‘Priest! Since when did the likes of ’er take up wi’ the priest’ood!’
Martin folded the letter and handed it across.
‘Take it, Mistress Tinsley, and until you are able to speak of your nephew’s wife with greater kindness, don’t approach me again.’
‘’Ow’d ye know she were ’is wife, Master Potter?’
‘Because that was the way he loved her, and the way she loved him. For always.’
Martin found it difficult to hide his reaction to this news about Meg Gibson … Meg Tinsley … who had worked on the benches alongside him when he was his brother’s apprentice. It was she who had taught him how to turn a foot on the base of a pot and she who, along with Jessica and Simon, had aided and abetted when, unbeknown to Joseph, he had worked in the shed belonging to their cottage in the village of Cooperfield. Meg had been his friend and ally, ever loyal. She had also been devoted to her mother throughout a long and agonising illness, tossing a defiant head when the world branded her as the worst whore for miles.
He had never forgotten her, never believed that she ran off to London with a rich stranger. He had always been convinced that she followed Frank Tinsley when his seaman’s feet led him back to the Mersey, for hadn’t she once said that the potman from the Red Lion wanted her to go back there with him? Frank had first arrived unexpectedly in Burslem, seeking out his aunt when his mother died and remaining throughout the winter until the thaw set him free again; a strong, tow-headed young man very much out of his element as a land-lubber, but remaining because he had fallen in love with Meg, and she with him.
Even so, when he had gone she had stayed behind, though with her mother’s death Martin had seen no good reason for it. Then suddenly, overnight, she vanished, saying goodbye to no one and telling no one where she was off to, but leaving all her work at the pottery completed and her bench scrupulously tidy. So it was obvious to everyone at Drayton’s that she had planned to go away, and the story about the rich stranger carrying her off to London had been readily accepted.
But not by him, nor by Amelia. They had thought of her, throughout the years, as safe and happy with Frank, and apparently they had been right.
Rising, Martin said, ‘When Meg arrives, please let me know.’
‘An’ why should I? Wot did the ’ussy ivver do f’me, ’cept try to rob me?’
‘Rob you? Meg? She was honest as the day.’
The old woman spat on the floor, whereupon he bade her good-day, marvelling that one moment he could feel sorry for her and the next be repelled by her, but so it had always been. He opened the door wider to speed her departure, but she stood her ground.
‘Aye, sir — rob me. That’s wot I said and that’s wot she tried t’do. Two gold pieces the gent offered fer the usual job, if ye git me meanin’, sir, but the leddy nivver come an’ that black ’aired wench kept t’money till at last she ’ad to cough up. Two gold sovrins an’ all!’
‘And the gentleman who offered the sovereigns — who was he?’
‘That she’d nivver tell. Came t’me one day an’ said as ‘ow a gent were sendin’ a leddy after dark an’ I’d git two gold pieces when I’d seen to’er, but nary a penny if I didn’t keep me mouth shut. So ’ow was I t’know ’oo the gent be?’
Martin didn’t pursue it. Lifting a curtain on events well over twenty years old served no useful purpose, besides which he remembered Joseph ordering him to wait at the top of Larch Lane with a closed carriage — for whom, he had not revealed — and then cancelling the command several hours later. Not until long after Jessica’s marriage to Simon had he suspected a thing, and for ever remained silent.
Holding the door wide, he said, ‘Since Meg gave you the money finally, why doesn’t it occur to you that not until that moment had she been able to lay her hands on it? That seems more likely to be the truth, for Meg was honest through and through, and never let me hear you say otherwise again.’
Humbled, Martha bobbed a clumsy curtsy. As she shuffled past him he decided to leave the door ajar for the rest of the day, to ventilate the place. Then a thought struck him. Since the crumpled letter had carried no address it would be wise to send a message back with the crateman in case Martha proved unreliable. The Red Lion was the usual lodging place for these men of the road, for despite the advent of canals there were still some tinkers and carters who transported goods for smaller potters, travelling from Liverpool to Staffordshire and spending the night in Burslem before making the return journey.
‘This man Sykes — I presume I’ll find him at the Red Lion?’
‘I dessay, sir. ’E be mainly a tinker now, like the rest o’them thievin’ cratemen since canals put an end t’their road-robberies.’ The words were accompanied by a sniff of righteous disapproval, as if never would she associate with anyone so dubious. That amused Martin so much that his annoyance with the old harridan subsided.
He wasted no time in contacting the crateman.
‘Aye, sir,’ said Sykes, ‘Frank Tinsley’s widder-woman be known t’me. I doubt if she can read, tho’.’
‘There no need for a letter. Just tell her that Martin Drayton awaits her coming.’
‘Ye be the Master Potter, sir?’
‘That’s right. Tell her that my wife and I will welcome her at Medlar Croft. She will remember the house.’
The crateman’s gnarled fingers closed over proffered coins. He promised to deliver the message the moment he reached Liverpool and Martin, knowing this double payment ensured his co-operation, left the inn well satisfied.
He paused for a moment on Cobbler’s Green, recalling the Sabbath when John Wesley had preached to the inhabitants of Burslem for the first time, and the near-riot it had caused, ruffians throwing clods of earth and women screaming abuse and fights breaking out all over the place, and how Wesley had calmly continued to preach until Simon Kendall and others hurried him away … and how, before the evangelist had even arrived on the scene, he and Jessica had waited in the family gig and seen Meg Gibson go swaggering by, heading for the far hill in the direction of Carrion House, though Jessica hadn’t suspected the girl’s destination. She had merely commented that one would never have imagined a girl like Meg enjoying a Sunday afternoon’s walk.
‘I would have expected her to relax with her feet up, after standing at a potter’s bench fourteen hours a day, six days a week.’
As for himself, he had kept silent, unwilling to acknowledge his suspicions until, later, he had seen a flash of red emerging from the side lane by his brother’s house, and even then he had remained silent because neither Jessica nor any other member of the family had an inkling of what he surmised.
Thrusting aside these recollections, Martin returned to the pottery well satisfied, knowing that Amelia would be as pleased as he when she heard the news, and he took pleasure in repeating it on their next visit to Tremain Hall.
It was customary for the family to sup with Charlotte and Ralph on Saturdays, an occasion the old couple looked forward to, though Agatha’s carping about the culinary side and the comparisons she made with Pierre’s catering could be irritating. Tonight, however, she made no comments, other than to suggest that she should get the man to teach her mother’s cook how to make a proper sauce béchamel, and did her father really consider home-brewed sack to be palatable with venison? At that Ralph gave a bark of a laugh and told her to sample it and find out.
‘Tremain keeps the best home brews in Staffordshire, m’girl, and don’t you forget it. I doubt if your fancy Frenchman could find a sack so good in the whole of your London-stocked cellar. And from the way your son is swilling it, he seems to agree.’
It wasn’t the easiest of evenings, though Charlotte couldn’t put her finger on the cause. She was only aware that Agatha was watching Phoebe covertly, hastily averting her glance if their eyes met, and that her daughter-in-law merely pushed food around her plate, and that Lionel seemed to be watching both of them and finding the spectacle amusing. He even gave a secret smil
e when his mother solicitously asked if Phoebe’s indisposition had passed, to which his aunt retorted, like a chicken ruffling its feathers, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I am not in the least unwell. Unlike yourself, I am rarely indisposed, but then, I never over-eat.’
‘I was merely concerned because you locked your bedroom door this afternoon. The only reason I could see was that you were enjoying one of your migraines.’
‘I never enjoy them. I endure them. Alas, it is an affliction which sensitive people like myself suffer from and which insensitive people like you cannot comprehend, but surely you realise that had I succumbed to an attack today I would scarcely be at the supper table this evening? I take it you intruded whilst I was having my afternoon nap, so I’m glad you failed to rouse me. What brought you, pray?’
‘Just a hope that you might suggest another hair style for me. Rose lacks all imagination.’
‘You mean you wanted to make yet another bid for Hannah’s services, though you are well aware she will attend no one but me. And may I remind you, dear Agatha, that I never trespass into your own wing? Privacy should be respected.’
Charlotte moved impatiently, irritated by their petty barbs and thankful that Amelia and Martin, as always, were amiable and even-tempered. So, too, was Olivia, enjoying the meal with the healthy appetite of a manual worker — which, alas, she now was, though in all honesty her appearance and manners were quite unchanged. Joining the ranks of Martin’s pottery workers had altered her in no way at all. Charlotte secretly admitted that in a way she was disappointed about that. It would have been gratifying to find Olivia out of love with her new life and therefore ready to don the mantle of heiress.
Earlier this evening Ralph had finally convinced his wife that stubbornly clinging to hope was nothing more than a blind refusal to accept the truth, and that the time had come to be decisive, to plan for Tremain’s future and to face the problem of the succession. Olivia’s determination to follow her own inclinations now forced the issue. It was no use hoping that she would change her mind. Working at the pot bank only seemed to have made her more resolute.
So Lionel would have to inherit, after all. Since there was no one else, she had to bow to the inevitable and hope that responsibility would change him from a feckless youth to a man on whom she could depend, but looking at him now, liberally imbibing and lolling indolently in his chair, Charlotte felt deep misgivings. It would be hard to wean him away from an indulged life to a disciplined one.
But would her dear Max have shaped any better? Not if Ralph was right in saying she had been over-protective of their son. ‘You sheltered him too much, my love. You brought him up to believe that work was not for the likes of him.’
‘But there was no need for him to work — at least, not until he became master of Tremain.’
‘Even so, it would have done him a power of good to have a taste of adversity. Max wasn’t bad at heart, but he went the way of all overindulged youth, squandering money, playing fast and loose with women, thinking only of himself, and finally clearing off when the going got rough.’
‘Rough? In what way?’
‘Accumulation of debts, my dear. I cleared them until I was prepared to clear no more, but still he ran them up. You know well enough that he left a trail of unpaid bills. I suspect that even Joseph Drayton had been helping him out, though I can’t think why. Of course, the man was anxious to link his family with ours, so no doubt he considered it well worth while, for twittering Phoebe’s sake. A pity the plan to wed Jessica with Max didn’t come off. On the other hand, it would never have worked out.’
‘Nor did marriage with Phoebe.’
‘That’s true, but it’s no use raking over the past or laying blame at this door or that. We lost our son, dear Charlotte, and wearing blinkers doesn’t hide the fact that the scamp made off with enough money and assets to keep him in comfort for a very long time. After that, he would have been forced to come home or to contact the family lawyers to draw more funds. The fact that he did neither is significant, and must be faced.’
‘Perhaps he accumulated money overseas.’
‘Worked for it? Earned it? Max?’
Ralph’s tone had been so eloquent that she had finally abandoned hope. Max was dead. She must prepare for Tremain’s future.
‘I will send for Whittaker to come from Stoke tomorrow,’ she had said. ‘I have shirked the issue too long. Although Lionel will inherit if the present male stipulation remains, there are certain dispositions I can make, certain properties I can bequeath as I choose and, of course, my jewels to be divided. I shall instruct Whittaker to execute everything quickly and then I can put the whole thing from my mind.’
Her husband’s kiss on her brow had been understanding, comforting. He had assured her that she was doing the right thing and would feel a hundred times better once it was done. And of course he was right. Ralph had always been a fountain of wisdom.
It was toward the end of the meal that Martin asked if anyone remembered Meg Gibson.
‘The wench who worked at Drayton’s?’ Ralph said, recalling a black-haired, black-eyed gypsy in a red skirt and deep-necked blouse, swaggering through the village with all eyes on her. ‘A turner, wasn’t she?’
‘The best we ever had, and I hope we’ll have her again. She is coming back.’
Phoebe cried, ‘That dreadful creature! Surely not! Burslem has become more respectable since her day.’
‘Nonsense, sister. And Meg wasn’t dreadful. I worked alongside her and a splendid worker she was. Joseph thought very highly of her.’
‘He disapproved of her totally,’ Agatha put in sharply, for once siding with her sister-in-law.
Martin looked at her, but said nothing. Lionel didn’t miss the glance, and turned on his mother a long and contemplative stare. Across the table, Olivia saw it. She also saw her mother’s tightly pursed mouth — a crinkled, disapproving rosebud — and heard the sharpness of thorns in her voice as she said, ‘I hope you really won’t be so foolish as to employ the woman, Martin. She can only have gone from bad to worse.’
‘I shall most certainly employ her if she intends to stay in Burslem and wants to return to Drayton’s. She is a widow now, so I imagine she will be glad of employment.’
‘A widow! Don’t tell me the rich man she decamped with actually married her!’
‘There was no rich man. She married a seaman from Liverpool, nephew of old Martha Tinsley.’
Phoebe shuddered and said something about like taking to like, at which her brother’s face darkened and Amelia remarked that she, for one, was greatly looking forward to seeing Meg. ‘We still have samples of her work. I’ve been collecting pieces for display. With a skill like hers we’ll be fortunate indeed to have her back.’
‘Is it possible that she may have lost her skill over the years?’ old Ralph said to Martin.
‘Very unlikely. She learned from childhood and, like walking, such an ability is never forgotten.’
For the first time Lionel put in a word. ‘From what I hear she was a beauty. I wonder if she still is … ’ But no one paid any attention because Charlotte was terminating the meal, leaving the men to their wine and leading the way to the big withdrawing room. Once there, Agatha wandered off to titivate before a mirror at the far end, and Phoebe seized the opportunity to draw her mother-in-law aside, murmuring that she had something important to ask of her.
‘It concerns my late husband’s income,’ she said in a voice low enough not to be overheard either by her sister-in-law or by her daughter, who was absorbed in distant bookshelves.
‘Max’s income?’ Charlotte repeated, startled.
Phoebe nodded. ‘I want to know when he last drew funds from it. After all, I am his widow and have a right to know.’
The old lady sighed.
‘That’s true, though you can’t accuse me of ever withholding money from you. And you know that Max made sure you were provided for before he — went away. Even you must appr
eciate that, though I’ve never heard you say so. I recall that the only thing you worried about was how you were placed financially.’
‘And now I want to know precisely how much more there is. A goodly sum must have accumulated since his death, with the rest of his income and assets lying untouched.’
Charlotte levelled a speculative glance on her daughter-in-law, and asked, ‘Who has put you up to this? Who has suggested an investigation? I can’t believe you have suddenly thought of it yourself, mercenary though you are.’
‘I — mercenary!’
‘Keep your voice down. It doesn’t matter if Agatha overhears, but a daughter’s good opinion of her mother should be preserved. And Olivia is loyal to you always.’
‘Loyal! Turning her back on the inheritance which, as the heir’s daughter, should come to her? Lowering herself to the level of a labourer, not caring in the least for how I feel or the embarrassment she causes me?’
‘Having a pottery worker as a grand-daughter is no embarrassment to me, so why to you? Amelia tells me Olivia is very talented and Martin has always praised her potential. I sometimes think it a pity they aren’t her parents, for you have never held her in much esteem. Don’t protest — I may be old, but I see a lot. Because I am old I see a lot. You want Tremain for Olivia, and despite being aware that she rejects the very idea, you still want it — which means for yourself. But who the inheritance goes to still rests with me. At present Lionel is the only candidate and I can alter that if I so wish. However, I have decided not to. I shall change nothing. And now you are angry.’
‘Of course I am angry!’
‘Yet I’ve often heard you praise your brother’s son, comparing him favourably with his father. And I have often heard you say how splendidly Joseph conducted himself as owner of Carrion House. “Like father, like son” is a cliché you have frequently quoted, so you must consider Lionel a highly suitable heir for Tremain.’
To that Phoebe could say nothing. Sulkily, she begged to be excused, pleading a headache, at which Agatha called from the far end of the room, ‘Didn’t your afternoon nap do you any good? Perhaps you slept too heavily and too long … if you did sleep, of course … ?’
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