by Rona Randall
“I fail to see how this creates a need for a wife.”
“Because when the scheme gets the blessing of Parliament, a Board will have to be set up, and some form of organisation even earlier than that to present plans to the House of Commons and financial details to entice investors — men with money and power. And those men will appoint other men to positions of responsibility, including the very essential one of Surveyor General. I intend to apply for that, and have good reason to believe I should be appointed because I have already carried out extensive surveys and a considerable amount of designing — ”
“As you did for the Armstrong Canal.”
“ — but this time it will be bigger and will need written reports and professional drawings. Sir Neville has already agreed to produce an outline of the project, to be printed and circulated to people likely to be interested and to entice those who may have doubts, but I must not only be able to read it, but to add to it. It’s no use aiming at the position of Surveyor General unless I have everything at my fingertips. Hence my determination to read and write fluently.”
“I still can’t see how this makes a wife essential.”
“She would be an asset to a man in such a position, providing she were the right woman. He would need a wife who not only knew how to behave socially, and therefore be a good hostess, but intelligent enough to be able to talk to people. In short, I need a wife who will be a help and a credit to me. I know your father believed in education for women, and of course your upbringing has equipped you well on the social side. You fit the bill admirably, Miss Drayton.”
“And if you don’t get the appointment?”
“There are two words I never use: ‘if’ and ‘fail’. However, if fate showed a malignant hand and the whole scheme fell through, I would work on other projects. There are other routes through which canals could flow from the Midlands to the North and East. One setback doesn’t mean defeat, and opposition can be a spur. Also — don’t forget that the scheme for linking those three important rivers was wholly mine, that I will still have my original surveys, and that life has taught me to bide my time.”
“Mr Kendall, I have always known you to be a clever man, but never have I realised you were so astute.”
He let her think it. Life had taught him to be wary where his inventive ideas were concerned because they had been scorned too loudly and too often, but as for needing a wife, the thought had only just entered his head. He had lived well enough without one and could no doubt continue to, but he knew she would be affronted by a marriage proposal made out of pity.
“Well?” he said. “Will you consider my proposition?”
“No — no — of course not! I repeat, you cannot be serious.”
“You need time to think about it? I am agreeable to that. There should be time enough between now and the hour you are expected to leave Martha Tinsley’s cottage after darkness tomorrow.”
She shook her head in confusion. The mulled ale was making her drowsy, and there was an unreality about the whole scene which convinced her that it could not be taking place, that she was not here, in Simon Kendall’s cottage, listening to his proposal of marriage which, from the way he presented it, sounded for all the world as if he meant it.
She studied him in the glow of an oil lamp set between them, seeing his fine features more closely than she had ever seen them during chance meetings or when passing in the lanes of Burslem, and all unwittingly she was comparing them with Max Freeman’s. In later years, if not earlier, Maxwell’s features would be marked with self-indulgence, but not Simon’s. Were she only in love with this man, the intimacies of marriage could be faced with considerably more than equanimity, and even without love he did not repel her as Max did.
But never could she love again as she had loved Roger Acland and to marry for any other reason seemed a betrayal of her beliefs. Even so, how could she apply those beliefs to her present situation? Her flight from Martha Tinsley’s cottage had provided only a temporary respite from her problem. She would still have to face Joseph’s wrath and determination, for he would most certainly have his way. The child would have to be disposed of, no matter how, and her own feelings would not enter into it. He had even convinced her mother that it was the right thing to do because it would avert a situation the poor soul could not face. Her mother had led a sheltered life and could have no real knowledge of what an abortion entailed. No doubt she imagined that the old woman would give her daughter some violent brew to drink, as a result of which she would conveniently miscarry — an unpleasant experience, but one which could be quickly over and then life would return to normal, with no terrible disgrace to contend with.
But even if she were to win her fight to avoid Martha Tinsley’s ministrations, Jessica was well aware that she would be left with the problem of her own life and that of a fatherless child whom Joseph would most certainly refuse to support. She herself would have to do this somehow, in a world which had no use for a young woman, brought up as a lady, but burdened with an illegitimate baby. Employment as a governess in a moneyed family would be denied her in case her lack of morals had an undesirable affect on her pupils. And in any case her child would not be admitted; she would be expected to ‘make arrangements’ for it, which meant giving it away or handing it over to a baby farm, and there was something in Jessica which screamed in protest at the thought.
Time to think, time to plan…that was what she needed, but where would she be at the end of it? In the same dark tunnel, confused and uncertain.
And, dear God, she was tired!
Her head fell against the back of the chair. Her eyes closed. She heard Simon’s voice saying, almost from a distance, “You must go to bed, Miss Drayton. Think of nothing until tomorrow. I will go and prepare your room.” But she scarcely heard the last words and it was a shock when she was jerked back to reality by his hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her. “Come,” he was saying. “Come, Miss Drayton…Miss Jessica…your room is ready.”
She wakened to the sound of Martha Tinsley’s rooster crowing harshly in the distance and, nearer, heavy footfalls below her window. In an instant, memory returned and her surroundings swam into focus. Simon Kendall’s bedroom was small and stark and functional, the walls bare, furniture sparse. The only adornment was a faded miniature of a woman on top of a chest against the opposite wall. She padded barefoot across the uncovered floor, and picked it up, guessing at once that this was his mother, Jane Kendall, whom kinder people amongst Burslem’s community still recalled as a gentle and lovely woman. Judging by the miniature, their memories were not at fault.
The footfalls below were replaced by the rattle of a chain and, crossing to the window, she saw Simon hauling a bucket from his well, then emptying the contents into a wooden pail. It was one of a pair set on the path at his feet, and when he had filled both he carried them to the cottage, scarcely spilling a drop. She guessed he had done this task almost every morning of his life and that the wooden handles probably bore the impression of his grip, worn by the years.
He was stripped to the waist, clad only in harsh breeches and high boots, and the breadth of his shoulders, muscular arms, and strong neck were impressive. Viewed even impartially, he was a fine specimen of a man, but recalling his extraordinary proposal of marriage made it impossible for her to be impartial. She assessed him critically, analysing her reactions. No, he was not unattractive. No, she did not instinctively withdraw from him. No, she did not deny that he would appeal to many a woman.
What had Amelia said about him that Sunday by Cobblers Green? “I declare he is wonderful!” But Agatha had scoffed, insisting he was not of their class and that Amelia was a silly miss into the bargain.
But Amelia was not wholly silly. Martin was more than half in love with her, and although that love might be based on gratitude because the girl never shrank from his deformity, the boy saw greater depths in Amelia than were apparent beneath her frivolity.
Thoughts of her brother immediate
ly brought thoughts of her family…her mother…and Joseph…and her own cowardice in fleeing from Martha Tinsley last night. But for that, it would all have been over by now and she would have been waiting for the hours to pass before returning to her thankful mother and a satisfied Joseph, after which the whole dreadful business would never have been referred to again. And if Martin had wondered why he had been sent to await her at the top of Larch Lane, he would have asked no questions even if fearing the worst when he saw her, because undoubtedly she would have shown signs of distress, stumbling out of the darkness like some wounded creature seeking a hole in which to crawl.
Martin was no fool. He would have guessed the truth. And he would still guess it when her belly grew bigger. Even so, she was thankful she had not entered Martha Tinsley’s cottage, despite the predicament she was left in.
The extent of her thankfulness now drove from her mind the terrors of the night before. She was young and healthy and a good night’s sleep had restored her energy. She had slept soundly in Simon Kendall’s hard bed, aware of no discomfort but only of an indescribable peace. There had been a ring round the moon and she had recalled how some folks declared that through this ring God looked down on the world. A protective God or a vengeful God? She had shivered a little at the thought, half fearful, until she remembered that her kindly father had called the moon’s ring the keyhole to heaven. And on that thought she had fallen asleep.
This morning her mind was clear and unafraid. She was ready to face whatever had to be faced, taking each moment as it came, and the immediate one demanded that she should wash and dress.
Only then did she become aware that she was clad in one of Simon’s night shirts, beneath which she was naked. She recalled shedding his heavy robe and scrambling into the garment he had left on the bed for her. It reached to the floor and made a fine nightgown. She also recalled that her clothes had been left drying in the outhouse, which meant she must fetch them. Wrapping herself in his robe again, she opened the door and found her clothes in a neat pile on the floor outside, together with a pitcher and a bowl.
The water in the pitcher was ice-cold from the spring, and when she had sponged herself all over she felt reinvigorated. Her clothes had dried with scarcely a crease (would she ever be able to afford such good material again in her now uncertain future?) and, descending the stairs, she was satisfied that she looked presentable.
But in the kitchen, Simon Kendall — now fully dressed in the labourer’s clothes he wore for work — took one look at her neatly coiled hair and said, “I prefer the way it was last night, loose about your shoulders. Perhaps, when we are married, you will oblige me by wearing it that way when we are alone together?”
So he had not forgotten. She had expected no further reference to his extraordinary proposal which, in the light of day, he would surely regret.
He smiled. “You look surprised, Miss Drayton. Did you imagine I would think better of it?”
She nodded.
“Then you are as wrong as you were last night, believing I didn’t mean it.” He placed a wooden chair at the scrubbed kitchen table and held it for her, saying as he did so, “There are oats and buttermilk and bread, and apples from my tree. Not elaborate fare, but satisfying. You will find other food in the larder to keep you going during the day, and I have brought pails of water so you will have no need to visit the well.”
“But I won’t be here, Mr Kendall.”
“Martin calls me Simon. If we are to be at ease with each other, which will be essential if our lives are to be linked, I would like you to do the same. I always think of you as Jessica — not even as Miss Jessica, and never as Jess because it ill becomes you. And while I am away, I suggest you stay out of sight. Martha Tinsley sometimes obliges with certain chores, but I’ve no wish for her to intrude today so I also suggest you keep both front and back doors locked and keep well away from the windows. Fortunately, these leaded diamond panes are difficult to see through from outside, but even so she won’t be averse to peering in. You will recognise her shuffling step on the garden path and have time to conceal yourself.”
“Mr Kendall — Simon — you know I must leave.”
“To go where? To your home? And for what purpose — to face your broken hearted mother and, even worse, your wrathful brother? I can well imagine what Joseph Drayton in a rage must be like and, frankly, I hope I shall be there to see it. I shall call at Carrion House before nightfall. You see, Miss Jessica, I am counting on your common sense.”
“My common sense! Would it be common sense to marry a man I don’t love, and who doesn’t love me?”
He glanced away, absently breaking off a hunk of coarse bread which she recognised as that produced by Burslem’s only baker, which led to the irrelevant thought that a good wife would bake her own. She watched him as he carefully spread it with butter and, as he did so, answered her question.
“It would be common sense indeed, ma’am, and I have always regarded you as a young woman who possessed a deal of it. And why should I expect you to love me? How could I, when you carry another man’s child because of your love for him?”
“Then you accept that I — ”
“ — cannot change your feelings overnight, if at all. Of course, I accept it.” He met her eyes so calmly that she had no suspicion of the effort it needed. “And why should I mind, since all I am seeking is a marriage of convenience for both of us? If you are fearing that I would expect to share your bed, pray dismiss the thought. Were you to invite me into it, naturally that would be a different matter.” He pushed back his chair. It scraped loudly on the stone floor. “There is one other thing which, I hope, will persuade you to fall in with my plan. It is not my intention to remain in this cottage. I have my eye on a wheelwright’s place in Cooperfield, six miles south. And since your bed would be yours exclusively, an additional bedroom would obviously be needed. I have no wish to shake down permanently on a makeshift couch, as I did last night. The wheelwright’s shop and outhouses will also be an asset, the single one I have here being too small for my plans.”
“More plans? Tell me about them.”
“To rid the district of its polluted air. You look surprised, but I’m confident it can be done. And it must be done, though it may take many years. There is scarcely a child in Burslem not coughing its lungs out daily, except the privileged few living beyond the village — and that is where your child would be brought up. The wheelwright’s place faces south and is sheltered by hills to the north. For the most part, smoke from the potteries would pass high above and only descend in bad weather, when the common sense I credit you with would make you keep the child indoors. And now I must leave you until I return for your answer. I pray you not to cheat me out of the pleasure of breaking the news to the head of your family.” She was still sitting at the table, but not eating. Her well cared for hands crumbled bread uncertainly and her large eyes were fixed on him — almost as if she had never seen him before. And indeed she really was seeing him for the first time, not as Si Kendall, the man whom women always noticed but who seemed un-needful of anyone’s companionship, but as a big, calm, thoughtful and determined man whom she would very much like to know better.
“There’s no need to return for my answer, Simon.”
He hoped he didn’t betray his bitter disappointment, but there was a note of finality in her voice which told him that he had pleaded his case and that further persuasion would be a waste of time. He had made his wild bid, and lost.
She pushed back her chair, busied herself with clearing away the remnants of the meal and, without looking at him, said, “You may have my answer now. I will marry you on your terms, and as soon as you wish.”
Chapter Seven
Amelia Freeman rode nonchalantly into the main yard of the Drayton pot bank, very much aware that she attracted attention and enjoying every moment of it. She looked ravishing in a new habit of dark green velvet with narrow frills of pale cream lace peeping from beneath deep cuffs and, at
her throat, a spotless cream cravat adorned with a gold horse-shoe pin. Her blonde hair was held within a snood at the back of her head and crowned with a high hat covered with matching green velvet, from which swept a superb ostrich feather. It was one of the most fetching riding outfits she had ever had. That was one reason why she was here. She wanted Martin to see and admire it.
Just why Martin’s reaction was important to her, she did not trouble to ponder. Since childhood she had found him the easiest person in the world to talk to, and sought his opinion on most things. She was also extremely fond of him and the feeling had no basis in pity, because the last thing Martin ever needed or wanted was pity.
Amelia accepted Martin as he was, for what he was, and though she considered it the saddest thing in the world that he had been born with that crippled leg, when she was with him she was never aware of it because he made her feel that he was unaware of it too.
But there were reasons other than vanity for her early morning call. At this hour of the day he would be at the wheel, and she loved to watch him throw a lump of clay onto the revolving turntable, centring the whirling mass with his fine hands until it was perfectly poised and he could plunge a thumb into the middle and then, with skilled fingers, press sideways, opening it into a round, wet, shining bowl rising in spiralling walls until the clay was transformed into a thing of beauty.
Each morning before his brother arrived, for the Master of Drayton’s had the privilege of starting his day half an hour later than his workers, Martin would indulge his own fancy on the wheel, creating shapes which the other throwers viewed with admiration. Amelia knew this because she sometimes made a detour during her early morning ride, solely to watch him.
Where clay was concerned Martin seemed to possess a particular sensitivity. He had once told her it was beautiful to touch, lovely to feel. “Try it, and see,” he had said, and laughed when she registered horror at the thought. The idea of messing her clothes as well as her hands shocked her. Even as a child she had disliked getting dirty. Agatha called her a vain minx, a silly young miss. Well, thought Amelia philosophically, perhaps Agatha is right. I suppose I am a bit flighty, but I would rather be seen and admired in this lovely new riding habit than be lolling in bed drinking hot chocolate, as Aggie will be when I get back.