by Rona Randall
“Don’t be disappointed, Jess. Acland may have simply decided not to come…” Martin’s words tailed off into silence when he realised she was not listening.
The coachman was searching for an advantage point, urged by Max Freeman to get as close as possible, and at that moment the carriage adjoining the Drayton gig withdrew, its owner plainly disgusted with the turn of events, and the carriage from Tremain Hall took its place.
Most of Agatha’s buxom figure was concealed within the vehicle, but her heavy shoulders were well in view, framed in a broad Marie Antoinette fichu which displayed bulging breasts just sufficiently to suggest a great deal more. Jessica suspected that, once out of sight of her mother’s critical gaze, a gentle pressure had eased Agatha’s neckwear downwards to enhance this provocative display.
By comparison, her sister’s youthful figure, in sprigged muslin, seemed almost doll-like. Amelia’s neat head, crowned with a country-style straw hat tied with ribbons beneath the chin, was eclipsed by the older girl’s flamboyant headwear, a bonnet overflowing with flowers and ostrich feathers. In addition, Agatha twirled a tiny lace-covered parasol which should have been in the hands of her daintier sister, but Amelia made no attempt to shield her complexion from the sun.
Like Jessica, Amelia enjoyed fresh air and rode early each morning, wet or fine, despite her sister’s warnings that weather hazards would turn her complexion into leather. Agatha cherished her skin, shielding it from sun, rain, wind, draughts and the remotest contact with heat from a fire. Even on the way to Cobblers Green she had insisted that the carriage hood should be raised when a faint breeze ruffled the foliage and feathers on her bonnet, and very peevish had she been when overruled by her brother and sister. To stress that they were still out of favour, she greeted Jessica with cries of joy.
“Dear Jessica, how lovely to see you! Not for the world did I want to come — who cares for yet another sermon? — but Maxwell insisted that a public meeting might be vastly entertaining and Mamma said the fresh air would do us good, I cannot imagine why since all she intended to do was take a nap, but since you are here I do not mind at all. My dear, what bedlam! It sounds more like a bout of fisticuffs than a religious gathering —”
She popped a sweetmeat into her mouth from a supply in her dangling wrist bag, a creation as befrilled as her parasol. Agatha never went anywhere without sugared almonds or marchpane or some other delicacy to fortify her, but at this moment no one noticed because all attention was focused on the green, which spared her the necessity of offering the sweetmeats around. She therefore settled down to munch as contentedly as a cow chewing the cud.
Max Freeman, his fashionably short wig slightly askew because on hot afternoons he sweated profusely and was prone to push the thing aside with his damp, thick fingers, now exclaimed, “And fisticuffs it is, by God!”, and promptly ordered the coachman from his box because he was obstructing the view.
Try as she might, Jessica could never like Max, whom she considered spoilt, arrogant, and as well pleased with his lot as with his looks, though his thickset figure and florid features were, to her, unappealing. Had he known, this fact would have astonished him for he was accustomed to feminine admiration, much of which would have ceased had the Freeman wealth disappeared. As it was, he sailed through life firmly believing that it could and should be bent to his will, and that any female who came within reach of his straying hands should be more than flattered by their touch.
His curt order to the coachman was characteristic. No one should be allowed to get in the way of his enjoyment and, down by the clearing, a brand of entertainment to which he was partial was plainly underway. A near riot was breaking out, language was blue, abuse even worse; men were digging up more clods of earth and hurling them with brutal aim. Max slapped his thigh and cheered them on, until Agatha protested that he was making an exhibition of himself. “People are staring! Do remember you are a Freeman and therefore expected to behave like one!”
But Max was enjoying himself too greatly to heed his ladylike sister. He found the vulgarity, the shouts and the curses, the unleashed body blows, the yelling rival factions and their screaming insults, all as entertaining as Wesley’s comical attempts to be heard above the din and to dodge flying debris at the same time. He was plainly disappointed when a group of the man’s supporters, concerned for his safety, hurried him away despite his furious protests.
At the head of this group was Simon Kendall, pushing the crowd aside with an air of command which even the roughest person was forced to obey. Here was a man, who had been born of them, rallying to the side of law and order and though they might not like it he was going to help to enforce it, and heaven help anyone who stood in the way.
“I declare he is wonderful!” twittered Amelia, who had been known to swoon at balls if a strong man so much as touched her. Gentlemen found delicate females appealing, her mother had advised, and had tutored the girl in the art of fainting winsomely. While solid Agatha would only look ridiculous attempting a swoon, slender Amelia did it with undeniable grace, fooling the men, infuriating the women, and amusing Jessica who looked indulgently on Martin’s obvious infatuation with the girl.
She also understood it, for Amelia never despised Martin because of his inability to dance, as many young females did, nor shunned his company because he was less able bodied than other young men. Beneath her frivolity Amelia was very likeable, and Jessica sympathised with her brother’s calf love which, no doubt, he would outgrow. She only hoped that Amelia would also outgrow her girlish affectations, though Agatha’s languorous airs and graces were far less tolerable, as well as being incongruous in one of her girth.
There had always been rivalry between the Freeman sisters, particularly since Amelia, six years Agatha’s junior, had begun to attract the men who passed Agatha by. At twenty-four the older girl was already dubbed an old maid, a verdict she tried to refute by indulging in frills and furbelows which would have done credit to a woman on the boards at Drury Lane. No Burslem inhabitant had ever been inside a theatre, such places belonging to the wider world outside, but even in this backwater they had heard of Drury Lane’s Theatre Royal and of the scandalous ladies who not only performed there, but were amongst its audiences.
Now Agatha turned to her sister with a faint sneer.
“Who is wonderful, pray? John Wesley or the canal digger? I cannot say that either appeals to me. Wesley may be a gentleman, but too old for my liking, and beyond a great deal of brawn Simon Kendall has nothing. As for his background, everyone knows what that is. Jessica, my dear, you look pale. Has the heat affected you, or the disgusting behaviour we see before us? I share your revulsion, I do assure you.”
Amelia retorted, “I was not referring to Mr Wesley, sister, but wholly to Mr Kendall. And why not?”
“Because he is not of our class, you silly miss.”
“Sir Neville Armstrong thinks highly of him.”
“Only because Kendall is useful, even clever in his way. That does not place him on a level of equality.”
“Pish!” cried Amelia. “I have heard tell that one day Si Kendall will be an important man in these parts.”
“Ridiculous! He can neither read nor write.”
“He is learning,” said Martin, momentarily forgetting his renewed concern for Jessica. He had guessed that the reason for her pallor was acute disappointment because Roger Acland had not come, and it disturbed him to realise how deeply she felt it.
Amelia asked, “And how do you know he is learning, dear Martin?”
“I am teaching him. Well, not teaching exactly, but helping.” “And does your revered brother know?” asked Max, his attention diverted from the crowd, amongst whom rival factions were now fighting things out while people nearby scurried away to safety.
Martin made no answer. His attention was refocused on Jessica, whose continued silence troubled him.
“I’ve heard tell that he is Neville Armstrong’s bastard,” Max continued in his loud voice. �
�Kendall, I mean. Red hair like his is an Armstrong trait.”
Agatha yawned and popped another sweetmeat into her mouth. “Perhaps that is why Sir Neville is befriending him.”
“If colour of hair is proof of parentage, the man should be befriending half the brats in Burslem!” Max accompanied the words with a loud and meaningful laugh which brought a frown to Agatha’s heavy features.
“No coarseness, if you please, brother. And no slurs on a respected family.”
“Don’t be so sour, Agatha.” Turning to the Draytons, Max continued, “Take no notice of her. She is out of countenance today because our handsome cousin has cleared off.”
“If you mean he has been sent for urgently by his widowed stepmother, that much at least is true, but as for my being discountenanced because of it, I would have you know that before he departed he sought an audience with Papa, and bespoke for me. Dear Jessica, do you feel unwell? I declare you look about to faint.” Martin hastily gathered up the reins. “It is time we left —” he began, but a swift pressure from his sister’s foot urged him to remain. Not so fast, not so fast, or they will guess that something is wrong…
Back erect, chin tilted, Jessica answered, “I am perfectly well, dear Agatha, though the sun is perhaps a little trying today.” She had never found the sun trying in her life, and well her brother knew it, but the excuse sufficed because it was scarcely heard beneath a burst of loud and sceptical laughter from Max.
“Acland had the audacity to ask for your hand, Aggie? And how many others did he seek during his prolonged visit?” To Martin, Max continued, “The man came here for two weeks, following a letter from his dear mamma intimating that her stepson had been suffering from malaria following a visit to his married sister in the tropics — though where about in the tropics we were never able to ascertain — and was in dire need of good country air which the city of Bristol could not provide. In the circumstances one would have expected smoky Burslem to drive the man away; instead, you well know how long he remained!”
“He was welcome,” Amelia put in, “and personally I found him very polite. I am sorry he has gone, but I did feel something was amiss when he went off for a solitary walk after Matins today — “
“ — inviting none of us to join him,” Max confirmed. “And after midday dinner a messenger came riding with a summons for him to return home, though none of us actually saw the man arrive. But Acland showed us the letter, which had been five days on the road from Bristol, according to the date, so of course there could be no further delay — except to ask for Aggie’s hand, apparently. I imagine our worthy father nipped his hopes in the bud, the Aclands being in no position to look so high. Particularly Roger, who is merely the stepson of our Aunt Edith, who married a far from wealthy widower with a ready-made family of two sons and one daughter — ”
“Which makes Roger no blood relation,” Agatha interrupted. “I think you must agree that that gave him the right to speak for me.” There was a defensive note in her voice, a touch of pride because the man had wanted to marry her. Poor though he was by Freeman standards, Roger Acland was handsome and very presentable. She sighed a little, playing the part of a gentle female feeling sorry for a rejected suitor, though really her heart was not touched in the least. For a long time that heart had been engaged elsewhere and she never gave up hope that, one day, Joseph Drayton would become aware of it.
Her moment in the limelight was dimmed when Amelia said, “I must confess I find it significant that Cousin Acland spoke for Agatha following the news of her inheritance from Great Aunt Margaret.”
Max concurred, turning again to Martin and Jessica. “That mad old woman from Crumpsall — have we never told you about her? A shrewd one, without a doubt, though how she ever attracted three successive husbands is hard to imagine. But thrice married she was, inheriting extensive forestry and coal mines and all sorts of valuable properties from her husbands, all of whom considerately died long before she did. She always declared that Agatha was a reincarnation of herself, though how such a miracle came about prior to her death the dear Lord alone could explain. The fact remains that Agatha was always her favourite — ‘A well set up young woman. I like a gel who is well covered!’ — so now you see before you the heiress to more than half of a very considerable estate and a fitting target for fortune hunters. I am quite sure our wise father kept that in mind when Acland decided to put in a bid.”
A barely perceptible breath of pain, too faint to be heard in the adjoining carriage, spurred Martin into departure. “We must go,” he said again, and amidst cries of farewell and loudly voiced concern from Agatha for poor dear Jessica, and a command from Max to remember him warmly to pretty Phoebe, he headed for home.
She sat bolt upright, hands clenched in her lap, knuckles showing white through lace mittens which ripped in the strain. She stared straight ahead, face taut, eyes stunned. He glanced at her helplessley, wishing he could think of the right thing to say, the right words to comfort her, but all he could utter was, “Don’t fret — please, Jessica. Don’t eat your heart out. You will meet someone else, someone far better…” and knew at once that he could not have said anything more ineffectual.
Her iron self-control was threatening to snap. She could feel sobs rising to her throat and clenched her fists more tightly in an endeavour to fight them back, but in so doing the pressure of pain increased. When Martin took one hand from the reins and touched her arm, it was as if he released a trigger direct to her brain. Her head jerked round as she cried, “I don’t want anyone else! I loved him — loved him!”
A tug at the reins and Martin pulled in beneath the shade of overhanging trees. They were within a few hundred yards of their home and he could not let her face her mother and sister looking as she did at this moment. Nor could he face them himself until he knew precisely what she meant by that word ‘loved’.
“Do you mean in the past tense, that the news has put an end to your feelings for him, or — or that you — ?”
But that was a question he could not ask, nor did he believe that she could have been so foolish. Not sane Jessica, not the sister who had more common sense in her little finger than his two other womenfolk put together. Their mother was kind and docile, brought up to be submissive and to observe the ten commandments; Phoebe was decorative and silly, without a serious thought in her head, and though she chanted the ten commandments in church he doubted if she even knew what adultery meant, although here in Burslem there was plenty of evidence that it went on all around them.
Phoebe lived in a world of happy-ever-after dreams in which handsome heroes kissed the hems of ladies’ skirts before advancing to more audacious kisses on extended hands. There would be a rude awakening for Phoebe in the marriage bed, but Jessica, who had helped to bring their pets’ puppies or kittens into the world, knew all about copulation and its consequences. When Phoebe cooed over the little darlings, marvelling over their unexpected arrival, Jessica would shake her head affectionately and say, “This is no miracle, Phoebe. Merely the result of mating in the normal way.”
Calm, practical, self-sufficient Jessica, as ladylike as the daughter of a Drayton was expected to be — what undercurrents ran beneath her serene exterior, and how far could they sweep her on a tide of passion?
“Jessica — please — I have to know.”
She shook her head, not looking at him.
“It is better that you know nothing. Let us go home. It has to be faced.”
Reluctantly, he obeyed. The gig jerked forward, bumping over the rough track, then slowing down as it climbed the hill. Some distance ahead the rise terminated just beyond the boundary of their brother’s house, the front drive of which opened directly onto the main track, with a side entrance from a turning to the left further down. Their own home, Medlar Croft, was reached before that, and as he drove through the gates Martin’s eye was caught by a flash of red emerging from the side approach to Carrion House. Red topped by white beneath a crown of black hair.
It was not the first time he had seen Meg Gibson slipping away from his brother’s house, and since she used the side entrance it was to be presumed that she visited Mrs Walker, though friendship between the sedate housekeeper and a village girl who, by repute, was no better than she should be, seemed unlikely — and the way in which she now hastily retreated on sight of the two Draytons added further doubt.
He wondered if Jessica had noticed the girl, but her proud face stared straight ahead, her eyes unseeing and her profile uplifted. As always, it struck him as exceedingly handsome, but since no one shared this opinion because her looks failed to conform to today’s standards, it was possible that affection coloured his view of her.
Reining, he said, “What “has to be faced”, Jess? No one but I is aware of the blow you have suffered, and I am not likely to reveal it. You can count on that.”
She managed a smile. It was faint, sad, grateful, but she made no answer as she stepped down from the gig and walked towards the door of their home with the same frozen self-control that had alarmed him all the way.
Luckily, she reached her room without meeting anyone. She closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed, and the tears so strictly held in check flowed silently and desperately, easing none of the pain. She felt bruised by shock, stunned by the recognition of her own naivety, but facing the fact that she had been gullible was no help. She had done what she had wanted to do, behaved as she had wanted to behave. She had loved unwisely but deeply, blindly but sincerely, increasingly dominated by the man. Every glance, every word, every caress had confirmed, in her mind, the depth of his feelings for her. She had reciprocated without hesitation, wildly happy.
It was almost impossible to believe that the prattling of the Freeman girls had not been unfounded nonsense which would prove to be untrue, but their brother, who had no reason to fantasise, had confirmed every word. Unknowingly, all three had also confirmed that what Joseph had said was true — the man had been sent packing — for of course the solitary walk had been to Carrion House at Joseph’s behest, and the message recalling him to Bristol had also been contrived by her brother. What Joseph made up his mind to do, he did, and she should have known him well enough to believe it.