*
Was this a result of Michael Farron’s talk with Daniel? Callista stared at the scene in Abigail’s bright living room. The fire, lit as it must be every day for the cooking of meals, slumbered lazily beneath a gently bubbling pot, poppy painted crockery smiled from the tall three shelved dresser and the sun glinted through windows sparkling behind pretty flower strewn curtains. Everything was normal… so why was everything so different?
Confused, Callista stood in silence, her mind trying to come to terms with what her eyes were showing her yet attesting to the reality of difference. Daniel was sat in the chair he always occupied. In the hearth beside him a brown glazed pot shaped to a laughing face held paper spills which lit the long stemmed white clay pipe kept on the mantelpiece above his head; Abigail, grey streaked chestnut hair caught in a neat bun, brown skirts covered with a snowy apron, stood beside the table covered with a spotless cloth slicing crisp freshly baked bread. Nothing was wrong. It was the same as greeted her whenever she came into the room. But it was not the same, they… Callista’s brain seemed to become still, the breath to halt in her lungs. That was what was different; was what was not the same, Daniel and Abigail… neither of them had looked at her, neither had spoken!
What had she done to cause such a change in them? Why were their faces turned from her? Only minutes before Michael Farron arriving here the three of them had laughed together yet now they behaved as though she were not there.
In the silence broken only by the tick of the clock Daniel wound every night before going to bed, Callista felt as alone as the night her mother had died. Ada Povey had been in that room as the Robertses were in this, but for her the world had been empty, filled only with unhappiness, and she the one person in it.
But there had been no death here; whatever had happened to cause the atmosphere of this house to alter so suddenly could not have the finality of death. It could be discussed, explained, apologised for it necessary, but it must be clarified. It would break her heart to leave Leabrook Pottery and its owners under a cloud; she would spend the rest of her life wondering what it was she had done had taken their love away from her.
A deep breath lending her courage she began quietly. ‘Is… is anything wrong? Have I done something which displeases you…’
The clatter of the knife falling from Abigail’s hand, the anguished cry breaking from deep within her, swept away the rest of Callista’s enquiry, reaction to that sharp agonised broken sob almost hurling her to the woman’s side.
‘Abigail!’ Too concerned to recognise she used a first name, Callista threw her arms about the sobbing figure. ‘Abigail, what’s wrong? Oh please, if it is something I have done then I’m sorry… believe me, I’m sorry.’
In his chair at the fireside Daniel dropped his head into his hands, his voice muffled with emotion he did not wish to show. ‘’Tain’t nuthin’ be done by you, wench, ain’t no fault o’ your’n.’
‘Michael Farron…’
A question or an accusation. Callista did not know or care.
‘Not ’im neither,’ Daniel answered. ‘The cause be mine an’ mine only.’
‘No.’ Pulling Callista gently aside, Abigail went quickly to her husband, dropping to her knees beside his chair, her hands covering those held about his head. ‘No, Daniel, that don’t be the way of it, weren’t you alone let them go…’
‘But ’twere me as drove ’em! My stupid pride had ’em leave.’ Grief bitter as aloes coloured Daniel’s reply.
‘And mine which kept me from followin’ after, from tryin’ to bring them back.’
Daniel suppressed a sob as he shook his head. ‘That don’t be truthful, it were loyalty kept you in this ’ouse, loyalty to me overrode the love you ’ad for your children but it broke your ’eart ’an mine. I were wrong, God forgive me I was wrong.’
‘We was both wrong… the Lord pardon us both.’
Callista watched the tender kiss touch the drooping head. There was more than loyalty Abigail had for her husband: there was love, a deep, exonerating love.
‘The Lord might forgive.’ His head lifting, Daniel’s arms went about his wife. ‘But I’ll never forgive myself for drivin’ your children from you, for never seekin’ them; an’ now it be too late.’
Callista caught the strangled words. Your children. That could only be a reference to the son and daughter Abigail had told her of, the two who left the cottage together! And ‘too late’, did that mean…? Oh no, not that, Abigail’s children could not be dead!
Feeling her presence to be an intrusion she turned to leave but the quiet movement was seen by Daniel.
‘Don’t be goin’, wench.’ Releasing Abigail, he stood up. ‘Abbie an’ me ’ad no wish to worry you, it… it be a bit o’ news…’
Too overcome to continue he reached for the clay pipe and tin of tobacco, leaving Abigail to continue. Wiping her tears on her apron the woman followed the custom of ages in times of grief, her hands shaking as she reached for the teapot.
About to take it from her, to press her to a chair while she herself made tea, Callista remembered the words of her mother and the other women of Trowes Court whenever some disaster struck. ‘Let her do it for herself, best her keep busy, it holds the mind together.’
‘Michael Farron, he brought a letter.’ Her voice trembling as much as her fingers, Abigail sniffed back fresh tears.
‘Please, Abigail…’ Callista set the mugs she had reached from the dresser onto the table. ‘I have no right to hear what is private to you and Daniel, I am not your—’
She had almost used the word ‘daughter’. Regret for what had so nearly slipped from her tongue brought a flush to Callista’s cheeks.
Looking at her across the table Abigail either did not see, or else refused to see, the colour staining the pretty face or the apology in soft violet eyes, only answering in that same heartbroken voice. ‘That be right, Callista wench, you be no daughter to Daniel and me but the gladness that come along of you helped ease the soreness that sits in our ’earts. Your being in this ’ouse don’t remove the pain entirely, ’twould be a sin of mine to say it does for nothing could do that, short of the comin’ of my own two children through the door and that won’t never be… not now!’
How could she reply to that? How could she ask a mother that dreadful question: are your children dead? Knowing she should answer, that to make no reply could be construed as unsympathetic, Callista struggled to find the right words but none would come.
Seeming unaware of the silence which had Callista feeling so awkward, Abigail stirred sugar into Daniel’s cup. ‘Be too late,’ she murmured, ‘be too late.’
‘The letter tells it best. Read the letter, girl, and then you’ll know.’
Refusal came swiftly to Callista’s lips. She could not violate their privacy. Dear as this couple were to her, love them as she did, she was not kin and the prerogative and privilege that accorded was not hers. Whatever was contained in the letter lying on the table she could not be privy to; it was something she could not share.
The feeling the thought carried with it was one of separation, a rift between herself and the people who mattered most to her, a space her love could not cross.
*
Wearing a shawl draped over her cotton nightgown, Abigail sat beside the hearth, the letter in her hand. As with that left on a pillow so long ago, she knew every word of it by heart. She had lain with it against her breast. Her daughter had written the words, Mary’s hand had touched the paper and maybe Adam too, had held it. Adam, her tall strong limbed son; Mary her pretty brown eyed daughter; their touch on the sheet of paper was the closest she would ever again come to the feel of their dear hands.
Near spent coals settled deeper into the bed of the smouldering fire and in the cascade of sparks rising from it Abigail watched a young boy, dark hair falling over bright intelligent blue eyes, a laugh breaking on a strong handsome face as he chased a younger girl, her own hair, the colour of ripe chestnuts, streami
ng out behind her, a beautiful fluttering veil of colour. Mary… Mary, she had been so pretty, so loving. A sob quiet in her throat, Abigail lifted the letter to her lips. Why did it have to bring such news? Why did it have to add to heartbreak?
Dearest mother and father…
The spark of the settling coals had died into darkness but the words of the letter pressed against her quivering mouth shone like tiny beacons in her mind and in her mind Abigail read them again.
Dearest Mother and Father,
It might be you will not read this letter but still I must write it, tell how much Adam and me both love you. It doesn’t be a letter asking forgiveness of the sin I committed, of the pain my wrongdoing caused you, but just a telling of love. Our mother and our father have never been a day from our thoughts and their names never missed from our prayers. Nor those of their grandchildren who speak it nightly in their own and who longs as we does to hold you close as you once held Adam and me. It was you, my dearest mother, I cried for in the pain of childbirth, you I longed to hold my hand and my father not far away ready ever to comfort his little girl, but that could not be. Next week we leave England. Adam won’t never settle while he be close to Lea Brook but never can return, and as for my husband and me we won’t never leave him to go alone to America. Adam and me won’t know the joy of looking upon your dear faces again but we carry you with us, our beloved mother and father, we will carry you forever in our hearts.
Your loving daughter and son.
‘Mary… Adam… In the silence of the small living room Abigail’s sobs trembled against the paper held to her mouth.
*
She had been disrespectful. The thoughts she had entertained before entering the cottage had been discourteous to Michael Farron as well as to the Robertses. She did not know Michael Farron very well, in fact she knew him hardly at all, but thinking clearly she realised he was not a man to go skulking behind her back making trouble. Hadn’t he faced her openly with regard to his uncle? As for having thought Daniel and Abigail acted as they had out of hearsay, that was even more disparaging. How could her thoughts have gone that way even for a moment! They were the kindest of people and she…? She was unworthy of their friendship.
All around her the heath lay in the hush of afternoon, the only sound that of bees investigating the blossom of slender pink rosebay and stately yellow Aaron’s rod standing guard over the deep blue cornflower and delicate blooms of creamy woodbine. It was a world of beauty edging a town hidden beneath the dark haze of steel mills and iron foundries, the black dust of coal mines, but at the heart of it were the people, people like Ada Povey, Daniel and Abigail, they had hearts of gold. And she had judged them harshly!
Guilt brushing her face Callista walked on, passing the squat low windowed Boat Inn and the huddled houses of Pitt Square, answering a pleasant ‘good day’ as she passed the tall brick malthouse. Taking a right hand turn to follow along Great Western Street, the rumble of carters’ wagons and the quicker snap of trotting horses pulling carriages to and from the railway station invaded the earlier peace of the heath, growing in sound and density as trams added their own cacophony; but immersed again in her thoughts she paid little heed.
She had left her bed early, the light penetrating the little bedroom as yet barely strong enough to battle the shadows. She had slept fitfully, waking several times to feel the guilt which was with her yet, the inner sense of blame she could neither condone nor excuse. At last, draping her shawl about her shoulders, she had slipped quietly downstairs. A drink of water might help her settle the storm in her stomach. But there she had found Abigail, seated beside the fireplace, a folded sheet of paper pressed to her mouth. The sight of that loved figure, the sadness and heartbreak portrayed by the bent head and slumped shoulders, had struck through her with the force of physical pain. Whispering the woman’s name she had thrown her arms about her, feeling the dam of Abigail’s resistance break. She had wept quietly, the despair of years in her tears, and Callista’s own had merged with them. They had clung together, friends in heartbreak, held each other until the weeping was done. Then over a mug of hot tea Abigail had told the contents of the letter and she had listened, hoping the therapy of talking would take some of the bitterness from the blow.
Her son, her daughter, the grandchildren she had never seen, were leaving England. She had heard boatmen along of the canal talk of ships they had seen in Liverpool docks, of the weeks of sailing it took to reach that far off country that was America and of the money it cost to take passage there. Adam and Mary must have saved every spare farthing, worked each of the years since leaving Lea Brook, managing on none but the basic necessities in order to scrape together money enough to buy their tickets; money she and Daniel would never have. Her prayers, her nightly beseeching of the Lord to bring her children back to her, had been of no avail. In a week they would be gone, as lost to her as if they had never lived.
‘’Tis the finish, wench,’ she had murmured, placing the sheet of paper beneath her nightgown, a hand pressing against her breast. ‘’Tis the end of a dream.’
Glancing behind her, into the distance which held Leabrook Pottery, Callista knew the exact meaning of those words. She too, had lost what she loved; for her also, this was the end of a dream.
27
Phineas Westley glanced at the figure his housekeeper had shown into the sitting room of his home. The skirts were faded and patched and the shawl threadbare and drab but the head was held high. The girl was a pauper’s child in her clothing but in bearing and manners, in her quality of speech and intellect, she had all the hallmarks of a lady.
‘Thank you for seeing me, it is kind of you to give me your time.’ Callista dropped a small curtsey.
‘I am pleased you came.’ Offering her a seat Phineas touched a brocade bell pull hanging beside an ornate marble fireplace. ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’
Concerned that her skirts, dusty from crossing the heath and walking through soot clouded streets, might leave a mark upon the beautiful tapestry covered chair, Callista shook her head, saying hastily, ‘Mr Westley, I came to ask about the figurines.’
‘Ah!’ Phineas’s hand dropped away from the bell pull. ‘And here am I hoping you had at last decided to accept my proposal you catalogue my collection.’
Glancing at the several beautiful pieces placed about the elegant room she recognised the exquisite carving of Cupid pleading Psyche to become his lover, a marble Christ comforting a weeping Madonna, while yet another depicted a peasant couple sat together, the hand of the man held in that of a smiling wife, and in a glass fronted cabinet the serenely beautiful Artemis.
Each was breathtaking in its skill of design and creation, each a work of sublime beauty, and these she guessed represented but a few of the treasures this house held. Treasures she had not learning enough to deal with.
Watching her, guessing at the thoughts behind the nuances of expression crossing her face, Phineas was struck again by the unassuming dignity, the quiet acceptance of what she was, the pride which upheld her while preventing her accepting a post she felt was offered only as an act of charity. But what was she? What was this Callista, a girl named for the gods? Deep inside Phineas smiled. His nephew would call him all kinds of a fool, laugh at his description, but for Phineas Westley the girl was a woman of quality.
‘So you are here to discuss the pieces I was so kindly allowed to borrow; but may we not do so sitting down?’
Reluctantly Callista perched on the edge of the costly chair.
‘Daniel… Mr Roberts… said you had spoken to him.’
Taking a chair facing hers, Phineas nodded. ‘Spoken yes, persuaded… no. Daniel Roberts is a stubborn fellow. I told him of the praise each received from guests I had to dinner, of the money they were prepared to pay could they purchase them. He said, as he had in our previous conversation, the pieces were not his to sell, he would take neither credit nor payment; that they belong to you. Do you now wish them returned to Leabrook
Pottery?’
Hands twining self-consciously in her lap, Callista thought of the reason for her coming to this lovely house. Would Daniel understand or despise her as a liar, a girl who could not abide by her word? But there was no other way; she hadn’t a penny to her name, it had to be done!
The words almost choking in her throat she forced herself to meet the grey gaze. ‘No.’ She paused then pushed the rest out before they could die on her. ‘No, I do not want them returned to Leabrook Pottery. I want them sold and the money paid to me.’
*
She must not act hastily; time would be her ally, time would help her plan her moves carefully.
Sabine Derry settled the carefully coiffured wig over her faded mousy hair. She had taken to using it just prior to the return to Wednesbury, a precaution against being recognised… but who would connect the wealthy Mrs Edwin Derry with the nonentity of a mistress teaching in some backstreet school? But to err on the side of caution, however, could be no bad thing. The wig securely pinned, she studied her reflection in the mirror then turned her glance to the silver framed photograph.
‘I was too smart for them, Julia,’ she laughed, ‘too clever for our so efficient police inspector. He has no idea it was me, no clue as to who plunged a knife into Oswin Slade’s neck. Oh, the police called, they came with their questions and their apologies. A matter of routine, that inspector told Edwin, simply a call to ascertain the names of tenants Oswin Slade collected rents from. He hoped his coming to the house would not alarm Mrs Derry. What… what was that, my dearest?’
Leaning closer to the photograph Sabine stayed silent for several moments before laughing again.
‘No.’ She drew back but her eyes remained on the pretty smiling face. ‘No, of course Edwin does not suspect! But then neither does he suspect I know those so-called late night meetings at his club are simply a way of covering his evenings with a prostitute of his choice. Edwin is as gullible as that police inspector. They were both so easily duped, just like Emma Ramsey. Poor Emma! So very foolish.’
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