The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  Warden Robertson was a good man and his aversion to Chief Magistrate Williamson was intense: many a man had been condemned to imprisonment on the mildest offences because of Williamson, and many an innocent man besides. Robertson was also no lover of George the Third or his government, so privately applauded Prisoner Fletcher’s retaliation on one of their soldiers.

  This sympathy had also resulted in Damian acquiring the rudiments of a trade whilst in jail. Unbeknown to him, the warden had observed him closely for several weeks before finally sending for him.

  ‘You’ll need some manual skill when you get out. No one will employ a tutor with a prison record. The warders’ horses are shod here because the quarries where they take prison gangs to work make frequent shoeing essential. I’ll see that you learn the trade.’

  And then the unbelievable chance of freedom, organised efficiently and secretly but with the onus of responsibility placed squarely on himself. ‘If you are caught, I can do nothing. I shall know nothing. We shan’t meet again, Fletcher. Good luck.’

  He reached the ship just before dawn, prior to which he also scaled the high walls surrounding the Chief Magistrate’s house and crouched in the shadows watching the scene beyond brilliantly lit windows. It was an elegant Colonial house and the people within it were elegant, too, the men elaborately suited and the women resplendent in silks and jewels. In contrast with the splendid attire of the men were the dress uniforms of Redcoat officers with whom the wives and daughters of settlers were happily dancing. Even Caroline’s ravishing pale green gown, asparkle with pearls and crystal, was encompassed at the waist by a British military sleeve as she whirled in the centre of a ring. Her vivid head was tilted as she laughed up at her partner, and as he spun her round her beautiful mane of hair drooped backward, catching the prisms from a glittering chandelier. It was her eighteenth birthday, the celebration was hers, and she was revelling in it.

  Later, he told himself that she had every right to, that he would have wanted her to, that she had no choice but to accept her family’s generosity in staging such a splendid party, and that only the most selfish of men would have ruined the occasion. At least he hadn’t done that. He had resisted an insane temptation to walk boldly to the front door and hand in her birthday gift, nor had he left it on the impressive doorstep with her name on it, for not even he would have been so mad as to risk recapture. Instead, he had dropped it over the rail of that merciful ship as the coastline of Georgia and the new world vanished behind him — a trinket he had carved out of rough wood during long hours in the cell block.

  Once safe in England, he had written to her, sending his address and adding, ‘The cottage is humble, but the things I inherited from my parents give it character and comfort and harmony. All it awaits now is yourself, to give it grace. That is why I am not seeking a tutorial post, for such work would be residential and take me away from you.’ He didn’t mention that lack of up-to-date testimonials now ruled out such employment. ‘I shall earn my living in another way and take care of this home to await your coming.’

  Whether the letter ever reached her, he had no idea.

  ‘Here is my aunt now — ’

  He jerked back to the moment. The Master Potter’s wife was entering, a child on each hand, others clinging to her skirts or crowding round her. ‘Time for their milk,’ she was saying, ‘and then time for play. Mr Fletcher, how nice to see you! Have you come to see how we are getting along?’

  ‘Exactly so, ma’am, and to find out how my lessons are being accepted.’

  ‘Well, indeed. They are easy to follow and easy to teach. How we shall ever repay our debt, I don’t know.’

  ‘There is no debt, nothing to repay.’ He added something trite about being glad to be of some use, and then, to his own surprise, heard himself offering to help even further by conducting a class for the older children. ‘I could spare an hour twice a week. I see the ages are mixed, the youngest with the oldest. Separate them, keep the youngest for yourselves because they need maternal supervision, and let me handle the rest.’

  ‘Damian Fletcher, you are heaven-sent! How glad I am that your pupils in Savannah outgrew your tutorship!’ Amelia was busy pouring mugs of milk so failed to see his swiftly guarded expression. Olivia did, but gave no sign. He appreciated that. He thought how nice she was, and how much he admired her for having the courage to break away from a background of comfort and wealth to undertake manual labour in an industry like this, but he did wonder why she wanted to, and said as much to the Master Potter’s wife after the girl had gone back to work. At that, Amelia smiled.

  ‘You don’t know my niece, Mr Fletcher. She is a remarkable person and highly talented. She will win recognition in a field hitherto dominated by men. Few women have made their mark in the potteries, and those few only in a small way, the most ladylike way — or so it is considered. I refer to decoration, painting flowers and symbols and geometrical borders to their own designs, and working at home in the main because a pot bank is considered no place for a lady. So the extensive ground work Olivia is now mastering has been denied them. I have only one fear — that despite her resolution she may be lured into marriage one day and Drayton’s will lose her. Not that I think marriage should make any difference. Nor would it if the man Olivia married were to understand her as my husband and I do, but such understanding would demand a very rare man indeed because Olivia is very rare herself.’

  ‘You say “despite her resolution”. You mean she is resolved to succeed as a potter, or resolved not to marry?’

  ‘Both, Mr Fletcher.’

  And both, he thought as he took his leave, seemed unusual resolutions in a young woman born to luxury and who therefore had no need to occupy herself in any way but the most enjoyable.

  But he forgot the girl as he approached Burslem’s parish church, where he had an appointment with the new minister to inspect an altar reredos which badly needed replacing. The man was a new broom intent on sweeping the place clean, his predecessor having passed his forty-odd years of service to the parish in lethargic indifference. One glance told Damian that the wood of the reredos was rotten and not worth repairing, for centuries of woodworm had corroded it until it resembled nothing so much as a piece of well-perforated cheese. Wrought iron wasn’t the only solution, but it would be the most lasting and, to a church which was far from rich, therefore the best.

  When the minister agreed to commission the work Damian felt more uplifted than he had felt since parting from his wife, for it represented his first step on the road to renewed self-respect and independence. First steps could lead to others until a man walked confidently and unafraid. He did so now, fired by hope because this commission could be — would be — the forerunner of many. He would succeed. He would be his own master. He would re-establish himself in the place which had bred him and in which the lovely Caroline would one day join him. Of that, he had no doubt at all.

  So lost was he in contemplation of the future that he was deaf to the thunder of wheels and the cry of a horn until the twice-weekly stagecoach, hell-bent for Stoke, was almost upon him, driving him and his horse into a ditch. Even that didn’t trouble him. Passengers on the outside gammonboards laughed as he extricated himself, and from within the coach he caught sight of a man whose well cut features were familiar. He had seen him several times in and around Burslem, usually driving in a smart turnout from the Duke’s Head. Fleeting as the glimpse was, he saw amusement in the man’s eyes, and while he felt no resentment of the rooftop passengers’ laughter, even sharing it and saluting them in return, his reaction to the stranger’s was different because the amusement was different, stemming from enjoyment of another person’s discomfort. Then he forgot the man and rode on home. Work awaited him and he was eager to get on with it.

  *

  ‘Are you aware, my dear mother, that Acland is visiting my pretty aunt ever more frequently?’

  Agatha’s enjoyable mastication of Pierre’s fricaseed sweetbreads halted abruptly. She
stared at her son, then the jaw slowly resumed its motion until, swallowing, she pronounced, ‘I don’t believe it. And she isn’t pretty.’

  ‘Then she assumes a fair imitation of it.’

  ‘Precisely. She has more artificial aids than any woman I know. But how can Acland be visiting her, let alone frequently, when he lives down in the west country?’

  ‘He bridges the miles as often as possible. Several times a month, in fact.’

  ‘And how do you know? Have you seen him?’

  ‘I have, indeed. I know when and where to watch out for him. He approaches via the side drive leading to the heir’s wing, conveniently out of sight, both of our windows and the grandparents’. And of my cousin’s new accommodation.’

  ‘Olivia? You mean she has moved elsewhere?’

  ‘Only her bedroom. She now occupies the farthermost one from her mother’s.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Agatha’s glance darted, inquisitive and suspicious. ‘Did she actually tell you? What sort of a girl would let a man know where she slept?’

  He laughed. ‘Not Olivia. I had it from Pierre, who had it from your maid Rose, who had it from Phoebe’s maid Hannah. She heard the woman telling one of the tweenies to transfer Miss Olivia’s possessions. Significant, don’t you think?’

  ‘Significant of what?’ Agatha scooped up the last of the sweetbreads and cast an eye toward a laden sideboard, debating whether to have ortolan or pigeon next, or maybe some wether mutton. At midday she and her son never ate formally. Agatha frequently remarked on how nice it was to be able to talk privately. ‘Don’t you agree, my son?’ Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, but today he wasn’t averse to a tête-à-tête session. He enjoyed baiting his mother, and rightly judged that she would rise swiftly to this bait about Acland.

  She decided on the wether mutton and Lionel took her plate to the sideboard, stacking it well. While he did so, Agatha repeated ‘Significant of what?’

  ‘Of the fact that my pretty aunt desires privacy, meaning no one in the room next door, no one likely to overhear things. That’s how it’s being interpreted.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The servants. Who else? You don’t imagine servants the world over don’t discuss their betters?’

  As he put her plate before her and reseated himself, Agatha said disbelievingly, ‘And you had all this from Pierre? Impossible.’

  ‘Why? They all meet in the kitchen quarters.’

  ‘Not Pierre. He has his own.’

  ‘In which he doesn’t exactly isolate himself. The man has visitors, and one especially. Your virtuous Rose.’

  Agatha gasped, ‘Never!’

  ‘Why not? He’s been bedding the woman for years. I discovered it long ago when I raided the kitchen in the early hours, and saw Rose padding away from Pierre’s room, clad in her night shift. I could have been no more than nine or ten at the time.’ He didn’t add that the discovery had excited him, making him realise for the first time that men and women liked going to bed together, and all his natural instincts telling him why.

  ‘Lionel! Please! You are trying to shock me.’

  He laughed, thinking privately that it didn’t take much to shock a person who didn’t want to see what was right under their nose.

  ‘As for your aunt and Mr Acland,’ his mother continued, mouth full, ‘as I said, I don’t believe a word of it.’

  Lionel answered with a shrug, ‘As you wish,’ whereupon his mother remarked uncertainly, ‘Phoebe isn’t the type to enter into a liaison with any man. She likes to be admired and flattered, but never has she gone so far as to take a lover.’

  ‘Why not? She’s free, unmarried … ’

  ‘ … but still legally tied to my brother.’

  ‘Who is dead, and surely it makes sense to acknowledge that.’

  ‘Even so, Phoebe would never be such a fool as to jeopardise her position at Tremain. She is too anxious to secure it, through her daughter; too shrewd to take risks.’

  Lionel rose, pushing back his chair. ‘Well, she is taking one now, believe me.’ Without seeking permission or extending an apology he left the table and sauntered outside into the July sunshine.

  The month was living up to expectations, the air laden with a thousand garden scents, the sky a canopy of blue, the afternoon hazy with heat. He felt indolent, languid, wondering whether to ride into Stoke to see what tavern entertainment he could find, or whether to seek some quiet spot where he could doze in the sun. It would be even more pleasant to lie with one of the maids amongst the long grass in a distant field and, indulging this instinct, he skirted the towering walls of the mansion toward the servants’ entrance. Sooner or later one of them would emerge — rosy Alice on her way to the kennels with scraps from the midday meal, or plump Mollie with her buxom hips and thighs. He had sampled the charms of both, and greatly had they appreciated his patronage, for to be singled out by the future Master of Tremain was honour indeed.

  On the way he paused by the entrance to the heir’s wing. The heavy door stood open, not, he rightly guessed, because the day was hot, but because a visitor was expected.

  Without hesitation, he walked straight in and, as he anticipated, found his aunt in her reception room, reclining decoratively on a chaise longue. Such was her customary pose when with, or expecting, company. He surveyed her for a moment, relishing the opportunity to make her aware that her secret was no secret as far as he was concerned and that he had it in his power to make it known to all. The little information he had imparted to his mother was negligible; he knew a deal more than that and it would be amusing to taunt his aunt with it.

  With a meaningful smile, he complimented her on her looks, lifted her hand, and kissed it.

  ‘I hope I don’t intrude, my pretty aunt? I saw the main door open and ventured in without thought, except of the pleasure it would be to see you.’

  ‘My dear Lionel, what a nice surprise!’

  ‘I wish it were me you were waiting for,’ he teased, ‘but alas, no woman beautifies herself merely for a nephew.’ The words carried the hint he intended and he was pleased when colour suffused her painted cheeks.

  She stammered, ‘I … I am waiting for no one. I am solitary and shall be so all afternoon … as on every afternoon since Olivia abandoned me for that pottery, giving no thought to a mother’s loneliness, let alone the indignity of her own position.’

  At that he sat down beside her, sliding one arm along the frame of the sofa and dislodging the graceful arrangement of her skirts. She had plainly gone to great pains with her toilet, even to wearing a necklace of rubies which, he knew, belonged to his grandmother. Charlotte had a fine collection of jewels, all much admired and, he knew, much coveted by his mother, who had remarked more than once that the old lady must be made aware that she, as elder daughter, should eventually have first choice of them. She had even suggested that it was his duty so to remind his grandmother, but he had never done so, partly because Charlotte gave him no opportunity, and partly because he felt he should not be saddled with such female concerns. First things first, which meant his own.

  In the normal way he paid little attention to female clothes and adornments, except to calculate the easiest and quickest way of disarraying them. It wasn’t a woman’s jewels that caught his eye, but the neck or shoulders or arms displaying them, and perhaps it was the creamy whiteness of his aunt’s neck which now drew his attention to the rubies. She had gone to elaborate pains to achieve that seductive skin colour, and the result was certainly enticing. After all, he thought, she wasn’t all that old … quite young, really, compared with some he had enjoyed himself with … but he dismissed such thoughts because he was not here for titillation. That main door had been left ajar for one purpose — to enable her lover to slip inside without ringing the heavy iron bell and he knew, even as Phoebe professed to be delighted to see him, that she was really wishing him gone.

  He lifted the centre of the necklace with one finger and let it fall onto her soft
flesh. ‘Those rubies go admirably with your gown, pretty aunt. Almost a matching colour — which, no doubt, is why you borrowed them from my grandmother.’

  To his astonishment she answered coolly, ‘On the contrary, dear boy, they are mine by right.’ He wanted to ask by what right, but she forestalled him. ‘They have always belonged to the wife of the heir.’ Not true. He knew that, but let it pass. Instead, he said with a suggestive smile, ‘Which means, Aunt Phoebe, that as soon as I am wed they will belong to my wife, since I am the heir. Am, I said, since the heretrix clause has not been, and will not be, revived. In the meantime, I’m happy to leave the rubies in your care. I shall know where to come for them eventually.’ He leaned closer and murmured, ‘Dear Aunt Phoebe, you mustn’t worry — I won’t betray you, not in regard to the rubies or in any other way. And certainly not to Olivia, for I doubt if daughters like to think of their mothers having love affairs. And now I’ll intrude no longer. I hope your loneliness will soon be assuaged. I’m sure it will be, and I’ll take care not to shut your front door on the way out.’

  When he had gone she sat very still. Not for a moment had she imagined that anyone could know about her liaison with Roger Acland … the precious liaison which proved that she was still youthful, still desirable, and which also confirmed her lifelong belief that a man could respect a woman’s modesty, paying homage when making love and accepting her favours with gratitude. All this she read into Acland’s love-making, which never lasted so long as her demanding husband’s had. This she chose to interpret as thoughtfulness on her behalf, rather than a lack of ardour on his, and despite her earlier distaste for what she had always regarded as animal lusts she now enjoyed these moments because in recollection they gave her a feeling of superiority over the majority of her female acquaintances, who would surely envy her if they knew.

  They would profess to be shocked, of course, as she had always been shocked by the infidelities of other wives, but she herself hadn’t been a wife for over twenty years and what a widow did was really no business of other people. Roger had made her see that. ‘You are your own mistress,’ he had told her almost at the start of their acquaintance, very soon making it plain that he wanted to make her his. When he did, she naturally made it clear that she had never behaved this way before, that she was highly moral, never promiscuous, and he had assured her that he could well believe it, thus leaving her sense of virtue intact.