The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  “In a way it is. My indentures forbid me to work for any other master.”

  “A man’s his own master in his own place. But what be indenters?”

  “They are the rules set down for an apprentice, signed and witnessed, and one of them says I ‘shall not at any time depart or absent myself without my master’s leave’.”

  Meg spluttered. “My, but you’d fair cop it then, so it’d be right daft to own up.”

  “I don’t intend to if I can avoid it, particularly since Si and Jessica were kind enough to give me such a chance. The idea was that I should use the shed on Sundays or whenever I could get to it after working hours. I don’t think they suspect I’ve been there when I should have been here, but in any case I wouldn’t want to involve them in trouble with my brother. Not that I can imagine Si giving a cuss about that. He has always been on my side, and so has Jessica. For the same reason, I don’t want to get you into trouble, so from now on I must manage without your help.”

  “You don’t need to worrit about me, Master Martin.”

  “I’m not so sure. I happened to go into the turning shed shortly before the end of the noon break — I’d joined Jefferson with my bread and ale because I wanted to talk to him about a glaze ingredient and, now my brother is back, the noon halt is the only time I dare visit the glazing sheds. He is then occupied with his own meal in the privacy of the Master’s office — or so I believed. I finished talking to Jefferson early, and on my way back I wanted to see how many of my pots you’d had time to deal with. You were away in the womens’ eating place, so no one was around — except the Master Potter. He was at your bench, examining your work.”

  Meg shrugged.

  “Let him. He’d find now’t wrong.”

  “I know. But what he did find were the items I made at Cooperfield.”

  “How’d he know you made’em there and not here? They carry your potmark, same as all.”

  “Yes, but the shapes don’t follow Drayton designs.”

  “They be better, Master Martin. But damn him for nosing around. Did he say ow’t?’

  “Only to ask why I had varied the shapes without permission — and, of course, what I was doing in that particular shed. That was easy to answer. I said I had come to see how many of my pieces you had finished because I had another batch waiting. As for some of the shapes being varied, I apologised because not to do so would have antagonised him and made matters worse. I said I had thrown the new shape accidentally, so thought it wise to make more to match it. I think he believed me, because he said not another word. Then the work bell clanged again and he left.” “And now you be worrit lest he examines every load coming out of t’ovens, and wonders where that lot be. Don’t fret. We’ll get’em back safe’n sound to Cooperfield for firing there, and if Master Potter asks where be that perticler batch, I’ll say I smashed the lot accidental-like. I’ll wager I won’t be punished.”

  She didn’t say why, and Martin didn’t ask. He had always known that his brother secretly favoured Meg, and why. He had not forgotten the flash of red emerging from the lane beside Carrion house on that memorable Sunday back in the Spring, when John Wesley had come to preach on Cobblers Green, and he was well aware that there had been prior visits. He had never condemned Meg, knowing her circumstances, and if his brother was likely to be indulgent to her now because of their past association, Martin was glad of it.

  He was also glad that Joseph was married at last, thus freeing the girl of his attentions, for he had noticed the potman from the Red Lion walking her to the gates of the potters’ yard each morning and waiting for her each night. He hoped something would come of it, for he liked the look of the man and Meg needed someone to take care of her.

  Emerging into the open, he saw Frank Tinsley at the usual spot; also the warmth that came into Meg’s eyes at the sight of him and her quickening footsteps as she hurried to meet him, the rest of the world forgotten. With a smile, Martin headed for home. On the way, the Master Potter’s fine new chaise went bowling by and, along with other workers plodding homeward, Martin had to step into a ditch to let it pass. The occupant saw none of them.

  Medlar Croft was a quiet house these days. His mother seemed to have adjusted to a nest from which all her children but one had flown, and with only Clara for company she spent more time at her embroidery frame, and even more in sewing for the several charities in which her new daughter-in-law was involved. Before the wedding ceremony had even taken place, Joseph’s wife-to-be had enlisted his mother’s co-operation, though Martin suspected that she yielded only because she was too timid to do otherwise. Agatha’s personality overpowered her.

  Martin expected to find his mother needle-in-hand as always. She would look up with her gentle smile, welcoming him home, and then she would lay her sewing aside and ring for Clara to serve the evening meal. “I do so like these winter evenings,” she would say as she poked the fire, “because they do not tempt you out of doors, as the summer evenings did. Not that I begrudged the fresh air and exercise you began to seek after long hours at work, but I confess your sudden enthusiasm for both surprised me. At one time I suspected that you retired to your room to make those dear little models you used to create, but of course I made no comment because I understood how secret it all had to be.”

  At that she would throw him a nervous, conspiratorial smile, as if to assure him that his secret had always been safe with her though she knew the head of the family would disapprove. Poor Mamma, always so easily intimidated by her successful elder son — was she now to be intimidated by his moneyed wife who, Martin suspected, she disliked? From the start, Agatha had patronised the woman whose son she was marrying, displaying the condescension of some brides towards mothers-in-law, as if stressing that their sons were theirs no longer and they must now step down into second place.

  Tonight, to his surprise, his mother was not alone. One of the fleet of carriages from Tremain Hall stood before the front steps, the driver huddled in his many-tiered greatcoat and beating his arms to keep warm whilst talking to the driver of a second vehicle which Martin recognised immediately as the one which had swept past him on the way home. It was characteristic of the dutiful head of the Drayton family to make an early call upon his mother following an absence. When he journeyed to Liverpool or Manchester to buy ceramic supplies, his first call, on returning, was always at his mother’s house — “To see that all is well, my dear Mother…” meaning, Martin always suspected, whether her overindulged offspring were behaving themselves. Well, he could have no anxiety on that score now both sisters were married and the only offspring left at home was a partial cripple whom he held in little esteem.

  The thought made Martin smile. The despised young brother might well turn out to be more problematical than the head of the family expected. In less than two months he would reach the end of his five-year apprenticeship. December was now here and on the third day in February he would be nineteen and ready to step into the niche at Drayton’s which was his by right of descent.

  Then, and only then, would he reveal what he had been doing in a small cottage workshop. He would produce the order book Amelia kept for him so meticulously, and show the products he had made and sold and which he could now produce on behalf of Drayton’s, and surely family pride would make Joseph admit that such enterprise earned him a place in the sun? Even he must acknowledge that his brother had learned much and qualified well, and if he decided to take all credit for it, Martin would let him. All he cared about was attaining what was his due.

  His mother greeted him with a fluttering excitement. “Just look whom we have here, Martin! Is it not just like old times? We would be a family again if only Jessica were with us…”

  Joseph interrupted, “My dear Mother, let me remind you that Jessica is no longer a Drayton, nor acknowledged as ever having been one.”

  Seeing her happiness so cruelly snuffed out, Martin went to Emily and kissed her fading cheek. A wan smile fluttered in return.

&nbs
p; “And do I receive no greeting?” demanded Phoebe’s voice. “Or are you unaware that I am here?”

  “On the contrary, seeing one of the Freeman carriages outside I knew someone from Tremain Hall had arrived.”

  “And who else, but I?” she pouted.

  He refrained from saying that he had hoped it might be Amelia.

  “And does she not look beautiful, Martin?” With pride, his mother viewed her successfully married daughter.

  “She does, indeed.”

  For the benefit of their further admiration Phoebe pirouetted to display her Polonaise looped up with bows over side panniers, damask petticoats billowing and, beneath, Louis heels so high that he marvelled she could walk in them. More bows adorned elaborate cuffs of flowing lace from tight three-quarter sleeves, on which a row of smaller bows climbed to shoulder level. The neckline was almost excessively low, but saved from immodesty by tiered necklaces topped by a narrow neck frill of lace. Her red-gold ringlets were cunningly pinned to puff out above her small and pretty ears, beneath a lace cap with side lappetts, designed to display her coiffure from the back. As she swirled, necklaces and bracelets jingled. She reminded him of a dancing doll, but without the smile. Somehow her lips seemed to have become thinner and tighter.

  Slowing to a halt, she boasted, “This is nothing — you should see my new gown with the Fourreau back! Stoke’s finest seamstress is making me four more. I keep her constantly employed.”

  “Your husband is generous, I see.” It was Joseph who spoke, eyeing his sister almost as if he were calculating the cost of everything she wore, and approving.

  “And so he should be! I am his wife and deserve all he can give me. And more besides.”

  Unexpectedly, timid Emily burst out, “Oh, my dear, a wife should never speak like that! We marry for love, not material things.”

  “But we earn them. Indeed how we earn them!”

  The bitter significance in her voice could not be overlooked. Martin saw his mother’s shocked eyes. He was shocked himself. Phoebe had been an empty-headed little prattler before marriage, but a happy one. Now avarice was there, a petulant greed, and without thought he said, “Marriage has not done this to Jessica! She doesn’t boast about all she gets and all she deserves — ”

  “No doubt because she gets nothing — and nothing is what she deserves.” Phoebe picked up a velvet pelisse, hooded and lined with sable, lying negligently on a sofa. Handing it to her eldest brother to place about her shoulders, she continued, “By the way, dear Joseph, having been absent from Burslem for a month you may not have heard that Jessica lost her bastard. Poetic justice, perhaps? Dear Mamma, I must bid you farewell for now, but I will call again another day, though I cannot say when since life always seems to be full of social engagements…and Joseph, pray thank dear Agatha for her invitation to sup at Carrion House in the near future. We shall be delighted to come. She intimated that all sorts of improvements are planned and that some will even have been accomplished by the night of her supper party. I shall look forward to seeing them, though after all the wonders you have wrought with the place, I doubt there could be more!”

  “There can indeed, and there will be. I plan to make it one of Staffordshire’s most elegant houses.”

  It was then that Emily Drayton startled her children by saying almost sharply, “As elegant as the one in which Jessica is now a guest? I refer to Ashburton, Sir Neville Armstrong’s home, renowned throughout the county and beyond. I could tell at the wedding that he was fond of her and held Simon Kendall in esteem, so I was not surprised to learn that he invited her to recuperate at Ashburton following her unhappy loss, and that she is remaining whilst her husband is away.”

  “Simon — away?” Martin was startled. Only last Sunday he had seen his brother-in-law at the wheelwright’s cottage, and there had been no mention of an impending departure. Nor had Jessica known of it, for she had declared her intention to return home as soon as possible. I would fly back there tonight, if I could…And plainly she had meant it.

  “How did you hear this?” he asked his mother.

  “From Clara. Her sister works in the kitchens at Ashburton and another lives in Cooperfield, wife of the local blacksmith, so naturally Clara hears much from them.”

  Phoebe said, “My dear Mamma, surely you do not gossip with servants?”

  “Clara is more than a servant, my child, as you well know since you grew up here. She is like a member of the family. And to whom else can I talk, now I am alone?”

  “You have Martin.”

  “He is at the pot bank all day.”

  “Then occupy yourself with charities,” Joseph advised. “My wife patronises numerous ones. And do beware of self pity. It is a dangerous indulgence.”

  Emily’s hands were suddenly clenching and unclenching in the old nervous fashion, but still she summoned the courage to say, “My dear son, I am already involved in charitable work for your wife’s numerous causes.”

  Phoebe asked derisively, “And to where has Jessica’s canal digger taken himself? To other labourer’s work, the Armstrong canal being finished? They must be hard pressed in the circumstances.”

  “On the contrary, I hear greater projects are afoot and that Neville Armstrong regards his achievement with this one as truly remarkable. So do many in high circles. Praise for him is lavish.”

  Phoebe burst into peals of laughter.

  “I do not believe it! If this is one of Clara’s tales, Mamma, you have been heeding a pack of nonsense. Why, the man can neither read nor write.”

  Martin cut in angrily, “There you are wrong. I know Simon Kendall. You do not.”

  “Nor wish to, dear brother. Joseph, will you see me to my carriage?”

  Emily Drayton said hurriedly, “Pray remember me to your wife, Joseph — ”

  “I am not leaving yet. When I have said farewell to Phoebe I will return. There is a matter I wish to discuss with my brother.’

  Alone, Martin took hold of his mother’s hands and said, “Bravo! Not since my father’s death have I heard you stand up to Joseph.” But Emily was fighting back tears. “I should not have spoken so, but oh, what has come over Phoebe? So cold, so hard…and Joseph seemingly so approving. Perhaps he understands her better than I.” “Better than either of us. But do not fret. She must surely come to her senses in time.”

  Not, he thought privately, that she had ever possessed a quarter of her twin’s good sense.

  Joseph returned to say that he could not stay long because their new French cook disliked his excellent cooking to be spoilt by delays, but what he had to say could be dealt with in a matter of minutes.

  “Apart from my natural desire to enquire after your welfare, dear Mother, I called to question my brother on a matter which I chose not to raise in front of his fellow workers. I want to know, young sir, precisely when you made the batch of bowls I saw in the turning shed today.”

  “At what other time than when working?”

  “That is no answer.”

  “It is a truthful one, and the only one I can offer.” And so it was, Martin thought wryly.

  Emily said anxiously, “Why do you doubt him, Joseph? You know Martin is honest in all things.”

  “Then why did he absent himself whilst I was away?”

  “I vow he never did! He left here promptly each morning and returned promptly each evening. His only recreation has been to ride for an hour or two after our evening meal…”

  “Riding? Martin?”

  “You sound surprised, brother, but despite my damned infirmity I can sit a saddle. As for my truancy, who accused me of it? Phoebe’s fine husband? Did you set him to spy on everyone? If so, you should have made sure that he attended regularly himself.” Impatiently, he turned to the door, saying over his shoulder, “I have given you my answer, though I imagine the one you really seek has nothing to do with the question. You probe for different reasons. I can guess the hints Max Freeman has put forward, and if you believe them, you will beli
eve anything. And now I must rid myself of the day’s dirt — clay dust is damnably penetrating. Five minutes, Mamma, and then Clara can serve her good homely meal which never seems to spoil for the waiting.”

  The door closed behind him, but not before he had seen the expression on Joseph’s face — incredulous, disbelieving, and more suspicious than ever. This served only to turn Martin’s anger into contempt. That his brother could fear a carnal relationship between himself and Meg indicated only one thing — jealousy. It was also ridiculous because both he and she were in love with others — he, with Amelia, and she with Frank Tinsley. Amelia might not suspect it yet and Meg might not be aware that what she felt for Frank was more than gratitude for his support at the time of her mother’s death, but Martin was sure it went deeper than that. He recalled the warmth in her eyes and her quickening step when she saw the man waiting tonight.

  The cottage in which Meg’s mother had found happiness during the last months of her life had suddenly taken on a different aspect for Meg. Bereft of the woman she had loved above all else, it had become an empty shell, the silence unbearable and, although it was no longer rent by her mother’s screams when pain racked her, it was tragically empty of her presence. Always she had been there when Meg came home, her anguished smile filled with a sweet welcome for her daughter, but now the front door opened onto a cold room haunted by memory.

  “I’ll light the lamp and put tinder t’fire,” Frank said, “an’ don’t shed that shawl ’til the place be warm.”

  Meg shivered, huddling deeper into the shawl which had warmed her mother’s wasted body when they lived down by the marlpit. At night Meg had wrapped it close around her before tucking her into the rough wall-bed, praying to God to protect her from the damp night air which forever seeped in from the boggy swamp outside, rank and evil-smelling. Villagers threw their wastes into it, urchins cast any rubbish they could lay their hands on, standing on the brink and cheering as it sank with loud sucking noises into the depths. Dead animals were known to be thrown into it, speedily interred. Anything thrown there was immediately swallowed and lost forever.