The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  With wry amusement, Lionel wondered what his august father would think of his little sister Phoebe’s behaviour now, and with that thought he left the house, thankful to escape once more into the sunshine. He left by tall windows at the back and was met by a neglected sweep of lawn where the grass now grew knee-high. An unkempt terrace flanked it, weeds and the uncontrollable alyssum filled every crack. Approaching the farthermost line of the lawn he saw that it swept down to an orchard where neglected fruit trees now entwined their overgrown limbs, yet still managed to produce a limited amount of fruit. Close by was the garden house.

  It was an extraordinary building, oriental in style, with the roof rising like that of a temple above walls in which lattice paned windows stood begrimed. A strange mixture — English lead-lights with Oriental architecture. What manner of man could favour such a mongrel style? The whole thing, even in decay, appeared so flamboyant that it was hard to reconcile it with the picture of a stern, God-fearing, righteous man, the epitome of staid respectability.

  The interior was equally unexpected. When the door opened the same staleness met his nostrils, but more arresting were items of furniture which had apparently been left exactly as first installed. It surprised him that the few tenants who had rented Carrion House, since his mother abandoned it, had left every article intact here. One felt they hadn’t dared to intrude, that they had done no more than glance inside, then retreat. But he himself wasn’t ready to leave yet. Curiosity compelled him to examine everything closely, as if looking for a clue which would lead to a solution of his father’s death.

  Like the exterior, everything within was oriental. Even the faded fabrics on a cushioned divan were from the East. Years of dust failed to hide the fact that their colours had once been vivid and that all wooden items were of Chinese lacquer which, when in its prime, might even have been on the gaudy side … another surprising aspect of his father’s character, if indeed he had chosen all these furnishings himself.

  And why the divan with its bank of cushions, surely an odd feature for a garden house? One immediate thought sprang to mind — that the place had been designed for assignations of an erotic kind, a place where a wife would never dare intrude.

  The idea was so startling, and so ridiculous, that he immediately dismissed it. It was more likely that his mother, with her garish tastes, had chosen these furnishings. Because she was indolent by nature, to recline for her afternoon nap on a luxurious divan would have distinct appeal.

  Satisfied with this explanation he turned to go, then remembered the wound in the nape of his father’s neck, severing the spinal cord. Pierre’s description had remained with him vividly. ‘Must have struck it on something sharp — a nail sticking out of the timbered walls, perhaps … ’

  But such a nail would have been exceptionally long to penetrate so deeply, besides which these walls were flawless. Even after all these years they bore testimony to sound construction. Nor was there any protruding shelf with a sharp corner on which a man might strike his head. So there had to be some other explanation for a wound which went so deep that it killed him — right there on that bank of cushions.

  ‘ … and there he was, naked but for a Chinese robe … ’

  The Chinese robe which his mother had cherished ever since?

  When he emerged he was startled by the sight of an old woman calmly helping herself to apples in the orchard. He recognised her as the old witch from Larch Lane and was about to accost her when she turned, saw him, and said without a flicker of concern, ‘’Tis a good year f’rapples, master, and them pears doan’t look s’bad, neether.’ She bit into an apple with her few decaying teeth and smacked her lips with relish. ‘Juicy, too, jest t’way I likes ’em!’

  ‘You happen to be trespassing, my good woman.’ Plainly, she didn’t know what ‘trespassing’ meant, so he elaborated. ‘Stealing. Thieving. Taking what isn’t yours. The magistrates could arrest you.’

  ‘Only if some’ne told ’em, an’ thou lookst too kind a gent t’be adoin’ that … ’ Her leer was repulsive, but he was amused by her audacity. ‘’Sides,’ she continued, ‘no-one’s bin pickin’ this ’ere fruit for nigh on yeers, so why shouldn’t folks ’as needs it?’

  He gave an unwilling laugh, which not only brought an answering cackle from the old woman but encouraged her to hold the apple out to him, saying archly, ‘I b’ain’t no Eve, sir, but taste it — right juicy, ’tis.’

  He quelled a shudder at the sight of teeth-marks in the crisp white flesh of the fruit, shook his head, and turned away. Her voice followed.

  ‘A grand place that be, eh, master? Finer than the likes o’ me ever didst see, all them cush’ns and curtins and carpets and fine furniter … fit f’r a king, eh? An’ that were wot’e were. King o’ everythink e’ owned, wotever or ’ooever it be … ’

  He whipped round. ‘What do you mean “whoever”?’

  The boldness subsided. She cringed. ‘Doan’t mean nuffink, master! Leastways, nuffink bad, nuffink wrong … nuffink a fine gent didn’t ’ave a right to … ’ The voice became a whine. ‘Naught t’be angered about, sir … no offence meant … ’

  ‘What’s your name, woman?’ When she cowered, he rapped, ‘Come along — out with it — your name.’

  ‘Tinsley, sir. Baptised Martha but called Ma by ivveryone.’ Bony chin out-thrust, she finished, ‘Most folks know me, so doan’t ’ave t’ask. I be known all over t’county on account o’me cures, an’ more b’sides.’ From whining, the tone became wheedling. ‘There ain’t nothink ol’ Martha can’t brew — cures for t’rheumatics an’ toothache an’ sickness in the belly, an’ t’get rid o’ fumes after a night’s carrousin’, an’ t’bring an t’flux when a maid’s be’ind ’er time. Many a gent’s bin glad o’that, master, so mebbe ye’ll not be fergittin’? As fer a love potion, there’s none as can touch Ma Tinsley’s. Mebbe ye’ll be glad o’ that, too … ?’

  She was standing close to him now, peering at him short-sightedly. The smell of her sickened him but as he stepped backward her gnarled old hand clutched his sleeve and, crossing herself with the other she quavered, ‘God ’ave mercy — ‘tis t’Master Potter ’imself! Yer pardon, sir … yer pardon … didn’t reckernise thee … ’

  He brushed her hand away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do I look like a potter?’

  She trembled now, crossing herself again and exasperating Lionel so much that he told her to be gone. ‘And stay away from here. This is private property.’

  ‘Yessir. I know that, sir. Thee took it in ’and an’ rebuilt it after that merchant let it go t’rack’n ruin, an’ grander than ivver ye made it.’

  He said coldly, ‘I think you are confusing me with my father, who died before I was born. Now be off with you, and remember what I said — stay away from here.’

  ‘Likewise thee, master. Bad things’ve ’appened ’ere.’ The whining changed to a note of warning. ‘No trace were ivver found of t’merchant’s wife after she vanish … an’ then there were the bodies found walled up yeers anon … ’

  She was mad, of course. He ordered her off the premises once more and strode away, but again her voice followed, strident in the peaceful summer air.

  ‘ … an’ wot o’ t’Master Potter’imsel’, sir … dyin’ in that place all alone and strangelike an’ nobody ivver knowin’ why? ‘Tis thee as should stay away, sir. There be badness about.’

  *

  Roger Acland had left the heir’s wing in decided ill humour. The journey from Bristol to Stoke was a demanding undertaking and only worthwhile if it furthered his aim. With this in mind, the necessity to tolerate Phoebe’s affectations was no more than an irritation which had to be endured, though when he married her he was resolved to cure her of most of them. Meanwhile, undertaking these repetitive journeys from the west country to the midlands was becoming increasingly irksome, particularly since the only purpose they currently served was to bed down with a woman. If that were his sole object, he could achieve it with greater convenien
ce in Bristol.

  Yet another irritant was the fact that he had anticipated success well before this. Accustomed as he was to using women for his purposes, he had expected Max Freeman’s widow to be easy game. Instead, he found himself thwarted by her wariness. Beneath her flightly exterior lay a calculating brain. She was not going to jeopardise her present financial security by thwarting her influential mother-in-law, and without that financial security he didn’t want her.

  This stalemate position mustn’t be allowed to continue. If she acted on his suggestion regarding her husband’s income, and discovered that it had not been touched since his unconfirmed death, he would have even greater motivation for getting a foothold here, so before his hurried departure he had urged her again to check on the matter. ‘If you don’t, my love, our marriage will be as far distant as ever. Even more so, for I shall cease coming.’

  She had clung to him then, pleading and persuasive. At forty, a lover was more important to a woman than at twenty, when the future offered the possibility of replacements. He guessed, and rightly, that Phoebe’s chief delight in their association was the knowledge that she was still desirable. It was a sop to her vanity. The actual physical side was less important. On the whole, she was an uninspiring mistress, but she would serve him well enough so long as she also served his ultimate purpose. But her coyness was tedious. Frequently he wanted to tell her that he had no time for false modesty but, with admirable restraint, he refrained.

  Right from the start he had seen through her vanity, her coquetry, and because in his experience such feminine foibles had always been worth playing on, he had been content to humour them — but not indefinitely, and not for nothing.

  And not for nothing had he come to Tremain Hall in his youth, and the unexpected invitation to Lionel Drayton’s birthday celebrations more than twenty-one years later had been the Open Sesame he had waited for ever since. He had accepted with alacrity for he was an opportunist as well as an optimist, confident that he could seize a chance when he saw it, or create one if necessary. He had also remembered that Agatha was still a widow, though he was thankful when he found a more attractive one in her sister-in-law.

  He had a long memory for many things, especially if they were linked with resentments, of which he nursed plenty. Ralph Freeman’s dismissal all those years ago still smarted. He also remembered Joseph Drayton’s similar dismissal, though he had turned it to profit by accepting the two hundred pounds the man offered in return for going out of Jessica’s life. Old sores took a long time to heal, especially if allowed to fester, and they worsened when aggravated by men like Simon Kendall, who had not only won Jessica but turned the tables over the Grand Trunk Scheme. Despite his own initial triumph in influencing the Board against the man, that uneducated native of Burslem had eventually become Surveyor General after all, while the west country building concern which he, Acland, had allied himself with, gradually declined into a dwindling affair doomed to inevitable death, leaving him with only the few financial pickings he had been able to rake off without discovery, and which had mercifully been enough to set him up as a merchant of sorts.

  Yes, indeed, he had plenty of things to resent. He had realised that early in life, when his modestly-successful father had sought a replacement for his dead wife and married Edith, a remote cousin of Ralph Freeman — a virtuous middle-aged woman who did her duty as a step-mother and bored her husband for the rest of his life.

  Constant references to her relationship by marriage to the Staffordshire Tremains had meant nothing to any member of the Acland family except the youngest, who had listened with rapt attention to descriptions of the highborn people her distant cousin had married into, the magnificence of their estates, the social standing they enjoyed. He had compared it all with his own background and decided that one day he would rise above his cramped home in a Bristol street. The resolution was strengthened when his father died and the pretence that the man had been even modestly successful could no longer be maintained.

  It was then that the conscientious Edith served a most useful purpose — she became her favourite step-son’s ally. Always the most handsome of the Acland brood, Roger had learned to value his looks from childhood, for they had a satisfactory effect on women. When they gushed over him, he had turned it to good account by responding with instinctive charm, and when his father left the family penniless he had planted the idea in his step-mother’s mind that what he most longed for was a simple life in the country. After that, it was easy enough to persuade her to write to her unrelated relations, hinting that he needed to recuperate after illness, thus ensuring a prolonged stay.

  ‘And perhaps they’ll advise me on how to earn my living in the country,’ he had said, without the slightest intention of doing so. ‘A stewardship on an estate, perhaps. Not their own, of course, but they may know some country squire … ’

  And it had all come about as he had hoped, until Ralph Freeman rejected him as a suitor for his daughter’s hand, and that bastard Joseph Drayton did the same for his sister’s. But at least he had returned to Bristol with sufficient money in his pocket to buy himself into an established business and to plan for the future, feeding his ambitions with ever-increasing resentments.

  Driving past the Drayton Pottery now revived his recollection of that former Master Potter, the arrogant Joseph who had bribed him so insultingly. No doubt the man had imagined he would scorn it, so to spite him (or so he always insisted to himself) he had taken it. In any case, only a fool rejected money when it was put before him.

  And judging by the current prosperity of the Drayton works there was even more money there now. The place hummed with activity, twice the size it had been in Joseph’s day. No wonder the younger brother was renowned for his enterprise as well as for his skill. Men trained by him made their mark, some setting up on their own but many refusing to leave him. The majority of Drayton’s finest designs were Martin’s, finding a ready market in Bristol and London and in every major city; even crossing the Atlantic to the troubled shores of the New World, where, fellow merchants in Bristol reported, they continued to sell despite political unrest. The threat of war usually persuaded people to hoard their possessions, not to squander money on buying more, but over there Draytonware was either proving too popular to miss or imminent disaster made people determined to enjoy every possible luxury before the oncoming tide destroyed it all.

  It was also known that even royalty had ordered tableware bearing the Drayton mark, stipulating that it should be designed exclusively by the Master Potter himself. And he still turned out the best figurines and replicas of wild life, currently rivalled in Europe only by Dresden. It seemed that there was no stopping Martin Drayton. A pity he hadn’t an eligible daughter. A foothold in the Drayton camp would be almost as valuable as one in the Tremain, and possibly even more so one day.

  As Acland mused morosely on the past, the conveyance from the Duke’s Head passed the pottery’s entrance gates, which stood open onto a wide yard, in the centre of which stood a pump. A young woman was swilling clay from her arms and thrusting her face beneath the gushing water, plainly relishing it. He signalled the driver to slow down and from the shadow of the coach he watched the girl, sensing something familiar about her although working women rarely caught his eye.

  When she lifted her head he recognised Olivia Freeman, that unusual young woman who made him feel uncomfortable whenever they met. She had a disconcerting way of looking at him, as if summing him up or seeking answers to unspoken questions. For the most part he managed to avoid her and was glad she had become involved in her uncle’s pottery because it spared him unwelcome encounters, but with the spring sun shining down on her he recognised her uncommon good looks, and not even the homespun garments she wore detracted from her fine body.

  Strange he had not noticed these details before. All he had observed was the total contrast she made with her mother, whom she resembled in no way at all. Nor could he see much resemblance to her father, the self
-indulgent Maxwell Freeman who had been damnably patronising during that first memorable visit. He had detested that youth, begrudging him all the advantages so obviously taken for granted. Young Freeman had been handsome enough in his way, but even then it had been possible to visualise the man he would become — idle, dissolute, degenerate. Fate had been sensible to nip such a life in the bud, but it couldn’t have destroyed the young man’s fortune along with it. That must still be available, gathering goodly moss in the bank for his widow.

  As for Max Freeman’s daughter, if Phoebe didn’t come up to scratch the girl would be well worth considering — and well worth studying, he decided as she mopped her face with a kerchief and wiped her wet arms on her apron, after which she pulled off both apron and head-cap and, untying her hair, shook it free. Then she rolled down her sleeves and walked across the yard to an outbuilding from where the sound of children’s voices echoed.

  A minute later a horseman rode into the potter’s yard, dismounting and tethering his horse and then following Olivia. Acland recognised the man as one whom the stage coach had driven into a ditch on the inward journey, to his own amusement, but not to the man’s. The laughter of gammonboard passengers hadn’t vexed the victim in the least, but Acland’s had brought a brief flash of steel from disconcertingly intelligent eyes.

  Dismissing him with a mental shrug, Acland briefly wondered why a man clad in leather breeches with matching jerkin and workman’s boots and gaiters should be arriving at an industrial potter’s yard armed with a pile of children’s slates and a small quantity of books. Then he forgot him and, when Olivia failed to reappear, signalled his driver to continue. He had to settle his account at the Duke’s Head and re-board the same stage for the outward journey, which meant that when he arrived in Bristol next morning he would have a sore body and a slim purse. He hoped Phoebe would soon find out the state of her late husband’s finances, over and above her present affluent style of living, or his plans might have to be revised sooner than expected.