The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  Meg shivered again, but not from cold. Already the fluttering lamp wick was driving back the shadows and flames were flaring in the hearth. He was a rare hand at lighting a fire, was Frank. She walked slowly to her mother’s chair and touched it.

  Frank said, “Sit in it, luv, an’ pay no heed to that nonsense Aunt Martha prattled th’smorn.”

  Meg smiled and obeyed. Letting her head fall against the back of the chair, she began to rock at her mother’s pace, gazing into the fire exactly as her mother had done. When the room became warmer she let the shawl slip from her shoulders, but gathered the edges between her fingers, reluctant to part with it. Frank glanced at her anxiously, then went into the stone-floored larder to draw two beakers of ale. Returning, he set one down beside her, took the shawl away, and squatted on the floor at her feet.

  “D’you think there be any truth in it, Frank? Your aunt’s warning, I mean.”

  “That it be bad luck t’wear things belonging to the dead?” He laughed. “If that be true, many a seamen’ud be in bad shape. When a crew member dies, they draw lots for’is things. It be common sense. So forget t’ould woman. She be after that shawl ’erself.”

  That seemed possible. “I could do wi’ a shawl like that,” Martha had called from her window that morning. “It can only bring bad luck t’ye. Fate frowns on folks wearin’ the clothes o’ their dead.”

  But Meg had ignored her. She wanted a memento of her mother with her wherever she went, but only Frank understood that. Waiting at his aunt’s gate for Meg to come up the lane, as he always did, he had shaken a good natured fist at the old woman and shouted, “Cut the cackle, y’ould witch!” before falling into step beside Meg. Then his arm covered her shoulders and they had walked on together, forgetting his aunt and her gloomy predictions.

  Now they sat in silence, the ale and the fire warming them. In a short while he would leave for his aunt’s cottage and the rough-and-ready meal she prepared nightly. “Mebbe she can brew a good potion, but she can’t cook a good meal,” he had once said ruefully. “Not a patch on you, Meg luv.”

  He looked at her now, and smiled, and with his smile the atmosphere of the cottage changed. In the quietness and the warmth they were content; with each other they were happy. She was reluctant to break the spell, but soon the pangs of hunger would drive him away. ‘Don’t leave me’, she wanted to beg. ‘Stay with me. Don’t ever leave me…’ Instead, she drew the shawl round her again and said, “Carry the lamp, will ye, Frank, an I’ll pluck a cabbage for supper. Ye can stay an’ share it, if ye so fancy. Faggots an’ cabbage make a good meal, an’ I’ve plenty o’ both. But I dessay Ma Tinsley’d be angry if ye did stay. Angrier still if she knew where ye be.”

  His wide, good natured grin flashed out. “She knows, right enough. Watches from that window ev’ry night. Sees us go by an’ counts the minutes’til I’m back. An’ t’night she can keep counting. I’m partial to faggots, me lovely.”

  Holding the lamp high, he hurried her down the garden within the protection of his arm, laughing when she stooped and tugged at a cabbage firmly wedged in the ground. There was a frost tonight, the earth unyielding. “Take this, lass,” he said, handing her the lamp. “I’ll tackle that. I’ve a knife that’ll slice through anythink.” And with one swift hack of the blade, the sturdy vegetable was decapitated.

  Back indoors, Meg shed the shawl and set to work. The place was beginning to feel like home again, filled with the warmth and affection Meg and her mother shared. Only this time it was a different kind of warmth, a different kind of affection, both so potent that she felt suddenly shy and unable to look at Frank without betraying herself. She busied herself with the meal instead and he stood by, watching her every movement and craving her as he had craved no woman before. Foreign women who sold themselves in foreign ports, or dockside whores for whom he had grown up with a strong aversion because they reminded him of his mother and the sordid trade she had plied…none had ever made him feel as Meg Gibson did. For her he felt protective as well as passionate.

  The faggots were cooking. She had removed the leaves from the cabbage, put them on to boil, and now reached for his knife to chop up the stalk to add to chicken swill. He had dropped it on the scrubbed wooden table when they entered, but she had not looked at it until now. As her fingers closed on the handle she gave it a startled glance. Never before had she seen a knife so unusual. The hilt was of wood, and strangely carved, the blade thin and finely honed, narrowing to a dagger point.

  “Pollyneezshun,” he said. “The natives make’em and there be scarce a sailor as don’t carry’un. Best knife around in a fight. Flash it on any dockside an’ a man need fear now’t.”

  She touched the tip with a wary finger. A spot of blood appeared immediately. Wiping it away, she said, “I don’t know aught about weapons, but I do know a good kitchen knife when I sees’un.” In seconds, the tough cabbage stalk lay shredded.

  “Keep it, luv. I’ll feel better if ye’ve got summat to protect thee when alone.”

  Her happiness clouded.

  “You really are going away, Frank lad?”

  “Not yet. I’ll wait betimes, but not for long. I’ve told thee, me lovely. There ain’t no future for a potman.”

  “Some have risen to be innkeepers.”

  “That’s no life for me, neether. I want no life indoors. Would ye want a man content wi’ being cooped up, dealing wi’ drunks an’ scrubbing out barrels all the days of his life?”

  She shook her head. He was right. That was no life for such as he. “So ye’ll come wi’ me, won’t thee, Meg?”

  “Not yet…I can’t, yet…Oh, Frank, can thee not wait a little longer? I need time…”

  “Not all time in t’world, surely t’God?”

  “No, but exactly how long, I can’t rightly say.”

  He burst out, “What gets me beat is why y’don’t drop ev’rything and clear out along o’me! What’s t’keep thee? Not this cottage, much as ye likes it. It’ll be a sad place from now on. Ye’ll be seeing your Ma in ev’ry corner, an’ that’ll be worse than anything Martha Tinsley can foretell.” His arms went round her suddenly, his face buried in her hair. “I love thee, Meg. My Meg. But I’m not making ye mine’til we be wed. That's the way I loves thee, lass. For all time.”

  Against his shoulder she whispered, “Then wait for me, Frank. I begs thee — wait ’til I’ve done what must be done.”

  “Tell me what it is. Tell me what’s on your mind that gives thee no peace. It fair worrits me.”

  But she would tell him nothing. They ate the meal in silence, and then he left her. After he had gone she climbed the stairs and lay down on her mother’s bed and whispered, “Ma — dear Ma — I’ll be avenged yet, for thy dear sake. I don’t rightly knows how I’ll do it, but do it I will. And when its done, I’ll be ready to follow Frank Tinsley. And that will I do to the end o’ the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The library at Ashburton provided Martin with an excuse to see Jessica again, and as he drove there the following Sunday he reflected that he was becoming skilled at subterfuge, even to taking his mother’s gig today to transport his fluted pots, which Meg had smuggled to the oven master for convenient inclusion in a bisque firing, back to his workshop on the way to Sir Neville’s home.

  Loading his precious cargo also demanded subterfuge, and this was accomplished by again entering Draytons’ over the rear wall, with Amelia aiding and abetting. The bisque-fired pots, unlike raw greenware, were strong enough to be dropped item by item over the wall into her waiting hands and stacked by her within the gig whilst he went back for more.

  They enjoyed themselves hugely and when he finally rejoined her he gave her a spontaneous hug before picking up the reins.

  “You are an excellent catch, Amelia — not one piece broken. What would I do without you?”

  “You would fare sadly indeed! We are partners in crime, you and I, and what fun it all is! I declare I shall be sorry when it ends,
as I suppose it must when you come into your own. You will have no need of your secret workshop when you become a Drayton partner. I shall miss it.”

  He would miss it, too. It had opened up avenues for experiment and widened his experience.

  “And now I must go home,” said Amelia. “Pray hand me down at the far entrance near Merrow’s Thicket, so I shall be seen returning across the park from the mythical walk my dear parents believe I have been taking. I wish I could come with you, for I would much like to see Jessica, but a prolonged absence might make them suspicious. I wonder if the day will ever come when we need have no more secrets?”

  “We will make it come.”

  She nodded, but sighed a little, saying she would be sorry because hoodwinking others was great sport.

  There was a new radiance about Jessica and a lightness in her step. Running to meet him, she held out both hands and, seeing the gig, exclaimed, “You are heaven sent! With Christmas so close, its demands on a housewife give me good reason to make my excuses to dear Sir Neville, enlisting my brother to drive me home.”

  “I take it Simon is back?”

  “I have no idea, but I long to find out.”

  “Surely he would have been in touch — “

  She interrupted hastily, “If he has returned only today or yesterday, he could well be fatigued.”

  “I cannot imagine Si Kendall ever being fatigued.”

  “But you have not spent the last two weeks inspecting the length and breadth of a newly built canal, searching for last minute flaws. Yes, that is what he has been up to. He sent word to Sir Neville through Sarah Blake, the village woman who sometimes helps in the kitchens here.”

  She linked her arm in her brother’s as they went indoors. There the old gentleman met them and, as always, his greeting was warm.

  “I suppose you have come to browse in my library, young sir? Splendid, splendid — make yourself at home. And do you not agree that your sister is looking remarkably well? Quite her old self again.” “Even better than that, sir.”

  “For which I take all the credit and her husband will reap all the joy. And now, although she is far too well mannered to make it plain, I suspect she is more than ready to return to him and has been kicking her heels impatiently, waiting for him to complete his wholly unnecessary mission which, in turn, I suspect he undertook solely because he was lonely without her. The Armstrong Canal is faultless and now waits only for various sanctions and formalities to be settled. We should be able to open it, officially, in the New Year. Meanwhile, Christmas approaches and your sister, hide it as she may, grows anxious about her domestic preparations.” His kindly eyes turned to her. “Am I not right, young lady? Not only have you been counting the days to your husband’s return, but chafing to make up for lost time. So I fear I must let you go.”

  Her swift colour was a betrayal. He smiled and patted her shoulder. “You must leave whenever you wish, my dear. I must not be selfish. And that waiting gig belongs to your brother, I presume? Would you like him to drive you home today, or shall I put a carriage at your disposal for whatever day or time you wish? The choice is yours.”

  She reached up and kissed his wrinkled cheek. “What an understanding man you are!”

  “Meaning that Martin will be passing your door on his way home and you would dearly like to go with him. And rightly. Your time of recuperation is over. You are yourself again. To persuade you to remain merely because I enjoy your company would be abominably selfish, but I do have one request — that you and Simon spend the day following Christmas with me, here at Ashburton. On that day the Christmas boxes to estate workers are handed out, and this ‘boxing’ is a big event. It will be even more memorable if a young and lovely lady presents them at my side.”

  “It is a promise I am happy to make.”

  “Then a maid shall pack for you whilst this young brother of yours pores over those dull books. Have I never confessed that I find them infernally boring, unlike your husband who casts lustful eyes on them and this boy who obviously prefers them to chasing rabbits in the park? There is really no accounting for tastes! Meanwhile, dear Jessica, you and I shall adjourn to the small reception room beyond the ball room, the cosy place which you know I like above all.”

  He led her away, still talking. “Glasses and decanter are always at the ready in that den of mine, so I will drink a toast to my favourite guest and we will both drink one to the future. And I pray that future will bring you and Simon often to my home, even — who knows? — permanently, for I have no heir…”

  She refused to heed the implication. “You have brothers, have you not?”

  “Roamers, all of them — I have heard from none for a score of years and more. And, as you know, Simon’s father has been long deceased.”

  “But your brothers married — ”

  “I understand so, but whether they begat families I know not. My father persuaded them to renounce all claim to Ashburton, for themselves and their descendants, in exchange for a substantial mess of pottage. He knew that the place represented no more than a vast burden to them, a responsibility in which they could take no pride. In their hands the trust for its upkeep would have been squandered and Ashburton would have fallen to wrack and ruin. It was no more than a place built of stone, imprisoning, tying them down, so their renunciation of it was undertaken gladly.”

  They had reached the small room and, seating Jessica beside the fire, he then poured wine for them both.

  “It is a pity you did not marry,” she ventured.

  “Alas, she preferred my brother Adrian,” he murmured, “but I have been more fortunate than him in another way — ”

  “ — you have Ashburton,” she interrupted, hoping to divert him.

  “I was going to say because I, not he, have been able to watch his son grow up, and to watch over Jane Kendall for awhile, and to find in Simon the son I was never fortunate enough to have.”

  He said no more, but the implication was there; an implication she refused to dwell upon, and certainly never to mention to her husband.

  And there were more immediate things to think about. As she sipped her wine, Simon’s words sang in her memory. ‘I have loved you as long as I can recall…I have wanted you every day and every night…I want your heart as well as your body…I want children by you, and by no other woman…’ And she felt now as she felt then, as if new life was flooding her.

  She could not wait to grasp a happiness which she knew would be greater than she had ever experienced and which only one man could now give her. It had proved so easy to dismiss Roger Acland, so easy to forget him once he had gone — and so hard, now, to recall the passion she had once felt for him. All the pain and anguish he had caused her seemed to have vanished without trace, leaving a sad memory of a lost child, but a promise of time’s merciful consolation.

  And more. Much more.

  For how long had love for Simon been growing within her, unawares? That was a question she could not answer, but she recalled moments of shyness, moments of self-consciousness, long silences when each avoided the other’s eyes, and times when it seemed that they would forever remain strangers who were afraid to draw near; then would come moments when a strong emotion charged them, from which they would both retreat, and through it all was a growing awareness of each other.

  Were these bewildering symptoms the true ingredients of love? Was it a gentle exploration leading to ultimate discovery? Was it a softly burgeoning growth sending its roots deep into the heart, inexorably binding? Whatever the answers, she now knew that for Acland she had never felt more than the blind passion of immaturity, and that now she stood on the threshold of something more durable, more real, and more adult. And she intended to seize it.

  Within the library, Martin lost count of time. On the table before him he had placed a small, screwed up piece of paper containing fragments scraped from the interior of his father’s beaker and the underside of the platter. Examining the articles for the hundredth time, when
his mother was out of the room, he had noticed patches of glaze flaking away, both within the bottom of the beaker and on areas of the platter. On an impulse he had scraped off some particles to take to Jefferson for analysis. If he could prepare a glaze of such brilliance for his model of Red Empress, and safeguard it against deterioration, he would be well pleased.

  He felt that Jefferson expected him to be surprised by his verdict, but he was not. Somehow he had expected it.

  “It be strong with lead, Master Martin. Whiting and feldspar for the basic glaze, with lead as the flux, but such a disproportion I never did see. I’d say the balance of lead is heavier than either. Where did ye get a glaze the like o’this? Not from Drayton’s, I’ll warrant. There’s not a speck o’lead in the place.”

  Martin refrained from pointing out that it came from the pots his brother had glazed, and which Jefferson had been baffled by until fragments could be produced for precise analysis. Instead, he asked if the glazer could obtain some lead for him.

  “Nay, Master Martin, ye knows I can’t order supplies. Only the Master Potter do that. Nor do I know now’t about firing a lead glaze successfully, if so be that’s what ye want to do.”

  That conversation returned to Martin now, sitting at the ancient library table and searching through volumes on Chinese ceramic production in the hope of finding an alternative recipe.

  One always went back to the ancient Chinese dynasties for authoritative teaching, but today he was unsuccessful. He was about to gather up the volumes when the pages of one fluttered in a downdraught from the smoking chimney piece, spinning over as if controlled by some unseen hand until finally stilled. Then his eye fell on a section he had never read. It related to unexplained illnesses from which many Chinese potters had died, and the symptoms so closely followed cases in the Potteries that he continued to read, forgetful of the alternative glaze recipe he was so anxious to find.

  Many of the fatalities listed seemed to be respiratory troubles, underlining Simon Kendall’s opinion that air pollution was a problem which would have to be tackled someday — and how people scoffed, as some were still scoffing at the idea of water transport. But most startling of all were references to mysterious symptoms of violent pains in the abdomen, blood in vomited matter, intense thirst, weakness and final collapse. Other common symptoms had been anaemia, rapid hair loss, black lines around the gums, and even palsy and final paralysis. There seemed to be no consistency in any of the symptoms since they varied from person to person, death being swift with some and more prolonged with others, thereby suggesting a variety of unnamed diseases and pinpointing no common cause.