by Rona Randall
A broad smile spread over Simon’s face.
“Let me show you something, sir.” He began to spread papers consecutively along his drawing bench. “My wife has seen me working on these and not once been inquisitive about them. I have been able to keep my secret with ease. Now I am ready to share it.” He brought the flat of his palm down on the drawings in a triumphant gesture. “Three hundred and sixty miles of canals, Sir Neville, criss-crossing the Midlands like a vast grid, and all through industrial areas where they are needed and where industrialists with foresight will support them; linking Liverpool and Stoke, Birmingham and Coventry, Leicester and Nottingham and Newark, not to mention smaller Midland towns with growing trades. I think,” he finished modestly, “we might be on to something a great deal better here. And no dissenting voices.”
“The dear man was overjoyed,” Jessica said later, as they prepared for bed. “And proud, too, as I am. Dear Simon, my very dear Simon, I want to tell the whole world how proud I am of you.”
“No more fears, no more apprehensions? I have felt your anxiety these many weeks, and could do naught to ease it.”
“It has gone, all of it. It vanished when you said what you did…about me…about us…You know what I refer to.”
She drew his face down to her own, and kissed him.
“At least, nearly all of it has gone,” she added. “There is still anxiety over Martin.”
“You must cease worrying about him. He is coping with his problems. He will stand on his own feet and stand on them well, even without his rightful share in Drayton’s and, who knows, even that may come his way some day.”
“Not so long as Joseph is Master Potter there!”
“Don’t dwell on that, dear love. And have you seen the sign Martin wants to put up? Not if we don’t approve, he says. Not if we dislike the idea of a sign hanging by our gate. ‘MARTIN DRAYTON, MASTER POTTER’. I think you’ll agree that it looks and sounds good.”
“It sounds wonderful. And how Joseph will hate it, should he pass this way and see it! A slur on the name of Drayton, that is how he will consider it — a Drayton working in a cottage shed and proclaiming it to the world. Like thumbing his nose!”
Her laughter filled the quiet room. Simon loved the sound of it.
In bed, he took her in his arms and said, “I want to ask you something, Jessica — ”
“What is it?” she murmured, her body curving close.
“Did you search for the cradle, or did you simply find it?”
“I simply found it.”
“And cleaned and polished it…”
“Of course. But that is not enough. I want to see it in use…” “Then you shall, sweet love. You shall.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Meg called at Martha’s cottage on the way home from work on Saturday night. The woman stared in surprise, arms akimbo, sourly asking how she came to be honoured with such a visit.
“Our Frank’s not’ere no more,” she added. “Or’ave ye forgot?”
“I’ll never forget Frank. That be one reason for coming. The other is this.”
Meg held out a hand, palm upward. In it lay two gold coins. “Take’em,” she said. “They be yours.”
Martha’s jaw dropped, her mouth gaped wide. Then she mouthed helplessly, holding on to the shabby door jamb for support. At last, words came.
“I knew it, ye little cheat! Said all along ye’d stolen’em, didn’t I? Told our Frank, I did, but ye’ve so besotted’im,’e wouldn’t believe it. Pity’e’s not around to see I were tellin’ the truth. Ye’ve kept that money all this time, ye varmint!”
“Think that if you like, Martha.”
“Wot else can I think?”
“Tis no matter. You’ve got the money now. And now I want summat, too.”
“An’ wot’ll that be? A love potion to snare another man in place of my Frankie?”
“No man can take his place, nor ever will. He said I were to come to you when I were ready to follow him. I’ll be ready Monday, five sharp at the Hiring Cross. Frank said ye’d tell Zach Dobson.”
“Aye — I did promise that. An’ I’ll do it. But don’t think I does it for the likes o’ thee, Meg Gibson, or’cos ye’ve coughed up this money at last. I’ll be doin’ it for our Frank. There’s now’t I won’t do for that lad. I’ll tell Zach Dobson for ye. Ye can count on’t.”
“There be one other thing. I won’t be seeing Mistress Kendall to tell her I be going, but I want her to know that the cottage’ll be spick and span, and the furniture she got for us is still there, every piece well cared for.”
“I’ll see she knows.”
“And say I’ll never forget their kindness, her’s and Master Kendall’s.”
“I’ll tell’er that, too. Count on’t, lass.” The flint face softened. “Be good to my Frankie, won’t thee? Keep’im’appy. That be all I asks.”
“Forever, Martha. Forever.”
Meg worked late at the pottery, finishing her current batch of turning and, after everyone had gone, cleaning her turntable and workbench, leaving it immaculate. She did this partially because she disliked the thought of leaving unfinished work behind and partially because she needed to occupy her mind and her hands every moment between now and tomorrow’s encounter. When workers arrived on Monday they would notice her spotless corner and the lines of completed pots, they would notice that no more awaited attention, and they would wonder what had got into her of a sudden — she who was always ready to fling off her sacking apron the minute the yard bell clanged, and head for the village pump to wash off the muck before heading for home.
She no longer swilled her hair there because the cottage in Larch Lane had its own well, but she could never abide clay-covered hands and arms for any length of time, not even for the walk home. She liked to enter the cottage looking clean, the way her mother had liked to see her.
She knew that when she failed to arrive at the pottery on Monday, her workmates would wonder what had happened, and when her absence continued they would wonder where she had gone, and when, and why, and no doubt they would think that on the rebound she had run off with someone, and predict a bad end for her. Some had taunted her after Frank Tinsley’s departure. Jilted ye, has he? Didn’t think he’d marry ye, did ye? Ye’d best be looking around for another chap!’ She had shrugged, and laughed, and agreed with them.
Even the gatekeeper, scowling because she had kept him waiting to lock up, couldn’t resist a jibe. “Workin’ late’cos no man’s waitin’ for ye outside, eh missy? Ditched ye, that’s wot’e’s done. Found another wench an’ gone offwith’er, shouldn’t wonder!” A laugh and a shrug had stood her in good stead again. The more they believed that Frank Tinsley had jilted her, the less they would suspect where she had gone, and Ma Tinsley wasn’t likely to spill the beans. That old woman could keep her own counsel when she felt like it, or else lie through her teeth, and she would do either for her Frankie. Every customer in the Red Lion knew she disapproved of her nephew taking up with the likes of Meg Gibson, that she had tried to dissuade him and must have been glad when he jilted the girl, so was she likely to admit that he had not? “Listened to his old auntie, he did, like a sensible lad.” That was what she would say, nodding with satisfaction.
The hours until her appointment with Joseph Drayton seemed endless. For concealment she prayed the night would be black, but when the time came she was glad of the watery moon, dimly lighting the lane alongside Carrion House. After the snows the rough stones were slippery, thrusting jaggedly through mud. Accustomed all her life to going barefoot, the soles of her strong young feet were hardened to withstand such hazards, so she stepped out undaunted, picking her way carefully and quickening her steps whenever possible for she was impatient to get this night over and done with.
She kept her thoughts on tomorrow — no, today, for it was now past midnight. There was not much time to be lived through now, in this village of Burslem. Five o’clock sharp, at the Hiring Cross, and she’d be
gone for ever.
So, too, would this dark Sabbath night. She would put it out of her mind the moment she stepped up into Zach Dobson’s cart and heard the wheels grinding on their way. There would be no looking back. No regrets. No fears. Only a looking forward from that moment on.
She found the garden entrance with ease. The hinges of the high studded gate were well oiled, soundless as she slipped through, and the pale moon picked out the garden house. It was like one of those Japanese temples some potters put on plates with transfers, showing funny pointed roofs with curves and little Japanese figures and birds and flowers. The Master Potter never spent money on fancy stuff like that. But this place must have cost a pretty penny. He was never against spending money on himself, the bastard.
The fancy door opened silently, too. No light could be seen outside because the windows were curtained. Once within, she saw them in the glow of a tall Chinese oil lamp beside a couch, and very grand those curtains looked, made of velvet in a beautiful shade of gold. The furniture was even more grand, shiny and colourful with lots of ornamentation. That was Chinese too. Lacquer, didn’t they call it? Frank had told her that when he showed her a box he’d brought from the East, and there were chairs and tables and chests here, all made like it. Even the couch had a long sweeping frame of it, curving like a big fancy sofa. She didn’t miss the coverings on that couch, either, because she had never in her life seen such stuff — vivid in colour and fit for a palace. And cushions, piles of cushions, and he lolling against them, waiting. He wore a handsome Chinese robe.
She was careful to wipe her bare feet, using her shawl for the task. To leave muddy footprints on this rich carpet would be a mistake. When she had done that she flung the shawl about her shoulders again, and paused to look around, ignoring him. Let the swine wait. She wasn’t going to rush things. Couldn’t, much as she wanted to. She had to go carefully or he might turn nasty. He’d always been angry when she wanted to hurry to get it over, so she was careful not to hurry now.
She knew he was watching her as she strolled about the place, touching this and that, pretending to be awed. In a way she was — awed that anyone could have enough money to spend on all this, just for a garden house. He thought she was admiring everything, of course. Little did he know that she disliked all of it and that if Frank ever went back to sea — which, please God, he wouldn’t — she’d ask him not to bring her a lacquered box or anything else made of the stuff. Too fancy, she’d say. Too gaudy.
“Come here, damn you. I’ve been waiting this half hour.”
“Midnight ye said, sir.”
“It is past midnight now.’
“It’s a long walk from Larch Lane, sir.’Specially in the dark.”
He came to her then, and the sickness rose in her. He was going to touch her. She would feel his hands on her skin, on her neck, down inside her bodice — he always probed that way before he began. Sometimes he took a long time about it, sometimes impatience drove him. Tonight, she knew, he was impatient, so she hadn’t much time.
The hands were hot and clammy. She had known them to be ice cold at first, but always they grew sweaty, and that was a sign that he was ready for her. They were hot and sweaty now, flinging aside her shawl, pushing aside her bodice; gripping, thrusting, squeezing, hurting, hungrily demanding more. He was strong, too, so resistance had to be skilful. She slid away from his grasp, her movements adroit, surprising him. When he swore, she laughed.
“In a hurry, sir? But mebbe I’m not. I’ve walked a fair mile and my feet be dirty. I’d like to wash first. Ye know how I like to be clean.”
The tone was wheedling, soft with promise. He pulled her to him. “I’ll take you as you are, Meg. Besides, I saw you wipe your feet when you came in.”
“To spare this fine carpet, sir. Muddy footprints would ruin it. And give the game away, into the bargain, if your lady wife should see’em.”
“There’s no need to worry about footprints. Anyone coming here treads dirt in from the garden.”
He silenced her answer with his mouth, his tongue thrusting, demanding, hurried. He had waited too long and was determined to waste no more time. She felt him pull at her skirt and alarm filled her. She would have to remove it herself or his hands might touch the pocket. She wriggled free of the garment and kicked it toward the couch. He didn’t see the action because he was ripping her blouse from her.
“Please, sir — don’t tear it, sir!’Tis the only one I’ve got.”
That gave her a moment’s respite, even though he said impatiently that he would buy her another. “A better one, Meg. As many as you want…”
“Not too many, sir, or folks’ll start whispering.”
That amused him. “But not about me, Meg. No one suspects that such a man as I associates with such a wench as you.”
That touched her on the raw, but she swallowed the insult, saying blandly, “I think your brother does, sir. Leastways, he’s never said now’t nor ever would, being Master Martin, but he saw me one Sunday last Spring, as I were stepping out o’ the side lane. I dodged back quick, o’course.”
“Damn. But no matter. He has other things to worry about now.” (Thanks to you, swine that y’are!)
She dropped the blouse beside the skirt; both were close to the couch, handy for grabbing when she was ready to escape.
“Everything,” he commanded. “I don’t want you with clothes on.” “In a little while, sir.”
She sidled up to him, distaste rising again. Fear, too. Like nausea, it was. She thrust it down, clinging to resolution. She didn’t know what she was going to do, or how she would do it, but she would know when the moment came. For now, she would hold him off with a little teasing, and then…
“Want to kiss me, sir?” She lifted her lovely face and saw his handsome features stoop to meet it. She braced herself for the kiss, and braced herself even more when he swept her toward the couch. She had to go with him, she had to pretend she was willing. He lay on his back and pulled her down to him, hot hands probing. She lay passive, enduring it. The moment was coming, but before it did she had something to say.
“I want you to know why I’ve come tonight, Master Potter.” “Don’t call me that here, Meg. We are not at the works now. And I know why you have come — because you are a sensible young woman and want to please me. So please me, damn you, at once!” A swift glance at the floor; the pocket of her skirt was close at hand. She felt giddy and sick and terrified, but coldly determined.
Pronouncing every word carefully, she said, “I have come because of what you did to my mother, Master Potter. You killed her.” He was suddenly still, lying on his back looking up at her. “What in hell’s name are you talking about?”
“She died sooner than she need, thanks to you.”
He sat up, almost toppling her to the floor. She pretended he had done so, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the skirt.
He said fiercely, “You said all that nonsense sometime ago. I’ll listen to no more of it. How dare you come here, making filthy accusations — ”
She stammered guiltily, “I’m sorry, sir. Truly sorry. Forgive me, sir, please!”
Without her bodice, her breasts were exposed. Sitting on the side of the couch, he pulled her toward him, his mouth closing on one, a hot hand on the other. Loathing blurred her vision, but she saw the back of his head bent beneath her, the nape exposed. She let the skirt fall, the pocket now empty. She felt the raging fury and blind hatred of a tormented animal, the same savage desire to attack, to wound, to disfigure; she wanted to scar him for life as a reminder of her vengeance and as evidence to the world of the kind of man he was. A slash across the face would be more permanent than scratches and more difficult to explain away, for such men as he didn’t fight duels, and an apparently respectable Master Potter had no cause to — so explain that to the world and your wife, she would hurl at him before she spat at his feet and left this fancy place.
She had only to wait for his head to lift and his face to
be upturned … so she raised the Polynesian knife and kept it there, poised, until his hungry mouth became more devouring and his teeth bit into her flesh. With a cry, she recoiled, and the knife came down, piercing the nape of his neck just below the skull. It made a neat hole, like a stiletto. It seemed to go in deeply, but it came out so easily that she knew it couldn’t have done. She saw a small, round, red spot, swelling in size but still quite small, and she heard a choking noise as his head lolled back. His eyes stared at her in astonishment before rolling upward in their sockets.
She was disappointed. She hadn’t meant to strike him there. And that he should lose consciousness so easily surprised her. His face was rapidly blanching. She had never seen a man faint before.
Well, she had made him suffer, at least, and though such a tiny scar would fail to brand him for life, and be conveniently hidden by his fine head of hair while it healed, when he became conscious he would remember what had happened, and who had done it, and be shocked by such evidence of her hatred. He would always remember Meg Gibson and how she struck back for her mother’s sake.
She made no attempt to revive him. She gave him no further glance as she pulled on her skirt, put on her blouse, picked up her shawl, and thrust the Polynesian knife back into her pocket. Her movements were mechanical, taking control, leading her out of the ornate garden house, shutting the door behind her, walking her out to the side lane and down the hill past Medlar Croft and into the sleeping village. The night was still, the lanes were empty, she met not a soul. She passed the village pump and headed for the track down to the marlpit.