Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  His glance had turned from her during the telling to wander over the brilliant blue cornflowers nestling at the feet of purple heavy belled foxgloves and cream delphiniums standing tall over a medley of sweet william mixing boldly with deliciously scented carnation, but as she finished he looked back at her.

  ‘Would you ask Mr Roberts if I might see the kiln and his workshop?’

  ‘That will not be possible. Mr Roberts and his wife no longer live here. They… they have left for America.’

  She had not envisaged the hurt of saying that. It was almost the same pain she had felt when smoothing the soil which had been thrown roughly over her mother’s grave, a dead hopeless feeling of finality.

  ‘I see.’ The stranger had smiled briefly. ‘My apologies for having disturbed you.’

  He had not enquired the reason for the Robertses’ journey to a foreign country, had not pressed his request to be shown the pottery, but had simply turned away.

  ‘I could show you.’ Suddenly alive to her lack of courtesy, Callista called after the departing figure.

  Why had she called? Why had she not just let him go? She had asked herself that question while she waited outside the kiln and again when coming with him into the workshop, but watching him now Callista knew why. He had a knowledge which intimated he was familiar with the craft of the potter, but there was something which went deeper; he touched the wheel with fingers tender as those which might have been caressing a beloved child, he lingered beside Daniel’s stool, touched tools with what might almost be termed a reverence. In fact his whole mode of behaviour was that of a man with a feeling which matched her own, a feeling of respect for the clay, an embrace of the beauty which could be created from it. Remembering her own emotions when crafting her figurines Callista waited, leaving the stranger to drink his fill, patiently answering his questions.

  ‘And these?’ Coming to the baskets she had packed with crockery left from that last and final firing, he paused. ‘These are waiting for collection?’

  Callista shook her head, briefly explaining their being where they were.

  Asking permission he took a plate in his hand then carried it out into the yard, inspecting it in the stronger daylight. When satisfied he asked, ‘If Mr Roberts has left for America then who do I see regarding buying the rest of these?’

  For a moment Callista was lost for an answer. The crockery was Daniel’s property… but he had given everything to her! The realisation of what that meant becoming clear at last she looked at the tanned face, the blue eyes now watching her keenly.

  ‘You see me,’ she said quietly. ‘I am the owner of Leabrook Pottery.’

  30

  They had talked together for an hour or more sat on Daniel’s bench while the sun had dipped toward the horizon. Callista watched the baskets of crockery being loaded onto a wagon, each of them carefully placed on a thick bed of straw as extra protection against the bumping of the cartwheels over the rough road which led to the wharves and basins of the canal.

  The man had taken every last piece of crockery and had shown considerable interest in the figurines and groups that had been left standing on a shelf of the workshop. He would have taken them except they had not been fired. That had been when, accepting a glass of Daniel’s apple cider, sitting with it on the bench, he had asked would she set the pottery working again. He would buy all it produced, especially her figures.

  She had told him all of what Daniel had said, explained the need for other people to operate the various processes, finishing with what she had heard from the bargees who had delivered goods for Daniel and taken his products on to various towns, that he could buy pottery in quantity from the towns of Stoke-on-Trent, that they could provide all he wanted.

  Yes, he had agreed, the five towns between them produced many forms of pottery and the tall narrownecked bottle ovens with which they were replacing the kind Daniel had operated could fire hundreds of pieces more at a single firing, and though he bought these and was happy with their work this from Leabrook Pottery would fill a special niche.

  He had not said what that niche was and she had not asked; what use was there in doing so when what he had asked could never be?

  He had finished his cider, then, telling her he would arrange collection of the purchases he had made, he had taken his leave.

  She had watched him go. Tall and broad shouldered, dark against a fire red sky, he had taken the path across the heath and with his going she had felt a strange sort of unrest. Had she known that stranger longer she might even have called that feeling the sadness of parting.

  ‘That be all o’ them, miss. I’ve shut the doors along o’ the workshop so if you’ve nothin’ more to go on the cart I’ll be away.’

  Smiling her thanks to the burly wagoner, Callista climbed onto the front of the horse drawn cart. Daniel had always insisted he see his crockery loaded onto the narrow boat, watching it was carefully handled, and this time would be no different.

  *

  Michael Farron glanced at the invoice in his hand. Delivery of ten baskets of crockery to Bristol.

  They had been collected from Leabrook Pottery – from Callista Sanford! But who did she know who would buy crockery to send on to Bristol? He would know were it anyone in Wednesbury. Who had bought those baskets now being loaded onto the Persephone?

  Crossing to the window overlooking the wharf he watched the slight figure, daylight wreathing the ebony black hair with pinpoints of blue. Callista Sanford had learned more from Daniel Roberts than the art of throwing pots; she had also learned how to sell them.

  But why should that irritate him? Turning away from the window he threw the invoice onto the desk. Why should he feel anything at all? Callista Sanford was nothing to him.

  But that was the crux of what had gradually grown inside him, the Gordian knot that shackled his days and bound his nights, refusing to release his mind to sleep. Callista Sanford was nothing to him! But he wanted her to be, Lord, how he wanted her to be!

  He had not spoken to her the afternoon he had visited Daniel on the pretence of enquiring if the man wanted an answer sent to the letter he had received; he had not spoken because he could not trust himself not to blurt out the feelings twisting inside him now. But he could not reveal what was in his heart, tell her he loved her. She had agreed to friendship between them; she would never feel more than that for him. Hadn’t he thought the worst of her, accused her of trying to dupe Phineas into marrying her? What girl could forgive that… what girl could love such a man! He had blundered from the very beginning, from accosting her in the darkness of Paget’s Passage and later in the market place when he had humiliated the man who called himself her fiancé. But she had not married the pompous little man; nor would she marry Michael Farron.

  Restless, unable to curb the thoughts which in turn riled then depressed him, he crossed again to the window, his glance sweeping the busy wharf. The Persephone had already pulled out of the basin, another narrow boat moored up in her place; Moses Turley was talking with the boatman while at the same time checking one of a sheaf of papers which he carried so often they seemed as much a part of the wharf gaffer as did the cloth cap covering his head. Everything was normal, everything as it should be. ‘Right as ninepence’ would be Moses’ description. Smiling ruefully to himself he turned back to the desk. But Moses’ description could not be applied to Michael Farron! For him life would never be ‘right as ninepence’, never again be that way without Callista Sanford.

  *

  It had been three days since she had ridden with that crockery to Michael Farron’s wharf. Callista plumped pretty chintz cushions Abigail had made and filled with goose feathers she had kept several days in the hovel, the outer shell which protected the oven and helped conserve its heat during a firing.

  ‘Doin’ that makes sure there be no mites left in ’em.’

  Callista smiled, remembering the explanation. She had enjoyed Abigail’s company, enjoyed working with Daniel. She had not reali
sed how empty this house would be without them. Where were they now? Somewhere in the middle of an ocean? Had they reached America? She had no way of knowing, just as there had been no way she could have known how lonely she would really feel once they were gone.

  But that was not the only reason for the emptiness inside her, for the misery she could not shake off; some of that at least was the result of her trip to the wharf.

  She had hoped he would be there, to catch a glimpse of his face. Michael Farron need not smile at her, need not cast a look in her direction, need in no way acknowledge her presence. Just to see him would be a comfort to the unhappiness which dogged her like a shadow. But there had been no comfort for her; Michael Farron had not appeared and she had asked no reason for his absence.

  He might have been away on business, he could have been visiting his uncle; she turned to the dresser, rearranging cups and plates she had rearranged a dozen times since returning that day from the wharf. There could be any number of reasons for his not being there. A plate held in hands suddenly motionless, Callista stared unseeingly at the scarlet poppies decorating its centre. There were many causes could account for Michael Farron not being present but there was only one reason could be attributed to the pain it caused in her heart… she was in love with him!

  How had it happened? A sigh rose from the very pit of her stomach as she replaced the plate among the rest. He had given her no grounds to believe, no incentive to fall in love with him. The opposite was nearer the truth and she must never show she dreamed otherwise!

  Across the soft silence the sound of hooves caught Callista’s attention and she moved to open the door, a quick rush of blood surging in her veins at sight of the tall bare headed figure tethering the rein to a wide spreading elder tree.

  Swallowing disappointment she smiled a response to Phineas Westley’s greeting.

  *

  ‘It is a very tempting offer, but…’

  ‘But what, my dear? No journey can ever begin without the first step being taken.’

  Words were so easily said but could they be lived up to? What Phineas was asking sounded easy, but the practicality of it? That was a different matter.

  ‘I know what you are thinking and of course you are right, Callista. To produce something like Abigail’s plates and cups needs years of practice.’

  ‘And running a pottery requires years of experience: experience I do not have and even if I did, I could not do it alone.’

  ‘You would not have to,’ Phineas answered. ‘There are men would be glad of the opportunity to work here at Leabrook Pottery.’

  Excusing herself, Callista went into the scullery for milk. Staring at the small metal chum that stood in a cool shaded comer she thought of the events of the morning. She had bargained with Herbert Cox, the milk seller, in Pritchard Street, exchanging a vase for a pint of milk, then again in Union Street she had haggled with the baker, William Hinton; he had accepted a jug for a loaf of bread. But how long before they refused… how many jugs or vases would they want? It was not only men who stood in need of employment; she also must find work.

  ‘I have given a great deal of thought to the prospect I have put before you.’ Phineas watched as she placed the jug with its pretty glass beaded cover on the table then reached for the poppy painted teapot from the hob of a fireplace blackleaded until it shone like silver.

  He may have thought a great deal but Phineas Westley was no potter. He was kind and his offer was generous but he didn’t understand. Callista filled the cups with tea, then returned the pot to the hob. Phineas did not appear to have taken into account the fact of Daniel Roberts being the only maker of tableware in Wednesbury for many years. The skills potting required no longer existed in the town; true, the men of Potters Lane still used clay but they only made tobacco pipes; it was also true there were men, and women too, would thank heaven for the chance of employment here but they would need direction and she could not give it.

  ‘I do understand there are problems.’ Phineas spoke over her thoughts. ‘But they are not insurmountable. Skilled people can be brought in, men who understand the intricacies of firing and timing the oven, of mixing oxides for glazes and for the many specialist processes involved, people who can train our own local folk. By re-opening the pottery we could give at least a few of the young of this town a chance to do something other than toil underground dragging coal from the bowels of the earth or smelting iron in foundries the like of which could only be matched in hell itself.’

  It was a wonderful idea. Callista watched as he stirred sugar into his tea. But what he proposed was impossible for her, for even had she the skills of Daniel himself she could not accept. ‘Take nothing but what you earn’ had been the teaching of her parents. How could she ever earn what Phineas Westley was offering, a partnership with himself.

  Eyes lifting to hers as he returned cup to saucer showed understanding. She had a pride that was admirable, a pride he appreciated, but it could not be allowed to stand in the way. The girl needed help and she would not take charity.

  No trace of the sympathy he felt colouring his tone, Phineas repeated his offer that they become equal partners in Leabrook Pottery, adding, ‘I understand your feelings, Callista. You think you have nothing to offer in return but you are wrong, my dear. Plates and dishes are all very well, but useful as they are and provide the work as they will, they cannot bring to this venture what you can bring. The figures and groups you create are what will draw buyers to this place. It is the beauty and grace of your pieces, the skill of your hands, that make the whole of the rest viable. That is your contribution and without it my own is worthless.’

  He had thought… but not of everything! Callista felt the dream he was kindling die. Her pieces had sold well but it was not simply the form they took, not just the skill of her hands had caused those people to buy; in part that was due to the clay from which they were constructed, the additives which produced a silky cream smooth texture. And Daniel Roberts alone knew what these were and how much to use, a recipe he had not completely shared.

  31

  Phineas had insisted they go ahead. It could not be so difficult to discover what it was produced the marble like finish to a dish or figurine, he had declared. What Daniel Roberts had discovered could not be a once and for all time miracle. She knew some of the constituents; maybe someone who had known Daniel in his earlier years, someone still living in Wednesbury who may have worked with him, would know the others.

  Maybe he was right to believe, maybe Phineas Westley would find a man who was privy to Daniel’s secret, but she could not share his faith. It seemed from Abigail’s confidences in the time they had worked alone in the workshop or stacking the kiln that her husband had worked only with his father, grandfather and later with his son, so who was there with knowledge of the complete formula Daniel had used?

  Glancing up from weeding the patch of garden, she looked across to the kiln. It had been heart wrenching for Daniel to leave all he had known, the work of a lifetime, but it was best he had for it would have broken that heart to see the place so silent and empty of life. Phineas would try to revitalise Leabrook Pottery but she feared he was building castles in the air.

  Had he discussed those castles with his nephew? Callista turned back to her weeding. Had Michael Farron been consulted, and if so, what had been his response? His uncle and Callista Sanford partners in business! Would he place the same interpretation on that as he had on the proposal she catalogue his uncle’s antiques? Would he think joining with him to re-open this pottery was merely another ruse on her part, to inveigle herself deeper into Phineas’s life?

  If only Daniel had not passed the property to her this problem would not have arisen; she would have been gone from Wednesbury by now and Michael Farron and the thoughts he had of her would no longer be a thorn in her flesh. But that was unfair! She jabbed the trowel into the ground. She must never lay her sorrows at Daniel’s door. He had given this cottage out of the goodness of his
heart, provided her with a place to live, a place where he thought she would be happy.

  ‘Ouch, that looks painful… poor old weed, whatever has it done to annoy you so?’

  A shadow falling across her, Callista looked up into a strong, faintly smiling face.

  *

  Sabine Derry fastened the buttons of the wide skirted black grosgrain coat she had worn for that tram ride. It had helped hide her identity the day she had plunged that knife into Oswin Slade’s neck and it would do the same today. She had given her housekeeper the afternoon and evening off; the woman would not return to Hill House until morning and as for Edwin, his lady of the night would keep him occupied until the early hours. That left plenty of time. Settling the black bonnet on her head Sabine smiled at her reflection. No one would guess it was the mistress of Hill House swathed in this monstrous costume; were she seen leaving she would be taken for some washerwoman or widow seeking employment. No one would give her a second thought, nor would folk she passed in the town for she would be only one of many women dressed like this.

  Taking the black kid gloves she had set out on the bed she hesitated, then tossed them back. No washerwoman or widow poor as she wished to look would possess kid gloves or a sapphire engagement ring. Removing it, she placed it on her dressing table. Cotton, they would wear cotton. But she did not own a pair of cotton gloves. None then… she would wear none. Bare hands would be a stronger sign of poverty, stronger proof if any were needed that the woman shrouded in ‘widow’s weeds’ was not Sabine Derry. Lowering the veil over her wig she inspected the result closely in the mirror. The colour must not show through the flimsy chiffon. Maybe it would be prudent not to wear it at all; avoiding the risk of recognition was the very reason for these distasteful clothes… but not the wig. Picking up the black cloth bag she had placed with the gloves, she left the bedroom. She had a special reason for wearing her wig!