by Rona Randall
That would have been as good a way as any. Kate Walker would have jumped at the chance to expand her trade in Leicester or Nottingham, leaving Abby here in Burslem where she, Meg Tinsley, could befriend her without let or hindrance. But it was too late now. The Master Potter had gone and despite his widow’s valiant efforts, supported by her talented niece, Olivia, an air of uncertainty hovered over the Drayton Pottery. Could two lone women really keep it going? The scepticism of rival potters seemed to be spreading insidiously. Some regular clients were hesitating before renewing orders, or were reducing the size of them for fear of delayed production and ordering the balance from elsewhere as a precautionary measure.
Damn them, thought Meg. Damn the lot of them. M’s Amelia and M’s Olivia were as good as any men and a great deal better than some. And when Master Kendall’s new grinding wheel was ready, what a surprise everyone would get and how jealous other potters would be when they saw Drayton’s new white stoneware — finer and whiter than any stoneware yet produced throughout the potteries!
But that must remain a well-kept secret as yet, the Master Potter’s widow had warned her. Proud to be so trusted, Meg’s lips were sealed. If there was one thing life had taught her, it was to keep silent when silence was needed.
She was surprised when, despite her efforts to think of other things, the recollection of the stranger at the gates thrust itself back into her mind. What was it about him that made her feel uneasy? Why should he seem like a disturbing echo from the past? She wished she had been close enough to see his face because faces revealed so much.
Thrusting the thought aside she set her wheel spinning and, turning tool poised above an upturned pot, began to create a foot by placing the point of her tool dead centre and peeling away thin ribbons of moist clay until the width and depth of the rim were defined, then she repeated the process by working from the outside until the ring stood up clearly. She did it speedily and expertly, assessing the thickness and the strength required for a pot of this particular size and weight.
She had spent the major part of her life as a turner and her work was faultless. Some said she could do it in her sleep. Certainly she could let her mind wander while her hands automatically continued their delicate work, and it wandered now to the unknown gentleman whose face she had not seen but who filled her, illogically, with apprehension.
Above the quiet hum of kick-wheels and the rhythmic throb of the treadles, she heard, through the open window, the grind of retreating carriage wheels. So the vehicle was moving on, for which she was obscurely thankful. But still the man’s identity troubled her and the chill remained.
*
Ten years. In all that time he hadn’t seen Burslem, nor thought about it much. Nor had he been in any hurry to return. It had taken more than the bequest of Carrion House to bring him back. Though the legacy had been unexpected and property was always worth owning, it was neither so grand nor so vast as the inheritance he had always hankered after and which, after Olivia’s extraordinary but gratifying rejection of it, he had confidently assumed would be his.
Of course, it was reassuring to know that his doting mother had kept her eye on Carrion House during his prolonged absence. That meant it would be in good shape — as good as when his pretty aunt had restored it at enormous expense. Her estranged husband’s expense, of course. That was the way Phoebe did things. She had always known how to make the most of other people’s money without squandering her own; how to extract every possible penny out of the Freemans. And other things. Like the rubies.
But he rarely thought about the rubies, useful though they had been to him. Just occasionally he would take the last remaining one from a well-concealed inner pocket, admire its rich colour and fine gold setting, and ponder on whether to have it mounted in a ring or made into a fob to hang from a quizzing glass. No matter. There was no hurry.
He had always intended to come home, of course, but not until his pursuit of Damian Fletcher’s wife had ceased to be a juicy scandal in Burslem and local tongues stopped wagging. And everything had gone so well for him from the moment he stepped on American shores that he had settled there contentedly. As expected, he had impressed her wealthy family with his air of good breeding, though their underlying hostility because he was English proved an unexpected obstacle, and one he never fully overcame. Of English origin themselves, after five generations of colonial life the Hopkeys no longer identified with what had once been their mother country. The War of Independence had alienated them further, expanding the barrier which, to his surprise, Caroline herself seemed unwilling to surmount, for the divorce he had expected her to seek had never been sought, though she was willing, when the mood took her, to continue their liaison.
It had not taken him long to realize that Caroline’s sexual appetite was whetted more by illicit love than by a marital union blessed by God, a fact he should have recognized in those long-ago days in Burslem when she had given her body to him any time, anywhere. Hay-rick, meadow, the back room of an inn, any secret place had sufficed — with the exception of the Carrion garden house, from which she had fled after they once made love there. ‘If you had told me your father’s dead body had been found on that couch,’ she had reproached him much later, emphasizing her words with a shudder, ‘I would never have gone near the place!’
Prior to that, deceiving her husband had added as much zest to her passion as it had to his.
‘And I suppose it would be the same were you married to me,’ he had accused before their affair finally ended in Savannah. ‘You would deceive any husband you had, and enjoy it.’
‘Why not? It adds spice to life.’
‘So that’s why you’re in no hurry to be free? You like having the status of a married woman so long as a husband isn’t around to restrict you.’
‘Again, why not? It’s good this way, Lionel! Let’s not change things.’
To this tune their see-saw affair had proceeded while her family now held themselves aloof, plainly suspicious, plainly disapproving, but unable to control their wayward daughter.
‘I’m not a young miss!’ she would declare in the face of their protests. ‘I don’t have to live with my parents any more, but I thought you’d be happy to have me back. You did your best to make me give up Damian, but now I have left him and returned to the fold, you are still displeased!’
That had amused him. No family fold could ever have penned the wayward Caroline, so adept at flaunting her independence. She was equally adept at displaying indifference if a lover became too possessive. She was like quicksilver; volatile, emotional, petulant — and eventually a bore.
But she didn’t become a bore until he began to realize that the Hopkeys’ business was on the decline, that the War of Independence was hitting them financially because fewer and fewer clients could afford their costly legal representation. Once her eminent grandfather died the practice began to ebb away. William Hopkey had been not only Savannah’s Chief Magistrate, but its most famous lawyer. His sons, however, failed to match his success. Signs of deteriorating wealth gradually became inescapable, and it was then that the affair with Caroline began to lose its attraction. He had moved on quickly, taking what he wanted from life as he had always done, retreating from entanglements and avoiding responsibilities, constantly seeking safety as the tide of political upheaval in the Colonies swept him on.
And now — here he was, home again in the year 1781, with no obligations, no family, no children, no ties, no worries, and no angry women following in his wake. Oh yes, he had been wise to turn his back on the lovely Caroline, and it amused him to think that Damian Fletcher was still not rid of her, which meant that after all these years Cousin Olivia was still living with the man without the Church’s blessing.
What DO you think the wretched girl has done now? his mother had written at the time. Packed a bag and moved in with the village blacksmith! Imagine leaving Tremain Hall for a farrier’s humble cottage, but that is what she has done without a pang of conscien
ce. You had scarce left Burslem and her poor murdered mother was scarce cold in her grave before she upped and went. Brazen, as always. But her grandparents — MY father and mother! — will not hear a word against her. I have always wondered why they like the girl so much. Society will have more sense, of course. She will be shunned by everyone who matters. Only rough women labourers at the pottery, those women whose level she has now sunk to, will accept her. Her poor mother would turn in her grave if she knew!
He doubted it. Phoebe, whom he had called ‘his pretty aunt’ because he knew she loved flattery, had surely become immune to the outrageous things Olivia did.
Now, thank God, he would move in and take control, appoint an experienced potter to run the place and reign supreme as his distinguished father had done before him. He would even be occupying his father’s house, in which he had entertained all the best people. He himself intended to do likewise. History was repeating itself, and very much to his liking. He was thirty-one, handsome, possessed of a fine figure and a fine wardrobe; independent of means and with more waiting to drop into his hand; self-assured and without a care in the world.
This was the way to arrive. He could not have timed it better.
*
No one could have been more surprised than Lionel when the news that he had inherited Carrion House eventually caught up with him. It had never entered his head that anyone but his aunt Phoebe’s only daughter would benefit.
He remembered that Olivia had never liked Carrion House. Even after her mother had done it up with great show and extravagance, she had still disliked it.
Restored to Phoebe’s exacting standards, the place had increased in value and, by now, would be even more acceptable. Even so, it bore no comparison to Tremain Hall and everything that went with it. All the Tremain wealth would have come to him but for that misbegotten son of his Uncle Max. The thought was as galling now as it had ever been. For this reason he had stayed away, even after his affair with Caroline Fletcher had sunk in a sea of boredom. He had had no desire to come face to face with that half-breed youth and no desire to look on while others accepted him. Nor would he acknowledge any wife he might have taken. The thought of swarthy, olive-skinned brats swarming all over Tremain Hall appalled him.
This time his mother’s summons had been imperative, not because she had grown tired of keeping an eye on Carrion House (It will be as immaculate when you return as it was when Phoebe died, I promise you, dear boy…) but because the Drayton legacy could now be fulfilled.
You have come into your own at last, my son — the Drayton Pottery is yours! Poor Martin Drayton has been thrown from the saddle — the stubborn man WOULD insist on riding there daily, despite that crippled leg of his — so when his horse tripped in a pot-hole he was unable to hold on and shot clean over the beast’s head. He died within the hour, but he had had a good life and much success so we mustn’t mourn for him. Amelia, of course, is distraught, though she will never weep in public; unlike myself, too sensitive to do otherwise…
More family oddities, he had reflected. More contrasts in character; more variations in nature and in looks. People had always been surprised to learn that Agatha and Amelia were sisters.
Martin’s will is not yet read, his mother had continued, but I am hastening this missive to you without waiting for that because whatever the will might contain can make no difference to the fact that the rule of primogeniture establishes you, by seniority, as head of the Drayton family and therefore Master of the pottery. Amelia and her children will obviously be well provided for and, no doubt, continue to live at Medlar Croft; that should appease her, and I hope cure her of the ridiculous idea that she can carry on where her husband left off. Olivia seems to have some similar notion and silly Deborah (the Kendalls’ youngest daughter, only seventeen and therefore empty-headed) actually champions them. Everyone else has more sense. There can be no such thing as a Mistress Potter. The very idea is ridiculous. Amelia will have to be content with an allowance from the family industry (it need only be modest, dear boy, depriving you of little) and Olivia must be content with her clay-working — I am confident you will make sure of that.
The crown is yours at last, my son, and will do much to compensate for your loss of Tremain. The Drayton Pottery is more prosperous than ever, exporting extensively as well as outstripping all rivals. It also supplies some of the most noble families of the realm, and what tone a man like you will add to the place! My only regret is that my news will take long to reach you and that your voyage home will be equally long. Pray book an early passage the moment you receive this. Your return is now imperative. Hurry, dear boy, hurry!
So here he was, obeying his mother’s behest at last. Throughout the years she had written her pleading letters; cajoling, begging, appealing to his good nature, reminding him that she was now ageing and utterly alone.
He had intended to go straight to Carrion House where he would no doubt find his mother. Her letters revealed that she spent endless hours there, seeing that everything was in impeccable order and chastising servants if it were not. Knowing her well, he had not let her know the exact date of his arrival, thus delaying a reunion which would consist of cloying embraces and tears and endless questions while he struggled to hide his displeasure over her appearance, which had no doubt become gross with the years. Apart from himself, food had been her main joy in life, and in his absence self-indulgence had doubtless become dominant.
He had half-expected to see her on the dockside, for he wouldn’t have put it past her to take lodgings in Liverpool and to drive to the quay daily, watching for every ship that berthed and hoping against hope that he might have availed himself of any suddenly cancelled booking rather than wait for the costly reservation he had made — though she should have known him better than that. No substitute accommodation for him! Not even for something so important as claiming the Drayton Pottery would he discomfort himself to that extent. The place would still be there and would still be his, no matter when he arrived.
His relief had been great when he saw no sign of his mother, as a result of which he had been able to spend an enjoyable night at the best inn Liverpool had to offer and to hire this elegant cabriolet for the rest of the journey next day. (There had been an obliging chambermaid to warm his loins in the night.) Tomorrow he would see about purchasing some smart vehicles of his own — a curricle for local travel and a britzka or dormeuse for longer journeys. In England the Continental influence, particularly the French, had crept into carriage design, or so he had heard. As soon as possible he would journey to Stoke in search of a good coach-builder. Money, thank God, would be no object now.
In the midst of these pleasant thoughts en route for Burslem, he had realized that he was driving through the outskirts of the village and was astonished to see how vastly it had grown. Scattered country cottages were now surrounded by industrial buildings as well as potteries, though the huge bottle ovens were still predominant. One imposing entrance was spanned by a magnificent arch of wrought iron, with the name FLETCHER’S FORGE emblazoned on it. Good God, surely this wasn’t Damian Fletcher’s place? Surely the man couldn’t have progressed from being a humble farrier to anything so prosperous as this? But apparently he had, for a sign displayed the proprietor’s name and the location of an additional establishment at Tunstall.
The entrance before him opened on to an immense yard, flanked on three sides by a range of stone buildings from where the clang of metal and the roar of furnaces confirmed that the place was a hive of industry. He resisted the temptation to halt his driver because the last thing he wanted was to attract attention from the team of workers in the yard. Instead, he ordered the man to drive faster unless he wanted to forfeit a portion of his fee. Threats to withhold money always worked. He had leaned back complacently as the man obeyed, then rapped out a command to stop when the gates of the Drayton Pottery loomed ahead.
They were handsome gates and he remembered them well. They were the first commissioned wroug
ht ironwork Caroline’s husband had produced, marking his advance from farrier to blacksmith, but his humble trade had shamed the rich Savannah belle. To her, it marked his descent from scholar to labourer, so small wonder she had been ready to tumble into bed with another man. Lionel had sensed this very quickly and, as quickly, taken advantage of it.
He now wondered how she would feel were she to learn how prosperous her husband had become. It would be amusing to let her know, amusing to be instrumental in bringing her back. Hot on the scent of money as she always was, she would pursue it without hesitation. He could visualize her arriving unexpectedly on her rich husband’s doorstep, to the humiliation of dear cousin Olivia. How he would enjoy that! It would pay her back, after all these years, for the humiliation she had administered to himself on the night of his coming-of-age celebrations, causing him to return to the ballroom bearing the mark of Cain on his face. It was never too late for revenge; one had only to await the opportunity.
Idly, he noticed a woman drinking from a pump in the middle of the potters’ yard. A striking woman; not young, but erect and shapely. He was too far away to see her features clearly, so leaned from the window to take a closer look, though it was insufficient to gain more than an impression of handsome features and black hair streaked prematurely with silver.
The woman wore the traditional potter’s slop, typifying her worker’s rank. She paused, holding the chained iron cup while levelling a searching glance at him, then dropping the cup before crossing to a nearby shed. The turners’ shed, wasn’t it? It was so long since he had visited the Drayton Pottery that he scarcely remembered the layout of the place; indeed, he had paid little attention to it in the past, never having been interested in such a grubby trade. Dirt and mud and dust and chaff had never been to his taste, and his Uncle Martin’s stipulation that if he ever hoped to earn a share in the family industry he would have to soil his hands with it, had been resolutely dismissed.