The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  How her sister could drink the sickly stuff, first thing in the morning before she even left her bed, Amelia could not imagine, but prompt at eight o’clock a maid had to bring it to her and she would yawn and stretch like a well fed cat, then lick the frothy top with her fat pink tongue. Agatha had a sweet tooth which she was ready to indulge at any hour of the day. And how she loved to loll in bed, whatever the weather! In Amelia’s view, to linger there when awake was a waste of time — especially on a morning like this.

  After last night’s storm, the world seemed washed clean. Even the cobblestones of the potters’ yard had been scrubbed by it, and cantering across the countryside in the refreshed air had been invigorating. The whole world had seemed to belong to her then, for scarcely a soul had been about until she rode into the village. There her first encounter had been with Si Kendall on his way to his day’s work, and though he returned her greeting in his usual manner — courteously, but never deferentially — she had felt that he was scarcely aware of who she was, so engrossing were his thoughts. Not until he had passed did she wonder why he was heading for the hill leading to Carrion House, which was not on the route to the canal ditch.

  Then he was forgotten. Amelia had the ability to dismiss the immediate moment in anticipation of the next, and this morning it fulfilled all her expectations, for when the sound of hooves brought Martin out into the potters’ yard she was well satisfied with the admiration in his face.

  She had spent much time designing this riding habit, aiming for colour harmony and the uncluttered lines which Agatha considered dull. That assured Amelia that she had achieved exactly what she wanted, the reverse of her sister’s flamboyant taste, and Martin’s reaction now confirmed that her judgement had been unerring.

  “Help me down,” she called, unhooking her right leg from the pommel, her feet from the stirrups, and adjusting her flowing skirt so that when he reached up she was ready to descend with dignity. She did all things with grace, even to looping the reins over one arm as she slipped the other through his, and measuring her steps with his limping ones as they crossed the yard to tether the horse. “You’ve not yet started work, I’m glad to see — otherwise your hands would be covered with clay and I dare not touch you.”

  She smiled in the way she kept especially for Martin, without the flirtatiousness she reserved for other men. To flirt with a childhood playmate seemed unnecessary. He knew her too well.

  “I waited in case you should come,” he said. “On such a morning I half expected you.”

  “Never take me for granted, sir!”

  “‘Do I ever? But I did hope.”

  “And I hope it was worthwhile.” She pirouetted before him, aware that through open doors of surrounding sheds men and women watched her, that black-eyed Meg Gibson for one. Amelia always felt that the gypsy girl, as she privately called her, saw right through her and was amused by what she saw, but not unkindly. Even admiringly, perhaps. So Amelia pirouetted again, displaying her ensemble for everyone’s benefit with that casual air she had perfected. These mannerisms fostered her confidence, though carrying out Mamma’s instructions on swooning always made her feel slightly ridiculous. She was resolved to do it no more, but when other tactics brought desired results, she was pleased. They were evident now in Martin’s loveable face and, impulsively, she squeezed his arm as they entered the throwing shed.

  “And what are you going to make for me this morning? A vase? A bowl? A goblet?”

  “Whatever you fancy.”

  “A vase, then. A slender one to hold a single rose. I should like that. And glaze it in blue. Turquoise blue. A white rose would look well with that colour, and my unlamented cousin Roger Acland — unlamented by my family because he was not rich, you understand — always likened me to a delicate white rose.”

  Did he indeed, thought Martin, and threw a lump of clay almost angrily onto the wheel while his lame leg swung the treadle into action. Not for the first time he wished the controlling shaft were on the other side of the wooden stand, for the constant kicking tired his leg, but it never occurred to him to complain, or to ask Joseph if one could be designed to operate from the other side. Besides, he must surely be promoted from the throwing wheel before long.

  The thought brought him back to Amelia’s request for a turquoise glaze.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve not yet advanced to glazing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Joseph says I’m not ready for it.”

  Because you are too good at the work you are doing, she thought shrewdly, but she said nothing as the clay spiralled between his wet hands. Watching with fascination, as always, she marvelled at his skill, and as a narrow cylinder rose from the wheel, yielding to the shape he then created, she forgot all her little affectations. Minutes later, there stood her slender vase, and as he sliced it from the turntable and slid it onto a wooden batt to set aside, she beamed with pleasure. From a narrow base it curved upward and outward in a delicate oval balloon, then inward again to an even narrower neck culminating in a lightly fluted top.

  “All it needs now is a foot,” he said. “I will get our best turner to do that when the clay reaches the right consistency.”

  “But I want it to be all your own work.”

  “And I want it to have a really good rim to stand on, which means a skilled turner. I shall ask Meg Gibson to do it.”

  “Then I hope she doesn’t weave a spell into it. The wrong kind of spell, I mean. People do say she is a witch.”

  “They say that about a lot of women who happen to be different from the rest. And now you must go. If Joseph arrives to find you here, he won’t be pleased.”

  She answered airily, “Leave him to me! I know how to soften him.”

  “As you do all men?”

  She answered in the same light vein, the tone they always bandied between each other, “Of course!”

  He laughed, and picked up the newly-thrown vase. “I’ll take this to Meg now. She will know where to hide it for the time being.”

  “Why must it be hidden?”

  “Because we’re not allowed to produce anything but conventional Drayton designs.”

  “You mean dull household pots? Poor Martin, how frustrating for you! With your talent you could create all sorts of beautiful things. I know, because Jessica has told me. And I have the evidence of my eyes. My vase will be lovely, and not another like it.”

  They left the shed together and she waited for him in the yard while he visited Meg Gibson, and when he rejoined her she wielded the iron pump handle without the least concern for her beautiful green velvet while he washed his hands beneath the gushing water. That told him she had something on her mind, and when he taxed her with it she said, “Yes — I have. There are whispers on the wind, Martin.”

  Automatically, he dried his hands on his potter’s ‘slop’, at which she absently handed him a lace edged kerchief. Laughing, he declined it.

  “Whispers? What sort of whispers? The village is always full of rumours, if that is what you mean.”

  “Not from the village. Nearer home. Your home and mine. Whispers of not one but two marriages which will link our families. Have you heard anything?”

  “Only of one …” he began, but left the sentence unfinished, refusing to think about Jessica marrying Max and of the inevitable unhappiness it must bring her.

  Amelia said, “The one you have heard of must be the marriage of Max and Jessica, and surely that surprises you as much as it does me? I always thought it was Phoebe whom Max fancied and I can’t help thinking she would be far more suitable.”

  He agreed, but merely said that since the marriage had not yet been announced, perhaps it would not take place.

  “Well, it seems to be settled as far as my family is concerned because my parents have discussed it quite openly, and already Mamma is planning a betrothal celebration, even though she is not the bride’s mother. Dear Mamma adores entertaining. But it is the hint of a second marriage which
puzzles me, because nothing has actually been said about that. Even so, Agatha is looking well pleased and maddeningly secretive, and when I ask why, all she says is that I will know in good time. ‘And you will be envious!’ she adds. So the answer seems obvious, does it not, dear Martin? I have long suspected her to be secretly enamoured of Joseph, but not he of her.”

  With that Martin totally agreed. He had always felt that Agatha jarred on his brother, so the whole thing could only be an unfounded rumour.

  He was about to say so when Amelia continued, “And then there is Papa — he also looks well pleased about something. Almost relieved, as if released from some pressing problem. And just as I know that Agatha has always yearned after Joseph — she considers him the most handsome man in the world, and I do grant that he is indeed handsome though his marble looks chill me somewhat — I suspect that my parents have begun to despair of a suitable match for her. After all, she is getting quite old — twenty-four last birthday — and apart from our fortune-hunting cousin, there has been no other suitor. As yet. That may well have been the cause of dear Papa’s anxiety, for other fortune hunters will no doubt come along once the news of Great Aunt Margaret’s legacy becomes known, but your brother could never be accused of that, being successful and likely to be more so. So if it is really true, he can only be marrying her for love, and I am unsisterly enough to find that amazing. No doubt you will disapprove of me for that, but I think it stupid to be anything but honest.”

  Martin scarcely heard her last words, for through his own disbelief one dreadful suspicion was forming, and Amelia had all unwittingly sparked it. Since a man in Joseph’s position couldn’t be accused of fortune hunting, his motives would be taken as anything but self-seeking, but who knew better than his younger brother just how ambitious he really was? It was this ruthless ambition that had restored Drayton’s pot bank so rapidly. How much more could he achieve with a fortune at his fingertips?

  “I won’t believe it until it is announced,” Martin declared.

  “Which may perhaps be tonight, since he has been invited to sup with us. Your mother too, though I understand he declined on her behalf.”

  The reason for that being Jessica’s chill, Martin decided, though he could not imagine her relishing the thought of Agatha as a daughter-in-law, for she had once confessed that she found her an intimidating young woman and, being already dominated by Joseph, the prospect of another strong will to contend with might intimidate his mother further.

  “I wish you were coming, Martin. Tonight, I mean. We could then watch everyone and exchange private signals across the table. Such fun!”

  But they had only played that game in lighter moments, at Christmas gatherings or birthday parties. Watching Agatha and Joseph for signs of a serious alliance would be no fun at all. Martin found even the thought depressing and was thankful he would not be there.

  “If I persuade Mamma to include you, will you come?” Amelia persisted. “She is so affable just now I am sure I could coax her. I would suggest that your sisters should come too, since they could scarcely be left out if you were included, then it would be quite a family party on both sides, especially with Max and Jessica being paired off together — “

  He said almost curtly, “That’s not settled.”

  “But it will be. Max has already hinted that he is to become more than a member of the Drayton family.”

  “How could that be?”

  Amelia shrugged. “He wouldn’t say, except to hint that having a financial foot in Drayton’s could be well rewarding.”

  “In Drayton’s! In this business — this family business? No outsider has ever been a part of it. Only Drayton sons have ever shared it. That has been the Drayton tradition since the place was first established.”

  “But Max won’t be an outsider, once he is Jessica’s husband. I really will see if I can persuade Mamma to extend tonight’s invitations, then you and I can keep our eyes and ears open and possibly learn all sorts of things! Parents are always scheming on behalf of their children…”

  Her eyes sparkled, then clouded a little when he said he would be unable to come. “I have another engagement,” he lied, though the duty delegated to him by Joseph could hardly be called an engagement, and frankly puzzled him. His only instruction was to take a closed carriage to the top of Larch Lane as soon as it was dark tonight, to wait, and then transport a passenger — to where, he would know as soon as they met. “And ask no questions,” Joseph had added tersely. Just do as you are told and keep your own counsel.’

  That final instruction he would certainly fulfil, because he had learned the folly of questioning motives behind any of Joseph’s instructions. He was even less inclined to in this instance, finding the whole thing both strange and oddly disturbing.

  Unexpectedly, a voice beside them said, “The Master be late this morning, sir.”

  It was Meg Gibson. Her bare feet were soundless on the cobblestones. She stood there, with a rough apron of sacking tied about her waist and her cloud of black hair shining in the morning sun and he marvelled, as he always did, at how clean she kept it despite the atmosphere in which she worked. A film of clay dust was already forming but, although it would be thick by the end of the day’s work, it would be gone next morning.

  To Amelia she bobbed a curtsey and said, “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but I thought mebbe Master Martin would know when the Master Potter were coming. It’s not like he to be late.”

  Only then did Martin realise that it was long past Joseph’s normal time of arrival. Workers started prompt at six, the Master of Drayton’s at six-thirty, and never had he been known to deviate. It was his proud boast that he set an example in punctuality which could not be faulted, and never had it been, until now. More than an hour had passed since Amelia had ridden into the yard.

  Baffled, Martin could make no answer, other than to remark that the Master Potter would surely arrive soon and was there any particular problem Meg wanted to see him about?

  He thought he detected a slight hesitation before she said, “It’s not important, Master Martin. Leastways, nothing that won’t wait,” and with that she sauntered back to her bench.

  Watching her go, Amelia remarked, “That young woman has the most provocative walk I have ever seen. I must practise it!” She gave a faint swing of the hips, laughing over her shoulder as she turned away, and he laughed in return.

  “You have a walk of your own, Amelia. Equally distinctive. You have no need to copy any other.”

  “But mine must surely be less suggestive. Dear Mamma would be shocked if I walked in such a way, but how I would love to try!” As he helped her to mount again, she said seriously, “Thank you for the vase, Martin. And when you become a Master Potter, make more of its kind. I declare that Drayton’s would find such a line very profitable. All the pot banks in Burslem produce the same serviceable household ware. Jessica says that people of taste would prefer elegance on their tables, such as only the highest in society can afford at present, and I am sure she is right. I am also sure that dear Mamma would be glad to set aside the family Rockingham tonight, if only she had something new to replace it.”

  “Rockingham is beautiful, and will remain so for ever.”

  “No doubt, but those who have inherited their family’s porcelain would welcome a change. Things lived with all one’s life can be so boring. You are not listening to me, Martin. Your thoughts are miles away, and you look worried. No, puzzled. Are you wondering what can have delayed your worthy brother?”

  “I am wondering if he can have caught the chill that has laid Jessica low.”

  “I didn’t know she was ill. She looked well enough when I saw her yesterday. She was in the garden of Medlar Croft when I rode by at about this time.”

  “She was unwell later. She had to retire to bed early, and was still there when I left for work this morning. She is normally an early riser and breakfasts with my mother and myself, so for her to stay abed is a matter for concern.”
<
br />   “Poor Jessica. Please wish her well from me. And take care of my vase. And don’t forget my suggestion to produce more. If Joseph forbids it, I will speak with him myself.” The impish smile she always had for Martin flashed out as she added wickedly, “If he is adamant, I will wheedle him and enjoy doing so, and how jealous Aggie will be should I succeed!”

  “You can try now, for here he comes.”

  But from the look on Joseph’s face he was not in an approachable mood. As she drew level with him at the yard entrance Amelia reined, but he merely doffed his hat to her and went on his way. Turning in her saddle she called after him, “I am sure my sister will await your arrival tonight with impatience, dear Joseph!” and he was forced to halt and look back at her mischievous face. “I am glad you haven’t caught poor Jessica’s chill,” she added. “How sad that she will not be coming too! Max will be desolate.”

  He half turned, tilted the corners of his mouth in a parody of a smile, nodded briefly, and rode on, not even pausing to ask what brought her to the potters’ yard at this hour. No doubt he guessed, for he had seen her here on previous occasions and greeted her affably enough, though she suspected he took his young brother to task later.

  Amelia shrugged and went on her way, but she had scarcely ridden a mile before she received a surprise which drove all thought of Joseph and even of Martin from her mind. Deciding on a shortcut in the direction of Larch Lane, for pangs of hunger made the thought of her delayed breakfast enticing, she was startled by a gig emerging from the lane itself, with Simon Kendall at the reins and the unmistakeable figure of Jessica beside him.

  Aware only that it could be embarrassing to confront Jessica when she was reputedly in bed with a chill, Amelia withdrew to the cover of some nearby trees and, puzzled, watched the couple drive by. She had seen Si Kendall little more than an hour ago, riding uphill toward Carrion House, and now here he was, still clad in his working clothes, driving his modest gig in the same direction and accompanied by Jessica Drayton, who was plainly suffering no chill at all. That meant he had returned to his cottage to change his horse for a gig, but from where had he collected Jessica?