of an actress, able to hide her true self beneath a totally different guise. Keeping any intimation of the thought well hidden he looked at the girl who had coldly refused his offer of a chair.

  ‘I apologise for not making myself clear. It is not your association with Daniel Roberts that is the object of my enquiry but that which you have struck up with Phineas Westley.’

  How dare he say that! A virtual stranger, how dare he question her personal affairs! Indignation beginning to flare, Callista’s look became violet ice.

  ‘It is no concern of yours who I am friends with. Your encroaching upon my private affairs is an affront!’

  ‘Affront!’ There was no attempt now to hide the scorn in his voice and any admiration he might have felt for her unflinching answer died an instant death. ‘You think it no affront to an old man’s dignity to dupe him with your hard luck stories, to inveigle him into proposing marriage to you by pretending an interest in all he holds dear when that interest is for yourself. A rich old husband is your only interest in Phineas Westley, is that not so. Miss Sanford?’

  Indignation now resentment, Callista met the glare of accusation. What was this man’s interest in her friendship with Phineas? Was it simply a defending of the older man, an attempt to save him from a marriage he deemed unwise? Or was Michael Farron’s reason the very one he had just accused her of having… Phineas Westley’s wealth?

  Animosity which had been hot and flowing a moment before cooled, sitting like lead inside her. This man was arrogant as Oswin Slade had been but where Oswin had had some right to question her motives, Michael Farron had none.

  ‘Bitterness brings no reward other than regret.’ She had always tried to live by the teachings of her parents but in this case she would forego that wisdom come whatever may of her answer. Forcing a smile to her mouth she gave it.

  ‘As you say, Mr Farron, marriage to Phineas Westley is my only interest.’

  *

  It had been more than a shock; the girl’s reply, so cold and hard, had come like a blow to the mouth. She had smiled as she said it, smiled as she admitted her duplicity.

  ‘…marriage to Phineas Westley is my only interest.’

  The words still rocked in his brain; but why should they? Were they not simply a statement of what he had thought… had known? Was that girl not what he had guessed all along, a charlatan, a deceiver out to trick an old man?

  Standing at the window of the small room lined with shelves filled with ledgers and account books, Michael Farron frowned, his gaze following the shabbily clad figure, fingers of red gold from a dying sun anointing the dark head.

  If his assumptions were correct – and had she not just proved them so – then the opportunity of gaining all she sought had been placed within her grasp, given to her weeks ago. Why then had she not taken it… what advantage could she get from drawing out the proceedings? He had gone over all of this before and he could continue to go over it, ask himself the same questions again and again and still come up with no satisfactory answer. Who was it had said ‘woman is an enigma’? Whoever had said it must have known someone like Callista Sanford for that girl was a walking riddle.

  But her dealings with Phineas were not the only mystery in all of this. Her hesitation to draw the net closed about his uncle not the
only puzzle; there was another equally obscure, equally veiled from understanding… the feelings she aroused in Michael Farron!

  Impatient with the truth of it he swung away from the window. Despite what he thought of her, despite what she had said, there was something inside him refused it. Was it simply the compelling beauty of those violet eyes, the prettiness of that heart shaped face…? God, he’d seen that often enough in his dreams! Was he too, being fooled by an innocence which was not real; duped as Phineas Westley had been duped?

  Only if he allowed himself to be!

  The firmness of that one thought chasing the rest from his mind, Michael strode from the office.

  But Michael Farron would not be deluded… neither would he allow his uncle to be made a fool of!

  19

  There must be no variation to what had become their normal routine. Sabine ran an eye over the contents of her wardrobe. They must continue as before so as to give rise to no outside speculation; but afternoons spent in that bedroom would be no more, a nervous twittering partner was not to her liking. Emma Ramsey was no longer to her liking… but the visits must go ahead – at least for today!

  Not the mauve, she had worn that after delivering payment to Oswin Slade. Dear Emma deserved something new. The honey crepon? Selecting the walking out dress, Sabine held it against her shoulders. Yes, the colour suited her and the London label would not suit the plump Emma.

  The woman had never been able to hide her envy of Sabine Derry’s sense of style. Sabine draped the gown across a chair, admiring the sheen of the lovely cloth. It was so easy to disillusion Emma as to her own choice, to make a gown the woman thought attractive and well styled seem like a five shilling frock from the High Street… as that blue dress had been made to look! Poor Emma, she had tried to give the impression the dress that girl had delivered to the house was not the one she had commissioned, that the design and material were not those she had supplied; but she could have saved herself the bother of the charade for her face had spoken the truth. So had Callista Sanford’s face.

  Where had that girl gone to? Oswin’s replacement had reported no lodger in any house in Trowes Court. She would like to help her but first things first, dear Emma must take precedence. Fear had the woman beside herself; at any moment she could panic and blurt out everything to the constable. But soon all of Emma’s anxieties would be smoothed away and she could rest in peace.

  The thought etching a smile about her thin mouth, Sabine fastened the tiny linen coated buttons of her under petticoat then slipped a pale butter silk one over the top. When she inspected the result in the long mirror of her dressing room the smile widened. The fall of cloth was graceful, its line symmetrical, but would it stay that way when beneath the gown?

  She had never employed a lady’s maid. Some women of her social standing might think that strange, the wife of a wealthy industrialist… surely one could be afforded! But money was not the reason. Sabine slid the gown over her head, fastening the tiny star shaped buttons that decorated the front of the palest blue high necked silk bodice and smoothing the folds of the honey coloured crepon skirt, each of which enclosed a ribbon of shot silk matching the bodice. No, money was not her reason for having no lady’s maid to help her dress; she wanted no prying eyes which might see what was not intended they should, things like the box now hidden in the pocket she had sewn onto the skirt of her under petticoat.

  Fate could not have been more helpful. Her housekeeper’s sister had fallen sick and the woman had asked could she take leave to visit her. That had given her the opportunity to take the box of assorted chocolate creams, lift the top of each one and then insert a few drops of the aconite tincture she had distilled from the beautiful deep blue flowers of wolfsbane. Just a small amount in each, not so much it would taste on the tongue; but to be sure she had melted a bar of chocolate and recoated the top of each cream, then for good measure had added a sugared fruit, all of which would prove irresistible to Emma’s palate. She indulged herself with confectionery when her nerves were on edge; given the way they were now the woman would virtually wolf them down.

  Wolf! Donning a honey coloured bonnet trimmed with pale blue feathers and silk bow Sabine anchored it to her auburn wig with a pearl ended pin. An appropriate choice of words seeing what those chocolates contained – and an excellent choice of poison. Emma Ramsey had been warned a year ago of a weakness of the heart following a mild attack. Aconite poisoning gave every impression of the same condition. This afternoon she would no doubt eat every piece of the delicious gift and the box would leave Acacia Villa the same way it arrived; and tonight… with the accumulation of that poison and the effect upon the body’s system, tonight Emma Ramsey would die of a ‘heart attack’ and no one would suspect otherwise.

  Checking once more the line of the gown displayed no hint of the box, she picked up gloves and the small pochette bag she had chosen to use. Sabine Derry must not be seen carrying anything large enough to house more than a handkerchief and calling cards… and most definitely not a box of chocolates.

  A sweet way to go. Sitting in the hansom cab Sabine held the thought. That too, had been the way she had devised for Sally Baker but the prostitute had stumbled beneath a tram, saving her the bother. It had been a mistake giving that trollop Emma’s blue silk dress; it was obvious to anyone that she could never have bought it herself. Sally liked her drink and she had a living to earn. Had the two combined one night, had she told Slade of what went on at Acacia Villa? It was the only way he could have found out. But was that the whole of what she had told him or had she told him the rest, told him what Sabine Derry never mentioned… except, it seemed, in her sleep?

  *

  Infatuation played with a man’s brain, blinded him from facts while allowing him to see what was not there. Michael Farron guided the black stallion away from the busy wharf. Phineas was seeing what was not there, seeing love in the violet eyes of a girl young enough to be his daughter, in the smile of a pretty face, hearing it on a tongue which no doubt could hold the sweetness of honey, while all the time remaining blind to the truth behind it.

  ‘There are none so blind as those who will not see…’

  How many times had his uncle used that very quotation? Had derided other men for being fools in their business dealings? But Phineas had never interfered, A man’s affairs are his and none other’s was Phineas Westley’s philosophy and one which his nephew was normally satisfied to observe. But Phineas was not just any man: he was his uncle and it was not simply a commercial enterprise was at stake, a contract which if unsatisfactory could be renegotiated, this was a man’s heart, his uncle’s heart, and he would not stand by and see it broken.

  Michael touched the animal’s neck, calling softly to it, calming the desire to gallop the scent and stretch of wild heath aroused in the horse.

  Phineas would be displeased, possibly angry. The stallion steadied, he let his mind continue to dwell on the older man. As a child Michael Farron had been allowed to develop his own powers of criticism, his own sense of judgement; Phineas had guided but never dictated, offered advice but only ever imposed it where another person might suffer did he not do so. He had passed all of his own perceptions of honour and fairness and morality to the boy he had taken so completely into his life, teaching him above all else to respect the feelings of others.

  Was what he was about to do now carrying out that teaching… was he showing respect for the feelings of Phineas Westley? A twinge of conscience riffled in his stomach.

  ‘It is no concern of yours… your encroaching upon my private affairs is an affront!’

  The words had been the girl’s but they could equally be those of his uncle. Look at what he planned, survey it from any angle you might, the results were the same: it was plain downright interference in his uncle’s private affairs and to carry that plan through could bring an end to their relationship; if the feelings Phineas had for that girl proved stronger than the ones he had for his nephew, then it could be th
at he would turn his back on all they shared together, that he would no longer accept his sister’s son.

  The thought was bad enough, the result would be worse… but not to act, to do nothing at all, would be a thousand times more so; exposing that girl for what she was would cause Phineas pain, but pain eased with time where a broken heart never mended completely.

  Ahead of him like a great round bellied bottle the pottery kiln stood tall against the sky, rising from the heath as he had often imagined some dreaded demon’s lair following one of his uncle’s tales; but this was no childhood story, this demon was real and he must face it!

  *

  Why would Michael Farron want to speak with her? Stepping from the workshop Callista blinked, finding the early summer sun bright after the dimness.

  ‘This will take only a few moments…’

  Her vision not yet adjusted to the intensity of daylight Callista peered at the figure, which as yet was no more than a silhouette, a dark and somehow threatening shape.

  ‘I think it is Mr Roberts you should speak with; I came to the wharf only as his representative.’

  ‘I know who it is I should speak with and it is not Daniel Roberts!’

  Sharp as a pistol shot it snapped across the space separating them. Cold and oppressive, each word seemed to carry the same dark threat as the shape of the figure now coming closer. If it were not Daniel he had come to see then his business here had nothing to do with clay; that meant it was to do with the discussion which they had had in the wharf office. But that had been no conversation – Callista felt a frisson of alarm along her nerves – that had been a confrontation and Michael Farron could only have come here to repeat it!

  ‘Be there summat as don’t be right?’

  Turned to face the man supporting himself with rough wooden crutches, Callista began an explanation but a brief shake of Daniel’s head ended it in midsentence, his own voice firm as that of the younger man as he went on.