by Rona Randall
From the other side of the wall, he could hear the murmuring of voices; the Master Potter’s, then Meg Gibson’s. He wondered what they were talking about, but was not really interested, though the idea did flicker through his mind that since the wench was becoming so familiar with that room, and if she were offered enough money, she might rifle that drawer on his behalf — and she, not he, would be the likely suspect when the theft was discovered, for he would take good care never to visit the place, so none could claim to have seen him enter.
Moreover, the shed she worked in was situated directly opposite, and the door was always open to let clay dust escape. Through it she would be able to see when the Master Potter left his sanctum, and to force the lock she could perhaps use a turning tool — or she might know of other pilfering methods. No doubt she was as light-fingered as any whore.
“You sent for me, sir?”
It wasn’t the first time. The Master Potter’s summonses were becoming more frequent, and Meg knew full well what prompted them. He was wanting her again.
She had expected it, but not so soon. Married at the beginning of last October and ready to be unfaithful to his wife so soon as the following January was quicker than she had anticipated, even for such a man as he. And her evasions were provoking him, as she intended. She was playing him like a fish on a hook, undecided when to land him but aware that she would recognise the moment when it came.
“How are you faring, Meg?”
“You asked that last time, sir. Barely two days since.”
“I have your interests at heart. I know you are recovering from a period of grief.”
(And that means nothing to you, bastard that you are. She died all the quicker because of you and she suffered more pain because of you. Because of you she got no more release from it, no more sleep, and precious little time in the cottage she loved, with the daughter she loved. Bastard. Bastard. I swore long ago I’d be avenged, and so I will afore I shake the dust of this place off my feet.)
“I take it kindly that ye be interested in me, sir.”
“I am always interested in you, Meg. As you know. You have meant much to me in the past.”
(And could again. That’s what he means.)
“I be faring well, sir. May I go now? I’ve a fair pile of pots waiting.” “Are you — all right for money, Meg?”
(Trying to buy me now?)
“I earns all I earns, Master Potter, but it’ll be less the longer I stay away from my bench, so I’d like to get back there.”
“Just one thing. Those bowls my brother made, the fluted ones — what happened to them?”
She had not expected that. The bowls had been turned and bisque-fired before Christmas, and back in Master Martin’s secret workshop double quick, and none any the wiser.
“You look disconcerted, Meg.”
“Dunno what that means, sir.”
“Surprised. Put out.”
“Any reason why I should be, sir?”
“None that I can think of Presumably all the pots you turn are passed on to the glazing shed — ”
“That’s right, sir. Then for firing. So if ye’ve anything to ask about’em, the glazers and the firers be the folk to question.”
There was no reply he could make to that. He had to let her go. But there would be another time, another meeting. She could tell from the way he looked at her. She had seen that blatant desire in his eyes often enough to recognise it.
Max was not the only one to bless the advent of snow. Walking back across the potter’s yard Meg felt it crunch beneath her clogs, and blessed it, because so long as it remained Frank Tinsley must remain also, access to the outer world being virtually cut off except for those who owned horses.
He was still intent on departure and still intent on taking her with him. Meanwhile he endured his potman’s job and, being Frank, did it well, but she would see his eyes scan the sky as he walked her to work each morning and she would read the signs as well as he, but for differing reasons. The thought of his going was increasingly painful, therefore the sooner she achieved her own goal, the better.
On the other hand, it might be wiser to deal with it after he had gone. It was essential that he should know nothing, not because she feared his censure or even his rejection, but because, loving him, she wanted to involve him in no way at all. The matter was a self-appointed duty which honour compelled her to fulfil, and she would take its secret with her to the grave.
For Martin the snow was frustrating, for it made his Sunday journeys to Cooperfield prolonged and difficult, with the result that the hours he could now spend there were minimised. This was a particular hindrance at a time when he was anxious to complete his model of Red Empress, for which he had finally mixed a glaze containing potassium and whiting, with silica as the flux and iron oxide for colouring. The result was the nearest he could get to the horse’s beautiful golden brown.
He had fired test glazes at varying temperatures until achieving the nearest to this magnificent colour, his only regret being that lead, to enhance the gloss, was unavailable. As recompense he had therefore experimented with varying temperatures, and now believed he had hit on a hitherto untried method of holding the top temperature for periods varying between half an hour and a full hour, the longer length of time producing the highest gloss.
“It is a prolonged ‘soak’ which imparts an additional shine,” he explained to Simon and Jessica, whose interest in his progress was as keen as ever. In his absence Simon would stoke the oven to maintain the heat, even keeping an eye on it overnight.
But the greatest test would be the firing of the model itself, a bulkier piece of varying planes and angles which might produce varying results in consequence. If the final product emerged jewel bright and hard, he would know that he could challenge any lead-produced glaze. Such a formula might even be a valuable contribution to that area of the pottery industry.
Therefore the snow was more than unwelcome to Martin.
It was equally unwelcome to all involved with the Armstrong Canal, for the official opening in Manchester had to be postponed. Rivers and lakes were frozen throughout the country — they’d heard that even London’s River Thames was thick with ice — and in the Staffordshire countryside people were trespassing onto the canal with their skates, to Neville Armstrong’s indulgent amusement. This sparked his decision to hold an opening ceremony at the Burslem end, with an ox-roasting and braziers on the ice if the sharp frost held, and hot spiced ale to warm the blood.
The date was finally fixed for January 31 and the whole of Burslem was invited by a public proclamation posted beside Cobblers Green, with personal invitations to an evening reception at Ashburton delivered by hand.
The one for the owners of Carrion House was taken up to the mistress with her morning chocolate, an indulgence which Joseph now actually encouraged, to Agatha’s delight. Her husband was being more than considerate lately; he humoured her every whim. If she wanted titbits between meals, she must have them. If her sweet tooth demanded appeasement, it should have it. He even brought her gifts of marchpane and ratafia drops, specially made by Pierre, though at times these tasted oddly, whereupon the man would be taken to task, swear though he might that nothing was wrong with them. Joseph would then throw all away and personally sample the next batch.
He was consideration itself, no longer objecting to what he had once cruelly termed ‘the champing of her jaws’ as they sat beside the fire of an evening. And if indigestion and nausea sometimes troubled her, he made no reproach about over indulgence, but was all compassion.
“Have I been harsh on my dear wife?” he had said unexpectedly after their Christmas reception. “I must atone, and so I will, with all my heart.”
From thenceforth he had indulged and petted her. He also came to her every night to satiate her other desires. Agatha’s cup was full and running over, and in the midst of such euphoria she felt benign toward the whole world. She called regularly on her mother-in-law, now so involve
d in her charities that Agatha could safely leave the bulk of the work to her.
“Alas, my social duties as the mistress of Carrion House, and wife of the leading Master Potter, leave me little time for other obligations which are none the less dear to my heart. What a mercy I have you to help me, dear Mamma-in-law! And with so few domestic responsibilities — for you entertain not at all, Joseph tells me — you must be glad to have something to occupy your time.”
To that Emily would smile and nod agreement. She could rarely find anything to say to Joseph’s overpowering wife.
It was during one of these visits, accompanied by her husband for it was the Sabbath day and the pottery was closed, that Joseph drew Agatha’s attention to the beaker and platter which once belonged to his father. “My dear mother is incurably sentimental and will not be parted from them, humble as they are…”
“But they are pretty! At least, the colour is decidedly so. The pots themselves are nondescript, but this lovely shade of green is not. I admire it, I do indeed.”
Joseph said modestly that he was well pleased because he had produced the coloured glaze himself. “And if you care for it that much, my treasure, I will see that you have one like it to grace your tray of morning chocolate. Would you care for that, my love?”
Agatha declared that indeed she would. “But I hope the glaze will not flake, as this has.”
At that, Joseph looked startled and insisted on examining it, finally declaring that someone must have been tampering with it and adding reproachfully, to his mother, that he had always believed she treasured the pieces.
“Indeed I do, Joseph, as you surely know, else why should I disobey when you urged me to throw them away? Truth to tell, I had no idea the glaze had deteriorated so much. I was aware that it had weakened in places, due to dear George’s frequent use, but not that it had flaked so badly elsewhere.”
Joseph had shrugged and put the articles aside, but his thoughtful silence, after his former affability, was baffling.
But by the time the Armstrong invitation arrived, Joseph was himself again. He had departed for the pottery by the time Rose brought her mistress’s chocolate, the invitation beside it on the silver salver which the girl now never forgot.
When his wife produced the invitation that evening he was surprised, for he had rarely met Neville Armstrong. Nor had he any great desire to, in view of the man’s association with Si Kendall.
“We shall not attend, of course.”
“Oh, my love, why not? I know you have nothing to do with your sister and her husband, and rightly, but do consider this carefully. As you can see, the invitation is for a reception at Ashburton. We cannot ignore local society since we are becoming so prominent in it, nor have we any excuse for declining. I pray you, think again, my love.”
So on the last night of January, the Drayton carriage, its wheels bound with rags stuffed with straw, braved the snowy road for Ashburton, passing through Cooperfield en route. They had reached the heart of the village when Agatha said, “Am I right in believing that your sister and her husband — I mean the Kendalls, of course, not Phoebe and dear Max! — dwell in this vicinity?”
“I understand so. They occupy a former wheelwright’s cottage, my mother once told me.”
“Then we are passing it now, for there is the ancient wheelwright’s sign embedded in the gate — a centre wheel set within scrolls. I suppose one could call it quaint. The cottage, too.”
Against his will, Joseph glanced toward it, but the place was in darkness. In the light of the carriage lamps he could detect a faint curling of smoke from beyond an outhouse, and he detected that only because he smelled wood smoke and searched for it idly. That anyone should be burning household refuse at this hour surprised him; he strictly ruled that this disposal should take place at Carrion House when he was absent. That his sister had to perform such a duty at the end of a day’s work he took as a sign that she had become a typical village housewife. With distaste, he turned away.
Despite the weather, Ashburton’s long drive was lined with carriages. The Drayton driver deposited his master and mistress at the imposing front entrance and departed to join the queue, along with other coachmen who would be shivering well before the event was over.
Entering the house, Joseph was glad that Agatha was wearing one of her less outrageous gowns. She looked moderately well in green taffeta, though the billowing style ill became her. As usual, there were too many frills and furbelows and too many beads and baubles. But he did little to restrain her these days, repugnant as she remained to him. He was playing the part of devoted husband, and playing it to the hilt. Therefore he walked into the Armstrong ballroom, used tonight as a vast reception room, displaying her on his arm with a dutiful pride as they joined the line of guests waiting to be received.
Every woman was magnificently gowned and every man splendidly attired; brocades and satins and velvets abounded; jewels glittered, wigs were snowy white, head-dresses high and ornamental, shoulders bare. Agatha had tugged her neckline low, the better to display her buxom bosom. She was well satisfied with herself until they approached Sir Neville, receiving his guests with his usual flowery greetings.
Within sight of him Agatha gasped and Joseph stood stock still.
“I — I don’t believe it!” she breathed, but Joseph scarcely heard her, for he too was staring at the couple standing beside their host. To each guest Neville Armstrong was presenting them with pride.
“My guests of honour — Simon Kendall and his lovely wife. I owe the entire canal project to Mr Kendall. Without him, it would never have been built.”
The words were repeated to every newcomer.
Frantically, Joseph searched for a way of escape. There was none. The line of guests carried them remorselessly nearer and the press of others behind blocked their exit.
“Look — just look at her!” Agatha hissed. “Look at her gown — it is the sacques, quite the latest fashion! Where did she obtain it in a place like Cooperfield, or even Burslem?”
“Obviously, she did not,” Joseph snapped.
“We must leave at once!”
“We cannot. We have to face it out.”
“But it is too humiliating!”
“Let it humiliate them, not us.”
“How can it?” Agatha snapped back. “We must go, Joseph. At once.”
They were carried relentlessly forward. Soon they were within a couple of yards. There was no escape. Joseph struggled for composure, but Agatha fluttered helplessly. He could hear her heavy breathing and wanted to shake her. Out of a corner of his mouth he hissed at her to keep calm, adding that they had merely to bow to their host and move on quickly, ignoring his companions, to which Agatha hissed back that that might be easier said than done.
And she was right. Face to face with Sir Neville, they were also face to face with Jessica and Simon.
Neville Armstrong said amiably, “I scarce need present you to your own sister, Mr Drayton, nor to your brother-in-law. I am glad you accepted my invitation. This is a great day for the three of us, for it marks the beginning of greater things. The Armstrong Canal is merely the preliminary to one much bigger which, again, will be in Simon’s capable hands.”
First name terms! Two men had to be close to achieve that level of familiarity. And Armstrong certainly didn’t use it as he would a servant’s first name. As for Jessica, she looked beautiful. Even Joseph had to acknowledge that. He had always considered her plain, but now he realised that her features were classical and enhanced by the simplicity of her hair style. Brushed smoothly back from her brow, and unadorned, it hung in a loop at the back of her neck, tied in the nape with a bow which matched the eau-de-nil of her gown. Only perfect features could have carried anything so severe.
And, as Agatha had said, she had never come by such a fashionable gown in the vicinity of Burslem — a sacques worn with an open robe finishing in a train, a style for which Aunt Elizabeth had predicted much success if worn by the right woma
n, with the right figure and the right carriage. In the midst of his anger, Joseph recalled her words precisely.
Kendall he scarcely glanced at, affording him the sketchiest of bows, but receiving an impression of elegance, fine bearing, and looks he failed to recall as being so impressive. He was about to murmur no more than a conventional greeting to their host when Jessica said pleasantly, “How nice to see you, Joseph — and, of course, you too, Agatha. This is the first opportunity I have had to congratulate you on your marriage, and to wish you both well. Simon shares my good wishes, I know.”
At that Simon Kendall bowed with polite amiability, for all the world as if he had never come to Carrion House one memorable morning and been so damned insulting.
Thankfully, Joseph and his wife moved on. “We will leave at the earliest opportunity,” he muttered, but to his surprise Agatha protested at once. Now that embarrassing moment was over and they moved into the crowd, the whirl of movement and colour enchanted her. To be whisked away from it held no appeal at all.
“Oh no, Joseph! Why should we? It was not so bad, after all. Jessica was quite pleasant, I thought, and Si Kendall has certainly become the man my sister Amelia predicted. She always admired him. And look, there is everyone — Mamma and Papa, Max and Phoebe, and Amelia with Martin as usual. Your mother, too. If we leave too soon they will all wonder why.”
“They should know damned well why. We were brought here to pay homage to Neville Armstrong’s bastard son.”
“His brother’s, I’ve heard tell. Not that anyone has ever really known.”
“Kendall’s exact parentage is beside the point. He’s an uneducated oaf who has risen above his station.”
But his wife’s attention had strayed toward a line of servants bearing laden trays of food.
Phoebe was more sympathetic.
“It is scandalous, Joseph, do you not agree? Tricking us all into believing Sir Neville was to be our host — ”
“He is our host,” Max said, seizing a glass of wine from a passing tray and depositing an empty one. ‘And Jessica looks superb, standing there at his side. So does Kendall, if it comes to that. And why shouldn’t the man be honoured if he has earned it?’