by Rona Randall
Some days after she had lost it, he had found her kneeling beside the cedar chest. The lid stood open, and her trembling hands clutched some of the tiny garments. When she looked up, her eyes were dull with pain. He had taken the articles from her and put them back into the chest, closing the lid. Her tears had brimmed then, and she had said, “It would be best to give them away, for I shall never need them now…” Nothing could have told him more finally that she wished for no other man’s child.
Perhaps he had known at that moment that the end of their relationship was near. If not, he should have realised it shortly before they left for Ashburton. She had descended the stairs dressed for the drive, a small basket grip in her hand and in the other the five guinea pieces he had given her to buy a new gown. Wordlessly, she held them out, but when he did no more than stare she was forced to speak.
“Now there is to be no baptism, you must have this back,” she said, and when he made no move she placed the money on the table and looked away from him.
“I want you to keep it, Jessica. You will have some other need for it. The opening of the Armstrong Canal will be a big event which we will attend together.”
To that she had made no answer, and so the money remained on the table. When he returned, he had gone straight up to her room and placed the money in a ceramic trinket box Martin had made for her.
He had given the incident no further thought, but now it assumed a significance which he should have heeded at the time, an implication that she would not be attending the opening because they would have parted by then.
Everything seemed to be laden with significance and he knew that, however strongly wisdom counselled him to wait, he would find it impossible to do so.
Turning through the vast entrance gates to Tremain Hall, Amelia came face to face with her brother, driving to work. She noticed a new pair of matching greys between the shafts. They looked thoroughbred and costly.
For the second time that morning, she reined, forcing him to do the same although she felt he had no wish to. He was looking very puffy about the eyes, and more than a little sullen. Both facts registered because, in their separate establishments beneath the sprawling Tremain roofs, they rarely met, so comparisons between the man he was becoming and the free-and-easy man he had been before marriage were inescapable.
He greeted her with mild affability, leaving her to make the obvious comment that he must be on his way to Drayton’s, to which he snapped, “Hell’s teeth, where else would I be bound at this ungodly hour?” Suddenly confidential, he added, “I tell you this, Sis, the beneficial part of the so-called marriage deal — to wit, a foot in the profitable Drayton industry — was a snare and a delusion. It curbs a man’s freedom. Even worse, it is boring. And what do I care about a business which involves messing about with clay, covered in mud all day?”
That amused her.
“You? Soiling your hands and fine clothes! I would have to see it, to believe it. Be honest, Max. You would have no notion of what to do with a lump of clay if you were taught until kingdom come. Unlike Martin. He is a genius.”
“That’s what every damned worker in the place says about him.” “And that sounds as if you resent it.”
“I resent him, and no bones about it. Looks at me as if I had no right to be there, that he does. Just because he’s a Drayton he thinks he should be closer to the Master Potter’s desk than I.”
“Well — shouldn’t he?”
“That’s for Joseph to decide.”
“There’s something commonly known as the Drayton legacy, I believe. It means that by tradition Drayton sons inherit. Never outsiders.”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that, and as far as I am concerned clever Martin can occupy my chair any time he wants to.”
“I don’t imagine he does. All Martin wants is to become a Master Potter in his own right, and so he will.”
“Not if he goes on the way he is going on. Joseph will have something to say about that when he hears.”
Startled, Amelia demanded to know what he meant.
“That he’s not so attentive to his wheel, in his brother’s absence. Martin doesn’t suspect that I notice, but I do.”
Amelia bit back an angry retort. She knew how often Martin escaped to his Cooperfield workshop, and encouraged him all she could. She also knew that Joseph’s absence had given him greater opportunity, but not for the world would she betray him. Martin’s step was a step in the right direction, and nothing must jeopardise it. She asked carefully, “What do you mean? Just what do you know?” “That he’s not putting in all the hours he should. That the wench in the turning shed is in league with him. She knows what he’s up to, whatever it is. She’s either aiding and abetting, or rolling in the hay with him somewhere.” Max laughed. “Can’t say I blame him for that, but he shouldn’t play truant to do it, and the Master Potter will be none too pleased when he hears.”
Amelia gasped, “You wouldn’t report such abominable lies! Shame on you, brother. Not that I will regard you as any brother of mine, if you do!”
Max smiled indulgently. “Funny Amelia. You’re a quaint one, to be sure. Always so sweet about that limping lad, always defensive for him. Does he know you’re in love with him? You are — and no denials, please. For the life of me, I can’t imagine what you see in him. There is little enough to commend him.”
“There are a million things, and if you so much as breathe a word to his brother about his absences from work — and I am quite sure they are neither as frequent nor as prolonged as you imply — you will deserve a thrashing and I shall wish to God I could do it.”
“On the contrary, I shall be rewarded, little sister. I have the Master Potter’s word for that. While he is away I am appointed to keep a watch on all, and to report in detail when he returns. I find it more enjoyable than pretending to be interested in the trade — ”
“ — from which you escape to pursue your own pleasures, I have no doubt.” She glanced comprehensively over the costly greys and the handsome curricle, which she also recognised as new, and seeing the eloquence in her eyes Max moved uncomfortably. This younger sister had always been too sharp-eyed for his liking, unlike Agatha who was too full of herself to pay much heed to others, but Amelia seemed to take a lively interest in everything about her. Their father even held her up as an example. “If you had a quarter of Amelia’s enthusiasm for the right things in life, you might get somewhere, Maxwell.” Damned insulting. And all because this chit was their father’s pet.
He flicked the reins, anxious to be gone, but Amelia skilfully turned her horse, halting him again.
“In what way did Joseph Drayton offer to reward you for spying?” she demanded.
But that was something Max had no intention of revealing. He wouldn’t be such a fool as to tell a member of his own family that the Master Potter was not only shouldering his debts, but encouraging him to run up as many as he pleased, and to enjoy life in his own way whenever he felt so inclined. This spanking carriage and these handsome greys had cost more than he could possibly afford, but generous Joseph had urged him not to miss a bargain when he saw one. “You can count on me for the cost, Maxwell. I am happy to think that my sister Phoebe will be driven around the countryside in so handsome a turnout. And by the way — your father is sure to notice and admire it, but there is no need to let him know how you became the owner.”
So all he had had to do was sign another promissory note which, he was confident, his brother-in-law would never expect to be honoured. The notes were no more than a token formality, Joseph said. “ — because I know you will feel happier if we put things on a businesslike footing. You are not the type of man to like things any other way.” He had said this so frequently that Max now believed it himself, feeling very virtuous in consequence.
This time he did make his escape, urging the greys to nudge tiresome Amelia’s horse out of the way.
She watched his departure thoughtfully, aware of a deep uneasi
ness. She must forget about family loyalty and warn Martin to be on guard against her brother.
Martin was grateful to Meg for putting the finishing touches to his greenware, and even more for her offer of further help. No one could put a basic rim on a pot so well as she, and so long as he was obliged to produce a certain amount of routine ware, he was doubly grateful. He was accepting any orders that came his way, and no request was too small; the replacement of a pot lid, a replica of a vegetable dish, a copy of a bowl which had been in a family for years and had been sadly broken. Single orders were rejected by well established potters, thus giving lesser ones the chance to earn some few shillings to cover costs.
But it was adding the finishing touches that Martin found time-consuming. They prevented him from concentrating on the work which mattered most. He could produce a large and speedy supply of bowls, but the laborious task of adding a foot to each one frustrated his wish to concentrate on more creative things. Sir Neville’s horse occupied his mind constantly, but such pieces took weeks to model and because this was his first commission he was determined that it should be as near to perfection as he could make it. There must be no hurrying, no scamping of detail, and because he intended to create a mould from which copies could be cast — an insurance against some mishap befalling the original — it was necessary to make two identical models, one to be the ‘first edition’ which, he hoped, would one day be valuable, and the second from which to make the mould. In the process of mould-making this second model would be destroyed, but copies could then be produced by filling the mould with slip, then pouring off the surplus when the plaster had absorbed sufficient liquid to leave a replica within.
Then a more exciting idea seized him. To be able to cast Red Empress in bronze or some other metal, it would be necessary to model yet a third, built on an armature to give additional strength. From this a mould strong enough to accept molten metal would have to be made. It was an ambitious project, but because Neville Armstrong recognised this he encouraged Martin to proceed. He had visited the shed several times to watch the boy at work, even supplying the strip lead Martin needed to shape and build the armature.
But the first model, wholly ceramic, would be the one to take pride of place at Ashburton, and delivery of this was becoming imperative the nearer the day came for the official opening of the Armstrong Canal, for Sir Neville intended to display it at a reception for honoured guests. For this reason Martin was anxious to produce a glaze as fine as the one Joseph had applied to the birthday gift Martin had made for his father, but he was still no nearer to discovering the formula.
Here the loyal Jefferson came to his aid. Asking no questions, he spent his few spare moments in experimenting, but without success.
“There’s only one way to find out what’s in it, Master Martin, an’ that’s to scrape some glaze off one of the pieces, an’ break it down till we know its make-up.”
But that was impossible without his mother’s consent, and what excuse could he offer for disfiguring an item so treasured? She would say, “Surely you can ask Joseph? Or why not at the works? I know all details are kept on record, so can you not refer to them, my son?” Not for nothing had Emily Drayton been a potter’s wife and listened to potters’ talk all the years of her married life.
It seemed very much as if Martin would have to content himself with a glaze of the quality he had applied to Amelia’s fluted vase. It had pleased her greatly, but not himself. He wanted to achieve perfection with Red Empress so that other valuable commissions would follow. He therefore needed every spare moment in which to experiment in his Cooperfield workshop.
Meg’s offer was therefore heaven sent. He would have the best turner in the whole of Burslem as his ally. She even suggested smuggling some of his Cooperfield bowls into Drayton’s while the Master Potter was away, including them in her normal work and thus speeding up delivery. “Who’s going to know?” she asked. “You’re still making bowls at Drayton’s, so these’ll be just another batch. And even if somebody did smell a rat, there’s nary a one would cackle. Not on you, Master Martin.”
The disadvantage of Meg’s scheme was having to convey the items by carriage rather than endangering them in panniers on horseback, for at the greenware stage breakages were a major hazard. There was also the problem of getting them into Drayton’s without attracting attention, also of how to persuade his mother that he had need of the gig which, though used as a family vehicle, was hers by right.
Emily was still unaware of his main reason for visiting Jessica and Simon so frequently, and when she herself went to see them, his workshed remained locked and she was ushered in and out of the cottage by a route which avoided all sight of the brick-built oven outside. At times he felt guilty for deceiving his mother, but, as yet, the risk of her revealing the truth to Joseph was too big to take.
Equally great was his increasing anxiety about the state of things at Drayton’s, where his brother seemed intent on drawing Max Freeman more and more to the foreground. Martin had even been told to contact Max should he wish to speak to the Master Potter on any matter, a slight which Martin had no intention of heeding. But anger was a spur to his determination. Not only did he refuse to be relegated to second place behind a man who knew nothing about the potter’s craft, but he was equally resolved to work ever harder in his own small sphere, even though the penalty for breaking his apprenticeship indentures would be swiftly imposed by a man so harsh as Joseph.
He longed for the day when he could stand on his own two feet and fling defiance in his brother’s face.
He was lost in these thoughts when Amelia rode into the potter’s yard later that day, dismounted lightly, tethered her horse and walked into the throwing shed with no thought, this time, of attracting attention. Going straight across to Martin she said, “I must talk with you.”
The shed housed no less than a dozen wheels, manned by men whose rhythmic treadles hummed slowly to a standstill with her entrance. And no wonder, thought Martin, wishing them all to kingdom-come. Amelia looked pretty enough to eat.
“We break for half an hour at midday — ” he began.
“I can’t wait that long. Nor can what I have to say.” She lowered her voice, turned her back on the rest, and the foot treadles began to swing again. Beneath the increasing hum her words were safe. “I simply want to warn you to beware of my brother. He has Joseph’s instructions to keep an eye on all Drayton’s workers whilst he is away, and to report fully on his return. In other words, to spy — loathsome thought. He has noticed your occasional absences and the times when you slip away early — not that he has any idea where you go, or why, but be wary, Martin dear. I know that sooner or later your brother will learn about things, but that mustn’t happen until you are ready.”
Martin smiled. “I suspected as much. About Max, I mean.”
“But he knows more. He accuses Meg Gibson of being ‘in league’ with you, though of course he has no idea how. Being Max, he crudely remarked that the pair of you were no doubt rolling in the hay, so I should let him think that is true.”
“I most certainly shall not!”
“Pray do not be silly, Martin. It is better for him to suspect that, than the truth.”
“The truth is, my dear Amelia — ”
“Am I?” she interrupted. “Am I your dear Amelia?” There was a wistful note in her voice, quickly banished with a laugh before she turned away and came face to face with her brother, standing nearby, watching.
She blew a kiss in Martin’s direction, lifted a hand in a farewell salute to the room in general, and laughed in Max’s face before flinging her riding skirt over one arm and sweeping past him. Her indifference had the desired effect. It drew him outside, angered.
“And what, may I ask, brings my sister to a squalid workshop amongst squalid workmen?”
Untethering her horse, she answered coolly, “Help me to mount, brother. That is a gentlemanly duty, or are you unaware of it?” Stooping, he clasped his hands to ho
ld her extended foot, lifted her into the saddle, but prevented her from leaving by seizing the martingale.
“I asked a question of you, Amelia.”
“An insulting one, which I chose to ignore. The throwing shed is not squalid, nor are the men who work in it. They possess skills which you neither appreciate nor understand, and Martin is the most skilful of all.”
“Is that why you came here, bold as brass? To tell him so? Or to tell him something else? That I have an eye on him, for instance?”
“And why should you have an eye on him, or on anyone else?” “For the reasons I gave you only this morning. Take heed, sister — I am not a fool. You should not underestimate me. Nor should Martin. And that is something you would have been wise to tell the peg-legged cripple. Now be gone.”
Briefly, Amelia surveyed her brother, her glance roving up and down contemptuously, then she said with icy calm, “I have observed, of late, that your wife looks anything but the radiant bride of some weeks ago. She has become tight-lipped and acid-tongued, qualities which are unattractive in a female and not usually due to nature. There must be other causes — such as the example of ill manners akin to your own. But I don’t have to tolerate them. Mark that, brother.” Her whip cracked across his restraining hand. She galloped furiously out of the yard, his yelp of anger following her.
Chapter Twenty-One
The books in the library at Ashburton were extensive in number and varied in subject — there was even a section devoted to pharmacology, with a substantial amount on therapeautica and the action of drugs, indicating that some Armstrong forebear had been interested in such things — but Jessica soon realised that her work would not be difficult because the shelves seemed to have been undisturbed for years. Grouped under subject, author, and varied languages, her task was to itemise them according to category. She suspected, with secret amusement, that a hurried quill had scratched Sir Neville’s brief list shortly before her arrival, as a pretence that he had been hard at work.