by Rona Randall
‘The invitation is for three days hence.’
So soon! Deborah felt a tremor of excitement. So soon she would see him again, her sophisticated cousin who had looked at her in such a way that she had felt colour surge to her face and knew that he had noticed it.
‘I suppose everyone will be there.’ She forced a casual note into her voice, though she felt far from casual. ‘Aunt Agatha and Uncle Max and Miguel, too. And Amelia and Olivia and Damian, of course. And I shall happily wear my blue velvet, Mama, for though it may not be new to the family, it will be new to Lionel…’
‘And is that so important?’ A searching glance accompanied her mother’s question. Receiving no reply, and detecting a faint colour in the girl’s cheeks, Jessica Kendall said no more.
*
It was not a family supper party, after all. Scarcely a local dignitary had been overlooked, scarcely a title or a prominent name; not an overcrowded guest list, but an impressive one.
A long table spanned the full length of the hall, with another across its head. Silver and crystal sparkled beneath hundreds of candles set in glittering chandeliers, with more in silver candelabra at intervals along the tables. Flowers, plainly ordered from one of Staffordshire’s leading horticulturists since the Carrion hothouses were not yet restocked, provided great masses of colour on a background of spotless napery.
Jessica Kendall wondered whether the place had looked like this for her twin sister’s wedding breakfast, and thought it very likely since Joseph had been determined to draw attention to his own success. She recalled how proud he had been of this spacious hall, which forever after he had referred to as ‘the banqueting hall’, but no amount of refurbishing and decoration had changed Jessica’s personal reaction to it. Nor to the house itself. Carrion House was a place she disliked.
Entering now at her husband’s side, she slipped an arm through his and felt a welcome pressure as he drew it closer. Fleetingly, she glanced up and saw his gentle, understanding smile. He was reading her mind, as always. There was no need for words; no need to whisper ‘Do you remember?’ How could either of them forget a past that had shaped their life together?
‘You look very beautiful tonight,’ he said, ‘but then, you always do. That’s one of my favourite gowns.’
‘And that’s why I chose it, my love.’
Her open mantua, revealing pearl-embroidered petticoats, was trimmed with lace-edged gauze ruffles on the sleeves, and a matching neck frill formed an upstanding Medici collar to frame a still lovely neck and bosom. She wore the gown well because she carried herself well. Across her high brow she wore a ferronière set with pearls and moonstones, an adornment few women could do justice to but which Jessica’s classical features displayed to perfection.
Behind them came Deborah, bare shoulders rising from the deep neckline of her blue velvet gown, with its top skirt looped up in polonaise style to reveal the second embroidered layer beneath, and her hair shining like polished copper under the glittering chandeliers. Unlike most young women of her age, she wore no adornment. ‘I feel cluttered!’ she had exclaimed when dressed for her first ball, and had promptly discarded the tiered necklace of peridots which her sister Elizabeth had insisted she should wear. Even a jewelled Glauvina pin for her hair, with its knot of upstanding feathers, had been cast aside with the protest that it not only made her look like a turkey-cock, but would surely be lost in the first Roger de Coverley.
‘How can I romp in the dance with that thing on my head?’
At that, both sisters had been aghast. ‘You must not romp!’ Elizabeth had admonished. ‘You must dance delicately and sedately! You cannot remain a hoyden for ever, little sister. As for wearing no adornments, have you ever seen Penelope or myself go unbejewelled to a formal social event?’
‘But both of you wear jewellery well. On me, it looks fussy and overdone.’ Decisive as ever, Deborah had had her way — and very lovely had she looked as a result, both then and now. Her mother was gratified because her youngest child showed so much common sense and hoped this same faculty would stand her in good stead always.
Jessica hoped for this even more when she saw her nephew’s seating arrangements. She herself was on his right at the top table, with Deborah on his left — a gesture so marked that not an ambitious mama in the place could fail to notice it.
Simon was placed a few feet away from Jessica, a natural arrangement since to seat husband and wife together was not customary. But where was Lionel’s mother? Jessica was about to remark on her sister-in-law’s absence when Deborah forestalled her.
‘Where is Aunt Agatha?’ she asked as Lionel seated her. ‘Surely she should be seated beside you, Cousin?’
‘Alas, my poor mother is indisposed.’ The regret in his eyes conveyed genuine disappointment.
‘Then what of Uncle Max and Miguel? I can see no sign of either.’
‘For the simple reason that they too are absent. You are no doubt aware that our uncle’s physical condition keeps him very much at home. I doubt if he could get through a long social evening without fatigue.’
‘And Miguel?’
Shrugging, Lionel said, ‘He declined.’
‘I’m disappointed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think he has little social life, up there at the Hall.’
‘Then he should have accepted my invitation.’
‘He’s shy.’
‘You seem to know him well.’
‘We all know him well. But what of Aunt Amelia and Olivia and Damian? They seem to be absent, too.’
‘I gather that dear Amelia has turned her back on a social life since her husband’s death, and far be it from me to try to dissuade her until the requisite period of mourning has passed. Indeed, I was surprised to find her still working at the pottery.’
‘The pottery is her salvation and we are glad for her to have it.’ Glancing round the glittering room Deborah added, ‘I see no sign of Olivia and Damian.’
‘I understand he is in Tunstall.’
‘Not now. I saw him in Burslem only today.’
‘I was unaware of that, otherwise I would have had a joint invitation sent to them. Naturally, one could not be sent to Olivia alone. I imagine she would avoid attending any function without him.’ Lionel smiled his amiable, attractive smile. ‘Their union, I gather, is as strong as if they were married.’
‘In everyone’s eyes they are married.’
‘What a forthright young woman you are!’
Deborah laughed. ‘So people tell me. I suppose I should try to remedy such a fault.’
‘Pray don’t. I would have nothing about you changed in any way.’
Jessica listened, quelling uneasiness. It was the first time she had met her nephew for many years and she was startled not only by the physical resemblance to her elder brother, but by the personality resemblance also. Lionel lacked Joseph’s authoritative air, but equalled him in self-confidence. And in plausibility, too? His reasons for failing to invite the others seemed sound enough, but were they true? And did her daughter’s observations indicate that she, too, was troubled? If so, then there was no need to fear for her susceptibility.
But as the evening advanced and course followed course and an atmosphere of enjoyment testified to the success of the evening, Deborah seemed to be slowly captivated by Lionel’s personality — and no one knew better than her mother how easily a young and trusting girl could be trapped by a man’s charm.
At length, Jessica caught her husband’s eye. He was in conversation with his neighbour, but read her message. How soon would they be able to leave? The lavish meal was over, people were now lingering over their wine and, in the absence of a hostess, waiting for their host to rise and bow to the lady on his right who happened, tonight, to be his nearest female relative — his father’s sister and his eldest aunt. In that respect his seating had been correct, but the placing of her daughter on his left had not been a matter of etiquette, but of choice — a signif
icant choice, everyone must be thinking, especially now that he was making no effort to indicate that it was time for the ladies to withdraw.
His whole attention was focused on Deborah, from whom he plainly had no wish to part. He was enjoying her conversation, teasing her with his smile, sending unspoken messages with his eyes, obviously resolved not to part from her until it was absolutely necessary. And Deborah seemed to be enjoying every moment.
I never did like this house, Jessica thought unhappily, but her calm, serene face betrayed nothing, though, even while she talked to the neighbour on her right, snatches of conversation came to her from the left. Suddenly her attention was sharpened by a remark of her nephew’s.
‘You have no need to be concerned about Amelia. She will recover from distress, in time. The best thing she can do is to retire and I intend to advise it. At her age, she deserves to take life easily and the pottery will provide for her amply.’
‘Retire!’ Deborah gasped. ‘Aunt Amelia? She would hate that!’
‘On the contrary, I suspect she might find the idea attractive. She voiced no objection when I hinted at it.’
‘And why did you do that?’
‘Because it distresses me to see a woman of her age working too hard, but far be it from me to coerce her — she will leave only when she is ready.’
‘But they are to run the pottery together, she and Olivia. They need each other’s support.’
‘The only support any woman needs is a man’s. Dear Deborah, the potteries are not a woman’s world.’
‘They are going to be mine! Mama —’ Deborah leaned across, attracting her mother’s attention — ‘Lionel is telling me unbelievable things —’
‘— but true ones, Cousin. The only unbelievable thing is that a young lady like you can even think of becoming involved in so masculine a place as a pottery. And in what possible way, I wonder?’
Deborah’s cheeks were now pink from annoyance, or response to his interest?’
‘I will reveal that only to Amelia and Olivia,’ she stated.
‘No. To me. I am head of the Drayton Pottery now.’
Glancing from one surprised face to the other he continued, ‘Surely you know that? Surely the whole of Burslem knows it? Amelia and Olivia have held the fort admirably, or as admirably as any women could, but they are now to be freed from all responsibility. You must come to me with any whim you may have, dear Deborah, and I will listen with pleasure.’
‘It is no whim.’
She sounded downcast. He took hold of her hand and said comfortingly, ‘Then I shall listen with the fullest attention.’
But his eyes promised a great deal more.
Chapter 7
Olivia was in bed when Damian returned from Stoke. One glance at his face confirmed her fears.
‘We can do nothing,’ he told her. ‘Martin’s will was unsigned. It was prepared and waiting for his signature the next day. Whittaker is willing to confirm what Martin had in mind, to any near relative entitled to know, though should anyone try to carry out his wishes, others could successfully prevent it.’
‘Meaning Lionel.’
‘Who else? The facts are exactly as he claims and cannot be ignored.’
‘But the heritrix clause which applied to Grandmother Charlotte was broken, and was then to be restored in favour of myself, had I agreed. So why can’t Lionel’s claim be overturned?’
‘Because in the case of Tremain the circumstances were different. If Amelia wants to fight, she can do little. She can only console herself with the thought that her son will eventually inherit.’
‘And that will happen only if Lionel Drayton dies without leaving sons of his own, or is somehow dethroned. The first is unlikely and the second seems impossible. In any case, all the fight has gone out of Amelia.’
‘But she’s courageous. She will rally. Meanwhile, I shall be behind both of you, whatever you choose to do. I have never liked that cousin of yours, not because of his affair with Caroline — I had reason to be grateful for that! — but because of his attitude to you. Do you remember the days when I used to shoe the Tremain horses? You would linger in the stables to watch me. It was then that I noticed how often he followed you and the way he looked at you, and I knew full well what he wanted and, being the kind of man he was (and no doubt still is), believed he had every right to take.’
‘Lionel believed that of any woman, and was rarely discouraged.’
‘Except by you. Long ago as it was, I remember the night of his coming-of-age celebrations and how you arrived on my doorstep, your hair streaming in the rain. I guessed you had ridden off in a rage to escape from someone, and whom.’
‘And what a sight I looked! While you re-shod Corporal I tried to clean myself up —’
‘— and failed. I think I fell in love with you that night. Certainly I became really aware of you for the first time.’
‘I wish I’d known. I’d been in love with you for so long!’ As he stooped over the bed and gathered her up, she returned his embrace with a love that had not diminished throughout the years. Then, firmly detaching herself, she said, ‘Enough of ourselves! We must concentrate on Amelia. If I were to find it intolerable to work for Lionel, I would still remain at the pottery because she needs my support. She’s convinced that he’s bent on getting rid of her.’
‘And it seems she’s right. I called at Ashburton on my way back and learned that the Kendalls had already got wind of what was afoot. They supped at Carrion House last night and Lionel admitted that he thinks Amelia should retire. Si and Jessica are both indignant about it, but Deborah is trying not to be. She even struggled to defend him, saying he was surely prompted by kindly concern.’
‘How gullible one can be at seventeen!’
‘At least her parents are alert to the situation, and, because of the water-driven mill Simon is building for the benefit of Drayton’s, he will be keeping a watching brief. I can’t see a man like Si Kendall being willing to trade with an inefficient potter, and I can’t see one who lacks expertise being anything else. I expect Lionel’s aim will be to put an experienced man in charge, and with so many potters struggling to make a living singly, he will easily find one eager to work for a well-established pot bank. That should prevent him from making too many mistakes.’
‘He has made one already. He’s closing the museum.’
‘And when was that announced?’ Damian asked, preparing for bed.
‘After you’d gone to Stoke. Everything is to be immediately packed away or disposed of because that impressive room is again to be the Master Potter’s office. Where the exhibits are to be stored, I can’t think. Every shed at the pottery is in use. Martin was planning to install a cellar similar to a pump room Simon built for one of the Tremain mines at Spen Green. They had discussed it at length and Simon had produced plans, together with detailed precautions against seepage from the canal. We all know how coal pits near inland waters can be subject to flooding; those at Spen were often so until the Kendall pump was installed. But a pottery, being above ground, would be at less risk. Even so, a cellar near a canal would need good fortification. In the end, Martin abandoned the scheme, so there isn’t even a good dry cellar in which to store Amelia’s collection. If only Lionel would give her more time, but no, the room must be cleared immediately!’
Olivia sighed, yawned, and nestled close to Damian when he joined her. Her restless stirrings brought his arms close about her. ‘Be still, my love…and don’t worry…we will find somewhere to house Amelia’s treasures.’
Olivia sighed. ‘But where?’
‘At the forge, but not as part of it. There is a roomy building near the entrance, at present used for storing scrap, but it could be utilized for something better.’
‘I thought you planned to use that for displaying finished ironwork?’
‘So I did, but as fast as things are made, they are sold, so I have never been able to accumulate enough for a display. In any case, there is enough space on
the site to erect further outbuildings, as and when needed. I bought the adjoining land with expansion in mind. Housing Amelia’s museum won’t be an encroachment. It will be entirely separate. I’ll have a sign put up, the name emblazoned, and an arrow pointing the way.’
‘Wonderful! Damian, I love you!’
His lips silenced her. Their senses stirred, gathered momentum and finally merged. It was the never-ending miracle of their lives, eternally renewable. It was the rhythmic, recurrent pulse of their union, unthreatened by staleness, and the peace and tranquillity it brought lingered with her even as she set out for the pottery next morning — until she walked into the modelling shed and knew at once that something was wrong. The faces of her work team and the way in which they looked at her — silently, uneasily — told her so.
‘What has happened?’ she asked, and when no one answered she added, ‘Don’t be afraid to confess if something is smashed. Accidents happen.’
One of the senior modellers then spoke up.
‘’T’were in the firing, M’s ’Livia. Your statue of Minerva for that London gallery — blown up, along with others. More than a dozen statuettes so far and an even bigger number of wildlife models for the same gallery — all gone. What caused it, nobody knows, but everything near it was smashed.’
And even beyond, Olivia knew. Hurtling fragments of exploding pottery could reach even distant parts of a kiln, ruining a whole consignment no matter how carefully stacked. Most firings had a percentage of rejections caused by such hazards as uneven glaze reactions, but such pieces could sometimes be reglazed and refired, whereas flaws such as crawling or blistering, due to bad positioning or too heavy an application of glaze, could never be overcome. Even so, these items could still be disposed of to market dealers who were glad of them to sell cheaply.