by Rona Randall
When they had gone some distance, Amelia followed because she had no choice; the route they were taking was also her own until they turned off the track and drove uphill. From below she could see them clearly until they reached Medlar Croft, when the gig wheeled smartly through the gates. So he was taking Jessica home, but from where at this early morning hour? Larch Lane housed only two cottages, his own and Martha Tinsley’s, and Jessica could never have been visiting the old woman’s.
That left only Si’s.
Briskly, not wanting to think or to question because she liked Jessica Drayton and she liked Si Kendall too, Amelia dug in her heels and headed for home.
Joseph Drayton dismounted in the yard, threw the reins to one of the urchins carting clay to the wedgers’ tables and, leaving the lad to tether his horse, called after his brother as he disappeared into the throwing shed, “A word with you, Martin — “
Martin braced himself for the inevitable reprimands. Why are you not at your wheel? Why were you gossiping out there with Amelia
Freeman, and what brought her here? And do not pretend that she comes uninvited. I naturally have no objection to friendship between you, in fact I value the friendship between our two families, but the familiar way in which she rides in here whenever she pleases can only be due to encouragement on your part. You know that visitors may only come by appointment, made through me. Please keep such meetings for social hours, not during Drayton’s valuable working time.
Martin could hear the lecture even before it was delivered, but to his surprise, none came. After hanging his broad tricorne hat on the ebony stand which had served generations of Draytons, followed by a lightweight cape which was all an early summer morning called for, Joseph sat down at the Master’s desk and, without glancing at his brother, said abruptly, “About that errand tonight — it is cancelled.”
“You mean I am not to drive to Larch Lane?”
“What else can I mean?”Joseph snapped.
Martin was too surprised to speak. He could only stare at his brother, wondering what had provoked the bad temper. Not troubling to pursue the matter, he turned and walked out of the place, colliding with Meg Gibson immediately outside the door.
*
Meg knew that such a bold step as presenting herself at the Master’s office would be overlooked by no one, but cared little about that. At dawn, an angry Martha Tinsley had marched into the single-roomed hovel which was the Gibson home and, indifferent to the figure sleeping on the shelf-bed close beneath the rush covered roof, had demanded to know what mischief Meg Gibson had been up to, what trick she had been playing, and why she had concocted that fine story about a mysterious visitor whose coming would result in two fine golden guineas, and vowing there would be no more potions for her ailing mother unless she learned the truth of it.
“And wot’s more, me fine missy, I’ll be after thee for the money since’t’ were thee that promised it!”
“’T’were never me! I passed the message, no more, and I’ll be the one to bring the money to you when the job is done. It be done by now, surely to God?”
At that, old Martha had spat on the rough earth floor.
“’Ow could I do nought to a body as didn’t turn up? Aye, me fine young leddy, ther’s the truth on’t, an’ me guess is that ye made up the tale, just to torment a pore soul that’s nivver seen a golden guinea in ’er life. Shame on ye an’ the devil take ye, schemin’ young varmint that y’are!”
“’T’were true, every word of it — my oath on the Good Book!”
“Ye be lyin’, ye black-eyed bitch, an’ ’t’will be thy pore mother as’ll suffer for it, ’cos there’ll be no more med’cines from me to ease ’er pain an’ no more belladonna to make ’er sleep the way she be sleepin’ now — ”
Like a tiger cat, Meg had been at her then, clawing at the gnarled old face, cursing her for a damned old witch.
“You be the liar, Ma Tinsley! I don’t believe the woman didn’t come. It were urgent, important, that I know. And if my dear mother suffers on account o’ you, I swear to God you’ll be sorry!”
A last display of spitting contempt, a slam of the door, a final threat ringing round the hovel walls until even the drugged sleeper stirred, and the woman was gone, leaving the atmosphere heavy with fear. Make an enemy of old Martha Tinsley, and you’ll be sorry, people said. Do her wrong, and she’ll strike back. Then, dear God, let her strike at me, only at me…!
But whether God listened or not, Meg had to make sure. She had to do something. She had to get the goddamned money and take it to her, and there was only one way to do that.
The door of the Master Potter’s office was closing after his brother’s exit, but Meg caught it with her foot, kicked it wide, and marched in boldly. There must be no knock, no nervous approach, no fear, for she had the upper hand and must show it.
He was staring unseeingly at papers on his desk, his thoughts plainly miles away, and although her unfailing sixth sense told her that he was in a far from pleasant mood, she bolstered her determination by letting the door slam behind her. Promptly, he jerked, “There’s no need for that, Martin — !” and broke off at the sight of her.
Meg laughed.
“’T’weren’t your brother that slammed it, sir — ’t’were me, and with good reason. You’ve landed me in trouble and you’d best get me out of it. And soon.”
His face seemed to tighten and grow hard. She had seen him look like that when taking workers to task, but now it seemed more intense. She steeled herself to face it, and did so in the only way she knew — with bravado, a knowing smile, a tilt of the head and a thrust of the chin. She knew it could be a dangerous attitude, but meekness at this moment was beyond her. Besides, he would only take advantage of it, reducing her to her menial position without effort.
“Get out,” he rapped, “and don’t dare to come hinting that I have fathered any brat you’ve conceived.”
She burst out laughing.
“I don’t mean that kind of trouble — sir. You sent me on an errand to Martha Tinsley — “
At that, his face went so rigid that for a moment she thought he meant to strike her, then reason argued that he wouldn’t dare in case she screamed loud enough to be heard by everyone.
“Get out.”
“Not until you hand over the money for Ma Tinsley.”
“She hasn’t earned — ”
“You mean you won’t pay on account of the lady never turning up? So you know about that — sir.”
He bit his lip. That pleased her. She had him on the raw, so pressed on, “Martha Tinsley’s angry. She’s demanding what’s due. You owes me, too.”
“Nothing is due if the unfortunate lady failed to arrive, though of course I know nothing about that.”
“Oh, it’s true all right, sir, and I think you knows it well enough, else why should you begin to say Ma Tinsley’s not earned it? Stopped yourself just in time. And the old woman wouldn’t be in such a spitting rage if ’t’weren’t true. She’s angry. She’s threatening. She can be terrible when crossed.”
He said contemptuously, “Do you imagine I can be threatened by either of you? Get back to your work and keep to your place in future.”
“Sir, she means it. I swear to God she means it.”
“How much did you tell her?” His narrowed eyes watched her closely, icy slits in a cold face. “I told you explicitly to keep silent.” “If by that you mean did I let on who sent me, I did not. Promised I wouldn’t, didn’t I? Ever known me break a promise, sir — like when you send for me to pleasure you, and none any the wiser because I keeps my mouth shut? But it might be different now. If Ma Tinsley forces me to tell who sent that message, I shan’t have no choice. She threatens to let my mother suffer unless I get the money. She’ll do it, too. She’ll send no more med’cines, and all on account of you and the lady you said was to come after dark, but never did. Why didn’t she, sir?”
“How should I know? She was unknown to me, an unfortunate w
oman I had been asked to help.”
“By who, sir? And why you, sir? Were you — what d’they call it? — re-spons-ible?” She brought out the word with care, but was pleased by the result. If she hadn’t hit the nail right on the head, she was near it, damned if she wasn’t, and what a feeling of power it gave her! “All the more reason for paying up,” she went on, her confidence returning, “and if you do, I promise I’ll come to your bed for nothing next time and the next, and for as long as Ma Tinsley keeps the med’cines coming to my mother. Else she’ll die. I swear to God she’ll die. Martha Tinsley means what she says.”
Meg was battling with a choking feeling in her throat, but it wouldn’t do to let him see how upset she was. He wasn’t a man with much feeling, other than he experienced in bed with her. Looking down at her feet, the better to hide the fear which might easily show despite her bravado, she missed the expression which now crept into his face, the renewed tightening of his mouth and the hardening of his eyes. Not until his chair scraped on the wooden floor and his measured tread came towards her did she lift her head, and shiver at his glance.
Coming to a halt, he looked down from his splendid height, lifted his hand, and struck her heavily across one cheek and then the other. Her head snapped back like a puppet’s. She felt a searing pain in her neck and face, and her tongue was bitten by the jarring. Stunned, she uttered no scream, but without blinking she looked him straight in the eye.
He said softly, “Now get out, you miserable slut, and thank God I don’t kick you out of this place for good.”
Chapter Eight
Meg Gibson’s threats left Joseph unmoved. The trouble with the poor, he reflected in the silence that followed her stormy departure, was their habit of turning every situation into drama and even tragedy. He could scarcely recall Meg’s mother, whom he had rarely seen since the days when she had worked for a neighbouring potter as a casual labourer, her black-haired toddler clinging to her skirts. That had been when he was in his last year at Uppingham before going on to university. He vaguely recalled that during vacations he had seen a striking, gypsy-like young woman trudging to and from work with a small child beside her, and had heard that they had been lucky enough to obtain a hovel all to themselves. In others whole families were housed. In the kitchens of Medlar Croft he had overheard Clara’s mother, then Cook, talking about the unfairness of it: “ — and she a foreigner, widow of a labourer from a farm twenty miles distant! She don’t even belong to these parts!”
It had amused him to learn that the natives of Burslem regarded areas beyond their own boundaries as foreign parts, and he had scarcely heeded the family coachman’s remark that the poor young creature had been turned out of the labourer’s cottage at her husband’s death, as was the custom, and had trudged all the way to Burslem, trying to pick up work on the way.
That, of course, had been in the days when George Drayton could afford a coachman. Joseph could recall his father being driven away each morning, wearing his voluminous cloak, and long full bottomed wig winter or summer, and taking with him yet another volume from his library because he was so engrossed in it. Later, coach and coachman dispensed with for reasons of economy, he had ridden to work, but still his books went with him in a saddle bag. Thank God, those days were over and the Drayton fortunes were well on the mend.
And they would stage an even more powerful recovery if no hitch occurred in his plans, but that thought revived the anxiety which had accompanied him all the way from Carrion House this morning. Shortly after rising he had received a shock which demanded all his thought and ingenuity, and now left no time for worrying about tiresome whores with tiresome threats. Far more urgent was the need to handle the Freeman situation, threatened by Simon Kendall’s unexpected arrival at his house just when he was about to enjoy one of Hannah Walker’s substantial breakfasts.
“And he refuses to go away, sir. I tried to get rid of him, but he says it’s important. ‘Of vital importance’, was how he put it, sir.”
So rather than lose his dignity by indulging in any kind of argument, Joseph had left the housekeeper to keep his devilled kidneys and baked carp and buttered eggs hot in the chafing dishes, and had gone to meet the man.
He had been prepared for a typical Staffordshire worker, but the thing that had struck him most on confronting Si Kendall was that he looked like one of the Armstrongs dressed in workman’s clothes. There was no mistaking the family blood. There before him was the same red hair, the same fine physique, and the same proud features — though from all accounts there was little to merit pride in some of the escapades the Armstrong sons had got up to. Even so, their lineage was a fine one, going back a long way and manifesting unmistakeable characteristics throughout the generations, and in looks, at least, many were embodied in Jane Kendall’s son.
Whether he really was Sir Neville’s by-blow, as some said, Joseph did not pause to consider. He was so surprised by this unexpected visit that the only question in his mind was the reason for it.
His first guess was that the man had come to seek financial aid for one of his hare-brained schemes, like this canal he had inveigled Sir Neville into backing and which young Martin believed would prove an asset, whereas anyone with sense knew it would not. Slow barges towing coal to Manchester along a meandering waterway could never compete with overland haulage, nor could idling bargees compare with drivers of drays and teams of strong horses bred for such work. The hazards of weather, and of lurking gangs who were ever ready to snatch a share of the precious load, kept drivers alert over their long journeys, but there would be no such incentive when drifting along canals on vessels which enabled men to moor at nights, thus idling the journey away because there was little fear of attack on waterways which could be deep enough for men to drown in. Such leisurely progress would mean delayed consignments and a fall in profits. Only someone so naive as an eighteen-year-old boy, or as gullible as an ageing bachelor, could fail to see all that.
At least Hannah Walker had had the good sense to leave the man standing in the hall, though as Joseph emerged unwillingly from the breakfast room he made a mental note to reprove her for not sending him round to the service entrance the moment she saw him on the front doorstep. This reaction was faintly mollified by the way in which Kendall was gazing round the place, no doubt impressed by its splendour. Coming from a cottage background, he could not fail to be.
Resolving to get rid of him as quickly as possible, Joseph came straight to the point.
“Another project, Kendall? Another scheme? At least one must admit you are a man of ideas, however impractical they may be, but if you are hoping for financial aid you are wasting your time.” His swiftly raised hand checked what was obviously going to be a quick retort. “I know it is customary for budding geniuses to peddle their schemes amongst the rich and influential, but let me tell you at once that I never gamble, never take chances. Come to me with a sound proposition and I might consider it. I say ‘might’ because any scheme would have to be properly prepared — and presented with proof of its viability — before I would risk squandering good money. And I know you are not equipped to present such a thing, being unable to read or write.”
“Oh, I am progressing, sir. You would be surprised at the rate I am progressing.”
Was that mockery? Sarcasm? Joseph glanced at him sharply, but there was no suggestion of insolence in his face. The Armstrong eyes looked back impassively. They were decidedly discomforting. The man had to be got rid of.
Reaching for a bell rope, Joseph summoned his housekeeper. A butler would have been more impressive, but any rank of servant could awe a person unaccustomed to them.
“I am glad to hear it, Kendall. It is always good to hear of a man who wishes to better himself, but as for your schemes, take them to people more gullible than I. Sir Neville, for instance, though I imagine he now regrets that canal. I hear it is by no means finished.”
“It is progressing well and will be finished on time, but I am not here to d
iscuss that.”
No ‘sir’ now. No mockery. Merely a hint of concealed anger which made Joseph realise that the man’s tone had been mocking, the sarcasm real.
He turned away, saying curtly, “The door is behind you. Next time, find the service entrance.”
That was when Simon Kendall did something Joseph Drayton was never to forget. He laughed. The sound was sharp with derision, and so was his voice as he answered, “That won’t be necessary since I am never likely to visit this place again, unless fate brings me with your sister at some time in the future, an event neither Jessica nor I would wish for.”
Joseph’s footsteps, heading back to the breakfast room, ceased abruptly. There was the distant sound of heavy silver covers being replaced on chafing dishes, and then Mrs Walker’s approaching tread. Through the open door she could have heard every word and, having sharp ears, probably had. Against his will, Joseph felt alarm, and the man’s use of his sister’s name increased it.
Reluctantly, he nodded towards his study and, once inside, closed the door. The pause had given him time to hide his reaction, but Kendall’s remark left him floundering for a reply. Resorting to bluster, he demanded to know what the devil he was talking about.
“Your sister Jessica and myself. I thought I made that plain.”
Drayton’s eyes had successively revealed suspicion, patronage, boredom and contempt. Now they narrowed with a wariness which made Simon smile. The man was not only confused, but apprehensive. That was all to the good. It would do no harm to let him sweat awhile. And the effort it cost him to reply was also pleasing.