The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  Olivia’s long hair swirled as she danced. Ralph saw her mother’s frown, and inwardly chuckled. Plainly, Phoebe disapproved of her daughter’s ungroomed state; she would have preferred to see a mass of frizz stacked high above a painted face and crowned with some ridiculous decoration. Women in society these days felt naked if they weren’t overdressed and over-painted, and some of the men were as bad. At least young Lionel didn’t cause him that embarrassment, despite being something of a popinjay as far as clothes were concerned.

  Ralph’s attention was distracted by a man approaching Phoebe, plainly seeking her for the next dance. He also observed her disapproving glance turn away from Olivia and immediately become coquettish.

  The man’s face was vaguely familiar, though for the life of him Ralph couldn’t recall where or when they had met. Memory tugged, but yielded no answer.

  Then Lionel strolled into the ballroom, a vision in lavender satin breeches with a matching cutaway coat embroidered in gold. His silken hose were just one shade lighter than his satin-covered, gold-buckled shoes. Heaven alone knew why he had changed from the lavish blue ensemble in which he had greeted the guests. His grandfather decided that the lad was a fop with a far too extensive and far too costly wardrobe, then promptly recalled that he had thought the same of his own son, many years ago.

  Then, as now, he had held the opinion that young men should be put to work, made to forge their way in life, as he himself had done, but his daughter indulged Lionel as greatly as Charlotte had indulged Max. Agatha had defended her son against her father’s criticism only a few days ago, declaring that a mother always knew what was best for her children — a mistaken belief if ever there was one. Ralph wondered what Joseph would have had to say on that point. He had always found it difficult to read Joseph Drayton’s mind, but he had to say this for him — he had been industrious, dedicated to the task of restoring his family’s neglected pot bank and succeeding admirably. Were he alive now, a man so conscientious would surely disapprove of his son’s idle existence.

  The music from a stringed quartet on the minstrel’s gallery faded to a finish and Lionel came strolling toward his grandfather, his eyes on Olivia and a smile on his face which seemed, at first glance, to be a smirk of secret amusement — an impression belied by an unpleasant glint in his eye. There was anger there, but what was responsible for it his grandfather couldn’t imagine, unless it had something to do with the wheal on his face which even fading eyesight detected.

  Before Ralph Freeman could decide upon that Olivia turned her back on her cousin, tucked her hand within her grandfather’s arm and urged him toward the supper room, asking as they went whether he had ever known Damian Fletcher’s father.

  ‘Fletcher, m’dear? Which Fletcher? There’ve always been Fletchers in these parts.’

  ‘Damian, the farrier.’

  ‘Ah — the farrier. Didn’t know his name was Damian, or if I did I’d forgotten. His father, you say?’

  ‘He was a schoolmaster and Grandfather Drayton shared his library with him.’

  ‘Did he now? I didn’t know that either, but I was never bookish like poor George. A schoolmaster, eh? Then why didn’t his son follow in his footsteps?’

  ‘All I know is that he tutored for awhile.’

  ‘And gave it up to become a farrier? Must’ve been out of his mind. Schoolmasters are as poorly paid as the clergy, but shoeing horses earns even less. Do I know the man?’

  Olivia gave her grandfather’s arm an affectionate shake. ‘Of course you do. He comes here to shoe the horses. You engaged him yourself after he came in an emergency. Walker the blacksmith was ill and Damian did such a splendid job that you decided he should do all the shoeing in future.’

  ‘So I did, so I did. And Walker was pleased, being a blacksmith who considers a farrier’s work beneath him.’

  ‘And Damian’s father — did you know him?’

  ‘I remember a schoolmaster friend of George Drayton’s, yes. Joshua Fletcher — a sound, well-educated man from a good family. I believe he inherited some modest properties around here, but they were sold off, one by one, when the rheumatics crippled him. As twisted as a gnarled oak he became, poor devil, and in constant pain. All he could do then was accept a few pupils for private coaching, something the sons of gentry often seem to need. Even that became too much for him in time. Eventually, he and his wife finished up in a cottage on the outskirts of Burslem. It was their one remaining possession. By then their children had grown up and left the nest.’

  Including Damian, who sailed to the New World only to finish up in prison. Why? Where? What crime had he committed?

  ‘Now who’s not listening, my dear?’ Olivia jerked to attention and saw her grandfather’s red and wrinkled face smiling down at her, eyes twinkling. He always put her in mind of a russet apple. ‘Thought I was wool gathering, didn’t you, miss? But I’m not so senile that I’m short on memory, though for the life of me I can’t put a name to the man now partnering your mother. Now just look at that banquet! Agatha’s Frenchman has excelled himself tonight. No wonder she refused to part with him when she quit Carrion House.’

  ‘Why did she? I’ve often wondered. It must have been an elegant place once upon a time.’

  ‘Aye, so it was. At any rate, when she and Joseph lived there. As to why she left, my guess is that it held too many reminders. Painful ones.’

  ‘Of her husband’s death? It happened suddenly, didn’t it?’

  ‘Very suddenly,’ said Ralph Freeman, and changed the subject. ‘Now let’s tackle some of that food.’

  Agatha Drayton’s renowned French cook had indeed surpassed himself tonight. From the time her husband had brought the man all the way from London, following a honeymoon trip, Pierre had been the talk of the county and Agatha the envy of all hostesses. Tonight was no exception. An endless line of tables offered an endless supply of dishes. Sucking-pig, venison, and beef; haunches and saddle of mutton; roast, broiled, jugged and hashed hare; wild fowl and woodcock; snipe and quail; ruffs and reeves; larks and spit-roasted ortolans; guinea fowl and pea fowl; green plovers served on toast and gray plovers roasted or stewed with herbs and spices, their eggs served in napkins; moor game in season, their heads twisted under the wing; wild duck, teal, and dun-birds, plus pigeon with heads and feet intact and nails clipped close to the claws. Even the humble rabbit had been made to taste much like hare, having been hung in the skin for three or four days and then, without washing, lain in a seasoning of black pepper and allspice and finally soaked in port wine and vinegar.

  Pierre’s kitchen reeked of appetising smells, mixed with others less so but nonetheless compelling. All, as a child, had enticed Lionel. To invade the place had held an almost macabre fascination, littered as it was with bones and entrails and butchered remains, for a good cook, said Pierre, never threw anything away. All this debris lay mingled with uncooked flesh and neatly skinned bodies, some — like rabbit and hare and pig — sitting upright in their cooking vessels, forelegs folded and scalped heads erect, awaiting their turn for oven or spit. And on the wall facing a huge, blood-stained chopping block, was an array of the sharpest knives ever seen.

  There were also things tied down with bladders, like potted game and fish, and dried mushrooms which looked like withered slugs until they were cooked in spiced gravies and swelled almost to their normal size and shape again; and anchovies preserved in barrels, and salted sprats kept the same way, and great hams and sides of beef and venison slung from iron hooks in the ceiling, like dismembered corpses.

  To the young Lionel, Pierre’s kitchen had seemed like some wizard’s lair to which victims were lured by fatal spells, but now, in adult life, the place had lost its fascination and become merely a source of sustenance — particularly the liquid kind when a man became thirsty and a watchful mother anxiously eyed his thrice-filled glass. ‘Your father was moderate in all things, my son. I pray you will be the same.’

  Moderate in all things? he sometimes wanted t
o ask. The sinful lusts of the flesh as well? If so, his mother must have been a disappointed woman for quite early in life he had glimpsed evidence of her nature which had only become significant later. Morbidly, she had cherished a Chinese robe of his father’s. The rest of his clothes she had disposed of, but this she had clung to in more ways than one. She kept it in her bedroom closet, hidden from view. It was still there. Lionel had checked on that in a moment of curiosity, recalling an incident when, as a small boy, he had burst into her room uninvited and seen her large pink body barely concealed beneath the oriental silk. She had been stroking the folds against her flesh, her mouth slack, her eyes heavy. Young as he was, he had known instinctively that she relished the feel of it and that she yearned for bodily enjoyment of a kind unknown to him. He had found her repulsive, and fled.

  But the bodily enjoyment his mother had secretly indulged was not unknown to him now, though he still considered it disgusting that a woman of her age should have sexual desires, and avid ones. In a mother, it was undesirable, so he concentrated on the amusing side of it. He found it outrageously funny that any woman so large and ugly should yearn for a lover. He knew for a fact that she had never been lucky enough to find one, that she had remained constant to her husband’s memory, not because she was the faithful kind but because she was the undesirable kind, so had no choice. Poor old thing, he would think, though he really felt no pity for a fat and aging woman who privately mauled her flesh beneath a man’s silk robe. If she didn’t hold the purse strings he would have avoided her even more than he already did.

  He couldn’t avoid her now. Entering the supper room in Olivia’s wake — for he was determined to have a word with that young woman, letting her know in no mean terms what he thought of her — the first thing he saw was his mother tackling a laden plate. She must have abandoned the dance in favour of her main pleasure, eating, and no doubt her partner had been glad.

  She spotted Lionel at once and beckoned with her fork. ‘Why have you changed your clothes?’ she demanded, mouth bulging, jaw champing. ‘That blue brocade cost me a deal of money. And, dear God, your face!’ Swallowing her food, she said anxiously, ‘Have you fallen down, dear boy? Let Mother see — ‘

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t fuss!’ he snapped. ‘Some tipsy guest bumped into me, sending me colliding with a doorjamb. As for the brocade, it was too hot. And it will have to be cleaned. The clumsy oaf spilled wine down it.’

  He turned away impatiently, seized a glass from the tray of a passing footman, and downed the contents at a gulp. To hell with his mother’s frown! It was his birthday, wasn’t it? These celebrations were for him and for no one else, though from the way that bitch Olivia had treated him, and his mother’s glance of concern when he seized a second glass with his free hand, no one would think so. Even the footman’s impassive, deferential face seemed frozen with disapproval. Damn the man. For that he could wait until dismissed. The empty glass slammed back onto the tray while the second was emptied and replaced with a third. Only then did he nod dismissal and brush aside his mother’s protest — ‘Lionel, dear boy, do you really think you should drink so much?’

  ‘I will drink, my dear mother, as much as I damn well wish. Why not? You eat as much as you wish. What’s the difference?’

  ‘I eat because I need sustenance.’

  ‘And I drink for the same reason.’

  Her large, heavy face looked so woebegone that he wanted to laugh. You’re a glutton, he wanted to say. A great, big, fat, overfed glutton. You could live on your flesh for weeks without starving, like a camel lives on its humps. He wanted to hurt her, to hurt anyone and everyone because that chit Olivia had scorned him, marking his face like Cain. He’d had the devil of a job trying to disguise it, and his mother wouldn’t be the only one to comment, that he knew. Already there had been glances, smothered giggles, eyebrows raised in amusement, as if guessing what had caused the wheal on his face and why he had been forced to change his clothes. Damn the girl, leaving that mess on his magnificent turn-out. And there she was now, chattering to Grandfather Ralph as they tucked into Pierre’s splendid fare, as if nothing in the world had happened.

  Agatha followed his glance. ‘Good gracious,’ she said, ‘what has Olivia been up to now? Just look at her hair — loose down her back like one of the pottery women cavorting at the Red Lion on a Saturday night! I declare that girl needs taking in hand and you, my son, are the one to do it.’

  ‘I? Olivia would no more heed me than she would a fly on the wall.’

  ‘She would have to, were she your wife.’

  ‘An unlikely event, and not one I relish. Nor one I particularly need, the way the Tremain inheritance now stands.’

  ‘That will be changed, as well we know. My mother will reinstate the heretrix clause, so a marriage between the pair of you would be convenient. Personally, I consider that men should always inherit.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t hold that view when your generous aunt left her fortune to you.’

  ‘Not all of it.’

  ‘Well over half.’

  To that, his mother could say nothing, for her eccentric Aunt Margaret’s bequest had been legendary, a bait for fortune-hunters. That was why her parents had been pleased about the match with Joseph Drayton, a man whose business had been prospering and who therefore had no need to wed for money … though after the marriage Agatha had experienced some niggling doubts which even now she had to thrust aside because remembering them led to others more alarming.

  Rallying, she said briskly, ‘To marry Olivia would be as good as inheriting. As her husband, you would have control — though I suspect silly Phoebe imagines she would be the power behind the throne. But Olivia would be useless as chatelaine without a man to rule her.’

  ‘I doubt if any man could rule her. She’s too independent, too stubborn.’

  ‘Very undesirable traits in a woman, I agree, but not insurmountable. You are man enough to handle her and, as her husband, her property would become yours.’

  ‘Not if my dear grandmother added the provisos that applied to her own inheritance, and yours. Don’t underestimate the old woman. She may be nearing her dotage, but she’s shrewd — and as stubborn as her granddaughter.’

  ‘Then it’s up to us to sway her. You, especially. Ingratiate yourself. Flatter her. Be more attentive. Let her find you in attendance more often, anticipating her wishes. She will then see what a splendid Master of Tremain you would make, and if Olivia behaves as she behaved tonight — ‘

  That startled him. Surely his mother, whom he considered very stupid at times, had not guessed about tonight’s rumpus?

  He said sharply, ‘What do you mean — “how she behaved”?’

  ‘Surely you know? She left the ballroom without a by-your-leave or the slightest apology and went riding, of all things! Phoebe had to apologise on her behalf, a most humiliating thing for a mother to have to do. The girl is quite uncontrollable. Poor Phoebe can do nothing with her. But you could. That young miss needs a man’s hand.’ Which I would very much like to take to her, he thought, resentment stirring again.

  ‘She lacks a sense of decorum,’ his mother continued, ‘but she would be passably good-looking if she would pay more attention to her appearance. That weather-beaten skin — how awful it is, unpainted! Just look at her now, completely uncaring about the way she looks, her face as naked as the day she was born and her hair unbecomingly straight. So gauche!’

  ‘I wouldn’t call her complexion weather-beaten,’ Lionel said, viewing Olivia’s clear skin and remembering the lovely ivory of her breast. True, she was less sophisticated than he liked a women to be, but she had always attracted him, he had always wanted to conquer her. Even in childhood she had been a compelling target. Skinny as she was, unspectacular as she was, he had been challenged by her.

  He changed the subject.

  ‘Talking of inheritances, my dear mother, you seem to overlook the fact that, as a Drayton son, I am entitled to a share in th
e pottery. Even a partnership. That’s the tradition, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed yes, but you wouldn’t wish to be involved in such a messy industry, would you? My brother once tried — dear Joseph made an opening for him, generous man that he was — but Max disliked everything about it; the mud, the dirt, the dust.’

  ‘He actually took part in all that? From what I’ve heard of my late and unlamented Uncle Max, he would never have soiled his hands or his clothes with such work.’

  ‘Naturally, not. He was on the administrative side. But I must stress, dear son, that my brother was not unlamented.’

  ‘I suspect he was by his wife. Aunt Phoebe has never seemed a grief-stricken widow to me. Unlike you,’ he added with a hidden smile. ‘You’ve missed my father very much … ‘

  ‘And always will,’ Agatha agreed piously. ‘We were devoted to each other. Dear Joseph was faithful unto death.’

  ‘And you, even beyond it.’

  She didn’t detect the taunt in his voice. He was adept at concealing things from his mother — his thoughts, his opinions, his secret observations — so she didn’t even suspect that he mocked her.

  Changing the subject again, he said, ‘I see absolutely no reason why I should reject my rightful share in the pottery. Now I’m of age, it’s time I laid claim to my Drayton rights.’

  ‘That could have been done before now, but you have never shown any interest in your dear father’s business. Nor has there been any need for you to work.’

  ‘Dear God, I don’t intend to work there! The Drayton tradition doesn’t demand that, surely?’

  ‘Apprenticeship from the ground up is the rule.’

  ‘Even for Drayton sons?’

  ‘Always for Drayton sons.’

  ‘My father actually went through the mill himself?’

  ‘Not to the extent that Martin did, for Joseph was needed to run the place and that was where his talents lay, but he had good knowledge of the craft from every aspect. How else could a Master Potter oversee his workers?’