The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘I am not like my sister Jessica,’ she had declared. ‘Even though we are twins, we have never been alike in any way. She was highly immoral when young, but I never gave my body to a man before my wedding night, and then — ’

  But he didn’t want to hear about her wedding night. He didn’t seem interested, though she very much wanted to tell him how greatly she had suffered. It would have made him understand her hesitancy before finally succumbing, but when it happened she had wondered why she hesitated at all, for his ardour had been commendably restrained, which only went to prove what a gentleman he was.

  The whole situation was very satisfactory, making her feel not only triumphant, but pitying of women who never had the chance to experience what she was now experiencing. Revelling in this feeling of superiority, she had become patronising in her attitude toward female acquaintances, unaware that it added little to her popularity or that they considered she was becoming more conceited than ever in middle age, and consequently gave her an even wider berth. She had always been aware that few women liked her, but had blandly attributed it to jealousy because she was still the prettiest woman in and around Burslem.

  One woman in particular she wanted to thumb her nose at — Agatha’s friend, autocratic Lady Moreton, who professed to know so much about men. ‘All men are animals,’ she would declare, ‘but no woman finds that out until the bedroom door closes,’ and since she had had no less than four husbands she was accepted as an authority on the subject.

  But was she? Indeed no. I know more than that old woman does. I know that men can be very different from each other beyond the bedroom door. My husband behaved like an animal, but my lover never does.

  For the first time in her life, Phoebe felt herself in a position to patronise even that august lady, and did so, not with words, but with a faintly contemptuous smile on which Agatha had very soon commented. ‘What has come over you, Phoebe? Your attitude toward dear Lady Moreton is suddenly deplorable … the way you look at her, even listen to her, with a faintly mocking air … ’ That had amused Phoebe. It always pleased her to nettle Agatha, and the increased self-satisfaction which her affaire with Acland gave her made her indifferent to her sister-in-law’s disapproval. Thinking of it as an ‘affaire’ rather than an ‘affair’ elevated it above the commonplace.

  In this new dimension of her life she had felt secure and unassailable, but Lionel’s visit now made her feel threatened. Had he really been hinting that he knew all about dear Roger? And would he really betray her? What was she to do if he let slip even one scrap of suspicion? It would undoubtedly reach her mother-in-law’s ears, jeopardising everything, for although Charlotte was worldly in her way, she would frown on a daughter-in-law who admitted a lover by a side entrance, like any servant admitting a gardener’s boy. That was how the old lady would see it although the relationship was by no means on a par with the kind indulged in by the lower orders.

  Then common sense took over. How could Lionel possibly know anything when not even her own daughter did? She had been highly circumspect all along, never receiving Acland in her room until Olivia’s had been transferred to the other end of the wing, and only rarely at night because daytime was safer with Olivia away at the pottery and everyone else going about their own affairs. Hannah valued her job too much to be indiscreet, and even she didn’t know how far things had gone because she was dismissed after serving the customary syllabub and not summoned again until dear Roger had gone and her mistress was re-established on the chaise longue in the reception room.

  She was thankful when she heard her lover’s step on the stairs, mounting them two at a time with characteristic eagerness. She flew to meet him, receiving his embrace thankfully.

  ‘What is wrong, my love? Something has disturbed you … ’

  He was always intuitive, marvellous man that he was. He seemed to sense her every feeling. She clung to him, pouring out her anxiety. ‘He clearly hinted … he said so much without really saying anything at all … I never knew he was like that, and even now I can’t believe he would actually do anything … ’

  ‘Would you care if he did? Would it matter?’

  ‘Of course it would matter! It could wreck everything. My safety, my security, my home here. Until my mother-in-law dies, we are all dependent on her bounty.’

  She expected him to protest that she could rely on him to provide from his own bounty — though she wasn’t yet sure that she would accept it, for to do so would mean foregoing her Freeman income and she had no intention of doing that yet. It would also mean sacrificing the powerful position she hankered after and which her obstinate daughter must be made to secure for her when she tired of messing about at the pottery — which she surely must. But to her surprise Acland merely said, ‘Then we must be more circumspect, my love. We must meet elsewhere.’

  ‘You mean I must come to you, all that distance away?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of your travelling so far. The journey would exhaust you.’

  ‘But I could come to stay. Frequently. Why not? I could make some excuse about discovering old friends in Gloucestershire. That would be splendid, because we would have more time together with no one to speculate about us, no one to spy.’ Her mind contemplated pleasure-filled days in the home he had once described to her, a home of which he was very proud; a country mansion of mellow stone, typical of the west country; not so vast nor so splendid as Tremain Hall, of course, but a fine gentleman’s residence.

  He put her aside. ‘Some day, my dear, but not yet. I am having extensive repairs done to the place and amidst so much upheaval you wouldn’t be as comfortable as I would wish … the noise of workmen, the dust, the inconvenience … no, I must continue to come to Stoke. We must meet there.’

  ‘Surely you’re not suggesting I should meet you at the Duke’s Head? I would be recognised! The fact that Charlotte Freeman’s daughter-in-law was visiting a man at a well-known hostelry would be all over the place in no time!’

  ‘Then we’ll find some lesser known inn.’

  She exclaimed indignantly that surely he had greater respect for her. ‘I am no cheap whore to be sidling up the back stairs of some squalid country tavern, if that is what you have in mind!’

  He took her in his arms, warning her not to raise her voice or someone would be sure to hear even in this soundly built place, and after he had kissed her more warmly than usual, even parting her lips with a thrusting tongue in a way so reminiscent of her husband that it sounded an alarm in her mind, he said, ‘You know what I want, dear heart. You must marry me.’

  She was so relieved that she wanted to cry. Even so, she heeded the voice of common sense.

  ‘You know I cannot. I have too much to lose.’

  ‘Does a place in this household mean so much to you?’

  ‘It is a privileged place, and if I married I would not only lose it, but be branded by my mother-in-law as a bigamist because she has always been convinced that Max didn’t die.’

  ‘Then are you content to remain for ever as a non-widow in the heir’s wing? You must surely be entitled to his money, his fortune? As heir, I presume he had one and I imagine you wouldn’t lose it on remarrying. All the same, it would be wise to have his death officially acknowledged and this should be easy enough. You must obviously know whether he has drawn his income from the Tremain estates, or whether it has remained untouched since his disappearance.’

  ‘Why I have never thought of that!’

  ‘Then it’s time you did. Ask your powerful mother-in-law. She must know. It is important to both of us. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that you would starve as the wife of a prominent west country merchant.’

  ‘I thought you were a builder. Didn’t you once say you were involved with the Grand Trunk scheme?’

  He answered dismissively, ‘That was years ago. I have extended my interests since then. Merchandise is a profitable occupation in a port like Bristol … importing, exporting … but that is digressing. We must settle this mor
e important issue. Do you really stand to lose so much by marrying me?’ His fingers touched the rubies at her throat. ‘And if you did, these jewels would surely provide welcome compensation.’

  ‘They’re not really mine,’ she confessed. ‘They belong to my mother-in-law. She lent them to me a long time ago, and has forgotten. She has so many jewels, she hasn’t even missed them.’

  He laughingly chided her, although he plainly didn’t condemn her forgetfulness, and with that he drew her along the passage to her bedroom. He was more passionate than usual, sparing no time to respect her modesty. Disrobing before him always embarrassed her because it was her lifelong belief that a lady only did that in the privacy of her boudoir. Today, Acland did it for her, but so skilfully that she was almost unaware of his actions until her last shift was discarded and she stood naked before him, wearing only the rubies. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, carressing her. ‘Only flesh so lovely as yours deserves such jewels as these … ’ His fingers slipped beneath the necklace, stroking her neck, and between kisses he repeated his assurances about her beauty until at length she lay beneath him on the bed, conscious of nothing so much as elation, relishing her own loveliness as well as his adoration.

  Soon they lay wrapped in silence, hidden from the world in this isolated wing, so safe from intrusion that she wondered why she had felt any apprehension. Lionel had ridden off somewhere — she had heard him depart and thankfully watched him from her window — and Olivia wouldn’t return until the end of her long day, and her mother-in-law was no doubt taking her afternoon nap far away in her own quarters, and Old Ralph would be doing the same, nursing his gouty leg in his favourite wing chair, and the servants’ quarters were miles away, and Hannah would only come when summoned, and as for Agatha, she would be sleeping off the effects of a heavy midday meal …

  So the sudden creak of a floorboard in the adjoining bedroom was as startling as the crack of a whip. Phoebe sat up with a jerk, clutching the coverlet about her, and Acland lay very still, very alert, until another creak, nearer the connecting door, sent him leaping silently across to lean his weight against it as he quietly turned the key. He did it with such skill that, later, she disloyally wondered how many times he had been caught in such a situation, but in that moment of panic such a thought was crowded out of her mind. The only thing to register clearly was the sound of another footstep … closer … heavy with the weight of someone struggling to make it light. This was followed by a furtive turning of the unyielding doorknob. Then a pause. Then steps retreating to the passage beyond, accepting defeat, but as they departed they still tried to minimise their weight, going slowly, carefully, ponderously, as only a heavily-built person treads when trying to disguise a footfall.

  She knew at once who it was and that Lionel wasn’t the only member of the household to be suspicious. The secret was shared with his mother, which surely meant that Agatha had learned about it first, and told her son, because dear Lionel was too honourable to ever betray her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Phoebe’s honourable nephew went on his way, well pleased. He had enjoyed himself, and in particular he had enjoyed his aunt’s discomfort because he considered such a vain creature deserved it.

  Even more, he had relished the sight of his grandmother’s rubies, worn with an air of ownership to which Phoebe was not entitled. She must have borrowed them at some time and conveniently forgotten to return them. His grandmother lent her jewels freely, so she had only herself to blame if she lost a few.

  Even more pleasing was the knowledge that Phoebe would hesitate about parting with them now, if such was in her mind, because he could point to her guilt. She would either have to return them or share the proceeds with him, a price he wouldn’t hesitate to demand for silence. So he felt well content with his afternoon’s work and after Roger Acland had arrived via the little-used side drive, watched from a convenient spot which concealed both man and mount, he rode downhill toward Burslem, wondering what to do with himself for the rest of this beautiful afternoon.

  Perhaps it was the emptiness of the hours ahead, or a curiosity sparked by Pierre, that persuaded him to turn through the deserted gates of Carrion House. It was years since he had visited the place, and then only with the fleeting curiosity of an adolescent boy. Now he approached it with deeper interest and the intention of exploring thoroughly. After all, the house would be his some day, so he might as well take a good look at it even though it was vastly inferior to Tremain Hall. Perhaps, if restored, it could fetch a fair price.

  Since Olivia had firmly discouraged their grandmother from reviving the heretrix clause, he had been filled with complacent satisfaction, for he now stood firmly in line and such an inheritance appealed to him far more than, for instance, any Drayton legacy. His father might have been a successful Master Potter, but nothing about the industry appealed to himself, and as for working in it, amidst pallid workers with glaze-ingrained skins and hair thinning from the same cause, he could think of nothing more uncongenial. So he was more than willing to bide his time as far as the Drayton Pottery was concerned. As his mother so rightly said, it would always be there, as would be his right to a share in it.

  At close quarters, he couldn’t help feeling vexation over the neglect of Carrion House. It would be worthless if allowed to deteriorate further, and since his only interest in it was as a saleable proposition much depended on the cost of restoration. If uneconomical, the place could be left to tumble down as far as he was concerned, but since he had come so far he decided he might as well examine it further. He was also curious to see the garden house where his father had died.

  He had never heard so strange a story, and stranger still was the fact that it had been kept from him all his life and, but for Pierre, would still have remained a secret. There had to be good reason for that, but the only ones seemed to be either sinister or sordid — totally out of keeping with the perfect gentleman he understood his father to have been.

  His first sight of the house was from the main entrance, where he paused to examine rusted iron gates leaning drunkenly on broken hinges. There was another entrance down a side lane leading to the kitchen quarters and, beyond, to the garden house, placed well out of view. He was curious to know why it had been sited there. For privacy? What sort of privacy?

  But he took his time, proceeding up the overgrown drive to the front door, an impressive affair of studded oak at the top of a flight of stone steps. It stood slightly ajar, as if the last person to leave had forgotten to shut it. Like the once-handsome entrance gates, this too stood on rusted hinges which screeched in protest when he tried to enter. He had to put his shoulder to dirt-ingrained panels before he could edge inside. Then he stood still and stared.

  He had heard about this hall, once the pride of Carrion House. It was here that his father had staged Aunt Phoebe’s wedding banquet, memorable for its lavishness and for the bridegroom’s reprehensible behaviour. He had once trespassed here as a child, creeping into the grounds and then into the house. He had stood before a great gothic fireplace and gazed up at the vaulted ceiling and then at curving stone staircases rising from either side of the hall. In the cavernous fireplace great logs had once burned, but he had shuddered at the blackness of it before turning tail, afraid of being caught. A caretaker had kept an eye on the place in those days, which was more than his mother had ever done though she professed to love it because her brief married life had been spent there.

  ‘You father never ceased to add improvements, solely to please me. Nothing was too fine, too expensive, or too grand; nothing too elegant or too beautiful for his wife. Carrion House became known as one of the finest smaller country houses in Staffordshire, its master as one of the most successful, and its mistress as one of the best hostesses in the county — if not the best.’

  So why had she turned her back on it, Lionel mused as he picked his way over the broken stone floor, distastefully noticing evident signs of rodents — the only inhabitants now. The creatures
had eaten upholstery on abandoned items of furniture and moth-ridden window hangings had been similarly sampled. And the air was stale despite broken windows and doors which would no longer close. He sniffed distastefully, but pressed on, studying begrimed pictures and threadbare wall tapestries and thinking what an appalling waste it all was. Thieves had plainly helped themselves to the best pickings — so much was evidenced by blank spaces on wall panelling and dark patches on carpets where the sun had been unable to penetrate beneath furniture, leaving the remaining stretches faded in sharp contrast.

  It was the same everywhere, and during his prolonged tour a feeling of oppression took hold of him. God almighty, how could anyone allow a place to deteriorate so appallingly? But was neglect solely responsible for such an atmosphere? Didn’t it emanate from the very walls and floors? Sadness seemed to sigh in every corner, depression was a dirge playing silently in the musty air. It followed him from room to room, from deserted kitchen quarters to deserted reception rooms, from desolate dining room to stifling study. What scenes had been enacted in that austere, masculine place where his proud and successful father had sat in authority? Had servants and staff been reprimanded there and even, perhaps, members of his family, for the rule of primogeniture had made Joseph Drayton their head at an early age. Had he sent for his errant sister, Jessica, and meted out punishment for her immoral behaviour?

  ‘Dear Joseph never acknowledged her again, of course,’ Aunt Phoebe had once said, ‘and naturally I followed his example. His judgement was always right and his punishments well deserved.’