by Rona Randall
But Martin had gone. His limping tread went hurrying back to his workshop, hop-skipping on the rough path, followed moments later by the sound of hooves retreating down the lane. Simon paid no heed to their directions as he sank into Jessica’s rocking chair, and if it was a mistake to torture himself with this remote contact with her, he was incapable of resistance. His head rested on her cushion, his hands on the chair arms which her own so often touched, his eyes closed as he rocked to the gentle rhythm she always set. He was conscious of a heartache deeper than he had ever known.
Acland was impressed by the home of Sir Neville Armstrong and by the fact that Jessica was there as his guest. The proud entrance gates, emblazoned with the Armstrong coat of arms, were symbolically splendid, and the lodge keeper’s respectful tug of the forelock pleased him. As the carriage bowled along the seemingly endless drive to the house, he was glad he had had the foresight to hire the best turn-out the Duke’s Head could provide, for Ashburton proved to be a distinguished stone mansion of splendid proportions.
The Armstrong arms were repeated on a fine portico above a flight of steps set between carved balustrades of matching stone. At the foot of the steps, to right and left, stood proud griffins, succeeded by unicorns midway and haughty lions at the top, the whole crowned by tall Corinthian pillars framing magnificent double doors. He was not surprised when these were opened by a footman.
Instinctively, he replaced Mistress Kendall’s name with that of Sir Neville, for an opportunity to meet the owner of this proud mansion was too good to miss, and he blessed his foresight when, after a brief wait, he was ushered into the man’s presence and given the welcome with which the owner of Ashburton always greeted expected or unexpected callers. He was then presented to a small gathering of guests and, having an ear for titles, he did not miss that of Lady Smethurst, who looked him up and down through long handled and bejewelled eyeglasses, then extended a gnarled and beringed hand to be kissed.
“And why have we not met, sir? It can only be because you are a stranger to these parts.”
“Not entirely a stranger, ma’am. I am closely related to the Freemans, of Tremain Hall.” He gave her his most affable smile before turning to his host and explaining the reason for his visit. “I hoped to see Mistress Kendall, now sister-in-law to the Tremain heir, also to his elder sister, Agatha, now married to Mistress Kendall’s brother, Joseph Drayton — ”
“Tell me, sir, is it your custom to have everyone’s relationships at your fingertips — their lineage too, perhaps?” Sir Neville’s voice was deceptively mild, but for an uneasy moment Acland suspected a hint of sarcasm. This immediately faded when the man continued, “An interesting study, I believe — the study of lineage. I understand untold people are fascinated by family trees. Personally, I find them boring since they deal with the dead. The living are much more interesting, do you not agree? You will no doubt find Mistress Kendall in the library. She busies herself there on my behalf. Ashburton will have the best catalogued library in the country by the time her visit ends.” He tugged a nearby bell rope. “I will have you shown there without delay, and pray tell her that I and my other guests look forward to her rejoining us very soon.”
The last words relived Acland’s mind. Sir Neville’s reference to library cataloguing had momentarily alarmed him; it would have been galling to discover that he was calling on an employee in this establishment.
His host extended a wrinkled hand in farewell, plainly indicating that the invitation to rejoin the company did not extend to him. Slighted, Acland was not in the best of humour as he followed yet another ramrod footman to the distant library. Nor was it improved when he saw only astonishment in Jessica’s face. She spun round in her chair, stared, but made no attempt to rise.
Nor, he noticed, had she been making any attempt to write. Above a blank sheet of paper, a dry quill dangled between idle fingers, suggesting she had been day-dreaming.
He held out both hands, but she appeared not to see them. None too pleased, he dropped them abruptly and said, “You look surprised to see me.”
“I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“But you knew I would return. I told you so.”
“Ah, yes — for the child’s birth.”
“My poor Jessica, I am more distressed than I can say about its loss, but it doesn’t appear to have affected you. You look thin but extremely well.”
“You mean that now the whole thing is over, I should forget it ever happened?”
“Such losses occur to many women, but you are young and healthy. You will have more children.”
She laid down the quill and pushed aside her chair, but instead of crossing to him she went to the window and gazed out across sweeping parkland. Over her shoulder she said, ‘I should like to have more. I pray that I will.’
“Then you shall, dear Jessica. You shall have as large a family as you wish, and though I shall begrudge every hour they take you from me, I shall raise no objection — ”
“Indeed, sir, why should you? How could you? That will be my husband’s prerogative, not an outsider’s.” She turned from the window and surveyed him, slender arms folded, head on one side. “You look surprised. Even puzzled. And may I add that I think you misunderstood my surprise when you entered this room? ‘So soon’, I said — meaning so soon after my husband promised to send you here, if and when you did arrive.”
“You knew I would. I told you I would. I promised to return and to take you back to Bristol with me, to start a new life together, the life we planned and which your brother forbade — ”
“To your advantage, I recall.”
“To our joint advantage. How else could I have bought a partnership which promises great things, and so put myself in a position to propose marriage?”
She interrupted, “You explained all that when last we met. It is irrelevant now. My surprise this time is due solely to seeing you so quickly after my husband left here.”
“Naturally, I came as soon as he told me your whereabouts. Did you imagine I would delay?”
She continued as if she had not heard, “You must have met him no less than an hour since. I presume you were waiting at our cottage when he reached home. How typical of Simon to keep a promise without delay!”
“We have arrangements to make, plans to fulfil. So let us waste no more time.”
She answered briskly, “I agree with you. To talk further would indeed be a waste of time.” Equally briskly, she crossed to the door.
“As to plans, you are right again. Pray proceed with yours and leave me to mine.”
The door was open. She was holding it ajar, waiting for him to pass through. When he remained where he was, staring as if thunderstruck, she added with elaborate patience, “Again I fear you don’t understand what I mean. I am saying that no plans of yours can include me, and that no plans of mine can possibly include you.” He kicked the door to with his foot, protesting, “Our plans always included each other!”
“I once believed so, but I recollect you had contrary ideas concerning the woman who is now my brother’s wife.”
“Forget that. It is unimportant. Only now is important, but if that stupid error of mine is still troubling you, I will convince you that it meant nothing.”
“So now you do admit the ‘error’ — I recall you previously denied it. But as for troubling me, I assure you it troubles me not in the least and I agree it is unimportant. You see, I am agreeing with much that you say — but for different reasons. To me, that particular matter is no longer of any consequence.” Her gaze was steady; her voice chilling. “What I do not agree with, and what I will never allow anyone to say, is that my husband married me out of self-interest. That characteristic I would attribute to you, more than to him. And now I see I have angered you — ”
“Indeed you have! The man is uneducated and far beneath you. You cannot wish to stay with such as he! You are defending him only because you think it your duty. Stay with him for life and he will drag you do
wn to his level — ”
“On the contrary, to be raised to his would make me proud. He is a wonderful man, a fine and generous man, and I love him. Heart and soul, I love him, and I have never been so happy as I am this day.” “I refuse to believe it. You cannot have forgotten all that passed between us — ”
“Nor all that has happened since we parted; so much that the hours I spent with you now seem remote and unreal. I confess that I fretted and yearned for you, and that my poor baby was a powerful link, yet even that gradually became disassociated with you — my child, and mine alone, its parentage immaterial.”
“Was it to hear this that I was sent here?”
“It was.”
She looked so tranquil, so reposed, and so indifferent to him that he almost hated her. He tried to speak, but no words came. He struggled for self control, but lost it. He took two angry steps toward her, halted, raised a hand in wrath, let it fall…and all the time she looked at him, head high.
“There is one other thing,” she added. “Never again say a word against my husband, or deride him, or sneer at him, and above all, never undervalue him. He is a clever man, brilliant in the opinion of Sir Neville and others. He is going far.”
When she opened the door this time, it was to walk through it. Back turned, she did not see his darkening look. All she heard was his voice, following her. “Damn you both,” it said. “You will be sorry for this, the pair of you.”
He began to laugh then, but although she wanted to run from the ugly sound of it, she walked on, head high — glad, this time, that she would never see him again.
After the encounter Jessica felt disinclined to join Sir Neville and his guests. Physical activity was essential, and a brisk walk was the answer to that. She therefore set her steps away from the main drive where Acland’s carriage waited, taking a short cut through the stables to a wooded area of the park sliced by a bridle path. And it was here that she met Martin.
Her heart lifted at once.
“I rode over to see you before leaving Cooperfield,” he said.
“So you have been to your workshop? I am glad. I hear good reports of your progress.”
He dismounted and led his horse to a drinking trough at the stable entrance. Now he was here, words failed him. All his reasons for calling, invented during his furious ride, deserted him. How could be plead with her not to leave a man like Simon? How could he preach and admonish, as he longed to do? At less than nineteen he was in no position to tell his elders how to organise their lives.
Jessica eased things by saying how glad she was to see him because she wanted so much to show him the Ashburton library. “You never saw such books! A treasure trove. While you browse I will go in search of Sir Neville. He will be delighted to see you, and you can then tell him how far you have progressed with the model of Red Empress.”
“It’s ready for glazing,” Martin told her enthusiastically. “My problem is creating a recipe for the colour and brilliance I have in mind. So far, none of my experiments has been good enough, even with help and advice from Jefferson.”
“You will succeed. I know you will succeed! Perhaps some of the books in the library here will help. There are several on the production of Chinese porcelain, covering centuries. I am sure Sir Neville would willingly let you browse amongst them whenever you wish.”
“Jessica — wait. I came to see how you were, how you feel — “ He floundered, but pressed on. “You are looking well and happy, thank God.”
“I am well and happy. Dear Martin, you could not have come on a happier day than this.”
He wanted to ask what made it so. Was Acland responsible for the radiance about her? He had seen the man’s carriage heading this way from the cottage, plainly bound for Ashburton and driving at a pace which Martin’s old nag could never catch up with. By now, Acland must have seen Jessica and talked with her. What agreement had they reached, what decision had she made? These were questions Martin could not ask. Depressed, he fell silent.
Linking her arm in his, she shook him slightly. “Why so glum, when I am so happy? You don’t even ask what makes me so!”
“Then tell me, sister.”
“Because I am going home.”
He was delighted, demanding to know when.
“As soon as I can decently take my leave, though I would fly back to Cooperfield tonight were the choice mine. But my kindly host must be considered. I have no wish to hurt his feelings by leaving hurriedly. I suspect he invited me here solely to make me well, the library cataloguing being no more than a disguise for the truth. And now I will take you there, then go in search of him — but one more thing, brother! Should you see Simon on your way back through Cooperfield, say nothing of my return — it is to be a surprise. A happy surprise. Pray do not spoil it!”
In Ashburton’s library, Martin became so enthralled in volumes devoted to the ancient craft of oriental ceramics that time was forgotten. As he thumbed through them he vaguely recalled that long before his apprenticeship he had seen a copy of one particular edition amongst his father’s collection, but to a boy of twelve its contents had not held the interest or importance they held now. Nor had the volume been amongst the few he had managed to save from Joseph’s destruction. Crime of crimes, he raged inwardly as he pored over the faded parchment pages. Then a leaping excitement took over as he found, at last, a Chinese recipe for a high gloss glaze containing more than the customary oxides used in majolica.
To his surprise, this extra ingredient was lead, a substance unknown at Drayton’s pot bank because it was not needed in their production of homely saltglaze. But it was lead that had imparted a rare brilliance to masterpieces of oriental pottery.
His exhilaration was tremendous. After copying the formula in his neat copperplate hand, he buttoned it safely in an innermost pocket before scanning the remaining shelves. Volumes in Latin had their own section, as did volumes of sermons and, to his further surprise, volumes relating to medicine and pharmacology. Some day he must ask Sir Neville which members of his family had possessed such a variety of interests.
Idly, he dipped into more. The pharmacology section interested him particularly, since chemistry entered into his own work. But pharmacology extended much further; one particular edition included the action of drugs on the human body, of which there seemed to have been extensive usage in Tudor days. Even lead appeared to have been used, though exactly how was not listed. It seemed a cruel irony that a substance which could be used to create beauty could also be used for deadly purposes. He shuddered a little as he pushed the volume back into place.
Chapter Twenty-two
When Meg approached the gates of the potter’s yard the day after her mother had been buried in the village churchyard, she was accompanied by the potman from the Red Lion. He walked with her from Larch Lane every morning, leaving her at Drayton’s entrance and watching until she was out of sight. He cared little for the frank stares and knowing glances of her fellow workers, all of whom now believed Ma Tinsley’s nephew to be another of Meg’s clients. None would have believed that he had never so much as kissed her.
This morning she looked no different from usual. She wore the same bright red skirt because she possessed no other, but the loose-necked white blouse of summer had been replaced with a thick winter one of red flannel and a dark woollen shawl, and because of advancing winter her normally bare feet were thrust into wooden clogs. The wind being cold, her shining hair was concealed beneath the shawl. The wind was also responsible for the colour in her cheeks, but Frank Tinsley saw only the pallor beneath.
In the month since his arrival he had come to know this young woman well. He recognised her various moods, knew when, as now, she was hiding behind an assumed front and that when her mouth smiled and her eyes did not, her feelings ran deep.
Neither her eyes nor her mouth smiled this morning. There had been a terrible stillness about her following the first reaction to her mother’s death. Returning from work, she had found the d
early loved woman slumped in a chair beside a fire which had dwindled to nothing. Its remnants had been almost symbolic. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Martha Tinsley had intoned mournfully when she arrived to lay Mrs Gibson out. There was no one else in the village to do it because ever since Martha had arrived in Burslem she had taken over the task. There was none so good at it.
It was then that Meg finally cracked, screaming at her to get out. She had flung herself on her, yelling abuse and clawing at Martha’s scrawny figure like a tigress. Frank had seized and held her. Even then the curses had poured in a non-stop torrent, flung over her shoulder at his aunt, blaming the woman for her mother’s death.
“You could’ve saved her, you damned witch, you spawn o’the devil, you cursed seed o’Satan! You helped to kill her, so damn you to hell!” The tide of vituperation was only silenced when Frank clapped a hand over her mouth, and her flailing limbs were tamed by the strength of his arms about her. Even then she had bitten and kicked and writhed, demented by grief, swearing to God she would never let that Martha Tinsley into the house, and he had let her rave while his aunt, her wrinkled face expressionless, padded upstairs and proceeded silently with her task. Only later, when she descended and found him sitting with the limp and exhausted girl, did she speak at last.
“’T’were too late, wench. Nothink could’ve saved’er.’Er time’ad come.”
Meg had turned her face away then, refusing to look at the woman, and from the depths of Frank’s shoulder her muffled voice had accused, “She stopped the mec’cines…she stopped the medicines…she stopped the medicines…” And she went on and on until he signalled to his aunt to be gone, and then he shook the girl hard to make her weep at last, and when the safety valve of tears mercifully exploded he cradled her until she lay spent in his arms. And so he stayed throughout the night, nursing her when at last she fell into fitful sleep, afraid to move for fear of rousing her and bringing her back to further paroxysms of grief.