Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Be there a problem o’ sorts wi’ the transportin’ o’ the clay or be it the cost be risin’?’

  ‘Good day, Daniel.’ Touching a short riding whip to the side of his bare head Michael smiled. ‘No, there is no problem of that kind. I came to speak with Miss Sanford on a private matter.’

  There had been no ‘Good day, Miss Sanford’, no smile for her. Callista realised the snub had been intended. The man’s manner was as offensive as it had been that evening in the market place and again in his office.

  His look saying he held no awe of the man standing in his yard, a man who could end his business with refusing to transport the materials necessary for the working of the pottery, Daniel returned no smile. ‘Then private matters should be discussed where no other ears ’ave the listenin’ of ’em. Should Callista be of a mind to speak wi’ you then Abigail will join me along of the workshop and the two of you can do your talkin’ in the house.’

  ‘That is considerate of you, Daniel, you have my thanks.’ The intense eyes shifted to Callista. ‘If you would come with me, Miss Sanford.’

  The slight tremble which had flickered her nerves only moments ago vanished, its place taken by a feeling she had experienced whenever Oswin Slade had addressed her in that vein, a disdainful ‘you are at fault yet again’ tone to his words. At her sides Callista’s fingers clenched and her voice when she answered was cold.

  ‘No, Mr Farron, I will not come with you. Whatever your quarrel with me I will not have it brought to this house nor will I speak behind Phineas Westley’s back, a man who has shown me nothing but kindness and friendship.’

  ‘Friendship yes, but you took that friendship and—’

  ‘I said there will be no discussion here!’ Eyes flashing violet lightning Callista hurled the words, using them like missiles as Daniel hobbled back into the workshop. ‘How dare you come to this house with your… your accusations! A gentleman of quality would have better manners.’

  ‘Were a gentleman of quality dealing with a woman of the same, then his manner might be expected to have differed, but then you are not a woman of quality; you are simply a fortune hunter, a money grabber with no thought of anything but money and anyone other than yourself!’

  The answer had been sharp, cutting into her like the slash of knives, while the anger in him had the handsome face hard and chiselled as stone. Callista felt her insides turn. Like Oswin Slade this man had self-interest at heart but unlike Oswin he saw her as a threat to that interest. But why, why see friendship with an old man as in any way a threat to himself unless it was as she had thought and he stood to lose an inheritance should Phineas marry. She had compared him to Oswin Slade in self-interest… did he compare also in selfish greed, a greed blind to the needs and interests of the man he appeared bent on protecting; was he too, a shallow self-seeking hypocrite?

  The thought aroused pain rather than anger, a tightness which pulled on stretched nerves adding to the ache that had stayed with her since leaving the wharf, an ache telling it mattered what this man thought of her.

  Fingers still clutched into her palms, using the bite of fingernails to fight the emotions stirred by the flint like incisive blue gaze coming back at her, Callista breathed slowly. She must not let his obvious dislike of her own emotions influence or get in the way of what must be said.

  ‘Mr Farron…’ Callista’s head rose in the characteristic way it always had when a decision had been reached. ‘I may not be a woman of quality but though my appearance would deny it I have a certain breeding… not that of title or wealth but one far exceeding both. I was taught to observe the sense of fair play, of giving thought to the reasons as well as the actions of others. I think I know the reason for your coming here, for the accusation you made while in that office, and though I am willing to answer your questions I feel it only fair to do so in the hearing of the third person involved. We will talk, Mr Farron, but only in the presence of Phineas Westley.’

  20

  ‘Emma Ramsey is dead…’

  In the quiet privacy of her bedroom Sabine took up a heavy silver framed photograph of a young smiling girl.

  ‘She is dead,’ she whispered. ‘Emma won’t ever speak again, never tell of your secret… you are safe, my dear, dear sister. I did it, I did it so no one would know, I killed her for you, my darling, I took her life as I took that other… I did it for you.’

  Pressing her lips to the cool glass Sabine kissed the smiling image.

  ‘You saw what I did with those chocolates.’ A laugh murmuring in her throat she touched the smiling eyes with a finger. ‘You watched me as you watched that day… the day I helped you keep your secret, watched me add the poison which killed Emma. But Emma cannot be the last; there is another yet must pay, one more life before atonement is complete, one more, my dearest, and then you can rest easy.’

  Returning the photograph to its place on the French giltwood writing table beneath the window, Sabine smiled to herself. One more life!

  It happened as she had known it would: Emma had died a few hours after she herself had left Acacia Villa, died of a heart attack, the doctor had confirmed. It had all been so easy, just as taking that first life had been… but had killing Emma been as enjoyable? Had it afforded the many hours of pleasurable contemplation, the exquisite thrill of anticipation and finally the hedonistic, almost sensual glow of triumph when that goal had finally been achieved? Satisfaction fading, Sabine turned from the static lifeless smile of the unrelenting young face.

  No… Emma’s death had afforded none of those feelings. There had been no tingle of excitement, none of the delight of planning or anticipating and no breathtaking rush of exultation on learning of success. No, there had been none of those emotions, stupid snivelling Emma Ramsey could not even give that! Her death had afforded security, safety from the reach of justice and the wagging tongues of society, but it had not afforded that deep satisfying sense of victory, the physical feeling that came with revenge.

  But the next one would. It would bring all of that, restitution would be made in full, compensation would be complete.

  Swinging to the delicate giltwood table again she took up the silver frame but there was no laugh in her throat when she spoke to the smiling face.

  ‘I told you they would be made to reckon, that I would see to it settlement was made in full and I will keep that promise. Two are gone… one remains; one only to stain your name, my dearest sister.’

  Leaving the room, Sabine repeated the words in her mind, revelling in the pleasure they sent rushing along her veins.

  Two are gone… one remains…

  But not for much longer! Titillation rising in a pink flush to her face she took her seat at the dining table.

  One remains… not for much longer!

  *

  ‘And did she give you her answer?’ Phineas Westley’s grey eyes twinkled surreptitiously behind gold rimmed spectacles. His nephew had told him of Callista Sanford visiting the wharf on behalf of Daniel Roberts and of the conversation which had taken place in the small room which served as an office.

  ‘She definitely gave me that,’ Michael Farron answered grittily. ‘She told me it was no concern of mine who she was friends with, that it was an encroachment on her privacy.’

  ‘And so it was,’ Phineas replied, hiding the smile ready to break onto his lips. ‘You had no right to question the girl; her business is her own.’

  ‘But that business becomes mine when it involves making a fool of you!’ Lord, that was clumsy… he hadn’t meant to let it tumble out like that. Michael saw the twinkle die.

  ‘Make a fool of me… how?’

  There was no remonstrance in the question, no demand; simply the same quiet enquiry which had always had him so embarrassed when as a child, he had felt guilty of doing something not approved of. He felt that way now! Taking refuge in sipping the brandy he and Phineas enjoyed after dinner together Michael strove to find words which might form a plausible answer while not hurting t
he other man’s feelings… heaven knew that was the very last thing he wanted.

  ‘I asked, Michael, how has Callista made a fool of me?’

  There was to be no let up; Phineas was as relentless as he had been during the years of his nephew’s growing, gentle but relentless, he would have his answer then and he would have it now. Resigned to the fact, Michael lowered his glass.

  ‘By pretending an interest she cannot possibly have…?’

  Seeing one well shaped eyebrow rise brought the explanation to an awkward halt. Oh Lord, that had made things worse!

  ‘An interest… she cannot possibly have; you intrigue me, Michael, do go on.’

  Go on! How could he put what he had said, how could he say it without sounding insulting? He couldn’t, but say it he must if things were not to go downhill. Downhill! It brought the ghost of a smile. They were halfway down the slippery slope now.

  ‘I told her displaying an interest in the myths was as much a myth itself, that in truth her only interest lay in yourself and what you could give her.’

  Lifting his own glass, staring into the rich amber glow of its contents, Phineas hid the returning twinkle. His nephew was perturbed, unsure of the reaction to what he still had to tell. But let him squirm a little longer. Phineas sipped slowly. Serve the young blighter right, teach him the lesson he should have learned years ago, not to go meddling in other people’s affairs… especially where the affairs were those of a woman!

  ‘And what could I give her, Michael?’

  The old rogue was playing him like a fish; he had him on his line and he was determined to reel him in!

  Despite himself Michael wanted to chuckle, but resisted.

  ‘You don’t need me to answer that, Phineas; you are nobody’s fool.’

  ‘Is that not a contradiction? Did you not say a moment since that the girl was making a fool of me?’

  This could go on all night. Resigned to what must be, Michael met the grey stare. ‘All right, yes I said it. 1 told her she was spinning a hard luck story, pretending a knowledge of mythology in order to inveigle you into proposing marriage.’

  Taking a few moments to quell the feeling rising inside him, Phineas held the intense blue eyes with his own gaze. The lad was honest, there had been no self-interest in what he had said to Callista Sanford, of that he was certain; headstrong yes, foolish maybe: his sister’s son had shown those characteristics before but his motives had never been those of selfishness. His nephew was concerned for him, anxious he not be hurt by a young woman, a girl who… showed an interest she could not possibly have.

  Maybe he could take affront at that. Phineas smiled inwardly. Take this scoundrel to task for implying he was past the age of engendering love in a young woman. But he was enjoying the moment… he would let it go on a little longer.

  ‘A pretended knowledge, you say.’ He sipped again from his deeply cut Royal Brierley crystal goblet. ‘Can one pretend knowing the classics, the deities of the ancient world and their deeds? Would have thought only dedicated teaching or study to be responsible for that and disagree if you must, Michael, but Callista Sanford knows her gods and goddesses.’

  ‘As she knows her own wiles. The girl would make Circe look like an amateur.’

  Well, well! Phineas heard the snap in the retort. If the girl did indeed have wiles then she had used them on his nephew! Admit it or not, realise it or not, Michael Farron’s interest in Callista Sanford was not entirely born out of a wish to prevent his uncle from contracting an unfortunate marriage.

  ‘You did ask her, didn’t you?’ Unaware of the vehemence of the question Michael’s lips set tight as his uncle nodded the reply.

  ‘Yes, Michael. I did ask my question.’

  So he had been correct in his thinking. Michael watched the light from the chandelier bounce a myriad of colours from the crystal goblet twisting restlessly between his fingers. Phineas had asked the girl to be his wife… and she would not have refused. Oh, she had played the shy hesitant little thing, but that was playacting designed to bring the protective male rushing even faster to take her into his home, to protect her. Protect her! He sipped again at his brandy, daring the fiery liquid to burn more than the heat of blood in his veins. Would his uncle think the girl needed protection had he seen her at Roberts’ pottery, saw how she stood up for herself, heard the sharp reprimand in each answer? Would he see her as the shy hesitant little thing then?

  ‘Did Callista tell you I had proposed marriage?’

  The question cut across thoughts as yet unfinished but Michael met the grey glint accompanying it. The girl had not said it in so many words yet the implication had been there. But his uncle would not accept an answer such as that; he would insist upon hearing the girl’s exact words. Pulling a longer breath he answered.

  ‘I told her I thought her true interest was herself, that grabbing a rich husband was her only interest in yourself.’

  ‘I see.’ Phineas nodded. ‘And Callista’s reply… what was that?’

  It couldn’t be avoided. The answer would be bound to injure this man’s pride, to cause him hurt. Michael felt the surge of sympathy rise in his throat. He would rather it were himself must feel the pain… but then he did, his heart too, ached at the remembered words of Callista Sanford! What he felt was not truly for Phineas but for himself.

  ‘I would like an answer, Michael. What did Callista reply?’

  Letting the breath go free Michael answered. ‘She said marriage to Phineas Westley was her only interest.’

  *

  The sound of voices drifting across the yard brought Callista hurrying from the workshop. She had packed the plates and mugs into wicker baskets, separating them carefully between layers of straw ready for sending to market, but Daniel must not lift them, his leg was not yet healed.

  ‘My nephew told me of your accident; I came to enquire if I could offer assistance.’

  ‘Be kind of you to think, Abigail an’ me be grateful, but this ’ere young wench will be all the ’elp we need.’ Daniel Roberts’ whiskered face beamed as he saw Callista emerge into the sunshine.

  Touching his tall silk hat Phineas Westley smiled. ‘Good afternoon, Callista, it is good to see you well. I have missed you at the churchyard.’

  Following her mother’s teaching Callista dropped a faint curtsey as she returned the greeting, adding, ‘I have not been there of late.’

  ‘Then I must tell you the silk flowers you placed in your vase are still pretty; their colours are not yet faded completely.’

  Why was Phineas Westley come to the pottery? Callista’s nerves tightened. Was it what she had said to Michael Farron, that she would not discuss this man behind his back? Was he now come to take her to task, to demand to know what she thought she was about daring to imply a question of marriage between herself and him?

  ‘Is Abigail’s tea set still as pretty? I remember the colour of those corn poppies like the blush of Abigail’s cheek when being asked to marry you.’

  Was that meant for her, was it his way of intimating the purpose of this visit? But would the man who had been the soul of courtesy and politeness on each of their meetings confront her with his questions here in front of others… would he be so rude and embarrassing as Michael Farron had been?

  ‘Them there poppies be bright as ever.’ Daniel chuckled. ‘But my own cheeks will be brighter than them o’ any blushing maid were I to let you leave wi’out invitin’ you to a sup o’ tea.’

  ‘A sup of tea will be welcome, Daniel, but not so welcome as Abigail’s smile.’

  They talked together like old friends. Callista watched the ease between the two. It had never been this way at Trowes Court; no sign of friendship had ever been exhibited between the poor and wealthy; it had never been known to exist. Workers were two a penny and the industrialists who employed them valued them no higher; they were kept in their place. But Oswin Slade had seen his place as being not among the employed but side by side with the masters and like many of them he
was willing to sacrifice the happiness of anyone he could use to get there.

  ‘Then come you into the ’ouse for if I knows my Abigail the pot will be brewin’ right now.’

  Michael Farron must have told him. They were obviously of the same social class so it was certain they were bound to have talked… it was the only way Phineas Westley could know what she had said that day at the wharf and again here at the pottery, and friendly as he was trying to make this visit appear it could only be that which brought him. But she could not bring the matter up, embarrass Daniel and Abigail with so sordid a problem. She would wait, listen for him leaving then follow to beyond the house.

  ‘There be no task as’ll fail in the waitin’,’ Daniel said as she turned back toward the workshop, ‘and you knows Abigail will not sup lessen you be there so lend me your arm afore herself comes to see where we be.’

  Abigail would not sup without her! Phineas Westley mulled the words as the three of them walked slowly towards a cottage, its walls covered now with a confusion of pink petalled roses. The Robertses had obviously taken to the girl.

  Usually so relaxed with the couple she had come to love, Callista’s nerves refused to release their grip, leaving her words and movements taut. Abigail had noticed. She returned her poppy painted cup to the table. If only she could return to the workshop – but to excuse herself now when both she and Daniel knew there was nothing there required immediate attention would only serve to heighten speculation. She would just have to wait.

  ‘I still envy you, Daniel.’ Phineas’s words broke across Callista’s thoughts. ‘You beat me to the best cook in the county and the prettiest; if only I had been a mite quicker off the mark then maybe Abigail would have taken me and not yourself, but maybe it is not too late… even for an old man.’

  There it was again. Callista’s heart jumped. He had to have been told… Michael Farron had not baulked at speaking behind anyone’s back!