*
‘It’s all right… it’s over, it’s all over.’
Who was intruding into her world of silent darkness, disturbing her peace? Why was someone infringing on her comfort, trespassing on her privacy? She did not want them here in her quiet seclusion, in her own intimate place, she did not want…
‘Callista… Callista…’
Drawn by hands she could not feel, dragged towards a world she did not want to see, Callista moaned softly.
‘Thank God!’
Somewhere above her in the surrounding blackness the voice which had been urgent, compelling and afraid became a sigh of relief. But she did not want to answer, did not want to leave the placid tranquil space in which she was floating, this world of soundless dark.
‘Callista, oh my love, thank God… thank God.’
Who was thanking God, and why was someone calling her name? Slowly, unwillingly, Callista watched the blackness turn to grey, felt the ease of her body become pain.
‘Callista my darling… I might have been too late.’
It could not be her that voice was murmuring to; she was nobody’s darling, she was a pauper’s child. A slight whispered laugh rested on her lips. A pauper in money… a pauper in love!
‘Stay still, don’t move just yet.’
Listening to the quiet words Callista did not want to move. Her body ached and her head throbbed and she never wanted to move again. Eyes still closed, she rested her cheek against a warm firmness and the encircling hands which held her were strong and gentle. No, she never wanted to move again.
‘God damn the woman, why in heaven’s name did she want to hurt you?’
It was whispered, muffled against her hair, but Callista heard. Woman? Woman! Instantly torpor cleared, leaving her mind clear. Sabine Derry… Sabine Derry had wanted to kill her, she had bound her wrists, put a cord about her neck, fondled her breasts and now… Eyes flying open she struggled free, almost sobbing when she saw her blouse had been fastened and her skirts lowered.
‘It’s all right, you are safe now, she won’t hurt you again, but let’s get you out of here and into the house.’
‘Mrs Derry?’
‘Mrs Derry will not be bothering anyone – ever!’
‘She… she…’
‘I know,’ Michael Farron answered, his heart twisting at the sight of the face he loved crumpling with tears. ‘I know, but it’s over now.’
*
‘I had no idea Edwin Derry’s wife was the same Miss Montroy who taught at St James’s School.’
Ada Povey looked at the girl sitting beside her hearth. The wench ’ad been through the mill, that was clear to see. ‘Nobody ’ad any idea who ’er was,’ she answered, ‘the woman ’ad everybody fooled what with ’er red wig an’ fancy clothes. A whited sepulchre were what Sabine Derry were, clean outside but black with filth inside; the world won’t suffer for ’er ’aving left it!’
No, the world would not suffer. The real tragedy was a life given to hatred and revenge.
‘It be fittin’ what ’appened to ’er,’ Ada went on. ‘I reckons we all need be grateful to that Mr Farron. Told me all about it ’e did when ’e brought you to me, said as ’ow that woman ’ad tied your ‘ands and put a rope about your neck… said ’er would ’ave throttled you if ’e ’adn’t arrived when ’e did. Well, thank God be all I can say… thank God ’e come to that there pottery.’
Tied her hands and placed a rope about her neck. Was that all Michael Farron had told Ada; had he said nothing of Sabine Derry’s unfastening her clothing… of touching her? He must have seen when he entered the workshop. Who else could have buttoned her chemise and blouse?
Bustling with kettle and teapot, Ada continued nonstop. ‘Eh wench, when ’e brought you through that door my ’eart fair turned over, I thought you was done for and no coddin’, but, thank the Lord, I were mistaken. Said ’e ’ad wanted to take you to his uncle’s ’ouse but you was set against that, said the only place you would ’ear of were Ada Povey’s ’ouse over to Trowes Court and seein’ the only alternative to that were for ’imself to stay along o’ you in that cottage then ’e give in and brought you ’ere. More seemly that… ’e be a gentleman.’ She nodded, pouring tea into two thick china mugs. ‘Ar, Michael Farron be a gentleman, said to let ’im know should anythin’ be needed for your comfort and no accountin’ o’ the cost.’
The cost! The Poveys were as poor as herself. Callista watched the lined face, the hands veined and worn from constant labour. Ada had always been kindness itself but kindness did not feed a family and it could not be stretched to feeding her. She must pay for the food which had been given her… but how? She hadn’t any money, she had been forced to barter crockery for bread and milk. The money for those baskets of mugs and plates… but there had been no money.
‘Left a couple o’ sovereigns ’e did.’ Ada swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘I told ’im it were not necessary, that you was welcome to what my ’ouse ’eld an’ no payment needed, but ’e wouldn’t listen; put the coins on the table ’e did and said were I to permit then ’e would call again to see ’ow you fared… ar, like I says, that one be a gentleman.’
Two sovereigns! Callista’s thoughts whirled. Where could she find such a sum, how could she ever earn that amount? Yet somehow she must; she had to repay Michael Farron.
‘I could not have gone to anyone but you, you were always so good to Mother and myself.’ Callista’s eyes misted. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Bain’t no call for thanks, your mother were like a sister to me an’ you… you was like one o’ my own children.’
‘Oh, Mrs Povey, it was so awful.’ Unable to stem the tears she had held so long Callista sobbed against the woman’s shoulder.
Like to be a lot more awful than either this wench or Michael Farron had told and it was like to take longer than the three days the girl had spent beneath her roof for the pain of it to fade completely. Holding the shuddering girl Ada Povey’s mouth tightened. No the world would not suffer for Sabine Derry’s leavin’ of it!
*
Ada had argued against her leaving. It was too soon, she had declared emphatically, wait a few more days… she shouldn’t be alone.
But hard as she had found it she had known she had to leave Trowes Court. Michael Farron had asked could he call at Ada’s house again but she must not be there when he did. She could not face him, not after what he had seen in that workshop, seen what Sabine Derry was doing to her.
Her hands had been tied, a twisted cloth choking her throat, she had not been responsible, not able to push the woman away… she could not be blamed! But that would have no meaning to Michael Farron. He would believe only what he saw: Callista Sanford lying half naked, another woman’s mouth on her breast, and that would forever disgust him.
One half of her mind competing with the other half, Callista walked along Holyhead Road, her glance going to a tall building, pale stone mullioned windows contrasting against smoke darkened brickwork. St James’s School! Would the unhappiness of those three years ever leave her, ever be forgotten?
Passing quickly she walked towards Union Street, passing the Dartmouth Arms, the inn locals referred to as the ‘Bottom Wrexham’, passing its counterpart, the George Inn, known familiarly as the ‘Top Wrexham’, as she turned to cross the market place.
Callista, my love… my darling… Memories chased through her mind. The words drifted through the darkness but the fog encompassing her mind must have caused her to hear wrong; she had been barely conscious. It had been easy for her brain to play tricks, to tell her not what was said but what she longed to hear said. But Michael Farron would never call her his love… his darling, he would never whisper such words to her, to a pauper’s child. Yet it had been his arms that had held her, his eyes that had held such concern as he had looked at her. Or had that been another product of her half-conscious mind? Whichever they were she must forget those words, she must not let herself believe she had heard them.
It was agony enough knowing Michael Farron was so near yet would always be worlds above her, agony feeling the love she had for him while knowing it could never be returned.
She must thank him, of course, for his helping her, give him her word she would repay the money he had paid to Ada Povey, but she would do so in writing. There would be no need for them to meet again.
33
‘Callista, my dear.’ Phineas Westley smiled his genuine welcome. ‘I am so very happy to see you, but are you fully recovered, should you not be resting?’
Her own smile warm as unhappiness inside her would allow Callista accepted the seat he ushered her to. ‘I am quite well, thank you, your nephew has been most kind.’
‘Ah, Michael.’ Phineas nodded as he too, sat down. ‘Though I admit to being a bit biased I have to say he is a good chap. He told me about that wretch Sabine Derry trying her best to hang you; Michael says the woman was completely out of her mind, that had he not rushed at her knocking her away she might well have succeeded. It is a terrible shock for her husband but the man could be forgiven for feeling grateful she bumped against a shelf bringing a load of heavy moulds down on her head. Had she lived the shame of what she did would have been harder still for him to live with; and the woman herself…’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s better this way. But you, my dear, what of you? You cannot go on living at Leabrook Pottery and no one there with you. I blame myself, I ought never to have let you remain there.’
‘It was my choice, as is leaving.’
‘Leaving?’
The quietly spoken word lanced through Callista, flaying her nerves, adding to the still painful tightness of her bruised throat.
‘Michael.’ Phineas’s smile broke again. ‘Come in, my boy, I hadn’t thought to see you today.’
‘I have been to Trowes Court; I wished to assure myself of Miss Sanford’s recovery.’
Miss Sanford! Callista felt the sting of formality. How could she have imagined that in the workshop he had called her by her given name?
‘She tells me she is quite well.’ Phineas’s reply followed her own quiet answer.
‘Well enough to be leaving Leabrook Pottery? And what of the contract you made with each other?’
It was an accusation, Michael Farron’s face thunderous as he made it.
‘Nothing was set down on paper, Michael. Callista is breaking no contract. Should she wish to leave then she is perfectly at liberty to do so.’
‘No written contract? But a promise is a promise; you were to set that place going again… work together, she was to make those figures while you saw to the production of everyday ware!’
His nephew was not annoyed at the breaking of a contract nor was it Callista Sanford’s broken promise which had caused the anger on his nephew’s face, it was the fear of his losing the girl herself. And she? Phineas looked across to Callista, seeing the droop of her head, the hands twisting in her lap. Her feelings matched those of Michael. The two were in love. Understanding the emotions running through the couple, Phineas’s remonstrance was gentle.
‘If Callista wishes to leave then that is her business, Michael; we must not try to influence her in any way.’
But he loved her, how could he not try to influence her? If she left that cottage he might never see her again! He wanted to shout those thoughts, to tell this woman what he felt for her even though she held no love for him. But that he could not do, he would not embarrass her that way. Forcing both thought and anger away he spoke quietly.
‘My uncle, of course, is right and I apologise, Miss Sanford. If it is your wish to leave Lea Brook then you must do so.’
‘I don’t wish to leave…’ She lifted her violet eyes, soft with the threat of tears, to Michael and he felt his heart contract. She must not cry! Lord, if those tears spilled he wouldn’t have strength to hold his feelings in check!
‘Truly, I don’t wish to leave,’ Callista continued, ‘but I cannot stay. Leabrook Pottery is no longer mine.’
‘Not yours!’ Michael was incredulous. ‘Do you mean you have sold it?’
Her voice trembled but Callista’s reply was steady. ‘No, Mr Farron, I have given it away.’
‘Given it away!’ Flinging up his hands, Michael looked to where his uncle sat. ‘Phineas… can she do that?’
The older man smiled. ‘She can do what she likes with her own property seeing she is without any legal guardian. But if you must ask questions would it not be polite to let the answer be heard fully?’
‘There is nothing to add.’ Callista made to rise but Phineas raised a hand.
‘Forgive me, my dear, but that is not so. I believe you had a visitor before that unhappy incident with Sabine Derry. You were weeding your garden, were you not?’
How could he know? Callista lifted puzzled eyes.
‘The man who visited you, visited me.’ Phineas answered her unspoken question. ‘It was that man to whom you have given the property Daniel deeded to you, am I not correct?’
What could be gained by evasion? Callista repressed a sigh. She had not wanted it known why she had done what she had but Phineas would discover a way to find out. Perhaps after all she owed him an explanation.
‘If you were threatened…’ Michael’s hands curled convulsively.
‘No.’ Callista shook her head. ‘I was not threatened. I was happy to give the pottery away, to return it to its more rightful owner; I gave it to Adam – Daniel Roberts’s son.’
‘As you freely gave those baskets of crockery.’ Phineas smiled.
‘They belonged to Daniel, therefore they belonged to Adam; I could accept no payment where I had earned none.’
‘But how could you know the man you speak of was Daniel Roberts’s son?’ Michael could not contain the question.
Callista looked at the man she loved. If only their stations in life were not so far apart. But thoughts like that could only increase the unhappiness inside her, add to the heartbreak.
‘I felt it the day of his first visit, the day he asked to purchase the baskets of crockery. There was such a love in his voice when he asked of Daniel and Abigail, a love that showed when he touched Daniel’s tools, when he paused at his stool; it was something more than a love of potting. But it became truly obvious when he caught sight of a small statuette that had failed in the firing. He picked it up and smiled as he ran a finger over it, then said, “He still believes in Parian ware, I see.”’
‘Parian ware?’ Michael glanced at his uncle.
‘I believe it was a term I used when seeing one of the first pieces Daniel tried with his special formula,’ Phineas answered. ‘I said the creamy ivory of the glaze reminded me of the marble I saw being worked on Paros, a Greek island I visited with my wife. Daniel seemed to like the term, using it several times while I was there, but I should not interrupt. Please continue, my dear.’
Hands still twisting nervously together, Callista went on. ‘I told him of the pieces which had been made and he asked would I be making more. I explained that was not possible for I did not know the complete range or amount of constituents which needed to be added to the body of the clay but that Mr Westley hoped to find someone who did. He did not hesitate or have to think, he simply reeled off oxides and their proportion to clay, temperatures to which the kiln should be fired and how long it must be allowed to cool. It seemed he had lived and breathed that particular process. But it was not until his second visit that he revealed his identity. I felt then it was fate had sent him to the pottery but he said he and his sister’s family were leaving for America; he found it impossible to live any longer in this country while being unable to return to Lea Brook but then it was equally impossible to leave without seeing the home of his childhood once more and to find out for himself the health of his parents. That was almost identical to the contents of the letter you, Mr Farron, delivered to the cottage, a letter written by Mary Roberts, Daniel and Abigail’s daughter.’ Sending her glance to Michael she finished, ‘What more proof could I
ask?’
‘None,’ Michael answered and now he smiled. ‘I apologise if I offended you with my scepticism, my uncle will vouchsafe it has ever been a failing of mine.’
Rising to her feet, Callista could not force the smile she knew she should return, saying instead, ‘Let us not say it is a failing, let us say it is the Fates you laughed at taking their revenge.’
The Fates taking their revenge! His heart crying out inside him, Michael Farron watched her walk from the room, watched her leave his life.
*
Adam had called with the news; he had contacted his sister, told her of their parents travelling to Liverpool. She would know of the canal boats, the basins they pulled into, and would leave word at each. Abigail and Daniel would see their children again and if heaven were kind they would be reunited. Now Adam had gone, but if fortune smiled he would return, bring Abigail and Daniel back to the home they loved.
Callista stood in the living room which had not so long ago been filled with the sounds of Abigail’s cleaning, the aromas of baking bread and simmering meat, and she felt the happiness of the couple’s hoped-for return mix with the sadness of her own departure. If things went as she prayed, then Abigail and all her family would return to Lea Brook and there would be no room for Callista Sanford. But the fact he had written to his sister was not all of what Adam Roberts had called to say.
He had visited The Limes as Phineas Westley had said, but Phineas had not told why. It had been to leave with him the written list of materials for, and the method of, making the form of pottery he had called Parian ware, saying should his father refuse to return to Lea Brook then the work he had begun could live on beneath some other hand.
But surely Daniel could not refuse, not once he saw the love in his son’s eyes, heard the pride he had for the work they had done together. He had smiled his gentle smile as he had looked at her. ‘You must continue with yours,’ he had said, ‘you have a skill in your hands, share it with the world.’ Then he had taken from his pocket the paper she had insisted he keep that second time he had come here. Daniel Roberts’s decision would not be challenged by his son; what his father did with his property was his right; his parents’ happiness was all he and his sister desired.
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