The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘Apparently you weren’t listening when I announced that Miguel’s birth had been legitimised, making him not only a member of this family, bearing its name, but my rightful heir. You are more like your father than I realised. He, too, arrogantly assumed that no one should ever stand in his way, that he could dictate and manipulate at will. He connived even in the matter of my marriage, convincing both me and my father that Phoebe would make a better wife than her sister.’

  ‘Her sister! You mean my Aunt Jessica?’

  ‘Who else? Don’t tell me dear Aggie hasn’t related ancient scandals to you? Or Phoebe herself, perhaps? She was always hellishly prudish, ashamed of Jessica’s moral lapse. For my part, I secretly envied Simon Kendall, who was dealt a better hand than I, though I didn’t suspect that at the time because Phoebe was a winsome little thing. And part of the Drayton marriage settlement was a financial share in the pottery, an enticement my father appreciated because he deplored my inability to stick to anything. I don’t blame the old man for that; he was self-made and believed that every man should work whether he needed to or not. Needless to say, I failed again, partly because I wasn’t remotely interested in the earthenware trade, and partly because Joseph took good care that I should be no more than a useless cypher, supposedly on the administrative side but actually doing nothing except watch the workers and report any misdoings.’

  ‘Spying, you mean? That must have been fun.’

  ‘I had other ideas of fun, and indulged them. Horses, gambling, cock-fighting, bear-baiting — all the enjoyments of leisured youth. And costly ones. That was where your father’s cunning came in. With great affability he helped to conceal my debts from my father, who had had his fill of settling them — though when I went away there were still some unpaid ones for him to deal with — but with Joseph as my ally all I had to do was pass the bills to him and sign slips acknowledging the amounts, then forget about them. Everything was fine until, after he married Agatha, he decided to turn the screws. Then I had a shock, for the bastard had altered the figures above my signatures, added massive interest, and then decided to call in the loans. What with being disillusioned with Phoebe as a wife, for reasons I won’t go into and in some ways deserved, I found myself trapped. The debts were trebled.’

  ‘So you ran away. Even though your parents were well heeled?’

  ‘You can put it like that, if you like. I certainly couldn’t let my father know of the mess I was in, though perhaps that wouldn’t have been such a shock as the one I happily dealt your own father.’ A note of relish crept into Maxwell Freeman’s voice. ‘I managed to lay my hands on every damned promissory note and destroyed the lot. After that, Joseph never saw me again.’

  ‘From what I hear, you also managed to lay your hands on other things as well; money, plus securities on which you could raise more. Presumably you’ve been living on the proceeds ever since.’

  ‘Not exactly. I continued to draw my allowance from home until it suited me to sever my connections. I did that because I knew my association with a Mexican peasant woman would never be accepted here. I decided that if she were to be ostracised, I would choose to be also. In any case, I had landed on my feet and could do without help from home. But cashing those assets proved difficult. Their greatest value to me came when I met a rich Mexican who was looking for a partner in a pioneer nutmeg plantation in the Caribbean. By that time I’d discovered what a profitable business the exportation of nutmegs was. They fetch high prices all over the world.’

  ‘But you couldn’t have known any more about nutmegs than you did about pottery.’ Lionel rose and replenished his glass. He even did the same for his uncle. He was feeling more mellow and even interested in the man’s story.

  ‘True’ said Max, ‘but the assets I’d made off with were good enough to vouch for my worth, besides which I had even greater value — I spoke English, and the Mexican could scarcely get his tongue round it. I was just the man he was looking for. I could handle all business requiring English, and that business was considerable. After you left the dining hall so loftily tonight I related how I came to be sole possessor of the Caribbean scheme — and other things which I’m sure wouldn’t interest you, such as the even greater good fortune of having Conchita in my life.’

  ‘My mother told me how you’d landed on your feet. You can hardly complain if life then handed you a bad deal. What I really want to know is how you got hold of the promissory notes you say my father extracted from you.’

  Max chuckled. ‘It was surprisingly easy. You should ask Martin Drayton. He was there when I seized them. Not that he realised why I was searching, or for what. He was more interested in a packet of white powder which fell from a drawer I’d forced, whereas my only concern was whether the mess it made on brand new Turkey carpet might betray the fact that the desk had been broken into, before I had a chance to get away.’

  ‘Was that the desk my dear mamma passed on to my grandfather, saying it held too many memories? That has always struck me as odd, because she’s kept other things of my father’s, including a God-awful Chinese robe in which he was found dead.’

  Lionel laughed tipsily, but Max Freeman was startled.

  ‘“Found”?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean, “found”?’

  ‘Precisely that. He was found dead in the garden house of his home. But tell me more about how you laid your hands on the promissory notes. How did you know they were in my father’s old desk?’

  ‘I guessed it, because when Agatha wanted to clear out the drawers and transfer the contents to the new desk, he wouldn’t let her. It was an ancient table to which a couple of drawers had been added, and no one but he had a key. So I had to force them. I drew a blank with the first one and was working on the second when Martin walked in. Of course he wanted to know what I was up to, and at that moment the lock obligingly broke and some of the contents spilled onto the floor, including the package which made a helluver a mess. All I was interested in were the IOU’s, so I grabbed them and made a getaway, leaving young Martin puzzling over the powder, rubbing some of it between his fingers and sniffing it. The next day, I was gone.’

  Max laid aside his glass, yawned copiously, stretched, and dragged himself to his feet. ‘Time to turn in,’ he muttered. ‘Glad we had this chat, Lionel. Cleared the air, I hope?’

  But to Lionel the air seemed murky. He wanted to ask more questions, but his uncle was already at the door. Then he turned and said, ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Lionel Drayton. I’ve no desire whatsoever to share the heir’s wing with your aunt. I would have been a damn sight happier with Jessica, even without her loving me. You’d never believe those two sisters were born within half an hour of each other, would you? I imagine they are still as different as chalk from cheese. Jessica was no stranger to physical love, which was why I envied Kendall. However, my lovely Conchita more than made up for everything. I would have been content with her even had we been poor, a fact you may not believe in view of my profligate youth. With Conchita, I was reborn — though I daresay,’ he finished wryly, ‘that my basic character is unchanged. So can you imagine your pious aunt and I ever living together again?’

  Lionel hid a smile. If you did but know, he thought maliciously, there’s little piety in your wife these days. She’s enjoying life with a secret lover and the cunning bitch is also hanging on to my grandmother’s rubies.

  Both those facts might come in useful some day. Meanwhile, there would be some enjoyment in watching from afar to see how Phoebe handled the Roger Acland situation — even, perhaps, to see what the man decided to do. To fade from the scene, or look elsewhere?

  But still Lionel’s uncle had one last word for him.

  ‘I hope I’ve convinced you that you’re wasting your time in hoping to inherit this place? The best thing an idle young man like yourself can do is to look round for a rich wife.’

  Thanks very much,’ Lionel answered drily, ‘but I’ve inspected them throughout the length and breadth of Staffordshire an
d there isn’t one I hanker after.’

  ‘Then perhaps your rich new neighbour will introduce you to someone.’

  ‘I know of no “rich new neighbour”.’

  ‘She was on the Saracen. Wife of a local property owner, she said. I also gathered from fellow travellers who knew her background that she’s an American heiress — some of those Colonials are amassing fortunes and she comes from one of the richest families in Georgia.’

  Intrigued, Lionel asked for her name.

  ‘Fletcher. First name Caroline, but down on the passenger list as Mrs Damian Fletcher.’

  Lionel shouted with laughter. ‘The only Damian Fletcher in these parts is the village farrier and the only property he owns is a cottage adjoining his forge. You’ve been hoodwinked, dear uncle. You won’t even be moving in the same circle.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Olivia was glad to return to the pottery next morning, where everything was the same as usual. Only in herself was there a difference; an awareness that she was no longer a fatherless only daughter, but a young woman who had suddenly acquired the normal quota of parents, plus a half-brother.

  Yet uppermost in her mind was not the problem of her estranged father and mother, nor for how long jealousy and anger would be sustained by certain members of the family because someone whom they considered a rank outsider had been elevated to the position of a future heir. The only question tormenting her was how soon she would meet Caroline Fletcher.

  She said casually to Amelia later that morning, ‘Have you heard that Damian’s wife has arrived? She crossed on the same ship as my father and Miguel.’

  She kept her eyes on her banding wheel as she spoke, but the display of concentration wasn’t wholly assumed for she had recently advanced to brush decoration and this demanded careful attention, the right wrist being firmly grasped with the left hand to steady the brush as the wheel spun, thus controlling lines of colour spiralling from the base of an upturned pot. The next step would be to learn how to apply separate rings and, reversing the process, to proceed from top to bottom until she became adept at working from both angles and at placing the bands in varied positions, in varying thicknesses and varying patterns.

  She had also to master the art of free-hand painting without the use of a banding wheel, using a variety of brushes until ultimately she mastered the long, floppy Japanese brushes which put her in mind of miniature horses’ tails. But those lessons were yet to come.

  The ‘paintresses’, as these women who did brushwork insisted on being called because it defined their sphere specifically and set them apart from decorators working with coloured slips, regarded themselves as the elite amongst female employees. They had their own workshop and earned higher wages because brushwork was a skilled operation which not everyone could master. So conscious were they of their superiority that they refused to eat the midday meal with lower grade workers. This amused Olivia, but at the same time irritated her.

  She also knew that they begrudged having to teach the Master Potter’s niece a skill for which they considered she had no need. Why should she, born to wealth, try to steal their knowledge and someone’s job in consequence? So they answered her questions evasively, demonstrated techniques only when asked to, and imparted limited information. She was therefore forced to find things out for herself by trial and error, and by watching their deft hands at work without revealing that she was doing so.

  The paintresses resented Olivia’s presence even more than the canalside workers and those at the wedging benches. It had amused them to watch from afar when menial workers closed ranks against her, and to see her overcome their prejudice by doggedly ignoring it, but now she had been sent to work in their midst they found no humour in the situation and regarded her manner toward the labourers as demeaning. To acknowledge them, let alone greet them as the Master Potter’s niece did, was something they themselves would never do.

  There was a fractional pause before Amelia answered her niece, during which Olivia was aware of her thoughtful glance.

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard,’ Amelia answered carefully. ‘How long has she been here? Longer than Max and his son, presumably, if she travelled to Burslem immediately. I recall Max saying he had stayed in Liverpool for a few days before coming home.’

  So Amelia, at least, regarded Tremain Hall as still her brother’s rightful home, despite having turned his back on it. Olivia reflected that Agatha might have felt the same but for her son, whom she naturally championed, but Phoebe’s opposition was more deeply rooted and was certainly not concerned with her daughter, although she pretended it to be. Olivia knew that her mother’s opposition was based on fear, for even before Olivia’s birth she had been comfortably installed in her own private wing. Now it was threatened with invasion and she with eviction if she opposed it; not that she would be banished from Tremain Hall, but she would be housed less elegantly, and what an insult that would be, what a humiliation, living less grandly than her errant husband and his bastard!

  That thought sparked another. What would her mother now do where Roger Acland was concerned? And what would he do? Persuade her to leave her husband, or beat a hasty retreat?

  Amelia was saying, ‘Now I understand Damian’s absence. Also his silence. Only yesterday I was tempted to call at the forge to see what was wrong. I’m glad I didn’t. My intrusion wouldn’t have been welcomed by a couple enjoying a second honeymoon, for that is what it must seem after a long separation.’

  She could have bitten her tongue as soon as she had spoken, for not only was it unlike her to be tactless, but she knew how Olivia felt about Damian Fletcher and secretly despaired over the hopelessness of it. Had Olivia been the type to fall in love frequently and indiscriminately there would have been no cause for anxiety, but Amelia had never known her niece to care so deeply for any man. The way in which her guard went up whenever Damian was discussed spoke volumes, and never more so than now. With his wife’s arrival her position had become even more vulnerable.

  Olivia laid aside her brush, released the pot from the turn-table, inspected it, and frowned in disapproval. ‘I must do better than that,’ she said, immediately washing off the decoration.

  ‘You’re becoming a perfectionist,’ Amelia said, gladly changing the subject and thinking what a blessing it was that Olivia had both talent and ambition to see her through life’s difficulties and disappointments. Never would she mope at home or go into a decline, in the fashion of today’s young women when crossed in love. Work would help to bury her feelings and preserve her pride,

  To Amelia’s surprise, Olivia said lightly, ‘Then I hope the second honeymoon will allow him to remember the children’s lessons again. If his wife permits.’

  The unexpected touch of cynicism didn’t escape her aunt, who decided not to pursue the subject but to return to her own work. The Drayton history which she was compiling had been held up lately, so while the children were enjoying recreation between morning lessons she intended to get to work on it again. Taking ancient files from a cupboard in her husband’s office, she went into the small room where she worked and shut the door firmly.

  The files comprised not only documents but diaries kept since earlier Draytons achieved literacy. Much of the old English style of spelling and writing was difficult to decipher, but dating from her father-in-law’s day legibility had taken over.

  She always thought of George Drayton as her father-in-law although he had died long before she married his younger son — died unexpectedly of heart failure after eating his usual midday meal at the old family desk which Martin had resurrected when inheriting the pottery. She remembered the locks of both drawers had been broken and that when she remarked that perhaps the desk wasn’t worth repairing, her husband had endearingly refused to replace it with another. Sitting at his father’s desk meant a lot to him, but Amelia had feared that constant use might remind him of the man’s death too much, for the suddenness of it had worried Martin for a long time, and though he never referred to i
t now she had never lost the feeling that he had suspected something which caused him concern.

  But that was in the distant past, a chapter she had not yet reached in her story of the Draytons.

  The batch of papers she now unfolded needed much sorting out. She concentrated on assembling them in separate piles — letters, diaries, receipts, and even family recipes. Many were faded, but many told their own stories of hopes and anxieties, of triumphs and disasters. It was like occupying a grandstand seat at an historical pageant, the characters trooping into the arena for long or brief appearances. Many of the diaries were revealing, though most were confined to business concerning the pot bank, and in some of the letters personal feelings showed through so that she felt like a spy, or a trespasser breaking into private territory. Her instinct then was to lock the papers away again, but she resisted the impulse, her conscience eased by the realisation that these records from the past had been preserved for posterity because someone had wanted them to be.

  ‘It was my father’s idea,’ Martin had confided early in their marriage. ‘Like many avid readers he dreamed of being a writer one day, but never progressed beyond assembling his material. He started collecting Drayton data in his youth, however unimportant, however trivial, with the intention of compiling a family record.’

  That remark had fired Amelia’s desire to fulfil George Drayton’s dream for him, and over the years, in between domestic responsibilities and additional tasks at the pottery which she had undertaken to keep at bay certain unhappy moments in which she mourned the absence of children in her marriage, she had gradually recorded an ever-unfolding story of family life which had all the elements of a novel, except that it was factual instead of imaginary.