Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  There was a dignity in the girl, the dignity of… Sabine thrust that thought away. Sentiment had no place in her life.

  ‘Then if you will accept only what you work for allow me to offer that work. My husband has agreed we are in need of a second clerk to keep the accounts of rent collections; if you would care to take the position then I feel certain Mr Derry will appoint you; as for somewhere to live… that would not present an insurmountable problem. Think it over, my dear, there is no hurry for an answer. Now I must go lay these flowers on poor Emma’s grave.’ Taking a handkerchief from the bag hanging from her wrist, pressing it suitably to the comer of each eye, Sabine sniffed. ‘Dear Emma, such a wonderful friend… how very much I miss her.’

  Emma Ramsey – what had caused such a change in her? Wishing Sabine goodbye Callista left the churchyard, keeping her glance deliberately from wandering across to where the windows of St James’s School seemed to be watching her.

  For years Emma Ramsey had been delighted with her mother’s work, congratulating her on the fine stitchery and delicate execution of each gown, petticoat or nightdress; in fact the woman had never found fault with any garment her mother had made… except with that blue dress. But the dress had been perfect, the pattern followed exactly, the stitches neat as they had ever been… yet it had been rejected!

  Why? Callista walked on, her thoughts on that awful night. Her mother had sat staring at the ashes of a fire long dead from want of coal, the fevered cough which grew a little worse with each day racking her thin body. The talk of her work being rejected with such callous and unfair words seemed to have had little impact; it seemed only Emma Ramsey’s visitor interested her; she had insisted Callista try to recall every detail of her appearance. But why should she have persisted as she had? And equally puzzling was the relief which had seemed to settle over those flushed features on hearing of Sabine Derry’s rich copper coloured hair.

  It had been her own intention to ask her mother to explain, to give her reasons for wanting to elicit a description of a woman who was a stranger to them both, but that opportunity had never come, nor had the chance to kiss that dear face before life had left it.

  It was that same woman, that stranger, who had offered a gift of money and now had offered employment, a chance so many in Wednesbury would give much to secure. Waiting for a wagon to rumble past she crossed over Dudley Street directing her steps towards Lea Brook.

  A chance so many would give much to secure…

  So why the feeling she did not want it?

  24

  ‘I saw… I knew… it was her…’

  Eyes glinting like grey ice, a sharp featured face glared at the child cowering in fright.

  ‘…it was because of her…’

  Whimpering, the child drew back into the corner of a room shadowed in darkness, a small figure curled against the blow of a long fingered hand, while above its head the venom and hatred hissed on.

  ‘It was because of her… the spawn of evil…’

  ‘No… no, it’s not true.’ Held fast in the net of sleep, Callista cried the denial.

  ‘I saw… I saw what was done… I saw her do that…’

  ‘No… I didn’t, I didn’t!’

  Trapped in her nightmare Callista’s head tossed on the pillow.

  ‘…it was her… she did that.’

  The tight mouth drawing back in a feline smile, the lizard cold eyes gleaming triumph, a long finger pointed to a coffin visible in the gloom and the figure which rose from it to point a pale hand at the trembling child while the dead face grinned… the face of Oswin Slade.

  ‘I saw… it was her…’

  The child in the corner lifted terrified eyes to the advancing shape, a half strangled cry staying on the small quivering mouth.

  ‘Please, I didn’t kill Oswin.’ Callista’s sob whispered on the grey dawn filling her room while in her sleep she watched the burly figure of Constable Travers reach for the child.

  It had been a dream, a nightmare… but only a dream. Yet even now with the warm sun of midsummer warming her body the memory of it sent shivers along her spine.

  The nightmare of childhood, the dream which relived the fear and the abuse of that teacher, recurred often and that she could understand. So much unhappiness in so young a life was not easily forgotten by the subconscious mind; maybe it would return at intervals for the whole of her life. But why the part about Oswin Slade? The constable had made no further call at the pottery and no word of her being involved in that killing had been levelled at her; yet the dream had been so real, so frightening, the policeman reaching for her… but was that the real fear her nightmare had contained?

  Pausing in the task she had found for herself numbering and recording each of the many plaster of Paris moulds, their design and use, she stared at the book in her hands.

  The real fear! No, it was not of the constable but of the woman, the woman whose grey, almost vulpine eyes had watched her as they had talked together in the churchyard: the eyes of Sabine Derry.

  *

  That was ridiculous, fantasy! Callista breathed deeply, the perfume of wild flowers and tufted grass of the heath filling her nostrils.

  A tired body results in a tired mind and a tired mind could jumble facts and occurrences together and that was what had happened: a plain and simple mixing of one thing with another; as for Sabine Derry being the tormentor of those school years, that was too idiotic to contemplate.

  Reaching the wharf she dismissed the thought, leaving her mind clear for the business Daniel had entrusted her to carry out.

  Unable to see Moses Turley among the figures moving between wharf and narrow boat she waited a moment but when there was still no sign of him she approached a figure bent over a large basket container. Touching the man’s shoulder she stepped back in surprise when, straightening, he turned to face her.

  ‘Mr Farron! I… I thought…’

  ‘I was one of the men?’ Michael Farron grinned. ‘Well, so I am. I believe a man should not ask others to do what he himself is not prepared to have a go at, and sometimes that means getting one’s hands dirty.’ Holding them out for her to see he laughed, a light unconcerned kind of laugh… something else which haunted her dreams. A flush of colour followed the thought and Callista turned her glance quickly along the busy wharf.

  ‘I was looking for Mr Turley.’

  ‘Moses?’ Michael Farron had not missed the sweep of pink. ‘He’s at the basin alongside of Wiggins Mill Pool and won’t be back until tomorrow, hence my dirty hands; but if it is nothing of a personal nature then I am willing to help.’

  If it is nothing of a personal nature… The words seemed to sting. Was he telling her Michael Farron could never be anything other than the businessman where she was concerned?

  ‘It is not personal, Mr Farron,’ she answered, watching him wash his hands in a barrel of water then dry them on a strip of cloth hung beside it. ‘I am here on behalf of Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Daniel… how is he? No setbacks, I hope. Phineas was saying he was recovering; I would have visited myself more often but…’

  But what? For what reason? Was it because she was there, the girl he thought interested in his uncle’s wealth, a girl not to be trusted?

  ‘So what can I do for Daniel?’

  The smile which accompanied the words, the slight tilt of the mouth were so reminiscent of Phineas but, unlike his uncle, Michael Farron felt no friendship for her. Disconcerted by the strong pull at her stomach resulting from the thought she glanced away to where narrow boats nosed into the wharf replacing others which, now loaded, were leaving. To go where?

  ‘You said you were here on behalf of Daniel.’

  When she looked at him again she saw the smile was gone leaving a hardness where it had been, a hardness which seemed to say she was wasting his time… or was it saying she was not welcome here!

  She nodded, fighting the churning inside her. Michael Farron must never see, never so much as guess her feelings
, emotions she should not have. Chest tight with the effort, head lifting almost in defiance, she replied. ‘Daniel cannot yet walk so far and Abigail is unwilling to be more than a few yards from his side, therefore I was asked to come here in their stead. I have been asked to tell you there will be no further requirement for clay from Cornwall.’

  ‘No more clay! But I thought Daniel was on the mend, that he had suffered no permanent damage to his spine!’

  ‘The bruising was severe though thankfully that was all, but the doctor says it would be wiser for him to no longer carry on the work of potting.’

  ‘No more potting!’ The clear brow creased. ‘Lord, that’ll just about do for Daniel. According to Phineas the Robertses have been potters at Lea Brook for years.’

  ‘More than two hundred,’ Callista sighed, ‘and he believes it goes back much further than that… he was so proud when telling me of Wedgbury Ware.’

  ‘Heritage like that makes a man proud.’

  It can also break his heart when he has to let it go. Callista kept the thought silent in her heart as Michael Farron continued.

  ‘So what will the Robertses do? Daniel has never known anything other than potting.’

  That was a question she knew had plagued the Robertses as it had herself but it was not something to be discussed with others. Daniel’s business was his own and she would speak no further of it. Meeting the eyes which now showed concern she answered quietly.

  ‘I was asked to inform you there will be no more orders for clay, silica or any other ingredient you formerly delivered for Leabrook Pottery. I have done that, Mr Farron.’

  ‘Wait!’ Catching her arm as she turned away Michael almost gasped at the effect of touching her, a piquant yet intoxicating rush that had his heart thumping like a sledgehammer, but even more heartstopping was her pulling free and taking a step back from him. Torn by his own emotions his face hardened, his eyes resuming an earlier look of coldness.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Sanford.’ He too, took a step backwards. ‘I was not thinking… the news of Daniel closing his pottery… I did not mean to touch you.’

  That was obvious. Callista felt the weight of sadness deep inside. The look on his face said it for him. That Michael Farron, a man of breeding and substance, would actually touch a pauper’s child! Oh, there could be little doubt he knew her background. Phineas would have told him of their meetings at the cemetery, of her frank disclosure when he had asked she catalogue his collection of antique art; yes, Michael Farron knew her past, but he did not want to know her future. Looking at him now, her lips compressed to stop their trembling, she felt the world in which she had come to feel secure and happy drift further away. He had called her to wait. Was there something else he wished to know, something he needed to ask? As if reading her thoughts he spoke quietly.

  ‘I asked what the Robertses intent was, how they meant to make their living with the pottery closed; you did not answer.’

  Had he not remembered, had he chosen to forget or was this a way of testing her loyalties? Drawing in a breath Callista met the incisive blue gaze head on and when she answered it was cold.

  ‘I believe, Mr Farron, I once told you I would not discuss another man unless that man were present. I place the same restriction upon a man’s business; you wish to know of Daniel Roberts’s plans for his future then I advise you ask him.’

  A flash of annoyance drawing his handsome brows together, a quick intake of breath a witness to his anger, Michael Farron stared.

  ‘You cannot answer for another,’ he said after a moment. ‘That I accept; but perhaps you can speak for yourself. What will you do now there is no work for you at Leabrook Pottery?’

  Why should he ask that, what possible interest could it be to him what she did? But then again she had nothing to hide. Still holding firm to his gaze she answered, ‘I have not given thought—’

  ‘Then perhaps you should!’ It cracked across the wharf like a pistol shot, causing several heads to turn.

  ‘Perhaps I should.’ Callista’s reply was marked in its quietness. ‘But my immediate concern is for the people who befriended me when I needed it most.’

  ‘But you must have some idea… some place in mind.’

  Was he thinking that place might be his uncle’s house, that she would go back on her refusal to live there, that she would accept the offer if only for the time it took to list and record details of Phineas Westley’s collection? Was he thinking that once more his inheritance stood in jeopardy?

  For once not caring about the emotion showing on her face, Callista replied witheringly. ‘You need have no fears, Mr Farron, I shall not be seeking the help of your uncle!’

  *

  He had seemed to snatch air into his throat, his stare becoming blue ice as she had said those words, and his hands had part lifted as though he would strike her. Michael Farron’s irritation was as clear as if it had been painted on his face; evidently he had not expected the answer she had given. Resentment flying high, Callista harboured no regret for her recent censure. He had taken her words as a snub, a reproach, as indeed they were meant to be. Hopefully this time he would have learned from the encounter, learned she was not to be accused of something she had never tried to do, something which existed only in his mind.

  How clear did she have to make it! Part cry, part shout, the question rang in her mind. He had no right to any knowledge of what she did or did not do. It was not like he was family, he was not even a friend; Michael Farron was nothing to her.

  But that was a lie! Brought to a standstill by the admission, Callista stared across the heath. He was not family… he was not friend, but she could not truthfully say he was nothing.

  Then what? What was the feeling inside, the emotion that sped through her like heath fires whenever they met? A light breeze rippled across the tranquil sun warmed heath, carrying with it the delicate musky fragrance of wild flowers, but it was the murmur as it brushed her face, the faint sigh which seemed to whisper it was love… the feeling she had for Michael Farron was love!

  *

  ‘Appears we be in the same quandary as we was afore.’

  Daniel’s voice drifted through the open doorway of the cottage. Still dazed by what her heart and mind had told her minutes ago Callista had not noticed the bay horse quietly cropping grass beside the house.

  ‘But be sensible, Daniel. What was said was fact, the materials used were yours.’

  ‘Ar, right it were in that, but it were not my ’ands done the creatin’, it were not my work an’ I’ll tek neither credit nor payment.’

  ‘That is simply foolish.’ Phineas Westley’s well modulated voice was followed by the gruffer one.

  ‘Foolish it might be but I ’olds to it. I’ll tek no money I feels don’t be earned by me an’ that be an end to it.’

  ‘But what about you, Abigail, what do you think?’

  This was eavesdropping. Listening to other people’s conversation was wrong, it was as much an intrusion into their privacy as Michael Farron’s questions had been into hers. Turning quickly Callista moved towards the closed door of the workshop, Abigail’s reply following her.

  ‘I thinks decisions made in this ’ouse be them o’ Daniel Roberts, beggin’ your pardon. It be ’im be master an’ ’im will ’ave the say.’

  Pulling open the door, Callista slipped inside the cool workshop, the lingering smell of clay filling her nostrils. She would wait here until the visit was over and Phineas Westley gone. But why come at all? True, he had visited several times while Daniel had been confined to his bed but that was no longer the case. So was this a social call? But surely a social call would not entail talk of payment. Business then. This was as bad as openly listening to the talk in the cottage! Impatient at her inability to control the thoughts crowding in on her Callista moved restlessly about the shadowed workshop, but try as she would to prevent it the thoughts spoke in her mind.

  Was Phineas Westley’s visit one of business? After all, he would not
yet have heard of Daniel’s decision to close down Leabrook Pottery. He had often said the tableware produced by the Robertses was the finest to be bought so maybe he was here to place an order, one which would mean Wedgbury Ware and Daniel going on at least a while longer.

  Her glance caught by the columns of neatly stacked saggars, columns only half the height Daniel would have built them, Callista felt the joy of that thought drain from her. Supposing the unbelievable had happened, that Phineas had come with an order; who was there to produce it? Hadn’t Daniel made it clear it was impossible for Abigail and herself?

  Outside the calls of goodbye drifted to where she stood, her hands touching the wheel on which so many pots had been thrown.

  … two hundred years, an’ ’ow many afore that…

  It was more than a reflection of the mind, it was an echo from the ancient walls themselves, a reverberation from every corner of this building steeped in time and history, a cry for life; yet it was the whisper of death, a sentence she could do nothing to commute, nothing to revoke.

  It was over! Within the shadowed walls Callista’s glance touched the stool where she had sat listening to the teaching of Daniel, following the guidance which had developed her understanding of potting and the skill of her own hands. But there would be no more teaching, no more of the satisfaction of creating a piece of tableware or the wonder and delight of seeing a figurine gradually take life beneath her fingers; even deeper than the disappointment of that was the pain of having to leave the people she loved.

  25

  The girl had not come to Hill House, she had not taken the offer of second clerk. Sabine Derry smoothed violet scented cream over her face, her eyes on the mirror of her dressing table searching keenly for signs of wrinkles. Had Callista Sanford received a better offer? Pausing in the task of nourishing her skin before retiring to bed Sabine felt a ripple of annoyance. Had the girl been approached by someone else and if so, who might that someone be? Was it a person known to herself? No! Sabine resumed her creaming. Were that the reason for the girl not showing up here she would have known of it. So why then had she not come? She had said the pottery was to close, that she could not stay there without the employment with which to pay for her keep.