Rogue in Porcelain

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Who said we were?’

  ‘You know you’re coming round to the idea.’ He studied her face. ‘You’ve been very subdued this evening; is the other fellow playing you up?’

  She snatched her hand away, meeting his eyes defiantly. ‘What other fellow?’

  ‘Oh, come on! Your business colleague, Jonathan Whatever-his-name-is.’

  ‘Hugh, I’ve told you—’

  ‘And I know you too well to believe you. He’s married, sweetheart, and he’s going to stay that way. Give him up and come back to me. We can make it work this time.’

  She looked at him, at his pale face and light blue eyes, his red hair. And though as always her pulses raced in his presence, another image superimposed itself: a strong, autocratic face, with a network of fine lines round the eyes and a firm, unsmiling mouth. She gave a little shudder.

  ‘Is it because I didn’t come to your room at Lucy’s?’ Hugh persisted. ‘God knows, I wanted to. I got as far as the landing a couple of times. But I’d promised myself I wouldn’t rush you, and I didn’t want you to think I’d an ulterior motive in asking you down there.’ He paused, searching her downcast face. ‘Would you have let me in, if I had?’

  She didn’t reply, and he prompted gently, ‘Lindsey? Would you?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Oh God!’ he breathed. ‘I can’t win, can I? Don’t you see what you’re doing to me?’

  She looked up then, unwilling to take all the blame. ‘We’re doing it to each other, Hugh. We both know if we did get together, things would start to go wrong within a few months. We’re – temperamentally opposed – we grate on each other. All right, so we want each other like crazy, which is fine for the odd date, but not enough for any lasting commitment.’

  There was a long silence. She’d said too much, she thought in panic, and again the spectre of Dominic Frayne rose in front of her, and with some sixth sense she knew with certainty that he’d be contacting her within a few days. She couldn’t become involved with Hugh again, not when she was on the brink of a new relationship; it wouldn’t be fair on either of them. And by ‘either’, she meant herself and Hugh. It didn’t occur to her to consider Dominic Frayne.

  Finally, Hugh spoke, but he was too late. ‘If those are the only terms on offer, I’ll take them,’ he said.

  Blindly, she shook her head. ‘Hugh, I’m sorry. I can’t. Please will you take me home now?’

  Rona phoned Lindsey the next morning.

  ‘How did the date with Hugh go?’

  ‘It was pretty sticky, actually. I – more or less gave him the brush-off.’

  ‘Not, I trust, to leave the way clear for Jonathan?’

  ‘Not for Jonathan, no.’

  ‘So you’re still hankering after that man at the party?’

  ‘He’ll be contacting me soon. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.’

  Rona bit back an ironic retort. ‘Free for lunch, to talk it over?’

  ‘Sorry, no, and I’m working from home tomorrow. How about Friday?’

  ‘I suppose I can contain myself till then,’ Rona said drily.

  She spent the rest of the day transcribing first the recording of her interview with Hester, then the notes she’d made over lunch with Jacqueline. Added to the anecdotes already gleaned from James and Elizabeth, the Curzon dynasty and its component parts were coming together nicely.

  As she worked, her mind kept returning to John Samuel. What had weighed on his mind to such an extent that it had cut through the fog of delirium when he was close to death? Something he urgently needed to impart to the family, but had left too late? Or something he’d never have told them in his right mind? Or was the seeming lucidity merely a facet of his delirium, creating traumas where none existed? That, at any rate, was what his sons believed.

  Rona stretched, easing her aching back. Then, glancing at the clock on her computer, she phoned Barnie. He should be back from lunch by now.

  ‘The Curzons have a family secret,’ she announced, as soon as they’d exchanged greetings.

  ‘Is that a fact? And have you managed to ferret it out?’

  ‘No.’ She told him about John Samuel’s undisclosed dying words. ‘I was wondering,’ she added, ‘if it might tie in with the rumours you remembered hearing about.’

  ‘Thought I remembered,’ Barnie corrected her. ‘As I said, it could have been another family altogether.’

  ‘I doubt it, since it was the name Curzon that rang a bell. I looked in the newspaper archives, but couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘I warned you about that. In those days, there was respect for people’s privacy, and newspapers didn’t rush to wash everyone’s dirty linen in public. Consequently, though rumours circulated, there was damage limitation; relatively few people heard them, so they faded harmlessly away.’

  ‘Not entirely, it seems. You’ve not come up with anything more yourself? Barnie?’ she prompted after he hesitated.

  ‘I’ve a vague hunch it concerned a paternity suit,’ he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. ‘It would have been around the time the pottery was becoming well known, and possibly the claimant was after a share in the pickings.’

  ‘Would there be any reference in their own archives, do you think?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. Victorian society prided itself on its morals.’

  ‘Hypocritically, as often as not.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Anyway, the whole thing’s so vague, in my opinion it’s not worth pursuing. Stick to the known facts, girl, that’s my advice. We don’t want any libel actions.’

  ‘Advice noted,’ Rona said.

  ‘Ah, but will you take it?’

  She laughed, and did not reply.

  Finlay Curzon phoned that evening.

  ‘I hear you’ve been doing the rounds of my family,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve made a start, yes.’

  ‘Were the photo albums any use?’

  ‘Yes indeed; it was good to be able to put faces to the names on the tree.’

  ‘So – you’re ploughing your way through the Curzons. Who have you left?’

  ‘Of the older generation, only Mr and Mrs Charles.’

  ‘They should be ready to receive you next week. I gather the move went as well as could be expected.’ He paused. ‘When are you coming back to the factory?’

  ‘Well, now that I’ve sorted myself out a little, I was thinking of tomorrow. Will the museum be open?’

  ‘It will, yes, but it struck me you’d do better going round when it’s closed to the public. Then you could spend as much time as you needed with each exhibit, without feeling under pressure. If Friday would be convenient, I could have it opened for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s no trouble?’

  ‘None at all. Go to the Visitor Centre when you arrive, and someone will come and let you in. Then you can hand in the key when you’re leaving. Would you prefer morning or afternoon?’

  She was lunching with Lindsey on Friday, Rona remembered. ‘Could we make it about three o’clock?’

  ‘No problem. I hope the visit proves worthwhile.’

  ‘Avril!’

  Hearing Tom’s voice, Avril turned with a smile, but it froze on her lips as she saw he was not alone. Beside him, regarding her a little uncertainly, was a tall, well-dressed woman who could only be his lover. Coming so soon after their lunch together, when they’d been so normal and natural with each other, the feeling of shock was all the greater.

  Tom was speaking, but she barely heard him as she rapidly assessed his companion. No beauty, then; Catherine Bishop’s face was pale, her hair a light brown fading to grey, her eyes grey and steady. Then, as the introductions were completed, she smiled, holding out her hand, and her face lit up, causing Avril to revise her impression of plainness.

  ‘How do you do? I’ve been wondering when we’d meet, as we were bound to.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Avril echoed faintly, frantically looking
to Tom for assistance.

  He smiled encouragingly at her. ‘You’re looking very glamorous,’ he told her. ‘Are you off somewhere special?’

  Avril felt a wave of gratitude, to him, and also to Providence, that her first meeting with her replacement had not been while she was still in her dowdy, uncaring phase. For Catherine Bishop, if not glamorous, was meticulously groomed and had an air about her that made Avril want to square her shoulders and stand up straighter.

  ‘Only to bridge,’ she replied.

  There was a slight pause, which Tom broke by saying, ‘Are the alterations to the house finished now?’

  ‘Yes, and I even have a PG.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought that wasn’t till after Easter?’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be, but Rona found me someone in the meantime. A nice girl, who’s only here for a few days and has an aversion to hotels. Rona thought it would break me in gently.’

  Tom smiled. ‘And has it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m enjoying being a landlady. She’s leaving at the weekend, then I’ll have ten days or so before the permanent guest arrives – a teacher at Belmont Primary.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better be on my way,’ she added. ‘My partner will be waiting for me.’

  ‘Good to have seen you, Avril,’ Tom said warmly, and Catherine nodded agreement.

  ‘You too,’ she replied, and, with a smile that embraced them both, she went on her way, heart hammering but pride intact. That was another hurdle over. The second meeting, when it came, wouldn’t be nearly as fraught.

  Catherine slipped her hand through Tom’s arm. ‘All right, my love?’

  ‘Just glad that’s over.’

  ‘It passed off remarkably well. She’s pretty, Tom. After all you told me—’

  ‘I also told you she’d taken herself in hand.’ He paused, then added almost apologetically, ‘I’m still very fond of her.’

  ‘So I should hope. You were together a long time, and she is, after all, the mother of your daughters.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Something’s worrying you.’

  ‘I still feel I let her down. Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ve never been happier, and the last year or so with Avril was hell. But what made my leaving ten times worse was the timing – the fact that she was really making an effort to pull herself together. It felt like slapping her in the face.’

  ‘Well, she seems happy and confident enough now, and I loved that suit she was wearing.’

  He put his free hand over hers. ‘What I really want is for her to find someone who’d make her as happy as you make me.’

  ‘Perhaps she will,’ said Catherine.

  ‘So all in all,’ Lindsey finished, ‘the evening wasn’t an unmitigated success. He looked so crestfallen, I almost relented.’

  ‘Well, you have been playing him along the last few months,’ Rona reminded her. ‘It’s no wonder he was getting hopeful. You even told me he was the best long-term bet.’

  Her sister smiled faintly. ‘I’m a calculating so-and-so, aren’t I?’

  ‘Your words, not mine.’

  Lindsey shrugged, glancing out of the window at Guild Street, thronged with lunchtime shoppers. ‘Why did you stipulate here, rather than the Bacchus?’

  ‘Because it’s nearer home, and as soon as I leave you, I’m driving to Chilswood.’

  Lindsey raised an eyebrow. ‘The attractive, unattached man?’

  ‘I’m attached, Lindsey,’ Rona said, a touch sharply.

  ‘Whoops!’

  ‘What do you mean, “whoops”?’

  ‘Only that you get defensive, every time I mention him.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘If you say so. So why are you going to Chilswood?’

  ‘To visit the Curzon museum, in the hope that it’s more personal than the archives. They were made up of original moulds, patterns, and so forth, which would have been of little interest to Chiltern Life readers.’

  Lindsey reached for the wine bottle and, when Rona held her hand over her glass, refilled her own. ‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ she said.

  It would have been more convenient if she could have left Gus with Max, as she had the last time she visited the pottery, but since he was going to London that afternoon, this was not an option.

  As she settled the dog on the back seat and reversed out of the garage, Rona found herself wondering, despite her retort to Lindsey, if she would indeed be seeing Finlay today, and unwillingly admitted that she hoped so. She also wondered whether, if taxed, he might be more amenable than his sister to repeating his father’s last words.

  However, when, forty-five minutes later, she arrived at the Visitor Centre, there was no sign of him. She was expected, and one of the girls on reception walked with her across the courtyard to the museum entrance, where she unlocked the heavy doors and switched on the lights.

  ‘Take your time, Miss Parish,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘and perhaps you’ll hand the key in when you’re leaving.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  The doors closed behind her, leaving Rona alone in the echoing spaces. The room in which she was standing was lined with glass cases containing a wealth of Curzon china, dating, according to the neatly printed cards, from the factory’s earliest days, and she moved slowly along, admiring dinner services, Toby jugs, figurines, and mugs commemorating Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Alongside each item was a card slotting it into its place in history, or pointing out how the design had developed from that of previous items. As new procedures were introduced, these, too, were clearly and simply explained.

  The display cases down the centre of the room, Rona discovered, held family items including several birth certificates – details of which she jotted down in her notebook – and a collection of hand written letters and invoices, some in the hand of Samuel Curzon himself, some that of his son George. There were also a couple of Samuel’s journals similar to those she’d seen in Buckford, but though Rona scanned them thoroughly, there was little of a personal nature.

  The main room led into another that had been given over to picture boards outlining the history of the firm, and embellished with black and white likenesses of the various family members. And as Finlay had told her, there was a representation of the full family tree, including the names of the wives and daughters omitted from the shortened version.

  Although she’d seen Samuel’s likeness in Hester’s album, Rona was interested in those of his descendants, notably his son George and grandsons Spencer and Frederick. George the rake, she thought with an inward smile, studying the handsome, rather indulgent face with its full lips and incipient double chin. A few old photographs were also reproduced in appropriate sepia: the tenth anniversary of the factory, with Samuel centre stage surrounded by his workers, and a family group of George, his wife Ada and two young sons, both wearing sailor suits. It seemed that after his dalliances, he’d settled down as an exemplary paterfamilias.

  At the end of the room, pushed unceremoniously into a corner, stood a magnificent old desk, its surface, though pitted with wear, still gleaming richly. It was possible, Rona thought, that some of the documents she’d just been reading had been written at it. She went up to it, running her hand over its scarred surface. On the right-hand side was a bank of three drawers, embellished with what appeared to be their original brass handles. The middle one, however, wasn’t fully shut, giving the desk an odd sense of immediacy, as though its owner had left it only minutes before. Rona gave it a gentle push, but it resisted her pressure.

  She frowned. Admittedly it was none of her business, but even if the desk wasn’t part of the exhibition, it deserved to look its best. The drawer must have become misaligned, and should be easy enough to correct. Feeling slightly guilty, she pulled it open and, as she’d expected, saw that it was empty. Holding it by both sides, she manoeuvred it slightly from side to side, and tried again. Still it refused to close flush with the surface.

 
; Rona hesitated, her interest now aroused. Something must be impeding its passage, possibly some odd scrap of paper caught in the runners. She opened the drawer to its full extent and, kneeling down, reached into the cavity and felt around with her fingers, encountering the dust of centuries, soft and thick on the runners. But nothing more substantial.

  She was on the point of withdrawing her arm when, in a final sweeping movement, her fingers brushed against something on the back of the drawer itself. A piece of paper, by the feel of it, crumpled and hard to dislodge, since it had caught on some splinters of rough wood. Carefully, receiving a few grazes in the process, Rona prised it loose and, sitting back on her heels, looked down at the screwed-up ball in her hand.

  Taking care not to tear it, she unfolded the flimsy sheet, feeling a shaft of excitement as she realized it was a letter. Perhaps, after all, she’d found something personal relating to the Curzons. Smoothing the paper with her hand, she read:

  19th July

  My dear Frederick,

  I write to inform you that our worst fears are realized. It does indeed appear likely that Papa had a liaison with this woman, resulting in the birth of a child. I have come across papers showing he paid her a substantial sum of money ‘in final settlement’, and can think of no other explanation for this gesture.

  Her claim that, on the death of Mama, he actually married her seems too bizarre even to consider, save for one point: the pages of the Parish Register covering the month of the alleged wedding appear to have been removed.

  Whether or not Papa effected the removal, with or without the connivance of the minister – long dead, alas – we shall never know. As things stand, therefore, the boy’s claim to legitimacy – and consequently a share in the business – can be neither proved nor dismissed with any certainty.

  I am at my wits’ end to know how to proceed in this matter, and would greatly appreciate your opinion. When shall you be returning to Chilswood?

  Your loving and troubled brother

  Spencer.

  Rona felt a wave of heat wash over her. Was this, then, the family secret that had so disturbed John Samuel? She read it again, occasionally stumbling over the spidery writing. A Tichborne Claimant, here in Chilswood?