The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  Now she signalled for the tray to be placed beside her at the window, instead of by the fireside where she usually partook of these lesser refreshments. She was determined not to miss Miguel’s return. He would surely be accompanied by Deborah because she had left her small gig in the courtyard and driven away in his curricle, into which Agatha had watched him load a box of some kind — quite a large one, too — but from this upstairs window she had been unable to see it at close quarters so had no idea of what it contained. It was all very tantalizing.

  As she so often did following a meal (though one could scarcely apply that name to light refreshments such as these) she fell into a doze, from which she aroused only when her maid, Rose, came to remove the tray. Had she missed the return of those two young people? Had she been caught napping? Seeing no sign of Miguel’s curricle in the courtyard, she felt reassured although, of course, he might have driven straight round to the coach-house. However, Deborah Kendall’s gig was still there so it seemed that, after all, she had missed nothing.

  Agatha yawned, stretched her buxom arms, rubbed her fleshy neck, and said, ‘Tell Pierre that the flummery was very good today, Rose.’

  The woman nodded. Rose had grown somewhat surly with the years, but even when young she had not been very attractive. She had plainly been in love with Pierre, though never succeeding in catching him as a husband. For that reason alone Agatha had never believed that he had been regularly bedding her, as Lionel had once declared. Her son had been joking, and very naughtily, an endearing habit of his.

  If there was any woman to whom Pierre was devoted, it was his mistress. He was her trusted servant and even, occasionally, her confidant, so when she became fretful over her son’s absence and needed a sympathetic ear, it was Pierre who offered it. He would do more than that. He would bring up a bottle of vintage Burgundy, not sending it by an underling but serving it personally, so naturally he deserved to partake of it with her, replenishing her glass every time she paused to wipe away a tear but only refilling his own when she indicated that he might. He would stand there deferentially, waiting to be dismissed, so if she occasionally rewarded him by gesturing to a chair which he accepted with just the right amount of humble gratitude — he fully deserved such consideration.

  He also deserved her other occasional rewards, such as financial help when his distant French family were in need. ‘Which is more frequent than ever in these troublous times, Milady, and all the blessings of the saints be on your head for your kind and generous heart…’ The reverential way in which he called her ‘Milady’, although the title was not due to her, was always sweet to the ear.

  What the troublous times were in France, she had no idea, but she believed every word he said. He had served her since her marriage and in so long a time an employer grew to know an employee very well indeed, so her maid’s disgruntled hints about Pierre’s dishonesty merely indicated the woman’s basic jealousy. No doubt she was still smarting beneath the man’s rejection; many ageing women nursed lifelong grievances, and Rose was certainly ageing — as indeed everyone seemed to be. The few friends she now had were all sadly aged, but she was glad of their infrequent visits because there was little enough company in this sprawling mansion.

  Perhaps one dwelt too much in the past when one was lonely, but until dear Lionel returned she would continue to be lonely. Despite her sister’s regular visits, and those of her unconventional niece Olivia, nothing and no one could fill the gap Lionel had left in her life. Olivia’s visits could be embarrassing if respectable folk were present, because introducing her as Mistress Fletcher, when she was nothing of the kind despite all this talk about common-law wives, really did go against the grain.

  Agatha knew she was always welcome at Medlar Croft when she felt inclined to call — which she sometimes did following one of her visits of inspection to Carrion House — and she was often included in Sabbath suppers there, but here in Tremain Hall her brother Maxwell paid her little attention beyond cursory visits when he felt more physically active than usual, and these only occurred when she sent urgent messages demanding attention to this or that — draughty windows, smoking chimneys, ill-fitting doors which rattled in the wind and kept her awake at nights — but beyond that she rarely saw him. Plainly, he preferred one of his stewards to deal with her complaints. Even when she invited him to share one of Pierre’s excellent meals, he would send excuses. Then some other time, she would write in pleading. Remember we are brother and sister…

  Sounds from below cut into her rambling thoughts; sounds of wheels on gravel, driven at a spanking pace. They were back — Miguel and Deborah. She had not missed their return after all.

  She was wrong. It was her niece, Olivia, come to visit her father, no doubt. She was conscientious in that respect. She even seemed fond of him, which was surprising since she had not met him until she was half-way through her twenty-first year. In her way, Olivia wasn’t a bad person, despite her regrettable lack of morals.

  Agatha was not surprised to see that she was still clad in those dreadful pottery garments. She often arrived like that to call on her father, travelling straight from work before continuing to her own home, but today she seemed in more than her usual hurry. Olivia did everything zestfully, as if life was so full that each moment had to be chased, but as her sporting little gig whirled to a standstill and Agatha leaned from her window to obtain a better view, it was plain that something more than zest prompted her niece’s haste this time. There was anger in the way she hitched the reins, anger in the way she jumped down, anger in the clutching of her skirts as she raced up the imposing front steps.

  Agatha was curious. If Olivia had come to have words with her father, it would be interesting to know why, and what provoked her. It would be unusual, too, for slowly throughout the years Olivia and Max had grown to know and like each other. Friction between them was rare. Olivia accepted her father without criticism and without resentment; she had never shared her mother’s bitterness toward him.

  Agatha decided to go downstairs and greet Olivia. She was curious to know just why her niece seemed so agitated. Feeling self-righteous, she approached the splendid staircase leading down into the Great Hall. She had scarcely begun the descent when her niece, her hurrying footsteps echoing on the stone-flagged floor, looked up at the sound of her aunt’s heavy tread and burst out, ‘Aunt Agatha, you are the very person I’ve come to see! Why didn’t you tell us Lionel had returned? At least poor Amelia would have been prepared!’

  The vaulted roof, the echoing walls, the lines of family portraits, the footman closing the double front doors, the sweeping stairs, the treacherous steps yawning at Agatha’s feet — all seemed to sway so that she reached out blindly for the banister rail, and then Olivia was racing up to her and flinging a supportive arm about her and exclaiming, ‘Dear heaven, I thought you knew! Forgive me — forgive me —’

  In the stunned recesses of her mind Agatha recognized compassion in the young face; no more anger, no more urgency, nothing but concern which was then cut through by a male voice demanding to know what was amiss.

  ‘Is Aggie ill, or something? We’d best get a doctor. Jarvis, ride into Burslem and fetch Smithers and tell him it’s urgent! Now then, sister, lean on me…there, there, gently does it. You’ve eaten too much as usual, shouldn’t wonder…’

  How ridiculous! And how could she possibly lean on a man who was himself leaning on sticks? Her brother’s heartiness made her want to push him away. She wanted to push them all away her brother, his daughter, the gawping footman. She wanted no one near her at this appalling moment. How could anyone be jovial at a time like this? How could anyone try to make light of a situation which struck right to the heart?

  Remotely, she heard Olivia saying, ‘I am to blame. I shocked her. I’ll fetch hartshorn and stay with her until the doctor comes.’

  With a supreme effort, Agatha rallied. Thrusting her niece away with a pudgy, beringed hand she gasped, ‘Leave me alone! I want no one…’r />
  No one but her son. No one but Lionel, who had sent no word of his coming, and certainly no one who suspected how deeply that hurt. Turning away from the compassion in Olivia’s eyes she stumbled back upstairs, and when her brother called after her, ‘Nonsense, Aggie! Olivia’ll take care of you…’, she stumbled even more in her haste to get away.

  Now her isolated wing seemed a most desirable refuge; she couldn’t get there quickly enough and was grateful to her niece for not following. In the back of her mind whispered the thought that Olivia was kinder than her mother had ever been. Had Phoebe witnessed her shock and guessed the cause, she would have prattled and probed, taunted her with questions, hurt her with innuendo, and mocked her for having so inconsiderate a son.

  But Lionel was not inconsiderate. Just a little thoughtless, perhaps, in the way of the young. Perhaps he had even wanted to give her a pleasant surprise, or to spare her the long journey by highways and byways to Liverpool. How stupid not to have thought of that! And how could he have been expected to know that she would have preferred not to hear of his arrival from someone else — or, indeed, that she was likely to?

  She had reacted foolishly and now regretted it, particularly since Olivia had witnessed her shock and put an obvious interpretation on it. That was regrettable, but could be rectified. Lionel was definitely not to blame and it had been wrong of her to do him such an injustice even in thought.

  But then came another. How had Olivia been the first to learn of his coming? And why had it angered her? And what was all that about poor Amelia being prepared? Prepared for what? And why ‘poor’ Amelia? It should be poor me, Agatha thought self-pityingly as she at last reached the privacy of the West Wing and immediately summoned Rose, whom she then sent hurrying to the coachman’s quarters.

  ‘And on your way, send Pierre to me. Tell him I am unwell and need reviving…’

  A glass of that vintage Burgundy was essential to calm her. On no account must she betray agitation when she arrived at Carrion House. It would distress her son to see his mother so upset.

  *

  Half an hour later, fortified by hastily gulped wine and her cook’s unspoken sympathy (had the kindly man guessed that something momentous, and somehow dreadful, had happened?) she was arriving at the door of Carrion House and her coachman, after tugging the ancient bell rope and then returning to the carriage, was unfolding the steps and helping her down. When he tried to lead her to the entrance she shook his arm away, determined that no one should see how difficult she found the steps. By the time she reached the top, the door had opened and a footman was loftily asking for her name and the nature of her business.

  That enraged her.

  ‘My good man, you must know full well who I am since it was I who engaged you!’

  With that, she swept past him, mentally resolving that he should be sent packing without delay, but forgetting both indignation and disappointment when her son appeared. At the sight of him, she stumbled to a halt, holding out both arms and crying his name, but to her consternation he remained where he was, staring. But only briefly. In seconds he had recovered and was hurrying toward her.

  Kissing her on both cheeks, he exclaimed, ‘My dear Mama, you are quite unchanged! How well the years have treated you!’

  Sobbing, she cried, ‘And what of you! You look wonderful, more handsome than ever!’

  That, he certainly was. With his tall figure, and features resembling Joseph’s more strongly than ever, and the costly brocades and lace of his elegant garments, he made a more impressive figure than had been seen in this country district for a long time.

  Inwardly preening with gratification, she relished the triumph ahead. When presenting this splendid man to local society she would no longer be regarded as ‘poor Agatha Drayton’, living out her lonely life in a forgotten wing of Tremain Hall (oh, she knew how malicious tongues wagged!). Instead, she would be envied by many a mother of unprepossessing sons and sought after by many a mother of unmarried daughters, but she would naturally hide her satisfaction. Once re-established as hostess at Carrion House, she would smile on such people with condescending grace and bask in the sunshine of their envy.

  With a sudden swoop, she gathered her son in a voluptuous embrace, enveloping him in draperies and tears, pouring out endearments and reproaches, totally unaware of his struggles to be free.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know when you were coming, dear boy? Why didn’t you let your mother know? It was all such a shock, hearing it the way I did… Oh, my son, how could you be so cruel? After all this waiting…these endless months and years…to arrive without warning, without giving your poor mother a chance to meet you at the dock…oh, cruel, cruel!’

  Plump, beringed hands pawed his face, tangled his hair, clutched his shoulders, clung possessively. Writhing and protesting, he struggled for freedom, concerned for the state of his clothes and his carefully pomaded hair.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mama, stop! Until a perruquier has serviced my wigs — all sadly messed in the packing — I must survive without. It takes hours to dress my hair and almost as long to tie this neckcloth, and until I get a really competent valet I will have to struggle with both myself. The fellow you engaged doesn’t impress me, for he is still unpacking my clothes, although I have been here these two hours. And do be careful of this brocade — those rings of yours could do untold damage and it cost no mean a price, let me tell you. And why such a fuss? I detest women who fuss.’

  Detaching himself at last, he stroked the long flares of his coat, smoothed his hair, and straightened the immaculate bow in the nape of his neck, scowling as he did so. She was penitent at once, begging forgiveness. ‘It is only because I am your mother and love you, my son…you have been away so long and written so rarely…’

  When tears overflowed he turned away impatiently, protesting that she should realize how little time for letter-writing was available to a man of affairs. At that she sniffed disconsolately, adding that she had no notion of his affairs.

  ‘I thought you were simply travelling in the New World, dear boy. I had no idea you were engaged in anything more serious. Forgive your loving Mama. So silly of me…so silly…’

  ‘More than silly. Stupid. And I detest stupid women as greatly as I detest fussers.’

  The reprimand silenced her briefly, but did nothing to halt her tears. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad,’ she said reproachfully, ‘if I had not heard of your arrival through Olivia, who must have sensed my surprise. You could have spared me that by coming straight to Tremain.’

  ‘But Carrion House is now my home. You must have known I would come here. Besides, you have been pestering me to return and take up residence here. And what is all this about Olivia? Don’t tell me she is spreading the news all over Burslem.’

  ‘Olivia doesn’t gossip, I will say that for her, but if the news is all over Burslem by now, are you surprised? No doubt others, as well as she, saw you drive past the pottery.’

  ‘Not past it. Into it. I made it my first port of call.’

  ‘Even before seeing me? Oh, Lionel, that was cruel.’

  ‘No — natural. Claiming the Drayton Pottery is not to be delayed, and the sooner those two women and everyone else accept the situation, the better. I made sure they did.’

  ‘You mean you have seen them, told them? So that was what Olivia meant by “poor Amelia”. Dear boy, was it wise, was it tactful, wouldn’t it have been better to wait and let the lawyers handle everything?’

  ‘Why? It should come as no surprise to anyone, so why the need for “tact”? As you yourself pointed out, in letter after letter, I am now the Drayton heir and the fact that my uncle left a son makes no difference.’

  ‘As yet,’ Agatha said uncertainly, ‘but everyone knows that Martin planned to make a will, changing the old order. I had no knowledge of this when I sent you news of his death. I wanted to waste no time because it was absolutely vital to bring your home as quickly as possible. Or so I thought.’


  ‘And you thought rightly, my dear mother. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself — if that doubt in your voice does indicate self-reproach?’

  ‘Well… I confess I do feel rather badly about my sister’s position, but of course when I wrote to you I had no idea that Martin planned to leave the pottery in the joint care of Amelia and Olivia until George grows up.’

  ‘What nonsense! How could he break the old order? The Drayton tradition —’

  ‘— was never really more than a tradition.’

  ‘But it was observed, and strictly. By generation after generation. Besides, Martin didn’t own the pottery exclusively.’

  ‘He was Master Potter exclusively, which amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘And that now applies to me. Don’t argue that I know nothing about the trade, my dear mother. I shall master it quickly enough and appoint an experienced potter to run the place in the meantime. There must be plenty available in these parts, so you have nothing to fear on that score.’

  ‘Dear boy, I know you will be splendid in every way…and once Amelia and everyone else accepts the situation, everything will turn out well, I am sure.’

  Agatha’s concern faded in the light of her son’s self-assurance, and since Martin had died before his will could be finalized, there could be no possible trouble. She was thankful for that. At her age, troubles were to be avoided, and now her son was home all she wanted was a pleasant life, fulfilling her hopes and dreams.

  Lionel continued, ‘As for Martin’s son — about whom, let me remind you, you never warned me — I shall make a place for him when he is old enough, upholding the precious family tradition as always. But don’t forget that I too may have sons, who will take precedence. As head of the family now, my rights cannot be disputed. You yourself pointed out that the rule of primogeniture still prevails. You should be glad of that.’

  His reference to eventually having sons of his own was wonderfully reassuring, for it confirmed his decision to remain. Meanwhile, there was no hurry and therefore no need to worry about whom he would marry and what sort of a daughter-in-law she would make, and whether she, his mother, would be expected to take a back seat. She could look forward to a life about which she had been dreaming while waiting for his return. Nothing could threaten it now.