Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘You knows you be more’n welcome, wench.’ Daniel’s gruff affirmation accompanied a film of brightness in his eyes.

  A pull at her stomach threatening the strength she had striven a week to maintain, Callista forced a smile, then as the train steamed to a halt hugged Daniel. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she whispered against iron grey hair. ‘I love you.’ Then Abigail was in her arms, the trembling of their emotions mingling as they clung to each other.

  ‘I love you.’ Despite all of her resolve Callista sobbed the words. ‘I will always love you.’

  ‘My ’eart ’olds the same for you.’ Abigail’s hand stroked the ebony dark head nestled on her shoulder. ‘It’ll call to you across the vast ocean, across the miles that lie between you an’ me; it will speak its words in the darkness of the night an’ in that darkness I shall hear you answer. God keep you in His merciful ’eart as I’ll keep you forever in mine.’

  They were gone. Once more her life was empty. From the distance the whistle of a steam engine added to the isolation which had swept over her as she had watched the train pull away. Abigail’s hand fluttering at a window had seemed to add to the awful loneliness already enveloping her like some stifling cloak.

  Emerging into Great Western Street, Callista’s downcast glance caught the gleam of buttercups. Daring the stationmaster’s wrath they danced among carefully planted borders that brightened smoke dark walls. The golden markers of fate! The glittering emblems of decisions taken by the daughters of Zeus! But for Callista Sanford the tally was complete. Her life had been deprived of every happiness, the last petal had been plucked.

  She could have held onto that last thread, accompanied Abigail and Daniel to America, made her life afresh with them, secure in the knowledge they loved her. But there had been something inside her, something stronger than herself. It had fought against that desire for security, held her back from agreeing to go with them, even though that something had all the time remained elusive, stayed beyond the borders of her recognition. And now it had come too late. Raising one foot she lowered it onto a tiny glistening flower, pressing it beneath her boot, crushing it as the Fates had crushed her life!

  First her father taken from her by his own hand, then her mother dead from a disease they had not the money to combat; neither of those events had been within her power to avoid but parting from the Robertses…! That had been her own doing as had losing the friendship of Phineas Westley. Moving her foot, Callista stared at the crumpled patch of gold, its former beauty twisted beyond recognition, then, stooping, plucked the tiny pulverised flower. Her life in her own hands! She stared at the delicate broken remnants. The Fates must indeed be laughing. But Michael Farron had not laughed; he had not even smiled at her when he had called to visit Daniel. She had not known he was at the cottage. She had walked in after yet another check of the silent workshop to find him just arriving. He had glanced once in her direction, his face impassive, his blue eyes unreadable, then he had turned from her, the action dismissive. It had needed no words. Clear as any speech it had told her he knew of her taking that money, that he despised her as he would any thief. That too had been her own doing. She could have owned to the truth of her selling those figurines, the beautifully crafted bowls; she could have seen him smile. Now he would smile at her only in her dreams. A pauper’s child! Parting her fingers she let the fragile broken petals fall to the ground. Callista Sanford was a pauper, she had not a penny to her name, no home to return to, nothing but the patched clothes on her back. But all of that counted not a scrap against the destitution in her heart, the poverty of spirit that had come of Michael Farron turning away.

  ‘Miss Sanford… Callista.’

  The sound of her name cutting the cloud of dejection she looked to where a smart burgundy lacquered pony trap stood at the opposite side of the street.

  Phineas Westley! Nerves drying her throat she stared as the trap moved. He was coming to her. What did he want? It could only be…

  Her heart beating nineteen to the dozen, Callista remained glued to the spot. Had the sales he had spoken so confidently of fallen through, had her work proved unsatisfactory? If so he would require the return of the money he had paid her. Hands tightening into painful balls, she watched the pony trap manoeuvre between two laden carts. She no longer had that money, it was gone… every last penny of it!

  Bringing the animal to a stop beside her, Phineas alighted. Unsmiling, he looked at her when he spoke. Did she imagine it or did his voice hold none of the warmth she had come to know?

  ‘I was hoping to find you.’ He touched his hat, the air of politeness a little distant and withdrawn. ‘Would you come with me? There is something I have to discuss with you.’

  *

  There would be no more pretty bowls, no more delicate figurines, no more busts.

  Sabine Derry looked at the statuette her husband had purchased from Phineas Westley. It had taken his eye that evening of the dinner party. The Limes! Sabine stared at the lovely creamy figure. The house was filled with beautiful things: furniture, paintings, works of art each more desirable than the other… and she desired them all. With a home like that everyone in Wednesbury would look up to Edwin Derry; he and not Phineas Westley would be the most important member of the town, and as Edwin’s wife she would share the glory… and that glory she meant to have.

  Edwin had spared barely a glance for any other of the exhibits Westley had shown them, but then would Edwin ever look at anything when a naked woman was on display… even one made of clay! Naked, lying on a bed, preferably with her legs spread wide was her husband’s ideal picture of a woman, a taste reflected in his purchase of this flimsily draped piece. But Edwin could have all the prostitutes he wanted, all the women his libidinous appetite might crave, for while his attentions were held elsewhere her own liaisons would continue to go undetected. And they would continue. She would find another lover, another to replace Emma Ramsey, another woman to bring delight and relief to the longings which plagued her nights. But first she must rid herself of that one threat, remove the menace to her peace of mind. Clear away the dregs of the past. Phineas Westley had said there would be no further pieces, that Leabrook Pottery had ceased the production of pottery of any sort. With no earnings Daniel Roberts would not be able to feed another mouth, to keep another dependant beneath his roof, and the girl had not taken the offer of employment with Edwin. That could only imply Callista Sanford had no intention of remaining in the town and once she was gone then so also might be the chance of silencing her, of preventing her ever revealing what she might have learned from Oswin Slade… of taking the final revenge that must be taken for Julia.

  She could not afford to wait much longer. Leaving the sitting room, Sabine climbed the graceful staircase which curved to the wide landing of Hill House, following along its deeply carpeted length to her own bedroom.

  She must take the first opportunity, the first chance that arose, to kill Jason Sanford’s daughter.

  29

  Taut with anxiety Callista glanced at the man seated beside her, at the handsome aristocratic features of Phineas Westley. He had not said what it was he wished to discuss with her but then he didn’t really need to, she knew… knew he would ask for the return of that one hundred and twenty pounds… the money she no longer had. Every nerve tingling with apprehension she waited for the inevitable, her mind churning with the thought which had played in it during the drive to Leabrook Pottery. How could she ever repay so large a sum?

  ‘I thought this the best place to hold our discussion; I felt you might be more at ease here than at The Limes.’

  At ease! Callista’s tight throat seemed to close altogether, making it difficult to breathe. She would never be at ease again!

  ‘You saw the Robertses off to Liverpool?’

  ‘They have a long journey ahead of them.’

  Why this talk of the Robertses, why not say what he had to say and be done with it! Callista’s nerves sang with tension.


  ‘It is not at all certain—’

  ‘Mr Westley!’ Unable to bear the strain, Callista jumped to her feet. ‘You do not have to prevaricate. I am fully aware of why you waited outside the railway station, of what it is you wish to say to me. I can only tell you I no longer have any of the money you gave me; now that it is said I will go with you to the police station.’

  Phineas Westley’s eyes were sympathetic behind his spectacles. ‘Is that why you have been so nervous all the way here? The fear I am bent on recouping that money?’

  Standing at the small window, Callista looked out over the cobbled yard half covered by the shadow of the kiln, then to the small patch of garden with its herbs and flowers. Soon the silence it knew now would deepen; the garden would be swallowed by the heath and Leabrook Pottery would fall into desolation, forgotten in its loneliness. But she would not forget; she would never forget. Emotion it had taken so much effort to suppress threatening to overcome her failing resistance, she answered quietly.

  ‘Please, say what you must and then be kind enough to let us leave. I would rather not be here when the men come to empty the house.’

  ‘Did Daniel tell you who that would be?’

  ‘I did not wish to know. Whatever the Robertses decided was not my business.’

  ‘I see.’ Phineas’s expression was thoughtful. ‘And you… have you decided what you will do?’

  She had tried to think of that. For all of the few days it had taken Daniel Roberts to finalise his affairs, days Abigail had asked be spent with them, she had tried desperately to think of her own future but her mind had remained a wilderness, any thought attempting to flourish being quickly swallowed into an empty void. Keeping her glance to the garden she shook her head.

  ‘Mrs Edwin Derry told me her husband might consider me for a post of accounts clerk.’

  His reply quiet as her own, Phineas asked, ‘Is that what you want?’

  Misery of sleepless nights filled with the pain of yet another parting from people she loved showing stark in the violet of her eyes, Callista turned.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I want, Mr Westley. I must take whatever Fate has in store!’

  ‘Ah yes!’ He smiled briefly. ‘Those fickle daughters of Zeus. I fear we are both victims of their whims.’ Yes, he too, had known the heartbreak of losing loved ones, his wife, his sister… parents; like her had felt the cruelty of what was called fate. Looking now at that kind face Callista felt the stones she had tried to erect about her heart, the barrier she had built to contain her emotions, crumble and fall. Tears she had prayed she could hold back glistened like sheens of silver as the thoughts flowed in her mind. This man had known the same hurt she herself knew and maybe the same loneliness. Had it been that loneliness had prompted him into offering her a temporary home and employment? Was it an emptiness of life he had hoped to fill for a few short weeks by having her catalogue his antiques… and could it be some miracle that had brought him to the station?

  But his life was no longer empty; he had his nephew, he had the company of Michael Farron! That last thought shattered the flimsy skein of comfort beginning to form inside her. Hoping he had anything in mind other than recovering his losses was simply wishful thinking, a fantasy like so many other of her hopes had been, shadowed illusions that faded in the strong light of reality. Clutching the last threads of self-control, breathing deeply against emotions that filled her throat, Callista made what she feared would be a final effort. She could not bear to stay in the house where she had known peace and happiness, which now held only memories.

  ‘Mr Westley,’ she began, ‘I spoke the truth when I said I had nothing left of the money you paid me…’

  ‘I know that, Callista!’

  Quiet, well modulated as always, Phineas’s reply struck her mind with the sound of thunder. He knew! But how?

  ‘Yes, Callista, I knew.’ Phineas smiled. ‘And if you would be good enough to sit down I will explain just how it is I knew.’

  Waiting until she was settled, he drew a paper from his pocket. Opening it, he handed it to her. ‘Daniel came to see me the day after you sold your creations. He told me what you had done, of the tickets you purchased for himself and Abigail to travel to Liverpool, of your insistence he accept the rest in order to obtain steamship passage to America and have an amount to live on while they searched for their children. He wanted to show his appreciation and that is why he came to The Limes, to ask my assistance in drawing up that paper; it deeds Leabrook Pottery, this house and all they contain, together with the land around them, to yourself.’

  ‘To me!’ Callista’s gasp sounded loud in the hush of afternoon. ‘But… but he can’t, I won’t…’

  Phineas’s smile deepened and behind the gold rimmed spectacles his grey eyes gleamed respect. ‘Daniel knew that would be your response and it was for that reason he did not tell you of the decision he and Abigail made together. The deed of gift which that document attests had, of course, to be legally drawn up. That was done by my lawyer the next day and was signed by Daniel in the presence of that same lawyer, and witnessed by Michael Farron and myself. Leabrook Pottery and this house is yours, my dear, and believe me, Daniel Roberts would have it no other way.’

  *

  This cottage was hers! The pottery was hers! Sitting on the bench that Daniel and a young Adam had constructed years ago from thick tree branches, Callista stared at the small patch of garden crowded with herbs and vegetables and the flowers which Abigail loved. It was all hers… but it was wrong, Daniel should never have signed such a document. The pottery had been his life.

  ‘… but the pottery is no longer viable, it is obsolete, my dear, no longer a going concern…’

  Phineas Westley had been so kind telling her Daniel was loath to hand her what in fact was an almost worthless property; a kiln she could not operate; but it did not alter what she knew deep inside, that parting with the kiln was like parting with his heart.

  Puffs of cloud drifting across a sky tinged pink with approaching sunset chased small shadows across the garden but Callista’s mind blocked all but her thoughts.

  She had begged Phineas Westley to have the document rescinded, declared null and void, to have everything returned to Daniel, but Phineas had shaken his head, though the refusal which had answered her was sympathetic.

  ‘I understand your feelings, Callista…’ He had taken her hand, holding it gently. ‘Now you must understand those of Daniel and myself. Daniel is a proud man; he could not accept what he knew was all you had without giving something in return, and worthless though it is, Leabrook Pottery was all he owned. He assigned it to you but it was done out of more than obligation, it was done from the love he and Abigail have for you; as for myself I honour a promise even more: I gave Daniel my word not to help in any way which might result in having his wishes overturned and that promise I shall keep.’

  He had left her then, his only other words being to repeat the offer of employment. Callista’s eyes followed the infant shadows of evening tumble playfully across the ground, but their movement did not register in her mind.

  There was food enough for a little while but soon she would have to earn money for more; she could not go to Phineas’s home… to a house where she might be in the presence of Michael Farron, a man who had shown quite clearly that, unlike his uncle, he had no sympathy for Callista Sanford. He had not spoken to her on that last visit; apart from glancing once in her direction he had totally ignored her. But it was not like they were friends, no true amity existed between them; so why should his disregard of her hurt as it did? Why the dejection which pressed on her heart like a stone? There was no reason – except she loved him!

  ‘Excuse me…’

  Immersed in her own world, Callista did not hear until the words were repeated more emphatically; then, her glance a little blank, she looked to where a tall wide shouldered figure stood at the edge of the garden.

  ‘I’m sorry to have startled you… I did speak twice but
you did not hear.’

  ‘I… I was lost in thought.’ Callista rose from the bench.

  ‘I was rather hoping to see inside that kiln.’ The man smiled, showing strong teeth. ‘Do you think the owner would agree?’

  The owner! That was her. She was the owner of the kiln. Bemusement which the hour since Phineas Westley’s departure had not lessened still clinging to her senses, Callista stumbled over her reply.

  ‘The kiln… it’s not… it isn’t working… the pottery is closed.’

  ‘Closed?’ The man’s smile disappeared abruptly. ‘Why… I mean where… When did it close?’

  Her mind clearing, Callista recognised a note of disappointment in the man’s voice while the look flickering across his eyes caught an echo inside herself, a reflection of the pain the closure of the pottery had caused to her, and suddenly the man did not seem like a stranger.

  ‘It shut down finally a week ago,’ she explained. ‘Mr Roberts had suffered an accident which made stacking the kiln impossible. His wife and I tried to keep the work going but being able to lift the saggars only barely above head height we had to fire the kiln less than half full and that meant a loss which could not be sustained therefore Daniel – Mr Roberts – was forced to close.’

  ‘An accident!’ He glanced beyond her to the house and again Callista caught the flicker cross his eyes. ‘How serious?’

  There was no need to explain, to tell this stranger any more than she already had done, but watching that strong face Callista felt instinctively she should.

  ‘Some of the saggars fell when he was stacking the kiln; he was knocked to the ground but the injuries he sustained were not as serious as they might have been. However, the doctor advised against his continuing with the potting.’