The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘Then you may do so, my pretty aunt,’ said Lionel from the window, ‘for I see her below. Still wearing those awful garments, too, and looking as if she has been somewhere with no time to change into anything better.’

  Tautly, her mother replied that the girl must be returning from Medlar Croft. ‘She said she was going to see her uncle right away.’

  ‘So she did tell you that much,’ said Agatha. ‘I am glad to hear it. I don’t like young people who hide things from their parents. No wonder you are worried, my poor Phoebe.’

  ‘I am not in the least worried because I am quite sure Martin would realise that any nonsensical idea of joining the pottery could be nothing but a whim, to be treated accordingly.’

  ‘You think so, dear? Don’t forget that in his early youth Martin was frustrated in his desire to become a master potter, though personally I never believed Joseph was to blame for that. Such an experience could make Martin sympathetic, rather than disapproving, and don’t forget that he has always declared Olivia’s talent to be worth developing.’

  ‘As a pastime. A trivial pastime.’

  ‘Well, we shall see.’ Agatha levered her mounds of flesh out of a Hepplewhite chair, the slender legs of which creaked in relief. ‘Come, my son, we must be tactful and leave your poor aunt to face the truth.’ The barge set sail once more, leaving Phoebe more tight-lipped than ever.

  Olivia didn’t seek her mother immediately. Not until she had bathed and changed would she be able to brace herself for renewed encounter, so she took her time, relaxing in a hip bath obligingly fetched and filled by Hannah. The hot water was soothing, but did nothing to eliminate heartache. The wound still gaped, raw and nagging, refusing to be staunched.

  She was grateful for the cloud of steam. It engulfed her, providing anonymity. She was also grateful to it for misting a nearby mirror and thus obliterating her wan reflection. ‘You have an expressive face, Miss Freeman.’ Too expressive, too betraying. She was uncomfortably aware that Amelia had detected her shock and was concerned for her. It was damnable to be so vulnerable, so incapable of wearing a mask. She prayed that Amelia had been the only one to guess the truth.

  Eyes closed, tears edged beneath the lids. She could now let them have their way and then, please God, get control of herself. Swift action had done nothing more than keep them at bay. Taking a decisive step had given her the illusion of grappling with a problem, but the problem was still there. She was at the mercy of her own weakness, her inability to control the heart, her refusal to heed the voice of common sense which had warned her that there must surely be a woman in the life of a man like Damian Fletcher.

  How could anyone so ordinary as herself compete? Caroline Fletcher had beauty and poise and, no doubt, the self-assurance of a woman who knew she was loved. By comparison, Damian would see the girl from Tremain Hall merely as a young female whom he believed to be the heiress, and to whom he was therefore obliged to be polite, hiding his amusement when she dogged his steps. How he must have smiled at her naivety when she haunted the stables, waylaying him on the flimsiest pretext! He had seen right through her and been indulgent, courteous, kind. The recollection was galling.

  She doubted that she would ever achieve the self-assurance revealed in the set of the lovely Caroline’s head and in the serenity of her smile. That was what love could do for a woman and the miniaturist had immortalised the result, delighting in his subject. For herself, the Drayton Pottery would be her refuge and one she could mercifully use to the full, but with that self-bolstering thought the heartache tiresomely increased, stressing the fact that emotions could not be manipulated or controlled. She would have to live with them and pray for time to prove itself the healer it was reputed to be.

  Seated in the cramped bathtub, arms clasped about her knees, Olivia welcomed drowsiness, even though intermittent pictures thrust themselves into her mind … John Wesley’s withdrawn face, his wariness, his uneasiness, as if he found himself treading an unwelcome path … Damian’s impassive expression as he took his wife’s picture from the man’s hands … more recently, Roger Acland lolling at ease in her mother’s reception room and the archness of Phoebe’s expression as she gazed across at him. To see her mother’s flirtatious glance focused on an admirer was nothing new, for she was an instinctive coquette, but this time it was different, perhaps dangerous.

  And just why had the man called the very day after the ball? Why was he so anxious not to let the grass grow under his feet, and was it wrong to suspect an ulterior motive? And could it be possible that her mother, who had shunned commitment to any man since her husband’s death, was succumbing at last?

  Such a situation was not unknown. Many a middle-aged woman, reluctant to say farewell to youth, had been lured into an unprofitable love affair by flattery, usually from much younger men. Olivia hated the thought of her mother being misled, but at least Roger Acland was a man of her own years, and apparently far from poor, therefore he could not be regarded as some unscrupulous youth out to fleece an older woman. But when his eyes had settled on herself, watching from the door, she had been aware of his swift assessment, as if calculating whether she would be ally or enemy. The man was deep and devious. She didn’t trust him.

  And on her way back from Medlar Croft, had he seen her pulling into a hedgerow to let his departing carriage go by? Conveyances belonging to the Duke’s Head had that famous hostelry’s arms emblazoned on the doors, and the coachmen’s uniforms adorned with much gold braid, and matching cockades in high-crowned hats. It seemed typical of Acland that he should lodge at a place famed for the patronage of travelling nobility.

  Was he nothing but a social climber? Speculation and gossip had been rampant last night. It had been impossible not to overhear snippets of conversation, amongst which had been references to the Freemans’ distant and lesser cousin who had become a prosperous business man in his own right, which was greatly to his credit.

  In the steamy heat of the bath-tub other pictures followed … disjointed pictures … the neglected bulk of Carrion House looming darkly behind overgrown hedgerows as the elegant vehicle, with its fine pair of greys and handsome occupant, hurtled past her. Through a gap she had glimpsed crumbling stone walls, rotting gables, and begrimed windows jagged with holes, like grinning mouths filled with broken teeth — gargoyles’ mouths — and she had wondered, not for the first time, why Aunt Agatha didn’t get rid of such a place. Did she really cherish it in memory of her long-dead husband? If so, it was an ill-treated monument which scarcely proclaimed a great and undying love.

  Yet another picture superimposed itself over this disturbing one — that of an old woman, bent and bedraggled, shuffling through a broken side gate with a stack of rubbish in her shawl. Old Ma Tinsley, the witch from Larch Lane, was forever roaming the highways and byways around Burslem, picking up whatever took her fancy, foraging for this and that, hoarding rubbish. She wasn’t a witch, of course; merely called that by the local inhabitants. Some said she had money, that she kept it in a small bag tied with string around her neck, like a miser, and even that it consisted of a small stack of gold. Others said she was impoverished, that she wove spells, that she was a liar and a thief and worse besides. There were rumours of hideous things she had done to local girls who sought her help in disposing of unwanted babies before birth.

  Martha Tinsley was both hated and feared, but Olivia could never feel anything but pity for the gnarled old crone who had always been a familiar sight in the valley, and because she saw no reason to be afraid of the woman, she had felt no alarm when seeing her emerge from the neglected grounds of Carrion House, cackling to herself and hugging her treasure trove, which appeared to be nothing but a pile of firewood and fir cones.

  Certainly Ma Tinsley was not afraid of being caught or of being accused of anything, for she had paused and greeted Olivia, trying to straighten her bent old back and nodding her grey and untidy head in greeting. She had even halted and, looking up with a toothless grin, quavered, ‘G
ood day t’ye, young leddy. ’Tis thee from Tremain, ain’t it — t’lass wot’s t’be mistress come the day?’

  How little she knew, Olivia thought, though very soon it would be common knowledge that the Tremain heiress was not and never would be any such thing. News spread fast in the country and despite Tremain Hall being several miles from Burslem and screened from the world by its vast estates, little went on there that didn’t become known very quickly, chiefly because servants had tongues, as well as relatives in and around the county. Therefore nothing was secret, nothing sacred.

  So Olivia hadn’t bothered to contradict the old woman. She had smiled down at her, enquired after her health, and prepared to ride on until a begrimed hand caught hold of Corporal’s martingale. ‘Old Martha can tell ye a thing or two, Missy, she bein’ with the sight.’

  So she told fortunes now, did she? Olivia had never heard that before, so she said lightly, ‘I didn’t know you were a gypsy, Mistress Tinsley, foretelling the future. Do you want me to cross your palm? If so, I must decline because I know what the future holds for me now. Even so, I’d be happy if you would accept this … ’

  To her surprise, the coin was rejected. ‘I doan’t need money, m’leddy. People come t’me, far’n wide, on account o’me cures. There ain’t nothink old Martha doan’t know about ’erbs an’ tinctures and poultices — an’ a few ’andy things besides.’ A wrinkled eyelid lowered significantly. ‘There be many a lass an’ many a leddy in these parts as ‘as reason t’be grateful t’me. Saved their good names for ’em, I ’ave, an’ much besides.’ The bundle was deposited on the ground while the woman fished something from around her neck — a thong of leather attached to a small hide bag. This she opened triumphantly, displaying two glittering gold coins.

  ‘There now, d’ye see’em? Proves I ain’t in need, doan’t it? Me lucky coins, them is. Reel gold sovereigns wot I’ve kept fer minny a year and wot I’ll nivver part with even when I die, ’cos they’ll be buried along o’ me an’ a curse’ll be on any as tries to steal ’em. I were robbed of ’em once. Cheated by that black-eyed wench wot stole our Frank … my Frankie … but I got ’em in the end an’ I’ll take ’em with me to the grave. So I doan’t need nowt, an’ no palm crossing, neether. Wot I tell ye, I tell ye free. Ye be frettin’, that ye be, and ’t’won’t be gettin’ any easier fer a long time yet, but — ’

  Olivia wanted no fortune-teller’s observations about the present or predictions about the future, so she bade the woman good-day and turned aside. Promptly, a withered hand grasped Corporal’s martingale again.

  ‘Dost thee go to Carrion ’Ouse, leddy? Then ’ark t’ould Martha. Stay ’way. Bad things’ve ’appened an’ be like to ’appen aggin. Let it lie, let it sleep … ’

  ‘I have no intention of going there, Mistress Tinsley. I am on my way home.’ So saying, Olivia had ridden on, thrusting the old woman from her mind.

  Until now. In the steamy atmosphere the withered hag’s face appeared in sharp and unwelcome focus, jerking her back to a reality which was given even greater impetus by her mother’s high-pitched voice, accompanied by an angry rattling of the door knob and imperative knocking.

  ‘Olivia! Olivia! How dare you shut me out! I must speak to you at once. At once, do you hear?’

  ‘I am in the bathtub, Mother.’

  ‘You tiresome creature, open this door immediately!’

  ‘When I have finished bathing. I am tired.’

  ‘You are tired! How do you imagine I am feeling?’ The door knob rattled again, accompanied this time by a rising note of hysteria. ‘How dare you hide the truth from me! The whole of Tremain must be buzzing with it and I, of course, the last to know! We must go to Grandmother Charlotte at once and put matters right. Now open this door. Open it, I tell you!’

  Resigned, Olivia dragged herself up, reached for a towel and wrapped it round her, then opened the door to confront a tearstained face distorted with anger. Phoebe swept past her, spitting rage.

  ‘Was ever a mother burdened with such a daughter! What have I done to deserve it, I, who has suffered so much? You care nothing for my feelings, think only of yourself and what you want, though why in heaven’s name you should want to work in a filthy pottery, God alone knows.’ She kicked aside the towels Hannah had stacked neatly on the floor beside the bathtub, then stamped her feet like a petulant child.

  ‘Mother, calm yourself, please.’

  ‘Calm myself! Calm myself, she says! What else have I been doing since Agatha sailed in, licking her chops like twenty cats licking cream, relishing her triumph because Lionel will now inherit — that is one thing you have achieved, if what she says is true. I refused to believe it, of course. You may be possessed of some mad wish to mess about with clay, though God knows why — you may even imagine you have some great artistic talent, which God knows you have not — ’

  ‘Why not?’ Olivia asked quietly.

  ‘Because women are not gifted that way. Only men have distinguished themselves in the arts. Name one woman who has produced great sculpture or great paintings — one female Rembrandt, one female Michelangelo!’

  ‘Perhaps women haven’t been given the chance to try. The place for those of any social status has always been in the home, their only creative outlet being needlework, or dabbling with watercolours, or pen-painting, for which I have neither inclination nor skill. I want to work, but only needy women have been allowed to do that, governessing if they were respectable, labouring if they were poor.’

  ‘Precisely. And you would align yourself with the lowest of them if my brother were so unwise as to permit you. However, I doubt if even Martin would be so stupid. Even he must realise how degrading it would be for the Tremain heiress — ’

  ‘I am not and never will be the Tremain heiress. I gather Aunt Agatha has told you, so I don’t have to repeat it. And now, if you’ll excuse me — ’

  ‘I will not excuse you! You may dress when I have finished.’ Phoebe took a steadying breath. ‘Listen to me, daughter. This is what we must do. We will attend family prayers as usual, and we will make a point of walking across the park to the chapel with your grandparents, and we will remain with them constantly so that neither Agatha nor Lionel will have any opportunity to speak with them alone or at length, particularly with Charlotte. And when we reach home, we will get your grandmother alone. You will then retract any stupid declaration you have made, and ask her forgiveness. If necessary, you will beg to be reinstated.’

  ‘How can I be reinstated in a position I have never held? Grandmother has taken no steps to change the current ruling in any way at all.’

  ‘Exactly. This will make sure she does. She will see how willing, indeed anxious, you are to follow in her footsteps.’

  ‘She knows I am not. I made that clear.’

  Through clenched teeth Phoebe insisted, ‘Then we will now make it clear that you are sorry for making such a ridiculous statement. I gather from Lionel that you also mentioned this mad-brained scheme to join the Drayton Pottery. That alone must have told her you were temporarily deranged.’

  ‘On the contrary, she accepted the idea. She was surprised, yes, but her reaction was nothing like yours. She has greater tolerance. She could also see that I was not deranged, that I meant every word. And I still do. And I really can’t see why you are so averse to Lionel inheriting Tremain, since you were willing — even eager — for me to marry him.’

  ‘That was different. It was practically certain that you, not your husband, would have owned Tremain. Charlotte was coming round to it; had already done so, I’m sure. Naturally, my maternal devotion was focused on you.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you on both counts, for I shall never marry Lionel any more than I shall ever inherit Tremain. I don’t want either. I start working at the Drayton Pottery tomorrow and eventually I shall qualify as a fully trained potter, able to choose what line of work I like most. Uncle Martin accepted me gladly.’

  Phoebe’s brittle self-contro
l snapped.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘Then I shall see that brother of mine and put a stop to it.’

  ‘You will be wasting your time.’

  ‘Then I shall stop you by force. I shall lock you in this room — ’

  ‘Also a waste of time, for I am perfectly capable of breaking down the door.’

  Impatiently, Olivia brushed by, shedding the towel as she did so, whereupon her mother screamed, ‘Cover your nakedness, girl! Have you no modesty?’ at which Olivia made the fatal mistake of laughing.

  Phoebe whirled away, but on the threshold of her own room she turned and said in a low and terrible voice, ‘Your father was the same. Unscrupulous. Selfish. Cruel. And totally immoral. Some of that immorality is in you. Your unconventional ideas have told me so for years, and that trumped-up story about Lionel last night confirmed it. It was he who rejected you, wasn’t it? Don’t interrupt! God knows what will happen to you, Olivia, but if you decided to leave here tomorrow I would mourn you no more than I have ever mourned Maxwell Freeman. How appropriate that you should occupy this room, though I never suspected so when I decided you should have it. I thought it both right and natural to want to have my daughter near me both day and night, and that she would be equally glad to be close to a devoted mother. I also thought that if this room became yours I would cease to detest it. I was wrong in every way. Your father was dragged here on our wedding night, drunk, and dumped on this very bed to sleep it off. Unfortunately, he didn’t sleep it off completely. He wakened and came lurching in to me, and how he treated me then I pray you may never know.’

  ‘Nor do I want to, Mother. Please leave me now.’

  But the door had already slammed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Olivia had not expected life in the pottery to be easy, but neither had she expected to meet with hostility from fellow workers. Restraint, perhaps, because of who she was, but certainly not antagonism from people whom she had known for most of her life and who had made her welcome when visiting the works, albeit diffidently because she was the Master Potter’s niece. Now these same people viewed her askance.