The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  Now, only a short time later, Olivia was back at Medlar Croft.

  ‘I came to talk with Uncle Martin,’ she said without preamble. ‘I hope he can see me. It’s very important.’

  Martin was in the library, browsing through his precious volumes on ceramics. After an intensive working week, followed by last night’s prolonged festivities and Wesley’s interesting but oddly disturbing visit, he was more than ready to lose himself in his books, but, surprisingly, thoughts of Wesley were intrusive. He was also surprised that Amelia had failed to comment on the man’s unwillingness to talk about his days in the New World, for little escaped her lively attention, but she had been singularly preoccupied on the way home, scarcely heeding anything he said. Perhaps that was a good thing, for he had felt disloyal in suspecting an evasiveness in his long-standing friend.

  It all seemed very much out of character with the man as Martin knew him, for Wesley had befriended and encouraged him since the age of eighteen, singling him out for congratulation at Neville Armstrong’s memorable celebration at Ashburton. The event had been held to mark the completion of the Armstrong Canal and to pay tribute to Simon Kendall, who built it, but it had also marked a milestone in Martin’s life, for not only had Sir Neville fostered Kendall’s career, but had taken an interest in his own, giving him his first commission when breaking away from the Drayton Pottery and his brother’s tyrannical rule. The commission had been to produce a ceramic model of his favourite mare, Red Empress, and the result had been displayed that night, a rearing, chestnut-glossy beast standing on a bridge spanning a model of the canal. Both bore testimony to the skill of Si Kendall and Martin Drayton. It had been a proud, exciting, but oddly humbling moment, overwhelming the boy with a feeling of tremendous responsibility and a matching eagerness to accept it.

  Wesley’s appreciation had been genuine. ‘I am proud to have met you, Master Drayton. You have a gift which you are ready to give to the world, and the will to do it. Let nothing prevent it.’

  Nothing had. Not even Joseph.

  Olivia’s arrival recalled him to the present. She stood before him, her face paler than usual and with a tension about her which alerted him immediately. Before he had a chance to ask what brought her she said abruptly, ‘I want to work at the Drayton Pottery. Full time. Will you employ me, Uncle Martin?’

  ‘As a worker? Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes. It means working six days a week from six in the morning until eight at night. It means being treated like any other worker, no favours, no partiality, at whatever wages you offer. It means doing what I want to do, modelling with clay, creating what I want to create — ’

  ‘No, my dear. It means creating what I want you to create, when you are ready for it. It means starting from the lowest possible rung — that is, if you want to be a real potter. To have experience in potting is an absolute essential before you can advance to ceramic modelling and, eventually, to producing only what you personally want to produce.’

  ‘But I am doing that already!’

  ‘And promisingly. But not to Drayton standards — yet. In time, that will come. I have always known that. But a talent has to be nurtured like a child, patiently and laboriously. Coming here for an hour or two weekly, in secret, and hurrying home before you are likely to be found out, is one thing, but working full time with the ultimate aim of becoming a master of your craft is another.’

  If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. ‘So where do I start?’ she asked.

  ‘At ground level. Washing and sifting, riddling and raking for hours on end until the smallest particle of grit is eliminated, your arms and hands soaking wet no matter how cold the day, stooping over a trough as you revolve your sieve slowly and patiently, your eyes for ever alert because one fragment lodged in clay, no matter how small, can cause a pot to explode in the kiln, damaging others and sometimes ruining a whole firing. And before that you may well start on the canalside with the barge-women. You’ve seen them at work, so you know what they do. Later, you will hack clay into lumps several pounds in weight, ready for wedging.’

  ‘I know how to wedge already. You have taught me.’

  ‘Only with pieces large enough for your own use, lumps you can comfortably handle. Most of the potters here, those working on the wheels and throwing immense pots sometimes weighing twenty pounds or more, are strong men with big hands and wrists like iron. They can centre hunks of clay on the turntable which you couldn’t even lift. These throwers are experts, and their requirements are exacting. There must be no bad wedging for them, no imperfections, no air holes, no pin-pricks. The texture must be even and smooth throughout, flawless right to the very centre.’

  ‘And you think I can’t produce that?’ Her chin went up. ‘Just let me show you!’

  He hid a smile. He was testing her because he was too astonished by her request to believe in it. The Tremain heiress would never be allowed to work in the dirt and mess of a pottery. Phoebe would see to that — or would, if she were permitted.

  He also had to face the fact that this sudden urge of Olivia’s could be sparked by no more than fleeting ambition, or defiant reaction following some family feud, and though he had encouraged her since the day she had created that grinning monkey, he had found it hard to believe that she would ever want to do more than work in the medium in her spare time, deriving satisfaction from producing better and better ceramic items until her work was good enough to submit to some Liverpool or Birmingham or London gallery for occasional exhibiting, along with water colour paintings or pen-paintings on silk or fine embroideries produced by other talented society ladies who were forbidden, by social ethics, to extend their activities into the sordid world of commerce.

  Funds from such amateur productions naturally went to charity, the respectability of the female artists remaining unsullied, for the world of art was no more a place for delicately nurtured women than was the world of commerce. He had known since the early days of her mother’s opposition that however great Olivia’s talent might become, the circumstances of her birth and upbringing could restrict it.

  He said gently, ‘My dear Olivia, if it is a spare time occupation you want — ’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Amelia’s voice from the door.

  He continued without interruption, ‘ — what of Amelia’s scheme for teaching the workers children? I thought you were going to help.’

  ‘I shall do that as well. I shall fit it in somehow. Amelia will help me to work that out, and perhaps you will spare me from the riddling troughs to take over from her for half an hour, then back to work I’ll go. Dear Uncle Martin, I am not joking. It is tremendously important to me to do something, not just to dabble. However long it takes, I will go through the mill like any other worker, for I declare that nothing and no one is going to stop me from doing what I want to do.’

  ‘And what of your mother?’

  ‘She must accept it, as my grandparents have.’

  ‘You have told them already? My sister, too? Then no doubt Phoebe is undergoing fainting attacks at this very moment! She can keep them up for an entire day, when she wishes to.’ Martin laughed long and loud. ‘Poor Phoebe, how will she ever survive the disgrace of her daughter being employed as a lowly pottery worker?’

  ‘Then you agree? You agree? Dear Uncle Martin, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘One moment before you get carried away — what if you marry?’ Imperceptibly, her face tightened. ‘I won’t. I shall never marry.’

  ‘If you are named as heretrix, you will be expected to, for Tremain’s sake.’

  ‘I refuse to be heretrix. My grand-parents know that. I have told them that as well.’

  ‘Your mother, too?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Before either Martin or Amelia could say a word, she hurried on, ‘I intend to be a worker in clay for the rest of my life, and if I have to start as one of your labourers, that will I be. After wedging, what then? Mixing slips? Glazes? Turning? Throwing?�
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  ‘All that and more besides, when you are ready. Until then, don’t forget that when the long day is over there is still work to be done. Benches have to be scrubbed down and every batch of clay covered with moist cloths and stored in bins, slip poured back into tubs and covered tightly, and the jugs cleaned ready for morning — tools also if turners and throwers have been careless. Floor workers have to carry out every menial task there is. They rank lowest in the potter’s world, my dear.’

  She nodded.

  ‘That I accept. I will do all you ask of me, Uncle Martin, but please don’t doubt me. Never doubt me.’

  He took hold of her hands. ‘One day,’ he said, unable to keep a tremor from his voice, ‘these hands will be producing work that Drayton’s will be proud of.’

  ‘And when do I start? Tomorrow? Monday is a good day for a beginning. I’ll be here at six, but I shall have to ride or drive by gig, Tremain being too far for walking. Will that make me conspicuous? I don’t want to feel different from the rest.’

  ‘Pottery labourers don’t own gigs, but many from afar come on horseback, sometimes two astride on animals the coal pits have no further use for. So don’t choose a fine mount, if you want to avoid comparison. Leave Corporal in his stall. And I hardly need tell you to wear sturdy boots and clothes.’

  She reached out, hugging him and murmuring incoherent thanks until he said briskly, ‘At midday you will receive half a loaf, a good hunk of cheese, and homely pickle, all washed down with a half of small ale, and you will partake of it along with fellow workers in the eating shed. Mid-afternoon, there’ll be a brew of strong tea with more bread and some of Amelia’s excellent honey, and fruit when the orchards are ripe. All this is better fare than other potteries provide, with longer intervals of rest into the bargain. And your wages will be six pence a day to start.’

  ‘I thought apprentices were paid nothing.’

  ‘You won’t be an apprentice. You’ll be coming here as a first-time pottery worker, equal with the rest. There’ll be no indentures, and no guarantee of employment if you don’t fulfil my hopes.’

  His gruffness didn’t deceive her. She smiled and said, ‘What are you worrying about? You know I’ll fulfil your hopes.’ A faint colour had come to her cheeks; she looked better than when she arrived.

  Telling her to report to Sam Walker, general overseer, prompt at six a.m., he watched her departure thoughtfully.

  ‘Amelia, my love, have you any idea of what brought this about? And how am I to deal with that tiresome sister of mine? She’s sure to be outraged, and a damned nuisance.’

  ‘As to what has happened,’ said Amelia a little sadly, ‘dear Olivia has discovered that she needs a refuge and that nothing offers a more effective one than work. As for Phoebe, if she proves a nuisance, send her to me! I shall enjoy setting her down. But there is a matter for greater concern. Olivia’s rejection means that Lionel will automatically inherit, and what an undesirable Master of Tremain he will make!’

  CHAPTER 7

  Phoebe sat tight-lipped, together with her sister-in-law who oozed gratification. Short of ordering Agatha out of the room, a command the woman was unlikely to heed, there was nothing Phoebe could do but tolerate her, though she disliked anyone marching into her private quarters without invitation.

  Scarcely had Roger Acland taken his departure than Agatha had arrived. In floating draperies she put Phoebe in mind of a barge in full sail. Agatha had a whole closet of such robes for morning and afternoon wear, all similar in style and all of flimsy materials in atrocious colours. She believed their drifting qualities made her look ethereal, whereas they merely emphasised her girth. She might just as well wear a tent, Phoebe thought pettishly, and drew satisfaction from the reflection that by comparison she was the one to look ethereal.

  ‘You are slender as a willow and light as thistledown. I fear a puff of wind might blow you away, and then how bereft I would be … ’ Roger Acland’s voice had been touched with emotion as he said it. She could hear it still.

  She was glad he had gone before Agatha’s unwelcome entrance. Leaving by the outer door which served this wing exclusively, the risk of his coming face to face with any member of the household, other than staff, was therefore minimised. She was also glad she had tomorrow evening to look forward to, taking her mind off that dreadful encounter with her daughter. How understanding, how tolerant Acland had been over that wretched incident! He had soothed her ruffled feelings not a little, though she would never forgive Olivia for shaming her so. She would give that young woman a good dressing-down at the first opportunity.

  Meanwhile, here was tiresome Agatha, trespassing without compunction. The heir’s wing was divided from the main part of the mansion by a baize-covered door which swung on silent hinges. The door bore a lock, the key to which was long lost, but, until now, that had not mattered. It was an unwritten, but accepted, law at Tremain Hall that the only person with the right to visit any occupied wing was the chatelaine, but Charlotte had always exercised discretion in that respect. Not so Agatha, who believed that because she had been born here she had the right to roam where she willed. And nothing could have kept her away from Phoebe’s domain the moment she heard Lionel’s news, which she seemed to imagine Phoebe would be well aware of.

  That made everything worse. Olivia’s hare-brained announcement that she wanted to work at the Drayton Pottery had been quite enough for her mother to endure without receiving an even greater shock from her sister-in-law, following it.

  ‘My dear, I thought you knew!’ Agatha crowed. ‘I thought you would be bound to know, so naturally I came to sympathise. To console. Little did I dream you had no knowledge of events!’

  ‘What events?’ Phoebe asked stonily, unable to credit what she had been hearing. Agatha must have made it up. Olivia would never have raised the subject of the inheritance without her mother’s knowledge; not even she would have been so stupid as to discuss so delicate a matter with her grandmother. But Agatha’s broad face, emphasised by heavy eyebrows now lifted in astonishment, was filled with the confidence of someone who knew what they were talking about and knew it to be true.

  ‘Lionel was there at the time. He heard it all. Didn’t you, Lionel dear?’

  The young man’s presence made things worse. To be humiliated in front of him was too bad. Why had he accompanied his mother and what was he doing, wandering about the room examining everything, as if taking an inventory? Had Agatha put him up to it? Surely she must have done, for Joseph’s dear son would never do such an unkind thing by instinct. He was always considerate, thoughtful, affectionate, calling her ‘his pretty aunt, far too youthful to be known by such a name.’ And because she entirely agreed with him, she never regarded it as flattery.

  Phoebe boiled inwardly. Since Agatha would not be the person to move into this coveted wing should disaster strike, she would make it plain to the woman that everything here belonged to herself and no one else. She owned it all by right. Every piece of furniture, every item of rare porcelain and crystal, every valuable painting, every costly rug, every precious article in this room and in every other throughout the heir’s wing had been here when she came as a bride. But the heir had died and she, his widow, now owned the lot. Let anyone try to dispute it!

  The fact that these furnishings were traditionally part of the place was something Phoebe refused to accept, just as she now refused to accept Agatha’s outrageous statement that Olivia had begged her grandmother not to revive the heretrix clause on her behalf.

  ‘She turned it down, I tell you. “Name Lionel heir, not me,” she insisted. Did she not, my son? Plain as a pikestaff, she rejected it.’

  ‘And me along with it,’ Lionel added, ‘which proves she must be out of her mind.’

  It did, indeed. Hadn’t she said so herself, to dear Mr Acland, declaring her daughter had taken leave of her senses in that other matter? Here was further confirmation, but surely the aberration was only temporary and Charlotte Freeman was too w
ise not to recognise it as such? She would dismiss her granddaughter’s ravings. ‘Name Lionel heir, not me’ indeed! As if the girl would say such a thing in all seriousness when she had been brought up to know where her duty lay!

  With a forced laugh, Phoebe said, ‘You are right, nephew. What young woman would be so foolish as to reject a man like you?’

  He snapped, ‘Your daughter, ma’am. She will live to regret it.’

  ‘Dear Lionel, I am sure she already does. As you say, she must have been temporarily unbalanced. She will come to her senses, to be sure.’

  ‘I am not in the least sure — nor, personally, do I give a damn if she doesn’t. She meant what she said and she was emphatic about what she intended to do. And resolved that the grandparents should accept it. Which they did. Old Ralph seemed almost pleased, but he is in his dotage so can be dismissed. More importantly, Grandmother Charlotte accepted it. Or appeared to. She raised no argument. Merely expressed surprise.’

  ‘No doubt because she didn’t believe it. Nor do I.’

  Agatha put in, ‘Then you will have to, my dear Phoebe, for that daughter of yours has a mind of her own. She means what she says and says what she means.’ There was an unmistakable note of triumph in Agatha’s voice, as well there might be if this dreadful news was really true. And Agatha wasn’t the only person to remark on that characteristic in Olivia. Roger Acland had done the same. ‘That young woman means every word she says.’

  Phoebe made one last stand. ‘I will have to hear it from Olivia herself.’