by Rona Randall
“Well, I sit in judgement on her!” Max declared. “She was always damned hoity-toity with me — and now this! Not that I care over much about losing her, let me tell you. She was never half so pretty as her twin and never half so amiable, either. I’ll warrant Phoebe would never have treated me so.”
He was at a side table, helping himself to brandy. Perhaps that was all to the good, thought Joseph. Fuddled senses could be more easily played upon. And the boy was giving him the opportunity to play his trump card even sooner than anticipated.
In sympathetic tones he answered, “Ah, there you speak wisely, Max. Dear Phoebe has always been a dutiful daughter, a sweet, unselfish, amenable creature who would never hurt anyone, much less defy her mother and her guardian as Jessica is wont to do. Oh yes, disobedience is habitual with her. An independent mind is unbecoming in a woman, do you not agree?”
“It’s not the mind that prompts a person to fall in love,” Ralph Freeman pointed out sagely. “Personally, I have always admired Jessica. A handsome, well behaved, frank young woman, I have always thought her, and in this instance she is being characteristically honest.”
Joseph demurred. “Is it honest, sir, to plan to marry secretly and to hide the truth from her mother? Is it well behaved to consort with a man before marriage? Now you understand our shame, do you not? Yes, Madam — ” He turned at Charlotte Freeman’s gasp. “I have to confess that my sister Jessica is wanton. It is a bitter confession to make, but I am not one to shirk the truth.”
It was Agatha’s turn to gasp.
“You mean she has committed adultery with that — that ditch digger?” Shocked, her hands flew to her face. “Oh, poor Mr Drayton, poor dear Joseph, what a terrible disgrace to bring upon you, and how brave of you to confess it to us! Mamma — Papa — can we not spare dear Joseph further embarrassment? After all, he could have concealed the truth about Jessica. He need not have mentioned…He could have pretended that she had merely jilted dear Max — ”
“And thank God she did,” her brother mumbled through a liberal gulp of brandy. Being jilted was insulting, but being jilted by a harlot was the outside of enough.
To his surprise, his father was at his side, removing his glass and saying, “No more need be said about this matter. I appreciate your telling us the truth, Drayton, though it would have sufficed to let us know that the betrothal was not to be, without besmirching your sister’s name. The matter is now closed and her reputation need no longer be discussed.”
“Her reputation!” cried Agatha. “What sort of a reputation has she now, pray?”
Amelia spoke for the first time.
“Leave her alone. I like Jessica. Mamma, permit me to withdraw until supper is served. I have no inclination to listen further.”
The door closed behind her, leaving a brief silence in which Joseph sought frantically for the right words to say. The girl’s cool tone had indicated disapproval, not of Jessica but of those who sat in judgement on her. And he suspected that Ralph Freeman agreed. But at least he had an ally in Agatha and the smile he now gave her expressed his gratitude, plus admiration. We feel the same way, you and I…we have so much in common, are so much alike…
She rewarded him with an adoring smile and he thought with satisfaction that she was easy prey. She would no doubt elope with him were he so unwise as to persuade her, but such a course he would not take. Better, by far, to have her father’s goodwill. The old man’s censure tonight had warned Joseph that he must be tactful above all things, and that to get on the wrong side of Ralph Freeman would be folly.
He broke the silence following Amelia’s withdrawal by saying respectfully that in view of the unhappy turn in events he would impose on their hospitality no further, and was satisfied with the general reaction. Agatha protested gushingly, her mother graciously, and her father gruffly. “No need to feel like that, Drayton. No need to be embarrassed. No need at all.”
“Nonetheless I am, sir. It has been a most painful experience, a painful duty I had to discharge. And even yet I dare to hope that all is not lost. My promise concerning your son need not be broken.”
Indeed, things might well turn out a great deal more happily. As he observed just now, dear Phoebe is an affectionate, amiable creature, and to my certain knowledge she has always cherished a fondness for him.’
“For me?” cried Max. “This is news indeed! Dear, pretty little Phoebe — !”
“ — who has been head over ears in love with you for a long time and quite unable to hide it from her family, though I have no doubt she has been maidenly enough to hide it from you. Boldness has never been characteristic of her.”
Max spun round to his father. “Sir — hear that!”
But Ralph Freeman was wary. “Time enough to think about it, time enough,” he growled, but Joseph saw success ahead and was able to enjoy the rest of the evening, not the least of which was Charlotte Freeman’s well planned menu of larded sweetbreads, dressed woodcocks, veal fricandeau, turkey with oyster sauce and fricassed Jerusalem artichokes, followed by an excellent orange tart and a delicious Savoy cake, with a relish of potted lamphreys as a finale. All accompanied by wines from her husband’s excellent cellar and served by discreet servants who seemed to vanish into the woodwork between courses.
Chapter Ten
The gossips of Burslem had never been busier. The three Drayton marriages set them buzzing like bees in a hive. Not that Phoebe’s alliance with Max Freeman was altogether surprising since they had been playmates in childhood and family friends throughout their lives, but she had certainly done well for herself in annexing such a well born husband.
It was the other Drayton/Freeman marriage which astonished everyone and dismayed hopeful mothers of unmarried daughters. Joseph Drayton could have had his pick of any single young woman for miles around. With his looks and prospects, he was one of the biggest catches of the county. Moreover, he had reached the age of thirty without being snapped up, which had buoyed the hopes of many since it implied that he was taking his time in looking around. Young girls who had previously represented no competition to older ones had now grown up and entered the lists, so he had a wide field from which to choose — and in the end he had chosen one of the plainest females in the whole of Staffordshire.
But astonishing as this marriage was, none caused greater amazement than that of Jessica Drayton to Simon Kendall. Sir Neville Armstrong had married them. As a Justice of the Peace he was qualified to do so, and he had even conducted the ceremony in his own home, Ashburton, a few miles south of Burslem. Rumour had it that he had given them a fine wedding breakfast into the bargain, hosting it as if he were the bride’s father and praising the bridegroom’s talents and the bride’s charm in a benign and kindly speech.
All this had been confirmed by more than one Ashburton servant. The meal had been one of the best ever produced in the Ashburton kitchens, even though the number of guests had been minimal — the bride’s mother, younger brother, and her twin sister. A pathetic sort of gathering, said the gossips, the bridegroom having not a relative in the world and the bride’s elder brother, head of the Drayton family, staying away. Nor had the bride had so much as a new gown. She had merely worn the most elegant one in her wardrobe, but it had to be admitted that Jessica Drayton — Jessica Kendall as she was now — had a good sense of style, so no doubt she looked very nice for her wedding.
But all that had taken place nearly three months ago and the pair had moved from Si’s cottage in Larch Lane very soon afterwards. They were living over at Cooperfield now, a pretty village some six miles south and not far distant from the Armstrong estates. Jessica had not been seen in Burslem since, which no doubt spared the Drayton family a lot of embarrassment.
“Do you want to go?” Simon asked.
“To Phoebe’s wedding? Yes. I would like to see her married and I would like to see my sister Harriet and her family. They are sure to come.”
“Are you homesick?” he asked gently.
She considered the question. If homesickness was a feeling of still being tied to the past, the answer was yes. If it was a longing to go back to it, the answer was no. The past was gone; she was living in the present, right here in this old wheelwright’s cottage which absorbed every moment of her time.
There were things to be done, things to be made — quilts and curtains, pillow slips and household linens, not to mention a stillroom to be filled. Preserves and pickles had to be made, fruits and suitable vegetables to be bottled, herbs to be picked and dried, eggs to be put down, beef to be salted, bacon to be hung, bread to be kneaded, candles and soap to be prepared and then stored since they improved for being kept from eight to ten months, and even better for up to two years. And the soap had to be cut into long lengths with wire or twine and kept out of the air for two or three weeks to prevent quick drying and consequent cracking, for in that way a full third could be saved in consumption.
These were economies her mother had taught her, for Emily had always been a conscientious housewife, and Jessica was now thankful that she had heeded every word — unlike Phoebe, who had always been quickly bored. But Phoebe would have no need to economise when she was Mrs Maxwell Freeman; she would lead the lady’s life she had always dreamed of — pretty and decorative, queening it in an elegant withdrawing room, mistress of their personal servants in the heir’s wing of Tremain Hall.
“Then we will go to the wedding,” Simon promised, “and I will do my best to be a credit to you.”
“You will be that without effort,” she said, and meant it. She could never experience embarrassment with this man. Even in their hours alone together, when he returned from his long day’s work and they sat opposite each other across the supper table or beside the fire before going upstairs to their separate rooms, she was never aware of any social or mental division between them.
Sometimes, on the Sabbath, when he pored over his books and she sat quietly sewing, she would look across at him, secretly studying him and wondering what thoughts occupied his mind when not devoted to working or reading. And sometimes he would feel her eyes upon him, and look up, and smile at her. Never more than that. Never any questions. Never any physical approach. He kept his distance, as he had promised, and she kept hers.
Surprisingly, it was not a cold relationship. It was a slow, getting-to-know-each-other process. Sometimes she felt it was a waiting period, not only for the birth of her child, but for a new and unknown life afterwards.
She had not yet reached the stage where she could think of the child as being a specific sex. Only as ‘it’, the thing which had brought them together. ‘It’ had introduced her to this new and not uncomfortable existence and so her feelings about the child were mixed. There was a certain wonderment in knowing that a new life was growing inside her and that one day it would emerge as another human being, but she would never allow herself to speculate on how it would look, whom it would resemble, or whose character it would inherit. She simply prayed that the child would not remind her too much of its father, also that the day would come when she would find the man’s features difficult to recall. When that happened she would know that she was finally free of Roger Acland, but so long as she was able to summon his looks at will, the memory of him would be difficult to erase.
Meanwhile she was living this strange, non-intimate life with Simon Kendall and in some illogical way he was becoming more and more unfamiliar to her. He no longer seemed like the Si Kendall of old, but a different personality altogether. Until recently, she had seen him only as the man whom Martin admired and whom everyone in her own social world regarded as unacceptable; a solitary man who greeted the inhabitants of Burslem courteously, whomsoever they might be, but kept himself aloof from all. And now here she was, living beneath his roof, bearing his name, and scarcely knowing him at all.
It was surprising how seeing someone close up, against their own background, presented a different picture of them. On that memorable night in his Larch Lane cottage she had yielded to his dominance with a feeling of inevitability, yet she had never seen him as a dominating man, only as a reserved one. But that night he had taken command, and she had been thankful to let him.
Did she regret it? As yet, there was no room in her mind for such a thought. She was grateful for this man’s help at a time when none had been forthcoming from any other quarter, and she would fulfil her part of the bargain as meticulously as he was fulfilling his. She would be the wife he sought on the terms agreed, and beyond that she would not think, though there were moments in the dead of night when, hearing him turn in his bed in the adjoining room, she would wonder what caused his restlessness and refuse to speculate upon it.
Nor would she anticipate the future, wonder what would happen after her child was born, or dwell too closely on the obvious fact that Simon Kendall was too masculine to be content with a celibate existence. If he did not share his wife’s bed, he would share another woman’s, and when that happened she would have to accept the situation.
A few days later Simon returned from work to say that he had been talking to Sir Neville about the Larch Lane cottage.
“He is landlord, but I have right of tenure on a yearly basis. Those were the terms on which he let my mother occupy it and he refused to change them in his own favour when I grew up. So there it still is, standing empty. He asked me to look for another tenant — ‘someone in need, someone deserving’, he said — and today I thought of Meg Gibson and her mother. I called on him on my way home, and he agreed.”
Jessica thought it a splendid idea, and said so. “The poor woman is very sick and the place they exist in is a dreadful hovel. I wish I could see their faces when they hear the news.”
“You may if you wish. Sir Neville has asked me to tell them. In some ways he is a shy man and thanks of any kind embarrass him, as you probably noticed when we took our leave after the wedding. As for me, I would like to have you with me.”
She hesitated. She had not set foot in Burslem since her marriage and in three months her condition had become apparent.
“People will notice,” she said, glancing down, “and the gossips will make the most of it.”
“And you care about that?”
“For your sake, I do. You will be blamed.”
“And you think I care about that?”
“It seems unfair…”
He came across to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Look at me.” When she lifted her head, her cheeks faintly flushed, he gave the smile with which she was becoming very familiar — teasing, faintly ironical, kindly. He looked at her for a long moment and then, abruptly, turned away.
“Perhaps I don’t mind being blamed. Perhaps I even want to be,” he said gruffly, and went out to the kitchen to scrub his hands beneath the pump before sitting down for the evening meal.
She felt the colour in her cheeks deepening, and was glad he was not there to see it.
They set out for Burslem early on Sunday and arrived when the church bells were ringing, which meant that everyone had a good look at them as they drove by. She even wondered whether Simon had timed their arrival for that very purpose; she also wondered if the detour he took past the village church was deliberate, for there was a shorter route to the marlpit. It also seemed to her that he intentionally slowed the gig, though this could have been out of consideration for people walking through the narrow lanes to church.
She held her head high and greeted those she knew. All greeted her in return, then commented excitedly to each other. She looked at Simon and he looked at her, tilting one eyebrow in a particular way he had, as if he found the world as amusing as the people in it, and she laughed, not embarrassed at all.
“I didn’t realise it was so obvious, Simon. I thought people wouldn’t notice if I were seated in a moving vehicle.”
“People have sharp eyes.” He took one hand from the reins to touch hers. The contact was reassuring, comforting, for despite her display of indifference she was not enjoying thi
s public inspection.
His hand remained where it was and she felt his fingers move, gently stroking, almost exploratory. She found herself holding her breath, unable to look at him, unaccountably shy. Then he said to her surprise, “That first night, I noticed your hands — well kept and smooth. I want them to stay like that. You are roughening them with all the chores you do.”
“Chores have to be done, and I want to do them. Domestic tasks take their toll, but I don’t object. I find them rewarding, and some very enjoyable.”
“Seeing your hands spoiled is no enjoyment to me. There must be ways of caring for them.”
“Cream from the top of the milk churn, followed by lemon to whiten them, then rosewater for softness…”
“That is what you did, before marrying me?”
“When necessary,” she lied, not caring to admit that it had been a daily practice but that luxuries like rosewater were now too expensive.
His hand went back to the reins. The village church and the lines of churchgoers were left behind. They were approaching the area of the marlpit.
“Please do it again, Jessica. It — matters to me.”