She had taken the paper, holding it in her hand while she asked, ‘Then Leabrook Pottery is mine alone and I have the same rights, the prerogative to do with it as I will?’
The blue eyes had held hers, the face so like Daniel’s had smiled as he had answered, ‘Yes, Callista, you have that same right.’
She had not hesitated then but had torn the paper into shreds. ‘Then I choose to return it to your father.’
He had taken her hands, cupped them with his own strong ones, preventing the shreds of paper falling to the floor. ‘Work with us, Callista,’ he had asked quietly, ‘let your pieces carry the Wedgbury mark alongside your name.’
She had made no promise as to that; it could be Daniel would prefer to follow tradition in producing only tableware, but she had given her word to stay until his parents’ return. She would care for the cottage and the tiny garden but the workshop… she shuddered at the memory of what had happened in there… no, not the workshop.
‘Callista
The soft calling of her name, the tenderness in the voice which had spoken it, that was not part of memory, it was part of a dream, a dream in which Michael Farron smiled at her with love… a dream she should not long for yet nightly yearned for it to come.
‘Callista…’
No, not now, the dream must not come now, she could not deal with the misery its fading left in her heart. The fragments of paper falling in a cloud of white about her feet she covered her face with her hands.
‘Callista… Callista, my love.’
The voice was a breath in her mind, the whisper against her hair a fantasy, the arms holding her a figment of imagination, but unreal as they were she did not want them to end. Caught between the torment of knowing it was a waking dream and the desire to let it play on she could not repress the sob rising in her stomach, the shudder of it travelling every inch of her body.
The arms dropped away and the voice which a second before had been soft against her hair was husky with apology. ‘I should not have done that, I should not have touched you… said what I have. I vowed I would not let that happen but a man’s vows count for little when he knows he is losing all his soul’s desires, the one thing in life he craves. Once more I have to apologise for my treatment of you.’
Lifting her head, Callista’s reply was soft as that first whispered ‘my love’. Eyes silvered violets behind a gauze of tears she shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise. What you said was no more than a slip of the tongue, sympathy…’
‘Sympathy!’ Michael Farron’s laugh was harsh with emotion. ‘Lord, if only that were all I felt, if my words were no more than a slip of the tongue… but they are not, God help me they are not. I love you, Callista Sanford; it seems I’ve loved you forever.’
‘No!’ Callista stared. ‘You can’t! Do you know what I am! My father was a suicide, my mother a pauper. You cannot love a pauper’s child!’
For a moment the intense blue eyes were again chips of stone. ‘Don’t,’ he breathed, ‘don’t you see it does not matter. It is what you are, not what your parents were, and though they may have been poor they must have been wealthy in love to have produced a daughter with…’ He turned away. ‘I’ve been a fool, I can see in your eyes you could never share the love, you could never have those feelings for me—’
‘Then you have not looked properly,’ Callista interrupted gently. ‘Look again, see in them what I truly feel, see the love I have for you…’
She could not finish all she had wanted to say, to tell him the depths of that love, for she was in his arms, his mouth claiming her, their hearts telling each other of paradise found.
Looking down at the lovely face which had filled his dreams for so long Michael Farron’s eyes gleamed the love he need no longer hide.
‘You have torn the deed Daniel Roberts had drawn up… shhh.’ He touched her lips with his, cutting off her reply. ‘And also you agreed to my uncle’s offer of a partnership producing pottery. Now I ask you will you form one with his nephew, a lifelong partnership. I’m asking, my dearest, will you be my wife?’
A kiss her answer, Callista gave herself to the happiness flooding her soul. The Fates, those daughters of night, had smiled. They had not placed her among the stars but they had lifted her into heaven.
They had given her the man she loved.
About Meg Hutchinson
Meg Hutchinson lived for sixty years in Wednesbury, where her parents and grandparents spent all their lives. Her passion for storytelling reaped dividends, with her novels regularly appearing in bestseller lists. She was the undisputed queen of the saga. Passionate about history, her meticulous research provided an authentic context to the action-packed narratives set in the Black Country. She died in February 2010.
Become an Aria Addict
Aria is the digital-first fiction imprint from Head of Zeus.
We are Aria, a dynamic digital-first fiction imprint from award-winning independent publishers Head of Zeus. At heart, we’re avid readers committed to publishing exactly the kind of books we love to read — from romance and sagas to crime, thrillers and historical adventures. Visit us online and discover a community of like-minded fiction fans!
We’re also on the look out for tomorrow’s superstar authors. So, if you’re a budding writer looking for a publisher, we’d love to hear from you. You can submit your book online at ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
Get in touch: [email protected]
Become an Aria Addict
www.ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
@Aria_Fiction
@ariafiction
@ariafiction
Addictive Fiction
Pauper's Child Page 32
