‘Well, I’m damned if I’ll stoop to labourers’ work, but I’m equally damned if I’ll forfeit my share of a profitable industry.’
‘And do you imagine that a mother as devoted as myself would wish you to do either? But bide your time, dear boy. Concentrate on marrying Olivia first, for she is obviously going to inherit. The pottery will always be there and so will your rights as a Drayton, but even a young woman so unattractive as she could be snapped up by a rival.’ There was much in what his mother said. He would be very much out of his element amongst clay workers, but very much in it as Master of Tremain — and master of the young woman who was plainly favoured more than himself. Every word his mother said about Grandmother Charlotte’s lifelong plans for the girl, were true, but where rivals were concerned he was confident that he had nothing to fear. There wasn’t a man in or around Burslem who seemed to interest her. There had been plenty hovering about her tonight, a fact which had goaded him into action, but she had been quite indifferent to them.
He hoped she wasn’t as frigid as he suspected her mother to be. Unlike his own mother, his aunt had always seemed more than content with widowhood. Had she not been, a woman so pretty would have remarried long ago. As for Olivia’s indifference to men, he knew how to cure her of that when the time came. There were ways of letting a woman know what was expected of her, and there would be a deal of fun in initiating his wayward cousin.
‘Lionel, my love, fetch me some of Pierre’s excellent Sack Cream, and a good serving of Lent Potatoes, the almonds flavoured with raisin wine taste so delicious, and a pyramid of Puits d’Amour. Oh, and some Flummery too — ‘ Seeing the expression on her son’s face, his eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘Is that all?’ Agatha broke off unwillingly. Sometimes she suspected that he considered her greedy, a most unjust accusation. A healthy body like hers needed nourishment and she was sensible enough to see that it had plenty. There was nothing greedy about that. Dear Aunt Margaret had always called her ‘a fine figure of a gel’, a well-justified compliment which, Agatha felt, she still merited. So her son’s ill-concealed thoughts left her distinctly ruffled. Defiantly, she added, ‘I’ll have a wedge of Chantilly Cake, too.’
But he was gone, wending his graceful way through the crush, moving with the elegance she had always admired in his father. Sitting there, her empty plate whisked away by one of Tremain’s well-trained servants, she wished Joseph were alive to share these celebrations. Twenty-one years, plus eight of the preceding months of pregnancy, had obliterated many uneasy thoughts left behind by his death. Agatha had the merciful ability to focus her memory only on the things she wished to recall and, in the process, convinced herself that her marriage had been ideal, that her husband’s devotion had excelled that of most, that his passion for her had been insatiable, that she had never waited in vain for him to open her bedroom door, that the hours they had lain together had been more ecstatic than he had ever known, and that to him she had been wife, mistress, and femme fatale.
More than all, she was sure he had never looked at another woman after their marriage. The fact that the demands of work left him little time for dalliance elsewhere was only secondary to her belief that he had wanted no one but she. And when a disturbing question thrust itself forward — why was his body found naked in the garden house? — she thrust it aside again.
‘Here you are, my dear mother — I hope this is enough? I brought you a dollop of Tansey for good measure.’
‘Oh Lionel, my love, how thoughtful of you! I relish Tansey.’
‘As you relish all food, you greedy woman.’ There was a teasing note in his voice, but not when he added, ‘And I wish you would stop calling me “my love”. To a son, it is inappropriate.’
Sometimes he reprimanded her just as his father had done. ‘I don’t want my wife looking like a buxom maypole,’ Joseph had once said, commanding her to change from a most elegant and colourful gown, which she had personally designed, into one of the plain things he had ordered for her during their London honeymoon. She had never understood why he considered only quiet clothes to be ladylike. Even now, in recollection, the thought hurt because she had always had such excellent taste in dress. And how intensely she had hated Aunt Elizabeth, at whose house in St James’s Square they had honeymooned, for summoning her own dressmaker to fulfil his orders and endorsing them whole-heartedly! But why remember that now? The old woman was long since dead, and a good thing too.
All the same, a son really shouldn’t criticise his mother, even in fun, and while she was glad that Lionel had inherited his father’s handsomeness she did hope that Joseph’s tendency to find fault had not been passed on too.
The sight of her mother, bearing down upon them, cut into her reflections. Charlotte was looking amazingly fresh for a woman of her years. One would have expected her to seek her bed long since; several of the older generation had done so, but not she. At sixty-five she had the energy of a woman ten years younger. She also looked very handsome tonight, her sparse grey hair concealed beneath a snow-white wig most beautifully dressed and sparking with diamonds. She wore a loose contouche, a gown which had gone out of fashion at the end of the seventeen-forties but which she still clung to and, it had to be admitted, wore well. Its trailing folds of sapphire-blue mousseline glinted with silver thread — not a material Agatha would have chosen for evening wear, she preferred gleaming satins, but, again, her mother wore it well. And her jewels were magnificent. It hurt Agatha to think of Phoebe and Olivia ever getting a share of them. Amelia would naturally be entitled to some, but she, as elder daughter, should get the largest proportion. She must tell Lionel to persuade his grandmother of this during his campaign, but subtly of course.
Charlotte said, ‘Have you seen your father, my dear? They are playing a polonaise and he knows I love it — ah, I see him with Olivia, over there. The child looks different … ‘
‘She has loosened her hair. So untidy! And so ungrateful, because I know for a fact that Phoebe’s hairdresser spent a long time dressing it and that Hannah spent almost as long on painting her face most skilfully.’
‘And quite unnecessarily. Personally, I think the girl looks much improved. Don’t you agree, Lionel?’
‘Indeed I do, Grandmother Charlotte. You are right in all things, always.’
His grandmother smiled, plainly amused. ‘You flatter me. Do you think I don’t see through flattery? Experience makes people of my age wise to it.’
‘The last thing I would ever do would be to flatter you,’ he answered reproachfully, then changed the subject. ‘Grandfather is enjoying some refreshment, so let me fetch you something too. There is some excellent eel pie, also pilchard with leek — ’
‘Both delicious,’ said Agatha, who had sampled them and much besides. ‘And I highly recommend Pierre’s mutton collops. As for his green goose with green sauce — ecstatic! And there is venison too, of course. Lionel, my love, order a good selection for your grandmother.’
Heedless of Charlotte’s protest that she had only a small appetite, Lionel departed with alacrity, whereupon the old lady remarked dryly that he was being singularly attentive tonight and what did it signify, to which Agatha snapped, ‘My son is always attentive, Mamma. I have brought him up to be.’ But she made a mental note to warn Lionel not to overdo things. As he said, her mother was an astute old woman.
But long ago neither of her parents had been wholly astute. They had seen no flaw in their elder daughter’s husband — nor, indeed, had anyone, for Joseph had been both admired and respected. And, by his wife, adored. That was why she had kept the troublesome question, regarding his death, strictly a secret. So had old Dr Wotherspoon until, with approaching senility, he had revealed it when in his cups. Agatha would never forget that moment, sitting opposite him at her own dining table — as luck would have it, alone, for Lionel always absented himself when the old doctor came to visit. Fortunately, Wotherspoon had helped himself so liberally to her wine that she had been able to dismiss as alc
oholic fantasy his story that Joseph’s body had been naked. ‘Dear lady, forgive me — I shouldn’t have revealed that — I have kept silent about it all these years, for your dear sake.’
All nonsense, of course. One shouldn’t heed the ramblings of a tipsy old man. No doubt it had been necessary to undress poor Joseph for examination, to establish the cause of death, but as for being found naked, that she would never believe.
But every now and then a niggling question rose to torment her. Was it true?
CHAPTER 3
All but the servants slept late at Tremain Hall the next morning. Church bells were calling the devout to prayer, but few were awake to heed them; certainly not Phoebe who had been amongst the last to retire — a fact not overlooked by Agatha when she herself left the ballroom, sulking. To remain when partners no longer sought her was humiliating, and her scowl had darkened at the sight of Roger Acland still dancing attendance on her sister-in-law. The fact was particularly displeasing since the man had made a bid for her own hand shortly after she came into her inheritance, and her father had made short shrift of him, dubbing him a fortune-hunter — a point which both men now seemed to have forgotten.
‘Haven’t I seen that man somewhere before?’ had been Ralph’s only comment when Acland arrived, but because it would have been humiliating to acknowledge that the man’s marriage proposal now seemed too unimportant for anyone to remember, she had said nothing.
Coming face to face with him had been sufficiently disappointing. He had failed to recognise her until she identified herself. ‘I am Agatha — surely you remember me?’
Despite immediate protestations, she knew he did not. From that moment she had ignored him, hoping to put him in his place. Instead, he had plainly enjoyed himself, paying lavish attention to Phoebe for as long as the ball lasted. Agatha thought that particularly odd since she had always suspected that the other twin, Jessica, had captured his fancy long ago, but tonight they had exchanged no more than passing greetings, Jessica courteous, Acland distantly polite. His manner had been very different from his manner toward her all those years ago.
Even now Agatha could recall presenting him to Jessica Drayton after Matins in the parish church one Sunday, and the annoyance she had felt when his glance, openly admiring, followed her departure. She had been uneasy for the remainder of his visit, convinced — though entirely without evidence — that something had developed between them. But she had been wrong, as his approach to her own father had proved, and further proof was offered when it became known that Jessica was pregnant by Simon Kendall. That scandal had rocked the whole of Burslem.
As for Phoebe, simpering up at Acland tonight as if she were still young, Agatha wanted to strangle her. The pair were still dancing together when dawn began to creep across Tremain Park, and the last thing Agatha had seen was Acland signalling to the minstrels’ gallery above, urging the heavy-eyed quartet to play yet another measure while he led Max Freeman’s widow back onto the almost deserted floor.
So Agatha had retired disgruntled, feeling that the celebrations had been enjoyed by everyone but herself. The organisation had been splendid and Pierre’s catering superb, but although people had congratulated her they had paid little attention to her otherwise. Even her splendid gown, vividly patterned in yellow and purple and showing a petticoat of bright green quilted satin, had won no compliments. ‘You should have stuck to black,’ Phoebe had commented spitefully. ‘Don’t you recall how dramatic you thought it after Joseph’s death and how long you wore it, for that reason?’ She did indeed, but no thanks to her sister-in-law for reminding her. No widow cared to recall sorrow, and as for suggesting that she had continued to wear black for any reason other than grief, how typical of Phoebe!
On the other hand, she had looked striking in widow’s weeds and since her hair had kept its rich dark colour and she knew how to rouge her cheeks in striking contrast, perhaps she would return to black for awhile …
Diverted, she turned to her mirror, wishing she had a maid as talented as Phoebe’s. Her own — Rose, who had been with her since her bridal days — was very much out of touch with current fashion. Only through the charity of my heart do I keep her, Agatha reflected, quite unaware that only because of Pierre did Rose remain.
The relationship between the two servants was unsuspected by their mistress, who believed her maid’s frustrated ambition to wed the French cook, which had been very evident at one time, had not only come to naught but had forced her to resign herself to spinsterhood. In the circumstances, the woman should be eternally grateful for such excellent employment.
As for Pierre, all Agatha knew of him was his culinary talent, plus the fact that he was a devoted servant who refused to serve anyone but his adored mistress. Little did she suspect that after dear Joseph’s death his elaborate attentions and his constant supply of her favourite dishes were designed solely to ensure his continued employment; that he was as slippery as an eel where the ladies were concerned; that he had bedded Rose very soon after he arrived at Carrion House, and that despite doubts regarding his fidelity Rose still maintained that particular hold over him. Nor did Agatha have any inkling that in her maid’s opinion it was better to be bedded by a highly-placed servant in a wealthy house than by some poverty-stricken labourer in a hovel. For that, a wedding ring was willingly foregone.
All the same, mused the mistress of the west wing as she pulled the bell rope to summon her maid, it would be as well to look for someone more skilled, like Phoebe’s Hannah. Rose could remain in a more menial position — as sewing-woman, perhaps, since she was handy with her needle. And it would do no harm to prepare her for the change. Sometimes servants took their security for granted, and there was a complacency about Rose that needed jolting.
‘So there you are,’ Agatha snapped when the woman appeared. ‘I have been ringing and ringing … ’
‘I heard your bell only once, Mistress.’
‘Then you must be deaf. I shall seek a replacement if you continue to be unreliable. Indeed, I shall seriously contemplate a change unless you take more pains with my hair. I desire a more becoming style … ’
‘For under a wig, Ma’am? There be only one way for that, bound close to the scalp so the wig’ll fit proper.’
‘Stupid! I mean for day wear. I declare you have dressed my hair the self-same way ever since you came to me.’
‘Only on account of it being the way you allus wants, Ma’am. Curled with the irons, the way the Master didn’t like.’
Insolence! How dare she refer to the late master’s tastes in any way at all, and how unpleasant to think that she had noticed and remembered such things! Had she listened at keyholes? Did she still? Little would such a practice pay her these days, for there was nothing of any event in her mistress’s life now. Tonight’s celebrations had been a highlight, something planned and prepared for many weeks ahead — and all over in a few hours, with people driving away so absorbed in themselves, so obsessed with their own enjoyment, that a word of thanks to their hostess was forgotten. People nowadays were so ill mannered — except, it must be admitted, people like the Kendalls. Jessica and Simon, with the elder three of their five children, had paid their parting respects with typical courtesy. It was hard to believe that they had ever been impoverished folk living in an ancient wheelwright’s cottage in the country village of Cooperfield.
Jessica, having been a Drayton before marriage, was well equipped for the role of mistress of Ashburton, but her husband had been no more than the bastard of a lady’s maid once employed in that splendid mansion, so was regarded by many Burslem folk as having risen far above himself. Fair-minded people thought otherwise. No doubt his marriage to Jessica had helped him socially, and the late Sir Neville Armstrong’s interest had perhaps acted as a spur, but one had to admit that Si Kendall’s successful career was due entirely to his brains, and, although she had once despised him socially, Agatha now received him because he was known to be an honoured guest in some of the fines
t households in the land — especially in Staffordshire, because it was he who had planned and built the vast network of canals which were bringing increasing prosperity to the potteries.
His greatest achievement had finally been accomplished only this year, when the last stretch of water between the rivers Trent and Mersey had provided the final link in the Grand Trunk Scheme, for which Kendall had been the powerful Surveyor General, fulfilling all the predictions of far-seeing men.
Even as a boy her brother-in-law, Martin, had thought highly of Kendall and her own father, as well as others, had called him a man of vision, forseeing a fine future for him despite his lack of schooling. And how right they had all been! Starting with the Armstrong Canal to connect Sir Neville’s coal fields with the industrial city of Manchester, Kendall had doggedly pursued the idea of linking the two rivers and, eventually, with the Severn. It had taken years of battling to achieve it. Not until 1765 had Parliament finally passed the Grand Trunk Bill, but now, six years later, the main stretch of waterway snaked its course alongside the Drayton Pottery and all Martin’s visions of increased trade were being fulfilled.
‘A laden pack-horse can carry only five hundredweight, a canal barge twenty-five tons all the way from Burslem to Liverpool with scarcely a breakage, and thieving cratemen foiled along the way. What would Joseph have to say to that, I wonder?’
Martin had never been able to resist the jibe, but though Agatha considered it disrespectful to her late husband’s memory, the success of Simon Kendall’s canals couldn’t be disputed. Undoubtedly the potteries owed a debt of gratitude to Kendall, also to Neville Armstrong for backing him to the hilt, so it wasn’t surprising that Jessica’s husband was now accepted socially — except by Phoebe, who persisted in recalling his background and her sister’s fall from grace.
The Potter's Niece Page 6
