Lost now in work, time sped. The children played on. From the worksheds came the rhythmic throb of kickwheels and the steady wham of wedging and the voices of workers shouting above the noise and, since every kiln was firing today, a distant roar of surging fires. Dragon fires, Olivia called them. But Amelia heard nothing, lost in a world inhabited by people she had never known, enthralled by simple lives dedicated to honest toil. Soon she would reach the period of her own childhood, for now there were references to the birth of George Drayton’s son, Joseph, whose mother thought him the most handsome child she had ever borne. ‘He seems no bonnier than the rest, to me,’ recorded George Drayton, ‘though I concede he is the sturdiest.’
Then a later and sadder reference to Martin’s birth, written in a feminine hand. ‘Alas, it is a shock to see a small limb so sadly deformed, one leg being shorter than the other. I wept when I saw it, but Joseph laughed and likened it to a freak at a fair, asking if it would have to hop instead of walk. I felt it wrong of dear George to be angry with the boy for saying such a thing, which was never meant unkindly. Dear Joseph has an enquiring mind, but not a scrap of cruelty in his nature.’
Her vision blurred. She thrust the paper aside and reached blindly for another, her fingers landing on a small sheaf, rolled and tied with tape. Not love letters bound sentimentally with ribbon, but pages written in strong handwriting which immediately banished her tears for she recognised it as Martin’s and whatever her husband had to say was of greater interest to her than any.
The pages spanned a period of time which she remembered well, starting when he was barely eighteen and nearing the end of a five years’ apprenticeship to his brother.
‘Barely one more year to go,’ he wrote, ‘but still I spend my time at the throwing wheel, cheated out of glazing and firing and other skills necessary to qualify fully as a potter. Jessica swears that Joseph has marked me down as a thrower for ever, but surely not even he would deny me my Drayton rights, a partnership in the family concern? But unless I graduate properly, that will never be mine.’
And later: ‘Today I saw dear Amelia. I think I am in love with her. I know I am in love with her, but I am afraid she would laugh if she knew. Everyone looks on me as a cripple, though I am far from being one. A cripple wouldn’t be much of a catch for a girl who could have her pick of any man in the county.’
Smiles then mixed with tears, tenderness with pity, though never in her life had she known anyone who needed pity less than Martin. He had always been so self-reliant and seemingly unselfconscious about his deformity that she too was unaware of it whenever she was with him. As for other men, not even in the flightiest period of her girlhood, just after she emerged from the schoolroom, had she enjoyed the company of any man so much as his, nor wanted any man so much as he.
But later notes were startling.
‘On walking into Joseph’s office with the glaze analysis I needed to support my suspicions — though not, alas, to prove them — I was surprised to find Max Freeman breaking into the old family desk. When I asked what he was searching for he merely replied, “Something that is rightfully mine … ”
‘I didn’t pursue the matter because my attention was distracted by a small package falling to the floor and spilling a white substance on the red Turkey carpet. Max tried to obliterate it with his foot, making some remark about not drawing attention to the rifled drawers until he had had time to escape, and so saying he made off with some papers and I scarcely heeded him because I knew instinctively, even before I picked up the package, what the powder was and why it had been locked away. Also for what it had been used.
‘Only with a high lead content had that brilliant gloss on my father’s platter and beaker been achieved — the crocks he had been eating and drinking from for a long time and which Joseph had personally glazed. But I have only suspicions; dreadful suspicions made worse by the fact that Joseph’s passion for economy has ruled that such a costly commodity as lead shall not be used in glazing the homely earthenware now produced at Drayton’s. Mass production of household crocks and no frivolities is the policy since he became Master Potter here, so if anyone wanted to produce a high glaze they would be unable to, for only Joseph can order materials, whether the amounts be large or small.
‘So why was one small package of white lead purchased and why concealed in his desk? I will face him with the question, of course, though doing so will achieve nothing. I can produce the fragments of glaze I scraped from the pots and the analysis I’ve had done, but how can I prove that the excessive amount of lead was used with ill intent? And why should I believe it harmful? As yet, there is no medical evidence that lead glazing can be dangerous, so how can I prove that it is? That is the challenge Joseph will hurl at me with his customary contempt.’
A sound intruded; a voice from the door.
‘The children are enjoying themselves mightily outside. Am I to take it that today is a holiday, or have you forgotten to call them in? If so, it is unlike you, Mistress Drayton.’
Amelia spun round.
‘And forgetfulness is also unlike you, Mr Fletcher. Two or three days to journey to Liverpool and back is understandable; more than two weeks, unexpected. Even more so is a forgotten promise to renew your teaching on return.’ Her smile belied the sternness of her words, for she was glad to see him.
‘You are quite right,’ he answered, offering neither apology nor explanation. How could he tell her that since Caroline’s arrival the world had narrowed down to her alone and all his old obsession for her had been renewed? He had even regarded her mountain of expensive luggage with indulgence, sparing no thought for where or how such an extensive wardrobe would be accommodated in their tiny home, about which he had been apprehensive until she saw it. In comparison with her background, he had feared the place might seem a hovel, but she had been enchanted.
‘It’s a doll’s house!’ she had cried, delighted as a child with a new toy. She loved the diamond-paned windows and the thatched roof and the walls of Derbyshire stone which he had laboriously cleaned down in preparation for her coming. And all the effort he had put into it, the hours spent in gardening and decorating so that the place would look at its best, had proved worthwhile.
Then came the first surprise.
‘And now show me where we are going to live,’ she said, and with a shock he realised she had mistaken the cottage for a gate-keeper’s lodge. ‘Like the one at Tremain Hall,’ she said, and he found it so difficult to tell her that his cottage was the only property he owned that it didn’t occur to him to wonder, until later, how she knew Tremain Hall had a gate-keeper’s lodge, or even how she came to know about the place at all.
He was touched by the way in which she accepted the news that this was actually their home. Her smile was sweet and brave, which somehow made him feel he should beg forgiveness, but all he said was, ‘I did tell you it was only a cottage, dear heart.’
‘Indeed you did, but naturally I expected something like my father’s country place back home.’
‘Seven bedrooms and spacious living rooms, called a cottage because of its rustic setting! A euphemism, if ever there was one. This is an English cottage, which means exactly what it says. I warned you that it was modest and that it was all my parents had to leave me. But it is a home, and the important thing is that we’re together again.’
At that she had flung herself upon him, declaring he was right, and he had carried her across the threshold and straight upstairs to the bedroom and made love to her, their senses so starved for each other that time was forgotten. In her capacity for physical love Caroline was as ardent as ever, almost purring like a contented cat when finally satiated.
The euphoria lasted three days. At the end of that time a carrier arrived from Liverpool with her basket trunks, which had been too big and too numerous to be transported in Damian’s modest gig. When Caroline had declared that he must buy something bigger and better and waste no time about it, he had said nothing.
; She swooped on her luggage, flinging lids wide and scattering clothes about the bedroom until it resembled nothing so much as a ladies’ dress salon. And there were two more trunks yet to be opened.
She stood back and surveyed it all.
‘Where can I possibly hang everything? There’s a terrible lack of closets. You must hire someone to build more immediately. Surely there is a carpenter in Burslem who can do it without delay?’
When he told her he would give his evenings to the work and that meanwhile she would have to leave as much as possible in the basket trunks, she declared she was in no mood for jest, and when he assured her it was not jest, but common sense, she stamped her foot in a way which had once seemed endearing but now seemed merely petulant.
‘Everything will be ruined!’ she protested. ‘They will emerge a mass of creases and there doesn’t seem to be anyone to launder and press them. I must have a maid, and the sooner the better. I have always had a maid.’
‘Servants costs money, besides which we’ve no room for them.’
‘Then I’ll tolerate a daily maid until we find a bigger house. As for building closets yourself, my darling, you are a scholar, not an artisan.’
‘I am a blacksmith, sufficiently adept with tools to become a handyman if need be. And there is a need. A financial one.’
Her mouth drooped.
‘I shall never understand why you stoop to such work when you are well qualified academically.’
To that he patiently explained that without faultless testimonials he could never hope to get another scholastic post. ‘Even here, across the Atlantic, my prison record could be traced.’
She shuddered at that and said unhappily, ‘I thought no one here could possibly find out, that we would be making a fresh start.’
‘We are making a fresh start, and no one can jeopardise it but ourselves. That means accepting past events, but not ruining the present by dwelling on them, nor by trying to conceal the truth if we are ever faced with it.’
‘But surely you won’t tell people about — things?’
He had answered bitterly. ‘You mean about my being an exconvict? I never talk about it, but if the truth came out I wouldn’t deny it.’ At that he had broken off, remembering that he had told one person — Olivia Freeman — but had added no details. Characteristically, she hadn’t asked for them. Olivia never probed.
Later on, Caroline had said thoughtfully, ‘This living room is cluttered with shelves. If we got rid of them we would have more floor space. At least another twelve inches from every wall.’
‘And my books?’
‘You could store them, as I have to store my lovely clothes. You could stack them in that forge of yours.’
He gently pointed out that her clothes wouldn’t deteriorate in this warm, dry cottage as books would in a workshop where dirt and dust prevailed.
‘Then pack them in boxes.’
‘That would be little protection. Dirt and dust penetrate. And some of my books are valuable, with precious bindings.’
‘You mean they are worth a lot of money? Then why not sell them?’
‘Because they are precious to me.’
‘If I were precious to you, you would sell them. If we need money the way you say we do, you would certainly sell them. You are always saying we need money. How lucky that I have some of my own!’
He was aware that she had arrived well provided for and that there was a bottomless financial well on which she could draw. He didn’t like it, but was in no position to protest, so he ignored the last remark and said, ‘You know I love you. I’ve done so since the first moment I saw you. As for money, I am earning more now than when I started as a farrier.’
‘Shoeing horses! You never told me about that!’
‘Because I thought it might distress you. Even turn you against me.’
‘Oh, my darling, no!’
He had seized her out-thrust hands and clung to them.
‘I was penniless, Caroline. I had to earn money somehow. I counted myself lucky to have a roof over my head and was — still am — grateful to the prison warden for giving me a chance to learn a trade.’
Her hands withdrew.
‘I don’t want to hear about that. I don’t want to talk about those days. It was bad enough, having to live through them, bearing the shame of what you had done.’
‘I did nothing shameful, unless meting out justice, defending the weak, is shameful.’
‘My family didn’t see it that way. My father said — ’
‘I can imagine what your father said. Your grandfather, too. Also what they said and thought when I escaped to England. “Good riddance!” Is that what they said, confident that you would never see me again? But I saw you just once before I left. You didn’t see me, of course. I hid in the garden and saw the whole scene; your birthday party, the gaiety, the luxury, and you dancing with a Redcoat officer. You were smiling up at him, I remember. You looked very happy.’
That startled her. ‘I was putting a brave face on things. What else could I do?’
‘I didn’t condemn you. I’ve never done that. I was desperate for one last glimpse of you before heading for the ship, risking everything to bring you a birthday gift.’
Her lovely eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Damian, how sweet of you! I hope you kept it. May I have it now?’
‘It was a poor thing. I threw it away. But, as you say, we won’t talk about those days again. And now I must get to work. I am behind, as it is.’
‘Because I hinder you? Is that what you mean?’
She tossed her lovely head and sunlight danced on her Titian hair. Her beauty made him catch his breath; cheekbone and chin seemingly sculptured by the hand of genius, eyes large and luminous and wondrously blue, mouth soft and ever-inviting, and her body … He knew what that was like beneath her elegant clothes and that the warm sweetness of it, the heat of its desire, was his for the asking, any time, any place. The abandonment of her and her delight in bodily love were exclusively for him and he adored her for it.
So passed the first few days of their reunion. Sometimes they were like strangers, getting to know each other, and sometimes like lovers who had never been parted. Every difficult or uneasy moment was healed in the warmth of their bed, and when she chafed — as she began to very quickly — against what she called the cramped conditions of their home, he worked even harder to alleviate things. His forge now became a carpenter’s workshop as well. When smithing allowed a halt, construction of her closets took over. He had won in the matter of the bookshelves, which would remain undisturbed, but extra closets in their bedroom would somehow have to be accommodated, though the room would be even smaller as a result.
He needed forty-eight hours in every day, but he didn’t neglect valuable orders. The new gates for the Drayton Pottery were progressing well; with extra concentration they would be completed in record time. Consequently his wife’s closets were forced to take a back seat for the time being, but at least the basic shell of one had been started and as soon as the Drayton order was finished he promised to go back to them.
At that Caroline had demanded that he should employ someone to finish the work, threatening to see about it herself otherwise, then declaring that she didn’t mean it, of course. Even so, she had flounced away, grimacing at the dirt of the forge and declaring that she wished she hadn’t come to see how the closets were getting on. She had been tearful about it, declaring that everything was intolerable.
Distressed, he had done his best to comfort her, following her woebegone figure back to the cottage and, finding her in tears on the bed, inevitably making love to her. Once her hungry body was appeased, Caroline was always herself again.
But later he began to ponder on the reason for her eagerness to improve their home. Instinctively, he knew that extra accommodation for her clothes was not going to be enough.
The clue came next day. Returning to the cottage to change from his workaday clothes into something more suitable f
or a visit to the pottery, for his neglect of his pupils was on his mind and he was anxious to atone, he found his wife standing in the middle of the living room, looking about her in despair, all contentment gone. When he asked what was wrong, she wailed, ‘Oh Damian, my love, how we shall ever entertain in this poky place, I cannot imagine!’
He hadn’t thought about entertaining, and said so, which changed her despair to astonishment. She gasped, ‘You mean you never invite friends here?’
‘I have no friends.’ Remembering Amelia and Martin Drayton, and Olivia Freeman, he almost withdrew that statement, but Caroline forestalled him by remarking that surely he didn’t expect his wife to be so bereft?
‘I already know people here,’ she boasted. ‘Important people who will be inviting us to their home and will expect to be invited in return. How can we associate with the owners of Tremain Hall if we cannot offer hospitality in return? And how can I ever receive them in so humble a cottage as this?’
‘Tremain! We are unlikely to move in such circles. And how do you know about them?’
‘I don’t know about them. I know the son and heir.’
‘You must be mistaken.’
‘Indeed I am not. He and his son were fellow passengers on the Saracen. They were already aboard when the ship reached Georgia, taking a long voyage home.’
‘You must be mistaken. I know for a fact that Lionel Drayton has not been absent from Burslem.’
‘Lionel Drayton? And who may he be? A relation of the potting family? How can he be associated with Tremain Hall?’
‘Through his mother, who married the elder Drayton son and returned to her home when he died. Lionel Drayton is therefore Charlotte Freeman’s grandson and assured of the inheritance since Olivia begged her grandmother not to name her as heretix.’
‘And who is she?’
‘Daughter of the late Max Freeman, the rightful heir during his lifetime.’
The Potter's Niece Page 25