Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  But the morning had not given Daniel the chance to say anything of what was in his mind and his heart. Their daughter’s bed had been empty and in the place where her head should have lain was a note.

  Cutting the slice of bread into four squares, Abbie placed them on a delicate poppy painted plate.

  Your hearts are broken because of me…

  The words written on that single sheet of paper, words the years of reading and rereading had engraved on her heart, seemed to take on the sound of that beloved voice, the voice of her daughter, and Abbie’s hands trembled.

  …and the pain I see in your eyes is too hard for me to bear. If by giving my life I could undo what I have done, take this shame from you, then I would do it and give praise to heaven for the granting of such a blessing. But that would replace one slur with another, replace pain with pain and sorrow with sorrow. I cannot face life seeing the shadow of it play on faces I love with all my heart; to leave is my only choice. The guilt is mine, let it not play in any other heart.

  Your daughter, Mary

  But the guilt had stayed with Daniel. A guilt which was not lessened with the departure of his son. A man grown, Adam could not be denied when he had set mind to following his sister, to search for her; the common sense of his saying one of them must remain to care for his mother and that one should be her husband. Daniel had at last accepted the common sense.

  Taking the tray in her hands she walked slowly upstairs.

  Her husband had accepted but she knew as he watched her tall son turn from the house that like herself a part of his life had been tom from him, a part which would never be replaced.

  *

  Emma Ramsey’s face had been the colour of chalk. Sabine Derry fastened the buttons of her wide skirted black grosgrain coat.

  ‘How could he have known?’ Emma’s torment had begged an answer.

  How indeed! Reaching for the fine kid gloves set out beside a large cloth bag, Sabine remembered the conversation they had shared. She had asked herself that question many times.

  ‘No one knew, no one…’ Emma had sobbed. ‘I told nobody.’

  But she must have told somebody; what else would have that toad Slade creeping into Acacia Villa? Emma had revealed her secret and whoever had been the recipient of it had repeated it. To Slade or within his hearing? What matter now! Pulling on the gloves, smoothing each finger down to the palm, Sabine frowned to herself. The damage was done. She drew the heavy black veil draped about her bonnet over her face.

  The letter had been delivered by second post. Emma had shoved the envelope into her hand. An identical envelope addressed in the same copperplate hand as the one delivered to Hill House. Slade had written to both. He had been inside Acacia Villa, had stood at the door of the bedroom, watched two women making love, written the very words they had spoken, seen at the centre of the dressing table a wig… a red wig.

  Her wig! Sabine Derry’s wig! Picking up the cloth bag she left the house.

  Emma had been beside herself. They had to pay… think of the scandal, they had to pay all he asked.

  She had agreed. Climbing into the hansom she sat stiff with anger. She had agreed, the damage was done and the piper must be paid.

  It had been decided she would hand over both her own and Emma’s payment, hand over the money Slade had demanded. Emma in her turn was to say nothing and especially not to Samuel. But that money would not be given to Slade in Wednesbury; the risk of being seen dealing with the man was one she would not take. A viper did not strike once and slither away; Oswin Slade was one such creature. How could she be certain he would not arrange to be seen taking payment from her, providing an accomplice to back his next demand?

  Wolverhampton, she had told Emma, Oswin Slade would receive what he asked for in Wolverhampton. He had agreed readily enough; it made no difference where his demands were met, he had laughed, just so long as they were met – and in full.

  Behind the veil Sabine Derry’s eyes glinted. The man had been obnoxious in her sight as rent collector, now as blackmailer he was anathema. But rent collector or blackmailer, there were ways to deal with both.

  The hansom she had beckoned at the High Bullen dropped her at the tram junction at the White Horse. Sabine nodded her thanks to the blue uniformed conductor. Touching one hand to his cap he steadied her with the other onto the hissing vehicle. Sabine was aware already of the loud chequered suit of the figure following her aboard.

  He was taking no chances the agreement would not be kept. Settled in her seat, her glance raked the back of the pomaded head. Slade had chosen his own seat a little to the front of her own; she would have to pass by him to reach the platform of the tram.

  ‘Bilston.’ The conductor’s call announced the approach of its next stopping place and Sabine’s hand closed about the tortoiseshell handles of her large bag. Waiting for the tinkle of the bell which would bring the vehicle to a halt she rose.

  ‘Oh!’ The exclamation trembling on her lips, she caught at the iron frame of a seat as the tram jerked to a stop.

  ‘They trams be enough to set a body tumblin’ off ’er feet,’ a woman edging her bulk ahead of her grumbled loudly. Murmuring her agreement Sabine followed, a smile behind the veil hiding the satisfaction of feeling the blade she had hidden in her sleeve slide easily and deeply into the side of the neck of the figure in the seat against which the halting of the tram had jerked her.

  17

  ‘I had meant only to rest a few minutes, the warmth of the kiln. I’m sorry to have caused yourself and your husband so much trouble.’

  The wench spoke nicely, ’ad what Daniel would call an educated tongue… but the clothes, Lord, they must be near as old as the wench herself; they were clean though; apart from the dust of the clay where her had been crouched against the kiln everything about her was well scrubbed.

  ‘Be no trouble, wench.’ Abigail smiled at the girl she had put to bed hours before. ‘I were taught that the ’elping of a body worse off than y’self brings a smile to the face of ’eaven.’

  ‘And I was taught not to take what could not be paid for and though I haven’t money to offer my hands are willing… please say there is something I can do before I leave.’

  This wench Daniel had found sleeping alongside of the kiln had come from a good home, a poor one, yes, but money were not the only wealth a parent could pass to a child. Abigail looked at the pale face, wide violet eyes regarding her with a simple honesty. This child had been taught what she and Daniel had striven to teach their children: good manners, frankness of heart and always to give as well as to receive. What greater wealth could be the portion of any child?

  To refuse what was asked, to let the girl leave without doing any service, would rankle, the thought of it would plague her mind maybe for weeks.

  ‘There do be summat.’ Abigail smiled once more, her decision made. ‘I finds it a mite tirin’ carryin’ them leathered pots for Daniel to stack the kiln; if it be you feels you needs show thanks by doin’ summat then I’d ask it be that.’

  ‘Leathered pots?’ Callista asked, wondering had she heard all right, but Abigail was already on her way to the scullery with her brightly coloured tray.

  Daniel would do the explainin’ and take joy in the doin’; it had been long years since he had spoken the ways of the clay to a youngster.

  ‘Means the pots be dried ’til the clay ’as the touch o’ leather,’ Daniel answered on hearing why she had come to the potting shop. ‘You can’t go setting ’em to the firing afore they reaches that state or they shatters. They feels strong but they ain’t, they needs be ’andled gently lessen they break. That lot,’ he pointed to several larger dishes stood on a shelf above a row of mugs, ‘they needs be placed in a sagger to ’elp protect ’em from the flames.’

  Leathered clay, biscuit firing, saggers, bats, stilts! Pottery making had a language all its own. The kiln stacked at last, Callista washed her hands in a barrel of water standing outside the workshop, drying them on a
clean rag held out by Daniel. His smile said he was well pleased with her efforts. But it was a language she had found intriguing.

  ‘Buyin’ threepennorth o’ clay were the reason brought you to Leabrook Pottery, be you goin’ to leave wi’out it?’

  She had bought her clay and her own carelessness had wasted it; if she had not turned back after leaving, if she had gone on; but she had not and now her money was gone and she had nothing to show for it.

  As if reading her mind he pointed a callused hand to a lump of fresh clay. ‘That be your’n, it be an exchange for that I’ve set in water… the piece you dropped; given a day or so an’ it’ll be workable same as before an’ I can use it, so y’see you ain’t teken nothin’ as you ain’t paid for. Only one thing, tell me ’ow you was intendin’ to fire whatever it be you ’ad set your mind to mouldin’?’

  She had not thought of that. She had only ever seen the finished product, the long stemmed pipes made by the men her father would sit talking with; she had played with the clay they gave her but, the visit over, she had politely handed it back.

  ‘Come, wench.’ Daniel took the rag from her. ‘Bring your clay an’ mek what it is that heart o’ your’n be hankerin’ after an’ when it be leathered I’ll fire it along o’ the rest.’

  *

  The tram had pulled away, continuing its journey to Wolverhampton, pulled away with the figure of Oswin Slade sitting silently on its seat. That had been a week ago.

  In the sun filled drawing room of Hill House Sabine Derry scanned the day’s newspaper. Nothing! She smiled her satisfaction. There had been coverage, a report of a man having been murdered aboard a tram. But that had been the only information the newspaper had so far printed; seemingly the police had no idea of who had perpetrated such a deed. Nor would they ever find out. Folding the paper neatly, she laid it aside. She had covered her tracks carefully. Taking the hand of the conductor, she had thanked him with a sob in her quiet voice as he assisted her from the tram. He would remember only a woman dressed in mourning clothes and carrying a large black cloth bag, a woman who followed several women passengers towards the busy market. That was the reason for her choosing to leave the tram where she had; Monday was market day at Bilston and she would easily be lost among the many shoppers.

  But she had not gone to the market. It had been no more her intention to go there than it had to travel on to Wolverhampton… or to pay Oswin Slade the money he demanded. Detestable little man, he had been paid. It was just that he had not been paid what he expected!

  He should have known better. Cold unblinking eyes glanced about the room, hovering on tapestried sofas, glowing mahogany side tables and chiffoniers filled with delicate figurines. The stupid little man should never have dared to blackmail Sabine Derry, to threaten her; now he would never threaten anyone ever again.

  Veil drawn low onto her chest, shoulders hunched and spine bent as if with age, she had followed from Oxford Street along Hall Street seeming to any who noticed her to be going to the open market place; but halfway she had taken a left hand turn that led to the railway station. She had not purchased a ticket directly. First she had gone to the ladies’ waiting room, breathing relief at finding it empty. This was the one part of her plan might prove risky. Fingers working quickly, she had whipped off veil, hat and gloves, exchanging them for a mauve coloured feather bonnet and matching gloves. Somewhere in the distance a steam whistle had shrieked, announcing the arrival of another train. Any moment could see other passengers entering the waiting room. But that was a chance she had to take. Breath caught behind tight lips, she had turned the cloth bag inside out, then slipping off the grosgrain coat, had crammed every trace of mourning into it. Loosing the air from her lungs she had smoothed the mauve velvet suit the wide skirted coat had covered, then with one final touch, had drawn the tiny velvet dotted veil of the bonnet to eye level; a bonnet set on the same red wig Oswin Slade had thought to assure his financial future. The thought had edged her mouth with a faint smile. The man had no more future! Taking up a bag now seemingly made of mauve silk she had left the waiting room and purchased a ticket to Wednesbury.

  *

  It had been a month from her coming to Leabrook Pottery. The small vase she had so painstakingly made from her threepenny worth of clay held close against her, Callista turned out of Dudley Street following St James’s Street towards the graveyard. She would not look at the dark building with its stone set windows, she would let no memories of her days in that schoolroom spoil this moment. She had done what she had wanted to do, had kept the promise made in her heart, and in a few minutes her mother’s grave would have its marker. But it could never have been achieved without the help and kindness of the Robertses.

  ‘It has been too long a time since my table were graced by a young face sat at it; you would be doing me a kindness by biding for a meal.’

  The words had been husky, Abigail’s eyes filming as she spoke them. But the kindness had been hers. It was she who had suggested staying at the cottage while the vase leathered, she who had said board and keep could be earned from working alongside Daniel at the potting. Had Daniel seen the uncertainty inside her, the argument which said the offer was simply charity? Possibly he had for he had said that the next day he was going to the High Bullen to hire a lad who would do the fetching and carrying but if she had a mind to try the work herself then the job and the home which went with it were hers. ‘But mind,’ he had warned, ‘I'll be mekin’ o’ no exceptions along o’ you bein’ a wench.’

  Pausing at the gate to the church she glanced towards a patch of ground which a month before had been covered with the gold of daffodils and now was sprinkled with harebells, their delicate blue flowers mixing with the creamy throated elegance of stately foxgloves and tall yellow Aaron’s rod, seeds she had scattered long ago now covering the father she loved with a mantle of beauty.

  ‘He made no exceptions, Father,’ she whispered, coming to the spot beneath the tall tree and kneeling among the wild flowers at its base. ‘It was as you would have wished; I worked for all I took.’

  Seated on a bench set against the rear wall of the church a man, goatee beard neatly trimmed, hands resting on a silver topped cane, leaned forward, eyes peering keenly through gold rimmed spectacles.

  It was the same spot; but the same girl? It had to be, hadn’t she said she had no kin… so who else would visit the resting place of a suicide? Watching the slight figure rise, Phineas Westley smiled as the shawl covering the head slipped and blue black hair gleamed in the perfect light of the June sun.

  Michael had scorned the idea of the girl returning to the churchyard, had disapproved of an old man’s asking a virtual stranger to share his home – but then Michael was often disparaging of the ‘foolish’ things his uncle did. But no blame could be laid on the boy, what he said was said out of regard for the longer term of an old man’s happiness and, though appreciated, it had not kept him from coming to this place each day in the hope of seeing the girl he watched now going to the spot she had pointed out as her mother’s burial place.

  ‘Good day, Miss Sanford… Callista.’ He had waited, respectful of her privacy at the graveside, but as she returned he rose, touching a hand to his tall silk hat.

  Caught unawares Callista brushed a hand across her face, wiping away the tears lingering on her cheeks, then smiled genuine pleasure at the meeting.

  ‘I was very much hoping to see you again and thought this the most likely place… you would not neglect to visit your parents’ graves.’

  ‘I have not visited them since last we met here, I… I had to find work.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I have worked for a month at Leabrook Pottery.’

  ‘Daniel Roberts’ place. I know him well, a fine craftsman; but I thought he had given up since…’

  Since his children left. Callista did not press the pause. Abigail had spoken of the tragic events of ten years ago, told of the one letter they had rec
eived from their son saying he had found his sister and would care for her, that they need not be sad. But even in the few weeks she had shared with that couple she had learned the depth of their heartbreak; Daniel and Abigail would never be free of sadness at the loss of their children, never be free of the anguish unguarded moments revealed on their faces.

  ‘Mr Roberts is indeed a fine craftsman and a fine teacher,’ she answered. ‘He helped me make the container I have placed upon my mother’s grave. I must admit I could not have kept my promise were it not for the kindness of himself and his wife.’

  ‘Abigail.’ Phineas smiled. ‘As fine a paintress as Daniel is a potter… she once showed me a plate decorated with field poppies which looked so real I felt I could have picked them; I told her she could earn a very comfortable living painting the crockery Daniel made but she would have none of it.’

  ‘You were a friend of the Robertses?’

  A small shake of the head preceded Phineas’s answer. ‘Not in the fullest sense of the word but our meetings were always genial. I bought several pieces of Daniel’s work. You say he helped you make a piece yourself and to keep the promise you told me of. Might I ask how… but that is something you must prefer to keep private, forgive my intrusion. It was not meant as such.’

  She could have felt offended at the question, taken it as an invasion into personal affairs, but strangely she felt none of that. Meeting the grey eyes, apologetic behind the spectacles, Callista smiled.

  ‘It is no secret. How could it be out there among the grass for any passer-by to see? The day my mother was laid here I made a promise: somehow she would have something to mark her resting place. I knew I could never buy a headstone with her name engraved upon it but I could buy a small amount of clay, enough to make a container to hold her silk posy. It was obvious to Mr Roberts I hadn’t much idea of what went into making the simplest pot, the biscuit or first firing and then the glazing to seal the porous body before firing again; I had not realised the process was so involved but he was patient, guiding me at each step.’