The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  Martin added, ‘You must come to Medlar Croft and see mine, Fletcher. I had no idea you were a book lover.’

  ‘As your father was. My own father had the pleasure of sharing his collection.’

  ‘Alas, the bulk of it was dispersed after his death.’

  Martin’s voice was sad. The way in which his elder brother had disposed of their father’s precious volumes was a painful recollection. ‘There’ll be no more time-wasting in this establishment now I am Master Potter!’ So the books which George Drayton had loved became added fuel for the pottery kilns, a heinous crime in the younger son’s eyes. Aided by Jessica, he had hidden what few he could, but they were few enough with Joseph for ever on the alert.

  ‘However,’ Martin continued, rallying. ‘I have built it up again, aided by my sister Jessica and her husband when they inherited Ashburton. The library there was extensive and varied; they were generous enough to give me the entire section devoted to Chinese and Korean ceramics — Japanese too, though much later, of course, since Japan had to learn the craft from the Chinese and Koreans. I see you have a fair collection of porcelain yourself, sir.’

  John Wesley put in, ‘A surprising collection, if I may say so, Fletcher. You seem to be a man of some culture — ’

  Too late, he clipped off the words, but Damian merely smiled, while Amelia blithely remarked that of course he was a man of culture, having once been a tutor. ‘He taught the sons of a gentleman in America, and we are to have the benefit of his knowledge and his skill. These are the lessons he taught them, starting at the age of five. Bounty indeed for us!’

  Anxious to atone for his lapse, the Methodist preacher asked what Colonial family had been fortunate enough to have Fletcher’s services, a question which Damian seemed reluctant to answer.

  ‘I doubt if you would know the name, sir. The Colonies are vast.’

  ‘Then the place you went to?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Savannah.’

  ‘Isn’t that in Georgia, the colony which Colonel Oglethorpe established by royal charter? Didn’t he sail there with the first settlers in 1733, Mr Wesley? And wasn’t it at his request that you joined him as chaplain, with your brother?’

  ‘Charles became Oglethorpe’s secretary, yes.’

  ‘In Savannah?’

  ‘No. Frederica, some hundred miles away. He went with Oglethorpe and Ingham to the settlement for married settlers there, while I — yes — I remained at headquarters in Savannah.’ Finishing his ale, Wesley rose, saying how regrettable it was that time sped by so fast, but the drive back to Stoke was long … and yes, it was indeed a coincidence that Mr Fletcher should visit Georgia so many years later

  ‘And to Savannah,’ said Amelia, trying in vain to lighten the conversation, for the preacher’s sudden desire to leave was as embarrassing as it was inexplicable. ‘But life is full of coincidences; some of them very fortuitous. For instance, if Mr Fletcher hadn’t gone to Georgia to teach a gentleman’s sons, Olivia and I wouldn’t be in possession of these very useful lessons.’ Determinedly, she chattered on. ‘I gather there are many thriving families in America now, people who have prospered since the early settlers’ days. Had the family who engaged you been long established there, Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘Almost from the beginning, ma’am. An earlier generation had been amongst Oglethorpe’s first group of immigrants.’

  ‘Then almost certainly you must have known them,’ Martin said to Wesley, but before the preacher could answer Damian was saying that indeed the drive to Stoke-on-Trent was lengthy and that he quite understood the need to depart, but Amelia again asked for the name of the family. To answer was unavoidable.

  ‘The name was Hopkey, ma’am. The boys I taught were the sons of Silas Hopkey, the merchant son of a family mainly connected with the law. He would be a child when Mr Wesley was there. I’ve no doubt he met many families whom he is now unable to remember.’

  But Amelia insisted that a name like Hopkey couldn’t be easily forgotten.

  ‘No, indeed,’ agreed Wesley. ‘There was a magistrate of that name, as I recall. Chief Magistrate, I believe. And now I really must bid you good-day, Mr Fletcher. Perhaps we shall have an opportunity to talk again at some future time.’

  He stepped forward, hand extended, and as he did so the wide skirt of his coat swept against a fragile table, overturning it. Apologising profusely, he righted it whilst Olivia gathered up scattered objects, amongst them the miniature she had been unable to forget. Slowly, John Wesley took it from her and she saw to her surprise that his face had paled.

  ‘And — who is this?’ he jerked.

  Damian took it from him. ‘The daughter of my employer, granddaughter of the Chief Magistrate you referred to. Her grandmother was Sophia Hopkey, to whom she reputedly bears a strong resemblance. Sophia Hopkey — or Sophia Williamson, as she became when she married the son of a law officer of that name who served under Chief Magistrate Hopkey — was a noted beauty of her day. Her only daughter then married back into the Hopkey family and also had a daughter.’

  ‘And this is she?’ Amelia asked, studying the miniature. ‘She must be a noted beauty, too. And so young … ’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. She was barely sixteen when that was painted.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Caroline.’

  ‘Caroline Hopkey — ’

  ‘No, Mrs Drayton. Caroline Fletcher. My wife.’

  CHAPTER 5

  After a night of celebration the great hall at Tremain had a desolate air. Servants worked in lacklustre fashion, sweeping up remnants of food and gathering up wine goblets overlooked by their weary eyes after the ball; cleaning out the great fireplaces and restacking logs, waging war on dust, replacing and polishing furniture, smoothing cushions, straightening curtains, retrieving broken fans, picking up items of jewellery lost in the dance and which their owners would no doubt be claiming when they recovered their senses — and even items of apparel in dark corners, such as ladies’ woven stockings and elaborate garters untied by questing fingers, not to mention undergarments in those convenient alcoves.

  Did the master and mistress have any idea of the things that had gone on behind the scenes and in which their handsome grandson had no doubt participated? Master Lionel was as much a rake as his Uncle Maxwell had been, God rest his soul.

  By the time Charlotte Freeman descended to inspect her household, restoration was complete. Nodding approval, she praised their efforts and thanked each one in turn. ‘You have earned a rest, all of you, and I shall see that you have it for the rest of the day.’ And that she would do, without a doubt, for she was a considerate mistress and fair-minded one, which was more than could be said for either her daughter or daughter-in-law. Many of the older servants remembered Agatha Freeman and Phoebe Drayton in girlhood, and thought the exchange of surnames had left neither of them much improved. Miss Agatha had always been fat and greedy, and the Lord alone knew how she had attracted such a husband as Joseph Drayton, but there was never any accounting for tastes.

  As for Master Max’s bride, who would have thought that such a simpering miss would have appealed to his lusty appetites? It was well known that the heir had been a rip-roaring scamp with a liking for immoral women, and no one could ever have accused demure Phoebe Drayton of being that — unlike her twin sister, whose hasty marriage to the illegitimate son of a lady’s maid had set tongues wagging, especially when her pregnancy became apparent at least three months before it should have done.

  After the servants had departed, Charlotte inspected the pile of assorted articles. Such a miscellany spoke for itself. Which particular young lady had lost that embroidered garter and from whose legs had those silken hose been removed? And what of that item which, by its very flimsiness, testified that it was the most intimate of all? Layers of heavy petticoats to support billowing skirts called for only the scantiest clothing beneath, and every mislaid garment here spoke for itself. She didn’t know what the world was coming to, indeed she di
dn’t. Such immorality had never prevailed in her own youth. Balls had been sedate, manners irreproachable, morals impeccable, but now — … !

  Distastefully, she turned away. It was over, thank God, and there wouldn’t be another coming-of-age at Tremain Hall until her grandchildren’s children grew up, and that she wouldn’t be here to see. She only hoped that the current spread of degeneracy would have been curbed by then, though dear Ralph declared it had always been there, sometimes undercover, sometimes openly, depending on the social tides of the generations.

  ‘Yes, even in our day, my love. You were never aware of it because your straitlaced upbringing segregated you from it, but licentiousness has always been with us and, no doubt, will always be.’

  ‘Do you think our grandson is licentious?’

  She had put the question bluntly because despite Lionel’s courtesy — a little too elaborate last night, she had thought — that handsome youth troubled her not a little. Agatha wanted him to inherit Tremain, and as things now stood he would do so unless she herself decided otherwise. Phoebe quite plainly felt that Olivia should inherit, but for motives plainly open to doubt. She herself considered Olivia a far more desirable candidate than Agatha’s son, but how could she even consider such a matter without proof that Maxwell was dead? It was all very well for Ralph to abandon hope, he had not given birth to the boy so couldn’t possibly feel as a mother did. A father’s role was more detached. Pride and a sense of responsibility were the main ingredients of paternal love, but a mother’s went deeper, right to the moment of conception and the growth of the embryo within her.

  Maxwell had been such an engaging little boy, so affectionate, so spirited. She had tried not to spoil him, though Ralph always declared she did, and surely the wild oats he had sown in his youth had been no worse than those normally indulged in by his class and generation? With the right marriage, all that would have been put behind him. He might even have settled down to work of some kind, unnecessary though it had been. That would have pleased dear Ralph. It was a pity Max had shown no interest in anything his father steered him into, but in time — who knew? — he might have found some niche in which to occupy his time until Tremain became his responsibility. Part of the marriage agreement drawn up between his father and Joseph Drayton had been a financial payment from the Drayton Pottery providing he worked there in some useful capacity, but he had always tired of things he didn’t enjoy, so the outcome had been predictable.

  He had tired of Phoebe equally quickly. Had he married Jessica, as originally planned by Joseph, and agreed to by Ralph who was fond of the girl and thought she would be Maxwell’s salvation, would the outcome have been different? Charlotte doubted it, for although Jessica was the reverse of her twin in every way, Max no more needed a highly intelligent woman than one as vain and silly as Phoebe. Although Charlotte had indeed idolised her son, she had never been unaware of his faults and his needs, and when the truth about Jessica came out, she had thought that perhaps it was a good thing.

  Poor Jessica. She had scandalised the neighbourhood and for as long as he lived Joseph had never forgiven her. But her marriage had turned out well, as Ralph had predicted. Ralph’s liking for Jessica had been as great as his liking for Simon Kendall, both of which his wife shared.

  But at least Phoebe had produced a daughter totally unlike herself, which was a great deal to be thankful for. Olivia would make a good chatelaine for Tremain Hall, as Phoebe frequently pointed out, whereas Agatha never lost an opportunity to suggest that it would be a tragedy for the ancestral home not to have a master such as her son, and that no woman could adequately fill such a position of responsibility — a typically tactless remark which never failed to bring a reminder from her mother that Tremain had flourished under her own reign these past forty years.

  ‘But you are an exceptional woman, dear Mamma, whereas Olivia is exceptional in no way. Were Lionel to inherit, he would occupy the position with male authority, but Olivia would need a man by her side. The right man, of course … ’

  Meaning Lionel.

  Would that be a satisfactory compromise? At moments when hope wavered Charlotte was forced to face the fact that Max was dead and that the question of the inheritance therefore lay in her hands. The decision must be hers — to revive the heretrix tradition or let the situation stand — and always she postponed it, though common sense warned her that she could not delay much longer. Perhaps Agatha was right. A marriage between Olivia and Lionel might be a sensible arrangement.

  Heavy footsteps on creaking floorboards interrupted her thoughts. They belonged to Ralph. He was clad in a padded robe and turkey slippers and leaned on a stick. His gout was back.

  ‘Saw your bed was empty,’ he grunted. ‘Came in search of you. What fiendishly early hour did you rise?’

  ‘Fiendishly late by normal standards, my dear — well past noonday. And you should be propping up that foot, not climbing up and down stairs. I’ve dismissed the servants for the day, they’ve earned a rest, but Cook had no part in last night’s duties so breakfast will still be available. I’ll bring a tray upstairs.’

  ‘Only if you join me for it. Don’t like eating alone. And I don’t like the idea of your carrying a heavy tray all that distance. Why can’t Agatha bring it? She’s still our daughter even though she does reign supreme in the west wing.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘I doubt if she’s even awake yet. And can you see poor Agatha battling with Tremain’s endless stairs and corridors, carrying trays? She has never had to wait on anyone in her life. Not even herself. Our fault, I suppose. Mine, at least.’

  ‘You were always too busy with your duties as mistress of this establishment to notice many things. Still are.’ His stubbled cheek rubbed against her smooth one. She didn’t mind. She had grown accustomed to it and even liked it, maintaining that it roused her to consciousness each morning. Turning swiftly, she kissed him and his arm slid round her waist.

  ‘What were you thinking about just now, my Charlotte? You were miles away.’

  ‘I was wondering whether a marriage between Olivia and Lionel might not be a common sense arrangement.’

  ‘Common sense should never enter into marriage. And why condemn Olivia to a life of misery? She’s had no love for Lionel since he tormented her in childhood. Do you think basic characteristics change with manhood? Apart from that, Olivia has more sense in her little finger than Lionel has in his whole head.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little harsh? I admit Lionel is spoilt because his mother dotes on him, but I never saw any evidence of childhood cruelty. Only naughtiness.’

  ‘You were too busy with your duties to notice many things, but I’ve had both time and opportunity. I’ve always preferred my granddaughter to my grandson.’

  ‘You have a soft spot for her, I know.’

  ‘Not without cause. What’s more, you share it.’

  He was right. Although she tried to be impartial, she had to admit that she responded to Olivia’s warmth more greatly than to Lionel’s charm, which, she suspected, could be switched on and off at will.

  ‘But if she becomes heretrix,’ Charlotte argued, ‘there is the question of whom she should marry. The type of man is important.’

  ‘As it was when you married me, so let me remind you of the choice you made. A man not born to wealth, not of the same background, unsuitable in every way. Was it such a bad choice, after all?’ Charlotte smiled. ‘As always, you win. Now go and prop up that foot while I visit the kitchens.’

  She broke off as Olivia came into view, riding up the long drive then veering off toward the stables. Even from this distance there was something disturbing about her, a dispirited air which had nothing to do with tiredness, and a paleness to her face which, after a crosscountry ride, was surprising — if she had been riding, which Charlotte doubted. The horse was virtually unbespattered and Olivia’s long, straight hair only slightly windblown. She knew the girl enjoyed riding hatless, but such activity never brought her home with smo
oth tresses and spotless habit. And today she was not wearing a habit, but a morning dress beneath a cloak, both of the dullest stuff.

  Ralph said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask who the devil that man was, dancing attendance on Phoebe last night? Did you notice? Face familiar, name forgotten. Swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘Indeed you have, but long ago. Roger Acland, stepson of your distant cousin Edith, who married a widower with a family of children. My dear, you must remember him. He sought Agatha’s hand and you sent him packing.’

  ‘Good God, that man! I’d never have recognised him!’

  ‘I can’t think why not. He’s changed very little, despite the years. One can say that for Phoebe, too.’

  ‘On the surface. The broad light of day isn’t so kind to her as dusk and candlelight. In the brilliant light of the supper room she looked older than in the ballroom, but that didn’t seem to worry the man. She’s enamelling her face more heavily these days, have you noticed? If she’s not careful, she’ll finish up with one of those skin diseases to which many women succumb. And not only women! Martin believes it’s due to the white lead used in beauty preparations and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s right. I’ve always had a high regard for his intelligence.’

  ‘Surely lead wouldn’t be used if it were harmful? Not in pastes and wash-balls, which so many people use.’

  ‘Well, Olivia had the good sense to wash it all off last night. And thank God you’re sensible enough never to plaster your face with the stuff.’

  ‘I don’t like the feel of it. A dusting of powder is enough for me. And Olivia certainly doesn’t need to paint her face. I could see Phoebe’s influence behind it earlier in the evening and was glad when she looked herself again, her skin clear and lovely. Now do as I tell you — back to bed you go.’

  Charlotte’s thoughts remained with Olivia after Ralph hobbled away. Surely the girl had chosen to wear those dull clothes this morning for utility rather than fashion, but what occasion could have called for them? Had she been visiting one of the villagers, someone sick, someone in need who would have felt uncomfortable when receiving a modish lady? On such missions one always wore one’s plainest clothes for that reason.