‘They can be rare and beautiful, Meg.’
‘Aye,’ she said abruptly. ‘But I still don’t like ’em.’
He changed the subject by remarking that, presumably, she would go back to Liverpool, and was surprised when she shook her head.
‘Don’t know as I can face it,’ she admitted. ‘Too many reminders of Frank. Too many memories. There are bad’uns here, but I can forget all of ’em except about me dear Ma, ’cos they ain’t so strong as memories of Frank.’
‘So you’ll stay? I was hoping you would. I’d like you to come back to the pottery. We’ve never had a turner to compare with you.’
She looked surprised. ‘After all these years, sir? I doubt if I’d know how to use a turning tool now.’
‘It would come back. Some things are never forgotten, like walking. Meanwhile, there’ll be a room for you at Medlar Croft, should you want it. My wife and I would welcome you.’
‘You’re kind, Master Martin. I’ve heard tell ye married Miss Amelia, and right glad I be about that. I allus liked Miss Amelia. Remember when we useter help in that shed your sister and Master Kendall set up for ye out at Cooperfield? and Master Joseph’s anger when he found out? Took vengeance, didn’t he, the b — ’ She checked. ‘Your pardon, Master Martin, I be fergettin’ mesel’, but I nivver did like Master Joseph and right glad I was when I heard you were Master Potter instead. Old Zach Dobson, the crateman, useter bring news from Burslem now and then, but t’were sometime afore we knowed your brother were dead. Was it suddenlike? I useter think he’d live for ivver.’
‘Yes, it was unexpected. He was found in his garden house, a few days after his death. The cause, unknown; the verdict, misadventure. The only thing to indicate an accident was a wound in the nape of his neck, assumed to be caused by striking his head against something sharp, like a jutting nail.’
When she made no answer he decided she had not heard him. Nor did she answer when he spoke a second time. Her thoughts had gone miles away. He said goodbye gently, and left her standing in the unkempt garden, staring into space, her face blanched white in the morning sun.
Going on his way to the pottery, he realised that the meeting with Meg had driven from his mind the recollection of last night’s Sabbath supper, which had left Amelia in unusual distress. It was unlike her to be upset by social disasters, but she had not been herself in many ways lately. This morning she had looked wan, a condition which seemed to be becoming more frequent and which he attributed to undertaking too much. ‘You must ease off, my love. Work less, delegate more … ’
But she had brushed it aside, saying it was only due to a sleepless night and that she was foolish to be upset by a guest’s misbehaviour. ‘Plainly, she is an emotional creature and we must remember she is a stranger in a strange land … ’
‘That wasn’t the only way she misbehaved.’
‘You mean with Lionel? He flirts with any pretty woman, given half a chance.’
‘She gave him more than half.’
They had said no more about Caroline Fletcher and studiously avoided any reference to Lionel’s breach of good manners in walking out of the house with another man’s wife, nor to Damian’s silent acceptance of an embarrassing situation. The evening had come to an early close.
Passing Damian’s forge now, Martin heard the clang of iron upon iron and knew he was already at work, the steady rhythm suggesting that he had been at it for a long time. How early had he risen, and had he left his beautiful wife sleeping peacefully in their bed, unrepentant but perhaps loving, atoning with affection for humiliating him? But the unrepentant never wanted to atone, and it would take more than artificial tears to heal the wound her final words had inflicted, the blame she had poured on his head for bringing her to a country in which she fared inadequately compared with her own.
More troublesome still was the feeling that an inference even more cruel had lain beneath.
To Martin’s surprise, Lionel presented himself at the pottery later that morning. Perching on the side of the big, old-fashioned desk and negligently swinging one leg, he drawled, ‘I had no opportunity to speak to you last night about my Drayton rights, so I’m seizing it now.’
‘And what do you consider them to be?’
‘The same as any male Drayton’s. It’s time I took advantage of them, and I need extra money.’
‘An apprentice’s pittance?’
‘Certainly not. A fair share, an even share … ’
‘ … which can only be achieved according to Drayton terms. Your aunt has reminded you of that.’
Lionel said dismissively, ‘Women know nothing about such things.’
‘Amelia does. She knows a great deal about the running of a pottery and even more about Drayton traditions. Let me repeat them for you. To qualify, you must be apprenticed for five years, starting at the lowest rung of all and climbing upward. That means canalside work to start with, then washing and raking and riddling clay until you have learned how to get rid of every unwanted particle. You’ll spend many weeks at that, elbow deep in mud, wet with slush, and you’ll go back to it again and again if you don’t master it properly. When you do, you will advance to the task of dividing great mounds into workable lumps, weighing them, then carting them to the wedgers’ tables. Yes, serving your social inferiors — I can see the thought in your face. Only after that will you advance to wedging, kneading masses of clay into a flawless texture, free of all air bubbles, even pin-pricks, or the throwers’ work will be wasted and the blame will be yours. What Olivia can face, you can face for greater reward than a woman achieves. The most your cousin can hope for is a top modeller’s position, but your legal rights will establish you as a partner once your apprenticeship is completed. Fulfil your part of the bargain, and I will fulfil mine.’
‘Is that all?’ Lionel asked sarcastically.
‘By no means. Women don’t have to learn how to clean and oil kick-wheels, or remove clogging clay from wheel-baths and pug-mills. You will. For this training you will receive, as I did, the apprentice’s token of six pence a week. I trust that will make the necessary difference to your fortunes, which I know to be well-funded from the Tremain side?’
Lionel laughed. ‘When you’ve finished joking, my dear uncle, I’ll listen to what you have to say.’
‘I have just said it. No Drayton qualifies for his rightful share unless he earns it, and he doesn’t earn it unless he qualifies.’
‘My father never did. He worked on the administrative side, a gentleman’s occupation.’
‘A mistake on my own father’s part, but at least he didn’t make it until Joseph had learned some of the basic principles of potting. At my father’s death the rule of primogeniture made Joseph head of the family, head of everything. Prior to that, my father needed his help and, unfortunately, Joseph was persuasive. I don’t need your help and any persuasion you try will fall on deaf ears. Take your choice. Come here on the proper terms, or not at all. And one other thing before you leave — never flirt with another man’s wife when in his presence, or when a guest in someone else’s home.’
Containing his anger, Lionel sneered, ‘Not even when they’re willing, encouraging even? The Fletcher woman expects it, and more besides. She’s ripe for any man.’
Martin stood up. ‘Have I never told you how much I dislike you, nephew? Let me tell you now. I dislike your conceit and your arrogance and your sarcastic tongue and your lack of scruples. For none of those qualities is there a place at the Drayton Pottery. Get rid of them, and I’ll draw up your indentures, though against my will for even if you improved morally you’d be useless in this establishment. Now get out.’
On his daily round of the sheds, Martin saw Olivia’s dark head stooping over her work. Dust caps irked her, so her hair hung free. In that she reminded him of Meg in the old days, and how she used to swill her hair at the village pump on her way home to the hovel down by the marlpit, arriving for work with it loose and shining the next day.
He had once seen Joseph pausing to watch her at the pump and lingering as she rinsed her shapely arms and legs, uncaring if the whole world saw her. He remembered the lustful look on his brother’s face and how, later, he had not been surprised to see the occasional flash of Meg’s red skirt appearing from the side lane to Carrion House, usually on a Sunday when the housekeeper had the afternoon off, or late at night after the staff had gone to bed. Medlar Croft being situated below Carrion House, occasional glimpses of life there were unavoidable and, as Joseph had often reminded the family, vice versa.
Martin pushed the memory aside and went across to his niece, watching as she deftly modelled fairings — tiny Staffordshire cottages, costumed figures, small pastille-burners and the like, all to be sold for a farthing at village fairs. It was not the most profitable line, but there was a demand for it and it used up surplus clay. It was also good training in hand-built ware.
‘You are doing well, Olivia. I’m pleased with you. Proud of you.’
She laughed.
‘For things like these?’
‘I admit they look better when glazed, though a glaze can’t always hide blemishes. I don’t have to examine yours to see there are no faults, but what I do see,’ he finished with a smile, ‘is that you aren’t working on any stock design at this precise moment. What have you there, Livvy?’
She held it aloft. ‘A bird. A chaffinch. A whole family of finches if you’ll agree. I know I should be producing stock fairings, but I saw a lovely chaffinch as I rode here this morning and nothing could stop me from trying to recreate it.’
He knew the feeling. He had had it as a boy, smuggling clay home to work with in an attic, away from prying eyes. Animals, wild life, flora, fauna; secretly he had worked, long after the household slept, driven by a creative urge which refused to be denied, but all had been discovered and an irate Master Potter had sentenced his models to be broken up for the slip bins, even delegating him to the task. He wasn’t going to discourage his niece’s talent as Joseph had discouraged his.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Let me have prototypes of that and other birds by the end of the week. One for every day. Seven varieties. Can you do that?’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Before we shut on Saturday night they will be on your desk.’
Her uncle couldn’t have presented her with a more effective escape from emotion. Working with mechanical precision on stock designs with which she was now well familiar, her mind would have been occupied with last night and the brief but precious time she had spent talking to Damian — a bare ten minutes when they chanced to be side by side — also with the tormenting recollection of his wife’s beauty.
That beauty had been even more than she anticipated, and it haunted her more vividly than the miniature, for the flesh and blood Caroline was radiantly alive, not a mere portrayal of delicate line and brush. A woman so lovely would be forgiven any social lapse, but Lionel’s behaviour was another matter. Olivia couldn’t imagine Damian excusing that, but she could easily imagine him forgiving his wayward wife when she gave her beautiful body to him in bed, blotting out anger and hurt and humiliation.
She was thankful that no one but she guessed the meaning behind Caroline’s final and devastating thrust; the reminder that she had followed her jailbird husband to his own country because his disgrace made life in her own impossible; that she was a loyal and long-suffering wife who had stuck by him, despite his shame. But that loyalty had not prevented her from taunting him in front of strangers. His impassive face had revealed nothing, except to Olivia, who loved him.
It revealed no more when he arrived to take his boys’ class that afternoon. They met face to face.
‘Last night, I wanted to tell you how charming you looked,’ he said. His voice was unemotional, controlled, but his words stirred her.
‘Your wife looked lovelier. She’s beautiful.’
‘Yes. Very beautiful.’ He went on his way, leaving her happy because they had exchanged a few words, but sad despite them.
Damian also welcomed work as an escape from thought. Leaving Medlar Croft last night he had found his own gig missing, confirming that Lionel Drayton had used it to convey Caroline home, leaving his mother’s driver and carriage to take her back to Tremain without him. He had guessed, correctly, that Lionel then planned to drive himself home in the Fletcher vehicle, returning it in charge of a stable hand the next day.
Damian had welcomed the walk from Medlar Croft to his own cottage. He had been glad to cool his anger in the sharp night air, and by the time he reached home he had partially succeeded. As he expected, there was no sign of his gig, but Caroline was safely back, the glow of candlelight through their bedroom window indicating that she awaited him there — asleep by now, he had no doubt. His wife had an enviable ability to reject anything disagreeable which might keep sleep at bay.
He was right. There she lay, curled up like a kitten, oblivious of the world. She was naked, her lovely limbs curved in a seductive arc, and he knew that if he slipped into bed beside her, her legs would instinctively draw him closer. Mating was a wholly animal function with Caroline, waking or sleeping. He let her sleep and turned away, stumbling over her discarded garments. They lay in a trail from the door; billowing taffeta, petticoats of lace, underwear of softest silk, but her stays had been flung onto a chair, as if she had been carrying them when she entered the room and had tossed them aside before undressing further.
The thought was disturbing. It had taken him well over an hour to walk home across the valley, and she had left with Lionel Drayton almost half an hour before that. Driving, the journey took no more than fifteen minutes — that meant a considerable time alone with the man. Damian thrust the thought aside, reminding himself that it wasn’t unusual for her to shed her clothes on the floor, stepping out of them one at a time, her stays usually last of all, and there she would let them lie for Sarah Walker to pick up next morning. Sarah was the village woman who now came to cook and clean daily, a worthy soul who was so awed by her mistress that she virtually ate out of her hand, undertaking far more than she had been employed to do and even acting as a personal maid, though rewarded only with flattering words of thanks.
He had remained beside the bed, looking down at his wife and marvelling at the serenity of her face. It had been hard to believe that he had seen it contorted with rage and that bitterness had spilled from the lovely mouth. When she wakened, she would no doubt have forgotten all about it, but he would not.
He had turned aside then, one foot tangling with her clothes. Impatiently he had picked them up, then paused. They were damp.
Not only damp, but stained with moss.
He had dropped them abruptly and spent the night in an armchair downstairs, sleeping fitfully and waking fully at the sound of distant roosters heralding the dawn. The first thing he saw was the miniature, in its usual place beside his chair. He had picked it up and studied it for a long time, marvelling that she could look such a picture of innocence. Had that redcoat officer enjoyed what he strongly suspected Lionel Drayton had enjoyed somewhere on the way home last night? There had been a possessiveness in the way that officer had held her in the dance, and something deeply personal in the way she had gazed up at him.
On that thought he had placed the miniature face down and departed early for the forge. Intermittently, as he worked, he had remembered Olivia, her face like an oval cameo framed with the darkness of her hair, the soft coral silk of her gown reflecting the faint colour in her cheeks. Olivia had the grace of quietness, and he loved her for it.
The thought had startled him; even alarmed him, for only an unwise man allowed a woman to enter his heart when another had bruised it.
*
Lionel had left the Drayton Pottery in an irate frame of mind, cursing his uncle for being such a stumbling block to his hopes. To be thwarted by tiresome and outmoded family stipulations was damnable, but there seemed no way of side-stepping them, and certainly he could dismiss the Drayton Pottery as being
a source of ready cash. His luck seemed to be out all round. But for the return of Max Freeman with his Mexican by-blow he would have had no need to appeal to Martin Drayton; funds would soon have been available from Tremain, for he had no doubt that Grandmother Charlotte would relinquish the reins before long. He could have drawn money in advance, persuading her that it was necessary. Now there seemed no other source and after last night additional funds would be badly needed. He couldn’t continue to take Caroline Fletcher to that gazebo in Tremain Park, handy though it had proved and easy of access from Medlar Croft.
It had taken only five minutes to reach Merrow’s Thicket, through which he had led her on foot, leaving the gig well concealed nearby. Far from ideal though such a place was for making love, it had sufficed for the time being. But it couldn’t continue to. He would have to find a better place than a moss-covered seat in a forgotten gazebo, for Caroline had proved to be a lusty woman with an appetite which promised more in the right setting. A warm, comfortably furnished place where they could meet regularly was the only possible answer. Not for long would she be content with less. Nor, indeed, would he.
He was jerked out of despair by the sight of Carrion House, now proudly exposed to the world through much clearance of trees. Phoebe had certainly taken her husband for a pretty penny, and was plainly continuing to. Evidence of that was in the army of workmen still about the place. What a calculating little bitch she was, his pretty aunt, and how wise he would be to keep in touch with her …
There being no time like the present, he turned into the drive and was rewarded with the welcome he expected.
‘My dear Lionel, how good of you to remember your lonely aunt!’
‘Lonely?’ he echoed after kissing her hand. ‘Surely you are now able to — entertain, shall we call it? — more easily than before?’
If she guessed his meaning, she covered it with a self-pitying sigh. ‘Alas, local society seems to be avoiding me. A woman alone is apparently not wanted. My invitations are accepted by few.’
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