Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Now you must forgive me…’

  Had anyone heard the breath she released, seen the look which crossed her face as Phineas Westley rose? Callista glanced at Daniel’s wife but the woman’s attention was on her caller.

  ‘I have to leave but before I go there is a matter I would like to discuss with Miss Sanford.’

  This was it… he was going to accuse her in front of Daniel and Abigail! But what else could she hope for; she had shown no courtesy by speaking of him at all to a stranger. How then could she expect any difference?

  ‘And I think, Daniel, we would both benefit from your advice.’

  Feelings which had been almost stunned by anxiety flared into brilliant life. She would not have Daniel drawn into this! Pride in every line of her, Callista rose to her feet.

  ‘Mr Westley,’ she said, aware of the tremble in her voice. ‘I can only guess you have been in conversation with a Mr Michael Farron and it is a result of such conversation you wish to discuss with me, but I will say to you what I said to him: whatever quarrel you might have with me I will not have it brought to this house nor will I speak of it unless it be in the presence of… of the man who carried my words to you.’

  She had not spoken the words Michael had said to him. Phineas Westley watched the tilt of the raven dark head, the flash of fire in those violet eyes… those honest violet eyes! She had not said she would not speak behind the back of a man who had shown her nothing but kindness and friendship but then the lad was probably not yet aware he wanted only to show the girl those feelings… those and more.

  ‘Ah, Michael Farron.’ Phineas smiled. ‘Yes, my nephew did tell me of his conversation with you. I hope you will forgive him, Callista, he is sometimes over hasty on my behalf.’

  His nephew! Callista felt the flush rise to her face. Michael Farron was Phineas Westley’s nephew! Yet he had made no mention of that either when here or at the wharf; he had deliberately vexed her, led her into saying what she had and never once hinted at his relationship.

  ‘I apologise for any embarrassment he may have unwittingly caused you as I know he will also should you permit a further meeting between him and yourself.’

  Unwitting! There was nothing unwitting about Michael Farron! Catching the spark of a smile Callista knew her thought had shown and been interpreted. The hasty nephew would know better than to voice his concerns at Leabrook Potteries a second time.

  ‘But to the matter I came about,’ Phineas went on. ‘The copy of the Michelangelo vase you placed on your mother’s grave. I think Daniel will agree when I say it is an excellent piece of work.’

  ‘I does that!’ Daniel’s grey head rocked back and forth. ‘I never seen a better done by a beginner.’

  ‘And would you also agree that given a little expert tuition Callista would be capable of more excellent pieces yet?’

  Ready as his smile, Daniel’s answer was on his lips. ‘Ar, I agrees to that an’ all.’

  ‘Then what I wish to ask Callista is, should you be offered that tuition by the man I consider to be the best among potters, namely Daniel Roberts, would you consider crafting such pieces and others you have a feeling for? Pieces I know would be valued in many a home.’

  This was not what he had come to say. He had come to confront, not compliment. Confusion chasing the blush from her cheeks Callista stood unspeaking.

  ‘Well, Callista?’

  Phineas was nudging her silence aside, his eyes on hers calling for an answer.

  ‘I… I…’ She stumbled in the search for words. ‘My vase was pretty but in no way could it be called worthy of a place in anyone’s home.’

  ‘But I do say it.’ Phineas smiled. ‘And I believe Daniel would say it also. You have the makings of a craftsman, my dear, your work would sell well.’

  ‘Plates and mugs, yes, but pieces such as that I made for my mother… people who know and love the original would never buy a copy made from clay.’

  ‘Have you ever offered people a chance? I can see you have not; how then can you be so sure? Originals cannot be owned except by a fortunate few but does that mean folk less fortunate should not enjoy their beauty? Should they not also have the joy of a Michelangelo, an Antonio Canova or a Girolamo della Robbia in their home even though they be a copy?’

  ‘But those are masterpieces carved from marble. I cannot carve marble.’

  ‘I would not ask you to.’

  ‘But each of those pieces are the work of a master!’

  The protest was clear in the answer and it pleased Phineas. The girl was not flattered by praise, she was not ready to jump where her mind told her she should not tread; she showed caution as well as humility. There was more to like about this girl than ever he had thought.

  ‘The work of a master, yes, Callista, but the greatest of them all had to start from the beginning and you are at the beginning. The skills of your hands need refining, teaching until they are sure of what is in them. With Daniel you can reach that stage; you only have to remember not all beauty is portrayed in stone or on canvas; clay too can speak to the soul.’

  ‘He be right, wench.’ Daniel added his convictions gently. ‘You ’ave the touch I ain’t seen in ‘ands other than those of… well, I ain’t seen it more’n once afore; you should pay heed to what be said for it could bring a living the mekin’ o’ plates an’ mugs won’t.’

  He had been about to say the touch he had seen in his son’s hands. From the comer of her eye Callista had seen the quick hand touch Abigail’s mouth before the woman turned, hiding pain she could not keep from her eyes… pain of losing her children. How could she turn her back on their kindness; but how could she refuse Phineas Westley without appearing ungrateful?

  ‘What you say of my work is pleasing,’ she answered, ‘and none I’m sure could advance any skill I might have as Mr Roberts would, but even given such expert help I could not produce the works of the old masters.’

  ‘No one could, they are all the works of an individual. They bear the stamp, the hallmark of their maker just as these cups and plates with their painted poppies carry the exclusive stroke of Abigail’s brush, of her eye for movement and design. That is what makes a master and you share those same traits; you say you cannot produce the same but that is simply because you see them in their present value… as the lovely products of a bygone age. We cannot add to the antiques of the past, Callista, but we can make the antiques of the future. But I will say no more of it until you and Daniel have talked further.’

  Shaking hands with Daniel and kissing Abigail on the cheek he turned once more but now the smile was gone from his eyes and Callista felt her nerves quicken once more as he said quietly, ‘If you would be kind enough to accompany me to my carriage, Callista.’

  21

  He had been a fool. Michael Farron watched the girl talking now with Moses Turley. ‘He need not take the trouble of arranging for the three of them to meet.’ His uncle had said her tone was cold when she said it, that what his nephew had said had caused her no bother, therefore he need take none in order to apologise.

  Nevertheless he must do so and it might as well be now. Seeing him approach, the wharf manager touched a hand to his flat cap, its peak shading his eyes from the bright light of the sun reflecting from the waters of the canal.

  ‘Miss Sanford be…’ He paused as a shout from one of the huddle of narrow boats rang across the wharf.

  ‘See to it, Moses,’ Michael Farron answered the other man’s questioning look, then, ‘perhaps, Miss Sanford, you would allow me—’

  ‘My business here is done!’ Callista interrupted, already turning away.

  ‘But my business with you is not!’ It had come out sharper than he had meant. Lord, he was sunk even deeper into the mire! ‘Please.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I am already in Phineas’s bad books, my name has an asterisk beside it and should he learn I have met with you and not apologised for my atrocious behaviour then it will be erased for good.’

  Despite her intentio
n to remain coldly aloof Callista felt a warmth inside her; but she would not let it show, she would not allow him to see she suddenly wanted only to smile.

  ‘I’m sure that is not true.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ His grin widened. ‘But it was good for a start and I really do need to apologise. It was wrong of me to speak as I did… as you told me, it was no concern of mine.’

  Allowing herself to be led away from the busy wharf Callista asked quietly, ‘Why did you not say you were Phineas Westley’s nephew?’

  Coming to a halt Michael met the candid violet eyes. Why had he made no mention of that fact? To answer truthfully would have turned her away from him, made her see him as no more than a man filled with… what? He was going to say filled with spite and jealousy but there had been no spite to his action… and jealousy? Could he honestly claim there had been no jealousy of her association with his uncle?

  Wrestling with the argument playing in his brain his answer came stumblingly. ‘I… I can only say it was anger kept me from mentioning our relationship; I did not want to see Phineas hurt… that blinded my mind to all else.’

  ‘I too, did not wish to see him hurt.’

  ‘Yet your reply was that marriage to Phineas Westley was your only concern. I thought that meant…’

  ‘I intended to get myself a wealthy and elderly husband?’ Seeing the flicker of guilt flash across his eyes Callista shook her head. ‘You were wrong, Mr Farron, my concern was that your uncle not come to regard me as anything other than a girl he once talked with in the cemetery of St James’s church. That was one of the reasons I refused his offer… not an offer of marriage but a proposal I document and record his collection of antiques.’

  She had not spoken acerbically nor with any rebuff but as Phineas had done, almost with quiet sympathy. He could thank her for her understanding, express regret for his hastiness now and leave… so why didn’t he, why not leave it at that and go? Glancing again at those half smiling violet eyes Michael Farron knew why.

  ‘You say that was one reason you refused to live in my uncle’s house, which implies there was another. Am I permitted to ask what that other might be?’ The question provided respite from his thoughts but they were thoughts he knew would return.

  Across the cobbled wharf shouts announced the departure of narrow boats and the calls of boatmen bringing their own to moor in their places. Watching them Callista mused on the question. She had no need to answer anything Michael Farron asked but then she had no need of secrecy either. Returning her look to him, the half smile of her eyes touching faintly to her lips, she replied, ‘I could not accept a place in that house being certain as I was Phineas Westley would not look upon me as a member of his staff.’

  ‘You would not have been a member of his staff!’

  ‘In the domestic sense of the word perhaps not.’ She answered the quick intervention as quietly as she had replied to his questions. ‘But whatever the task I was hired to perform I would be paid help, a servant no matter the title placed upon it. I felt your uncle would not be prepared to treat me as such and therefore I refused the post. Did he not explain that to you?’

  ‘He did not.’ Lifting a hand to his face Michael rubbed his beardless chin. ‘He said what you had said before, that it was no business of mine whom he formed a friendship with; in fact he called me an interfering young pup who needed his tail docked.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Callista pretended pain. ‘Then you should thank the stars you are his nephew and not his dog.’

  ‘The Pleiades,’ Michael laughed, ‘perhaps those are the stars you would recommend.’

  ‘The seven daughters of Atlas, the great Titan,’ Callista answered immediately. ‘They became stars in order to avoid the amorous attentions of Orion the hunter though I fear he chases them still across the night sky. Choose whom you address your prayers to carefully, Mr Farron, for though the daughters of Titan are kind, those of Nyx, the goddess of the night, those we call the Fates, are not always so.’

  The Fates were not always kind. On her way back to the pottery Callista repeated the words to herself. Sometimes it seemed they delighted in the opposite, adding to the unhappiness of life as they had the lives of her parents. First her father’s suicide, then her mother’s death from overwork, constant cold and insufficient food. How could heaven dictate one life be so wretched while others lived in plenty! And her own life? That too, had been no bed of feathers. Stooping, she picked a buttercup from the heath, staring into its golden face. There had been those three years when every day Miss Montroy had found some reason to slap her, some reason to drive fear deeper into the heart of a child. But those years had ended. Plucking a golden petal from the tiny flower, she watched it flutter to the ground. So too, had her father’s life. Freeing a second petal she watched it fall. They had ended but the wretchedness of life had gone on. Her mother’s endless toil and then her own repeated failure to secure employment. Taking a third petal between her fingers she let it drop, watching its gleaming downward spiral to where it nestled in the grass. Then, hard on her mother’s passing, had come Oswin’s attempted rape. The horror of that assault, of his twisted leering face pushing close to her own, the touch of his body pressing against hers, had a shiver run the entire length of her. Fingers trembling, she severed a fourth petal. Shaking it free of her hand she whispered a prayer that never again would she be subjected to such degradation.

  Callista touched the one remaining petal, the broken delicate flower gleaming silken gold. Would her future be no different to her past? Would time show her that one or each of these tiny shining gems of nature could represent more misery or had the Fates she had spoken of to Michael Farron had their enjoyment of Callista Sanford?

  *

  ‘They improves every time. Phineas Westley were right when he said you had the touch of a master.’ Daniel Roberts picked up the small replica of a woman reclining, turning it admiringly, his keen potter’s eye inspecting every fold of the gown, every drape of the veil covering the head leaving only a touch of curls nestling on the brow, the promise of a smile shadowing the finely executed mouth while remaining hidden in demurely downcast eyes.

  ‘I hardly think Antonio Canova or Girolamo della Robbia would agree,’ Callista answered, taking the finished figure of a small shepherd boy from the saggar in which it had been fired and placing it on a shelf with several other pieces Daniel had helped her create in the time that could be spared from the making of tableware.

  ‘Well seein’ as I don’t ’ave the knowin’ of any Giro… Giro… him you speaks of, then I can’t go disputin’ them claims… but this I can say, you ’ave a way many a man mekin’ pots has the envy of. It hears the call of your ’eart, feels the love in your fingers and responds to it; you should tek heed of what Westley ’as offered for it will bring you more than ever you can ’ope for by stayin’ put at this place.’

  Watching him place the piece with the others Callista smiled. ‘This place, as you put it, is where I have been happiest since my mother died. You have given me more than a home, you have given me back my self-esteem, more even than that…’ She paused, suddenly shy, then added softly, ‘You have given me love.’

  His eyes moistening, Daniel set the piece with the rest. The wench spoke truth; Abigail and him had given her their love and in turn she had given them hers; she had brought back a little light into their lives, the light extinguished so long ago when his children had left home, driven away by a father’s stupid pride.

  ‘So what be you going to name these ’uns?’

  She had heard the tell-tale break in his voice, a break she had come to recognise. He was thinking of the love of two young people, how it had once filled the cottage, that of a daughter coming to womanhood and a son strong and agile… children for whom his face often betrayed his yearning though he never spoke these thoughts.

  Coming to his side she slipped a hand into his, feeling the skin hardened by years of throwing clay. ‘What do you think of David for the shepherd bo
y and Helen for the woman?’

  ‘Well I knows who be David, but who be ’Elen?’

  ‘Ar, who be ’Elen?’

  It was Abigail asking from the doorway of the small workshop, an enquiring frown settling on her forehead.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Callista smiled.

  ‘Then it best be told over a sup of tea. I’ve brewed a pot an’ there be a fresh baked scone an’ jam to go along o’ it.’

  *

  ‘So who be this ’Elen the both o’ you were on about when I come to the workshop?’

  Abigail had obviously not given up on her curiosity. She looked at her husband but Daniel simply shrugged.

  ‘The wench gives each piece her meks a name an’ ’Elen be what her’s christened that reclinin’ woman.’

  ‘So why ’Elen? What be special to that name apart from it bein’ pretty?’

  ‘Helen was a central character in one of the stories written by an ancient Greek scholar named Homer.’ Callista was suddenly in the home of her childhood repeating a story heard from her father. ‘She was so beautiful that a prince of Troy fell in love with her and she left her husband in order to be with her lover and the Trojan War was the consequence.’ The explanation brief as a young child had made it to her mother, Callista could almost hear her father’s reproof. She had kept it so brief he would have been dismayed to hear it but to tell a fuller version would take time and Daniel had already stolen two glances at the clock.

  ‘Hmmph! Be no more to that story you don’t ’ear goin’ on anywheres ’cept mebbe he were a prince… but they gets everythin’ they fancies anyway an’ that includes women! An’ some o’ them ain’t never satisfied wi’ the bargain they gets. Riches and comfort be all well an’ good but they ain’t everythin’ in life an’ tekin’ a ’usband just so you ’ave them brings shame to a woman!’ Abigail gathered mugs and plates, banging them together in her particular expression of what she thought of such a poor story… and not a little of her contempt for the heroine.

  Following Daniel’s lead Callista followed back to the workshop. Michael Farron had held the same opinion of her; he had thought her ready to marry Phineas Westley simply to gain a comfortable life. Had Phineas also suspected the same… seen her as a scheming woman currying friendship, using it as a cloak to a truer intention?