‘Give them time, darling. People are no doubt wondering how they should conduct themselves socially when a husband and wife live separately, but still within the area. A tricky question of etiquette, I have no doubt. But it will resolve itself in time, especially when the world sees how magnificently you have restored this place and that you plainly don’t lack for money. There is nothing so socially reassuring as money. People never have any hesitation in accepting invitations from those who have it. Just think how you are going to impress the county when all this is finished! You must be careful of men, though. The unscrupulous may pursue you for it. If I can be of any help in protecting you from them, you know you may count on me as, may I remind you, you were able to count on me where Roger Acland was concerned.’
‘Which, alas, resulted only in silence. I fear he has forgotten me.’
‘That I shall never believe. How could any man forget a woman like you?’
She led him to an ante-room which she had turned into an ornate reception room. It overlooked gardens sloping steeply at the rear, but beyond the slope an ornamental weathervane could just be glimpsed. It crowned the roof of the garden house in which Joseph had sought refuge the night he died, but the place itself was obscured. She thought it a pity that her brother had sited it there. Had it been nearer, someone might have seen him enter and his life been saved.
‘I am going to refurbish it,’ she said now. ‘The garden house, I mean. As it is, it reminds me too painfully of my brother. Have you ever been inside? Would you like to, or would it distress you since it was there your father died?’ She led the way when he said he would like to see it, adding, because he knew it provided the right touch, that it would be like paying respects to him.
As she opened the creaking door she said they wouldn’t stay long because she couldn’t bear to linger there, it brought back such sorrow. ‘But you see how lovely it once was, furnished in oriental style to match the architectural design.’
He thought an oriental house in an English garden somewhat incongruous, but didn’t say so. It seemed quite out of keeping with the conventional man he had always understood his father to have been, though since Pierre’s story about his death and the puzzling diary notes penned by Martin Drayton, he suspected another side to the man — several others, perhaps. But Phoebe treasured Joseph’s memory and he wasn’t going to be so unwise as to cast any doubts on her picture of him, so he looked around silently, as if in reverence.
He didn’t like the place, but perhaps that was due to the neglected air of it; to the faded carpet, the pile of which was still quite thick since it had remained untrodden for so long; to the dim light filtering through the even more incongruous lattice-paned windows (whoever heard of an oriental garden house with Tudor lead-lights!) and to Chinese fabrics which had long since lost their colour. There was even a lavish divan piled with cushions. Such a place could only have been designed for rendezvous, a place in which to make love.
Excitement touched him. Outside, he covertly took the lay of the land, noting a convenient access from an adjoining lane. It was too good to be true. As a meeting place for himself and the lovely Caroline, it couldn’t be bettered.
‘Is there a key?’ he asked as they left.
‘There was, but long lost.’
‘You’d be wise to get another. I daresay quite a few things have been stolen during the years it has stood empty. You don’t want to lose more. Shall I see to it for you? I can get a key cut in the village, and bring it when passing one day.’
‘Dear Lionel, what would I do without you?’ his aunt chanted yet again, but as they walked back to the house he knew her mind was on something more important than a key to which she would give no further thought. This was confirmed when she twittered hopefully, ‘There is just one other thing you can do, one other way in which you can help me … you see, even now I hope … even now I believe his silence can only be due to hearing of my husband’s return.’
‘And you would like me to let him know that at last you are alone, that he can come any time and you will be waiting?’
She nodded tremulously.
‘Then leave it to me, pretty aunt. And by-the-way,’ he added negligently, ‘I trust you had the good sense to hold on to Grandmother Charlotte’s rubies?’
She looked suitably shocked. ‘My dear boy, do you imagine I would do such a thing?’
Yes, I do, you scheming strumpet, he thought as he took his leave. She had given him the very answer he had expected, and he went on his way well satisfied.
CHAPTER 21
Meg had not lost her skill. She set the wheel spinning and placed the point of a turning tool at the apex of an upturned pot, tracing a circle to mark the area to be removed from the centre, and then an outer one to mark the width of the rim, then returned to the middle again and delicately peeled away a spiralling strip of clay, thin as a ribbon, widening until the foot was hollowed on the inside and the depth of the upstanding rim was established. Olivia watched, fascinated. She was one of several workers who had gathered round, for the news of Meg’s arrival had spread through the pottery the moment she walked into the yard three days after Martin had talked with her.
‘I’d like to take up your offer, sir. I’ve no heart to go back. There be no life in Liverpool for me now, without Frank. Joss Sykes is going to pick up the things I left behind, ready packed. Dunno why I did that. P’raps I knew the time had come. P’raps I knew I couldn’t walk back into our cottage and see it empty and know that’s the way ’t’were going to be for ivver. Couldn’t face that, Master Martin.’
‘We will find you somewhere to live, Meg. Meanwhile, why haven’t you come to us?’
‘Cos I got somewhere. Been scrubbing it down these last three days.’ She had held out workworn hands, the skin red and roughened by scouring soap. ‘Seemed t’me that no one owned the place, so I stayed, then along came Master Maxwell from Tremain one day. I didn’t reckernize him at first. Very uncomfortable, he were, standing on me doorstep waitin’ t’be greeted — remembering how I disliked him in t’ould days, no doubt. Well, there we both stood, saying now’t, just lookin’ at each other until I said that if he’d come for one of old Martha’s cures he were outa luck. “No, Meg,” he said, “I’ve come t’see you. I lost a valuable cargo of nutmegs, but your loss were greater … ” I were that puzzled I just went on staring until he said ye’d told him about — about Frank and how I were widdered. An’ then t’me surprise he told me the cottage were one o’the Tremain properties in t’village, and how his mother’d turned a blind eye t’ould Martha’s living in it. “Several places’ve now bin turned over t’me, Meg, and this is one of ’em.” An’ wot d’ye think, Master Martin — he’d not come t’turn me out, but t’give it t’me! “Tis yours,” he said. “Tis the least I can do t’make up for your loss.” I were struck dumb, I can tell ye! I’d nivver’ve thought that soddin’ — beggin’ your pardon, Master Martin, I mean that man — would’ve bin so generous. Thanks t’ye, I’m sure.’
‘No, Meg. It was his idea. I merely hoped he would think of it.’
‘Meanin’ ye made it plain. I know ye, Master Martin, and I’m indebted t’ye. ’T’were a surprise about the cargo, though. I’d no idea ’t’were his. That man’s certainly changed in more than looks — not that ’t’weren’t time an’ there were plenty of room for it. Well, on top of all this he’s having a new roof put on the place and other things done to make it better. Frank would rejoice, I can tell ye.’
‘He would say you deserve it. I say it too.’
‘Well,’ she said briskly, to overcome a catch in her voice, ‘’ye could step inside now, without shrinking. I know how ye felt when I opened that door. I felt the same the minute I walked into the place. The pore ould woman lived like a pig t’ward the end. Nivver would I have thought I’d come back to Burslem and move into Ma Tinsley’s place. I useter turn me eyes away from it when I lived in Larch Lane. My, how Ma an’ me loved that place further down!’
&
nbsp; ‘It is occupied by an old couple now, pensioned off from the Ashburton estate. They’ll be nice neighbours.’
‘Aye. I’ve talked with ’em. They gave me apples off that tree. Remember the day I first seed it, sir? Went mad, didn’t I, I were so excited? But old Martha’s place’ll suit me fine, ’specially when I’ve finished with it an’ all the other things Master Maxwell’s promised have bin done. I’ve burned the curtains, to go on with, an’ all the rotten matting and a lot besides. The place fair reeks o’ whiting an’ mason’s wash now, as well as Scotch snuff round the cricket holes to catch ’em when they comes out at nights, but that’s better than the stench there was afore. The winders haven’t been shut since the ould soul were carried to the churchyard, so God’s good air is helping the job along. When Joss Sykes brings me boxes and I get me stuff set out, it’ll seem like home all right. So here I am, sir, ready to pick up a turning tool agin and have a go, and if I’m no good at it I’ll be obliged if ye’ll put me to summat else. Canalside, if ye like. There weren’t no canal in my day, so I bin watching them women carting clay from the barges and that’s summat I could do, needs be.’
As Martin expected, there was no need. Meg took up her tool again as if it were pencil in an artist’s hand, testing the clay for leatherhardness, assessing the size of a foot according to the pot, judging the depth and the width for a good balance, sculpting the outer curve of the wall to meet it … slowly, at first, then more confidently, slender coils of clay falling away from the revolving pots. By midday rows of them stood drying out, waiting for firing.
Olivia sat beside her for the noonday meal. Meg eyed her doubtfully.
‘Why do you look at me like that, Meg?’
‘Cos I can’t believe anyone from Tremain Hall’d choose to be a potter. And I can’t believe you’re Miss Phoebe’s daughter, neether. And somehow it don’t feel right t’be sitting here, eating with ye.’ Olivia answered cheerfully, ‘Then you’d better get used to it, Meg, as everyone else has had to.’
‘Things’ve certainly changed around here. All those babbies learning t’read and write, and county ladies like yersel’ working alongside the likes o’ me, an’ t’Master Potter’s wife lending a hand in all sorts o’ways. Not that ow’t Miss Amelia did surprised me even in the old days. A rare one, she allus was.’ Meg’s great dark eyes, less shadowed now than when she returned, softened when she talked of Amelia. ‘But since she ain’t no potter, Miss ’Livia, wot does she do around t’place, other than teaching the babbies?’
‘All sorts of things, including assembling a kind of museum … ’
‘A wot?’
‘A display of Draytonware from as far back as she can collect pieces, right up to the present time. You must see it, Meg. There are items of yours in it.’
‘Get away wi’ ye! Now’t o’ mine’d be worth showing.’
‘We think otherwise. My aunt has been scavenging amongst discarded pots for specimens of your work ever since the idea of a Drayton museum came to her.’
‘Discarded? That means chucked out? Then they weren’t worth keeping.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. There were many faulty pieces, pieces that had blown in the firing, for example, which still retained the feet you had made. But not only pots are going in the museum. Ancient tools, anything historically associated with the craft, all these are worth saving. And my aunt really has the bit between her teeth now she’s won her way with the marlpit.’
Meg’s hunk of bread and cheese, half way to her mouth, halted. ‘That mucky place! Now’t t’be found there, Miss ’Livia. Tell your auntie so, from me. There’s nothing but rubbish buried there. I useter see folk getting rid o’ their unwanteds an’ I’d shudder at the sight o’ some of ’em. Dead sheep and the Lord knows wot else.’
‘And a lot of pottery shards from ’way back. That’s what we are after. By “we” I mean Drayton’s. Everyone is interested. It’s exciting, going down to the marlpit to see what’s being unearthed. It’s all being riddled, so the smallest objects aren’t lost. You should join us.’
‘Not me, Miss ’Livia. I seed enough o’ that place in the ould days. Tell your dear aunt t’keep away from there. ’T’aint ’ealthy, an’ besides, nothing dug up from that place could be worth looking at. You can tell her that, from me.’
Olivia was startled by her vehemence.
*
The day Caroline travelled to Stoke and returned with a smart new ladies’ carriage driven by a high-stepping pony, Damian knew she was making a bid for freedom. From now on she would go where she pleased, do as she pleased, and he was in no position to stop her. Money made her her own mistress, or some other man’s, but not his.
‘You might at least admire it,’ she said. ‘The dealer complemented me on my choice. “Your ladyship has an eye for quality”, he said. Your ladyship — to me, the wife of a blacksmith! I almost laughed aloud until I realised he was judging by my looks. I may have come down in the world, but I still look like a lady.’
‘That’s cruel. As cruel as the things you said at the Drayton’s Sabbath supper.’
It was the first time he had referred to that memorable evening and now that he did so, she rounded on him.
‘So you’re dwelling on that, are you? I thought as much. I’ve seen that look on your face, that silent, thoughtful look which I know so well. Brooding on imaginary injustices. I suppose you thought I was being unfair to you that night?’
‘Not if that is how you regard me — as an ex-convict, which is what I am. At least you didn’t brand me openly, though it might have been more honest than firing bitter shafts.’
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘I don’t know how to sum you up these days,’ she said. ‘You’re so — so withdrawn, so distant. Not like the man I fell in love with.’ When he made no answer, she shrugged and, leaving him to unhitch the pony and stable it, went indoors.
She screwed up her nose distastefully at the smell of Sarah Walker’s stew. The woman had no imagination and little culinary knowledge, so Damian could eat the meal, not she. With her own transport she could drive anywhere she wanted to, and tonight it would be to the remote country inn Lionel had told her about. The landlord was accommodating, he said, and the food and wine were good. If, on her return, Damian asked where she had been, Lionel would have provided her with some convincing story to tell. Not the one about visiting the sick, however. She had used that three times already, and it wasn’t convincing at night. During the day, it was different. The Haven For The Sick, run by Sisters of Mercy some few miles beyond Stoke, provided an admirable excuse for absence and was too far away for Damian to check on, even if he could spare time from his alldemanding work, and the Shelter For The Aged, more than fifteen miles distant, also served well, but couldn’t be used too often because charitable ladies only paid occasional visits to such places, their inhabitants being too distressing for sensitive souls to meet.
Things couldn’t go on like this, of course. Ultimately she would have to decide what to do, but the thought of having to be faithful to one man was depressing. The stimulation of her affair with Captain Mannering had left her with an appetite for romantic attachments unhampered by marital strings, and her current affair with Lionel Drayton had a delightful challenge about it. It was daring, risky, even dangerous, being carried on so close to home. The only thing to mar it was the lack of a convenient meeting place where they could make love for as long as they liked, whenever they liked.
The first episode in the forgotten gazebo had been merely a foretaste of passion. An appetiser. It had also been indulged in defiantly, on the rebound from anger, but its bodily titillation had left her hungry for more.
Her affair with Lionel also possessed the novelty of being different. He was the first lover she had had who was connected with a rich and ancient family, and although he complained that the Tremains had too many relatives for his liking, his uncle Max and his son being particular obstacles, the fact remained that he had highborn association
s which would have impressed her family back home. Compared with him, her husband was of very lowly birth.
Since knowing Lionel, Damian’s physical attraction had waned for her, though he served her purpose when Lionel was unavailable, which sometimes happened. He would be spending a dutiful evening at Tremain with his mother and grandparents, or so he would say, and since she had no proof to the contrary, she had to believe him.
Damian was still in his workshop when she backed the pony between the shafts again and drove away. She was an expert whip and it didn’t take long to reach the appointed meeting place. Lionel was waiting.
‘Whose shall we drive in, yours or mine?’ she called gaily, and was pleased by the admiration in his eyes.
‘A handsome affair,’ he said. ‘I salute your judgment. It must have cost a tidy penny.’
‘And worth every one.’ She moved aside, inviting him to try it. The vehicle was well sprung and she wanted to show off her new toy. He left his own conveyance concealed so that no passer-by would wonder why it stood empty by the roadside, then sprang up beside her. Slipping an arm across her back and beneath her shoulder so that his hand curved round to her breast, he fondled it possessively, his touch both demanding and promising.
‘How far is it to the inn?’ she asked.
‘Too far. The inn must wait. We can sup later, if our senses permit it. They must be satisfied first.’
‘Not that gazebo again! It is cold and the stone seat is hard — ’
‘Never the gazebo again, I promise you. I have found a better place. A secret place. Not far to go and safe from prying eyes. I even have a key, which no one else has.’
‘Tell me — ’
‘Better still, I’ll show you.’ He flicked the rein and the light-footed pony stepped out smartly. A fine filly, and by no means cheap. Nor was the well-sprung and well-upholstered carriage. ‘When did you buy this?’
‘Today.’ She leaned against him, her hand on his thigh, stroking it. ‘It marks my passage to freedom. I can come and go as I please.’
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