The thought hurtful, she tried to concentrate on the stacking of plates into saggars, bedding or separating them with a layer of flint before Daniel carried them balanced on his head to the kiln he was stacking in preparation for biscuit or first firing.
But not by a single word did Phineas ever imply he thought of her that way. It had become a practice for them to talk together each Sunday afternoon when she visited her parents’ graves; that too, was a benefit afforded by working and living with the Robertses, for she had thought never again to have the opportunity of standing in that quiet churchyard, with the love in her heart flowing out to them. Nor did Phineas speak of the misunderstanding which had occurred between herself and his nephew; whenever he spoke of Michael Farron it was only in terms of business.
Michael Farron too, had kept conversation strictly to business whenever she had visited the wharf in place of Daniel; for him also it seemed the past was forgotten.
But she had not forgotten.
‘There be room for a couple more then the oven be full.’
Standing a moment watching Daniel hoist yet another loaded saggar onto his head, years of repetition having his balance so perfect he had no need of steadying it with a hand as he crossed the yard to the tall bottle shaped kiln he called an oven, she felt a rush of self-condemnation. Her thoughts were full of herself, of what she had lost, of her own clash of temperament and misunderstandings. But what of Daniel and Abigail? Their loss could be said to be greater than hers, the misunderstanding which had happened had robbed them of their children; and love and respect the couple as she did she could never replace their own flesh and blood.
She had two more of the heavy clay boxes filled with plates before realising Daniel had not returned. A frisson of alarm rippling the edges of her nerves she went out to the yard. The doors of the ‘hovel’, the bottle shaped brick built outer casing which surrounded the firing chamber or ‘oven’ of the kiln, were pushed wide on their hinges, a full brick set to prevent their swinging shut; but of Daniel there was no sign.
Something was wrong! Callista’s heart seemed to stop then lurch on in a mad race. Resisting the urge to shout his name she ran, twisting an ankle painfully on the uneven sets, but the bite of it went unheeded.
Inside the ‘hovel’ the gloom after the brilliant sun filled gleam of the afternoon had her move more cautiously. Trying to keep any note of alarm from her voice she called softly but no answer came from the shadowed depths. But, of course, Daniel had been stacking the oven so that was where he would be. Lifting her skirt as a precaution against tripping over it, she mounted the three steps which gave onto the firing chamber. In here was dark as the regions of the underworld. At any other time she would have smiled at the simile but right now she was too concerned with why Daniel did not answer. Waiting until her sight was at one with her surroundings she let her glance rove over the saggars carefully placed one on top of another ranging around the walls in columns she had learned to call bungs, which reached almost the full height of the oven. But where was Daniel? The ladder he used to reach loads to and from the bungs rested near a partially completed stack. After running a swift glance along the length of it, Callista stifled a half emitted scream, holding it in her throat. Daniel was at the foot of the ladder, his body covered in broken pottery, the heavy saggar lying in the small of his back.
22
These are all the work of Callista Sanford?’
‘With the assistance of Daniel Roberts.’ Phineas Westley watched his nephew touch each of the dozen or so figurines ranged tastefully on elegant tables set in the library of The Limes, a home equally refined providing a setting as graceful as the figures themselves.
‘But I thought she worked in clay.’
‘So she does.’ Phineas’s eyes twinkled behind his gold rimmed spectacles.
Michael Farron’s brow furrowed as he took up a small replica of a woman seated against the flower twined stump of a tree. ‘Clay?’ He glanced at Phineas. ‘But this looks like marble, it has the feel of marble, smooth and silk to the touch.’
‘Doesn’t it!’ Phineas was obviously enjoying the moment. ‘This is what helps to make it special… though no one can deny the artistry, the form and rhythm, the absolute quality of the work.’
A woman of quality! He had denied Callista Sanford was such a woman. Michael replaced the delicate figure. But that was yet another mistake on his part, for she was all of that.
Phineas moved to the next table watching his nephew pick up a bust of a young woman, curled hair caught high on a head turned slightly to the left; lips parted, sloe eyes dreamy, it bore a faraway look.
‘She is beautiful…’
Was his nephew speaking of the woman in his hand or the woman in his mind? Judging by the number of times Callista Sanford’s name managed to enter their conversations he would judge the latter.
‘She seems to tempt,’ Michael was still looking at the bust, ‘yet at the same time remain beyond reach.’
‘An apt description of Venus.’
‘Is that the name she gave it or is the choice due to a certain Phineas Westley?’
‘It was Callista’s choice, she names each of her pieces… but I confess had she not given the title “Venus” to that one I would have done so myself for it has every attribute and beauty of the goddess.’
‘You’ll never change, will you, Phineas?’ Michael smiled affection at the man stood beside him. ‘I only hope that one day you will find the happiness of your Elysian Fields, your paradise of the immortals.’ Unspoken, a whisper in his mind, Phineas’s reply was heartfelt. As I pray one day you will have the good sense to reach for your own more earthly happiness.
‘So how does Cal— the girl achieve this colouring and effect? Some of the bowls are translucent.’
Had she denied him use of her given name or was it his own stubbornness prevented his speaking it? His inner smile deepening, Phineas turned to yet one more table. More likely his nephew did not speak the name for fear of betraying his emotions.
‘Daniel Roberts wasn’t giving too much away,’ Phineas replied. ‘Apparently it is a formula he and his son worked on before the boy left the pottery. He did, however, say it was a compound of china clay, feldspar, white sand and frit, but the rest of the mixture is a secret he would not divulge.’
‘I can’t say I blame him. It makes a most desirable object and I’m sure they would find a ready market.’
‘My sentiments exactly but we will reserve that judgement until these have been seen by my dinner guests.’
His uncle was moving towards the door but Michael remained, his glance touching again each of the lovely creamy white groups of figurines, busts and bowls reflecting the light of candles from the overhead candelabra and the smaller standing ones set at intervals about the book lined room. Phineas was a connoisseur of art who also knew how to present it to advantage.
‘Before they arrive,’ he said, halting the older man, ‘tell me, was this showing an idea proposed by Miss Sanford?’
Why that question? What particular imp of mischief was running around in his nephew’s brain?
‘No.’ Phineas shook his head. ‘It was not Callista’s idea but then what you see here does not belong to her; that being so I feel I may show them to whomsoever I please.’
The frown which earlier had rested on Michael’s brow settled again. ‘Not hers! I don’t understand.’
‘Really Michael, what is there not to understand?’
‘Why you should have them!’
The reply quickly spoken had said more than the words it contained. Phineas hid his smile. It said there was still a worm of doubt wriggling in his nephew’s mind, doubt as to whether an old man’s feelings for a young girl were strictly those of friendship.
‘I did not buy them…’
‘Phineas… for heaven’s sake! You didn’t buy them and it is certain you did not steal them and she did not ask you to show them so how come they are here?’
‘As y
ou say, Michael, I did not steal them. I asked Callista to sell these pieces to me but she maintained they were not hers to sell.’ The frown hardening further on his nephew’s brow, Phineas went on patiently. ‘She said she was merely their creator, that the materials used in their making belonged to Daniel; he had paid for them as he had the coal necessary to fire the oven, so, as with any person employed by another, the articles she produced belonged to the owner of those materials.’
‘So you purchased them from Daniel Roberts.’
‘No…’
‘Phineas!’
‘Kindly allow me to finish.’ Interrupting the outburst with a gesture, Phineas looked concernedly at a dish whose covered lid was worked with a delicate tracery of leaves and flowers newly opening from their bud, Michael’s hand a shade closer to it than prudence permitted. ‘Daniel insisted they belonged to Callista; the state of impasse appeared unbreakable, so I asked could I borrow them in order to enjoy their beauty in a setting more suitable than a shelf in Daniel Roberts’s workshop.’
‘I see.’ The note of relief was clear though not intended. ‘And do they know you have arranged a viewing?’
His look saintly, Phineas smiled before opening the door. ‘I see no reason to inform anyone of my inviting guests into my own home.’
It was an evasion, but one he could not argue with, following his uncle to the drawing room where they would await those guests Michael could only admit himself defeated. What Phineas had said was totally logical but how would that logic be interpreted by Callista Sanford should she come to hear of his evening’s activities?
*
The lengthy preparation of dressing completed, Sabine Derry looked at her reflection in the long oval framed cheval mirror of her bedroom. This new gown looked well… very well indeed. It had cost a small fortune, coming from the London fashion house of Jacques D’Albe, but it was certain no other woman at Phineas Westley’s dinner party would be gowned so splendidly. The Limes. She half turned, watching silken flounces of the skirt glide behind her. She had chosen the design well: a décolletage and off the shoulder short puff sleeves showed off her throat and shoulders while the skirt, flounced and cut into a train set off by a generous edging of lace and velvet with a finishing of bows of the same material, emphasised the stateliness of her figure. The colours too, were well chosen. Deep yellow silk edged with apple green, a sash of green not about her waist but falling from one hip to be gathered into a large rosette before being draped elegantly to a lace frilled hem. Teamed with the emerald necklace and long drop earrings Edwin had given her on their marriage day the whole presented a picture of wealth and prosperity. And that was what she wanted to be seen: Edwin Derry as a wealthy and successful manufacturer. The Westley family had always been looked upon as squires of the county by the people of Wednesbury, the landed gentry, but tonight would show that though they might be the old money they were not the only money; tonight everyone who was anyone in this town would see and would know the Derrys for what they had and for the place she intended them to hold in society. From this evening onward Phineas Westley would see the challenge to his being regarded as sole ‘Lord of the Manor’.
*
Somehow they had got Daniel to the house. The first moment of seeing him lying face down at the foot of that ladder she had been struck dumb and motionless, her feet seeming to root themselves in the floor of the dark oven. She had tried to call his name but sound had died before it could leave her throat. How long had she stood there fastened by ties of fear… fear that Daniel was dead? Then from somewhere had come a sound; a movement, a shifting of a pot not quite settled in its place? She had not known or cared. It had broken the bands holding her to the spot and she had run to the figure lying on the ground. He had been so still. Lying in her own bed Callista watched moon born shadows dance in the silence. She had been afraid to touch him, yet had known she must. She had lifted the sagger from his back, the weight of it, even though empty now of its contents, straining her arms. With it pushed aside she had bent over the unmoving form, whispering his name, willing him to answer. But Daniel had not answered.
Beyond the window an owl hooted, its cry echoing on the stillness. Her father had told her owls were the night watch of the gods sent to safeguard sleeping children and to bring pleasant dreams, releasing them to drift in at a window. How he had always comforted her fears! But there had been no father to comfort her in that kiln, no steady voice or reassuring hand, no strong arms to hold her until her fear was gone. There had been only herself, Daniel and that terrible overwhelming mind shattering silence.
At last the shreds of sanity had collected together enough for her to realise she could not move Daniel alone. She had tried to keep her anxiety hidden but the clatter of her running feet on the cobblestones of the yard had brought Abigail hurrying from her kitchen, their story told before she could speak.
She would never forget the look that had come to the woman’s face. Callista’s eyes closed on the memory but the pictures played on behind her eyelids. Abigail’s lips had formed a question but the words had not come, only her brown eyes had asked, had screamed an inner torture as she had raced past and into the oven. She had been on her knees, her face pressed to the cheek of her husband. Callista watched the scene playing in her mind, showing the moment she had re-entered the kiln. Then Abigail had lifted her head. The gloom of the interior had shrouded the anguish she had seen smouldering seconds before the woman had run past her, the gnawing agony she had known still played in the depths of her soul, but the tremble of the voice could not be concealed by shadow, or swallowed by darkness; that had spoken the fear, the terror clamped about the heart.
‘We can’t lift ’im wi’out help.’ Tears had made each word quiver, testifying to the grief tearing at Abigail. ‘To try might give rise to…’ She had broken off the thought too impossibly painful to voice, then after moments had said, ‘Go you to the ’ouse, wench, bring me pillow and blankets enough to keep ’im warm then get you to the wharf… it be nearer than the town… you’ll find men there as’ll come.’
She had done as requested and though loath to leave Abigail had run to the wharf. The owl hooted again, the sound nearer this time. The bearer of a dream? The bringer of sleep? Callista’s head turned restlessly on the pillow. The gods had chosen unwisely; sleep was a comfort worry denied her.
It had been minutes only before, led by Moses Turley, a group of men called from their narrow boats and carrying a door they could use as a stretcher were racing across the heath, but each of those minutes had proved a lifetime.
Left a short way behind by the speed of their travelling she had reached the yard as the unconscious figure was being carried across to the house. Daniel was alive. She had trembled as much as the woman she had held in her arms when given the news by Moses Turley. ‘But,’ the wharf gaffer had continued gravely, ‘he be bad ’art, there be no tellin’ ’ow bad ’til he be seen by the doctor. If it be all right wi’ you, Abigail, I’ll send a man to fetch ’im along to the ’ouse… and p’raps it be best we men gets Daniel to ’is bed, he be heavy for you to wrestle wi’ the undressin’ of.’
They had stayed, all except Moses, sitting in the yard, stayed there talking quietly among themselves. Strange how the thing she remembered most was the shafts of sunlight! They had streamed from a sky so blue, so perfect, their golden beams seemed to hover above each bared head as if in blessing, a recognition of the kindness and sympathy of men who would not leave until knowing they could do no more.
Daniel had had the devil’s own luck. The doctor had smiled after making his examination. The saggar had bruised the spine fairly severely but it had not broken it. Daniel would recover but his days of stacking the kiln were over. Taking a cup of the tea Callista had brewed and served to the boatmen the doctor had given his diagnosis finishing with, ‘What has happened today will most certainly happen again should he continue in the potting and next time, Abigail, your man might not be as lucky. He has escaped a very seri
ous injury and we all thank God for that but you must make him see he cannot tempt providence twice.’
His days of stacking the kiln were over… should he continue in the potting… he cannot tempt providence twice!
Callista’s eyes opened as the words echoed in her mind. Abigail had realised the enormity of them; it had shown in her gentle eyes, in the tremor of her voice as she had thanked the doctor, displayed the new fear nestling in an already overloaded heart; one which told her Daniel would be as a man condemned to a lifetime of misery when learning he could no longer work the pottery and she, his wife, must be the judge to pass sentence!
The boatmen had left with the doctor’s leaving. Each had spoken with Abigail, assuring her she need only to ask and help would be given, but those men could not throw pots.
Clouds drifting across the moon gave the shadows on the walls of her room fresh life, a new dance to twist and glide to. A new beginning! A silvered ray reaching across the bed like a shimmering finger touched the frown drawing Callista’s brows together from the irony of the thought. What new beginning could there be for Daniel and Abigail? All they had ever known had been the making of crockery, their whole lives had been given to the one occupation. What else could they do, what could they turn to now?
Nothing! The answer breathed from its own shadowed seclusion, whispered from each darkened corner like some harbinger of doom. There was nothing for Daniel Roberts except a potter’s wheel. With that taken from him the man’s heart would break; he would be as a man whose will was drained and lost, a man without purpose.
And Callista Sanford, what of her? She too must face a new beginning for without work in the pottery she could no longer remain in this house.
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