The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘The “late” Max Freeman? My dear Damian, he is very much alive. And so is his son.’

  ‘He had no son.’

  ‘Well, he has now, and a very handsome boy he is.’

  The news astonished Damian, and brought Olivia back into his mind. He wondered how this extraordinary turn of events had affected her, and felt ashamed because he had let personal matters crowd out everyone else. That was another reason why he had come to the pottery, anxious to make amends, and scarcely had he exchanged greetings with Amelia than Olivia walked into the room.

  CHAPTER 15

  At the sight of Damian Olivia’s heart performed its usual acrobatic leap then righted itself, enabling her to greet him calmly.

  ‘I hear Mrs Fletcher has arrived,’ she said in a friendly-neighbour tone which didn’t deceive Amelia. ‘I trust she had a smooth and pleasant crossing?’

  He acknowledged that she had and Olivia continued almost without pause, ‘And you will have heard that she met my father ahead of any of us. We had no idea he was alive, so you can imagine the drama and excitement. I’m sure the whole of Staffordshire will be humming with it in no time at all, and then it will all die down like a nine days’ wonder, except for gossiping tongues which relish such scandals for ever — the scandal being that not only has he arrived out of the blue after years of silence, but that he has brought a son with him.’

  Was she talking too much? Was her regrettable tendency to chatter when nervous betraying the fact that that was precisely how she felt? Her words stumbled and he said gently, ‘Yes, I heard about the boy. Would it be tactless to ask how you personally feel about things, or would you rather not talk about it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be in the least tactless and I am happy to talk about it. As for how I felt, after the first blank astonishment — well — all sorts of emotions. It isn’t every day that someone who believes she has only one parent discovers that she has two, plus a brother. A half-brother. My father legalised his birth so everyone will have to accept it. I find that easy because I like Miguel — a Spanish name because his mother was Mexican. That seems to make it much harder for my own mother to bear, though personally I don’t see why Miguel’s mixed blood should make any difference. My mother would have found the insult just as great had he been blue-blooded British. I suppose any wife could feel the same, although in the circumstances it doesn’t surprise me that a man should be unfaithful to a woman he hasn’t seen for more than twenty-one years.’

  She was chattering too much, babbling on about the situation to avoid hearing about Caroline. I’m a coward, she thought. I don’t want to hear about her, or talk about her, or meet her. I don’t want even to think about her, but all the time, at the back of my mind, I’m aware that she is sharing his life again in a way I long for, so I am more than a coward, I’m a fool, wasting my life in dreams. And there he stands, looking at me sympathetically, as if he knows exactly what I am feeling and thinking. How embarrassing if he does, how humiliating if he guesses that the mere sight of him, looking so content, tells me that the reason for his well-being is because during the last two weeks he has been sharing the beautiful Caroline’s bed and making love to her beautiful body. A woman shouldn’t have such thoughts, but I do … I do …

  Amelia said amiably, ‘We look forward to meeting Mrs Fletcher.’

  Damian thanked her, adding that Caroline was looking forward to meeting people too. ‘From her point of view it’s unfortunate that I have few friends, but since returning from the Colonies I’ve been too busy to mix with people.’

  And too hesitant, too reserved, too hurt by all that has gone before, thought Olivia as Amelia answered, ‘Then I will make a point of calling on her, and you must both come to Medlar Croft. I will arrange it with your wife.’

  ‘That would be kind. I know she will wish to return your hospitality, but I’m afraid she is sensitive about our restricted conditions. She feels they aren’t ideal for entertaining.’

  ‘What nonsense! Your cottage is charming, and you have made it even more so.’

  ‘It’s very humble compared with what she has been accustomed to. Her family live in the grand style in Savannah.’

  ‘And did you, after you married her?’ Olivia asked unexpectedly, then wished she had not.

  ‘Certainly on a better scale than I can offer her here. We had our own apartments in her father’s house.’

  ‘A fine house, no doubt,’ Amelia put in, ‘but surely she knew what to expect when she came over?’ She tried to conceal a note of impatience, but found it difficult. ‘Didn’t you tell her you live in a cottage?’

  ‘What her family would regard as a cottage bears no resemblance to a cottage over here. I did describe it in my letters, but no doubt Caroline has forgotten the details, or I didn’t make them clear enough.’

  To Olivia, his defence of his wife indicated how much he loved her, but she herself felt little sympathy for someone who was ashamed of inviting people to a mere cottage. I would be happy and proud to, were I his wife, she thought with frank envy.

  To change the mood of the moment as well as the subject, she said briskly, ‘About the children — I have half an hour to spare for them and a batch of clay. Today I’m going to teach them to make an owl — a simple form for small hands to tackle; an egg with the base cut off so it can stand, a slice at the top flattened to form the face, ears stuck above it and thumb-dents for eyes, plus a tiny beak in the middle, and the whole thing hollowed out so it doesn’t blow up in the kiln. They’ll love it, and I welcome a break from those haughty paintresses.’

  She nodded goodbye and was gone. Damian’s glance remained on the closed door. He was wondering why her gaiety seemed forced, and attributing it to the upheaval in her life, for he could see no other reason.

  After he too had left, offering to make up for lost time by teaching the older ones for the next hour and then taking some of the boys back to his forge to watch him at work, Amelia returned to her papers. She was deciding at which point to continue writing when another visitor arrived — an unexpected one.

  It was Lionel and he came straight to the point.

  ‘I came to see Martin, but he isn’t in his office.’

  She had never known her nephew to visit the pottery, nor to show any interest in it. Assuming that his visit therefore had nothing to do with business she suggested he should call at Medlar Croft when the pottery was closed. ‘Or tell me what you wish to see your uncle about, and I’ll let him know.’

  ‘My share in Drayton’s,’ Lionel stated bluntly. ‘The sooner we discuss it, the better.’

  She gasped, ‘Your share?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I’m entitled to part of the family business under the terms of the Drayton legacy. My mother told me that long ago, but until now I’ve never been interested.’

  ‘Then why now?’

  ‘Need you ask? I’ve been cheated out of the Tremain heritage by an ill-begotten brat from some servant’s adobe hut on the other side of the world. I’m damned if I’ll be cheated out of my Drayton rights as well.’

  Furiously, she answered, ‘If you think you can simply pick up a share in a business my husband has made famous, you are mistaken.’

  ‘My father, not Martin, did that. He salvaged the place and put it on its feet.’

  ‘And Martin not only continued where he left off, but went a great deal further. The manufacture of porcelain was considered an extravagance by Joseph Drayton. So was ornamental and decorative ware. He declared there was no money in such luxuries, and scorned all Martin’s ideas. But those ideas have won the greatest renown for Drayton’s. Had Joseph lived, he would never have achieved so much. We would still be churning out nothing but mass produced domestic pots.’ She checked her anger. This was a situation for her husband to handle, not she.

  ‘You will find Martin somewhere about the works,’ she said dismissively. ‘I should look for him in one of the sheds.’ Glancing at Lionel’s clothes she added, ‘That is, if you care
to risk your elegant garments and fine hose. A pottery is not a withdrawing room.’

  Brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, he answered with a suppressed yawn, ‘Thanks, but I’ll wait here.’

  She shrugged and turned aside, and at that moment Olivia thrust her head round the door to ask if Amelia would take charge of her group for the final ten minutes. ‘They haven’t quite finished, but the time I’m allowed from my bench is over. If I neglect my work any longer those stuffy paintresses will express their disapproval in no mean terms.’

  Amelia laughed, and agreed. She was only too glad to get away from Lionel, and spared him no further thought.

  Left to himself, he studied the room with casual interest, wondering what sort of work his youthful aunt did in this place. Curiosity made him riffle through the stacked papers, and then at pages covered in her neat copperplate script. She appeared to be writing a story of some kind. The thought amused him. A novella, perhaps? A sentimental romance of the kind his mother received in plain wrappers from a mailing library in Stoke?

  He began to read, relishing the idea of spying into Amelia’s mind. It would be as enjoyable as reading someone’s private letters.

  The name Joseph caught his eye, then Agatha, and he realised this was not fiction, but a kind of family chronicle.

  ‘At the end of August, 1750, my sister Agatha wed Joseph Drayton in Burslem’s parish church, not in the family chapel at Tremain Hall, as with Maxwell and Phoebe, which perhaps disappointed my mother, but it was Joseph’s express desire to marry in full view of the inhabitants of Burslem. Agatha looked most tolerably well in a gown of parchment silk, family bridal array which Tremain women have worn for generations. It was retrimmed and renovated, but not according to Agatha’s wishes. It was her desire to adorn it with bright red and purple poppies because she thought the gown colourless, but my mother’s persuasion mercifully prevailed.’

  Trivial stuff, thought Lionel, though the idea of his mother’s garish dress sense being tactfully subdued for such an occasion afforded him some amusement.

  Losing interest, he laid the manuscript aside, more attracted by what appeared to be personal letters of a later date, but some proved to be detailed notes in diary form. One particular passage caught his eye.

  ‘I warned Agatha not to drink from the beaker, but how could I say that I believed the glaze to be of the same recipe that Joseph used on the pieces for my father, with a dangerously high content of lead? She protested that the beaker was a gift from her husband, and that he had glazed it especially for her. ‘I wanted the lovely green he mixed for your father’s things,’ she said, ‘but alas, it has turned out duller than I expected, which is disappointing.’

  ‘Was that because the clay body was different, I wondered, or because the firing time varied, or because of the position it occupied in the kiln, or because he used a smaller lead content this time and, if so, why? Did he think it safer to go slowly, saving some for use in other ways? I know he has never loved Agatha and that he married her for position and money, even though he appeared to need neither. Why should a Master Potter, who had turned his family’s deteriorating business into a thriving concern, need to marry for money? The answer seems obvious. Because money means power and an ambitious man can never have enough of either, and because other men had their eye on the fortune Agatha had inherited and he was determined none but he should get it.

  ‘Perhaps my thoughts were reflected in my face, for my brother ordered me out of his house. And suddenly I lost heart. I had said all I had come to say; told him I knew it was he who wrecked my small workshop at Jessica and Simon’s cottage at Cooperfield, and that now he could go ahead and do his damnedest, but he would never stop me from becoming a Master Potter in my own right. I vowed I would peddle my wares from village to village if need be, as our forefathers did, and I meant it. He laughed, of course, and I took my leave.

  ‘At the door I looked back and saw Agatha watching me, frowning and puzzled, still holding the beaker Joseph had glazed for her. Then she glanced down at it with sudden distaste and laid it aside, and I turned my back on the pair of them.’

  Lionel was very still. In his mind Pierre’s voice was echoing. ‘After the graveside service, your dear mother stepped forward — to drop a flower on the coffin, everyone thought. Instead, she dropped a piece of Drayton pottery, a dull green beaker. ’T’were as if she were saying, “You know and I know why I’m giving this back to you … ”’

  A voice from the door said coolly, ‘Is it your habit to read private documents?’

  It was Amelia, and her glance was eloquent.

  He laughed and said tauntingly, ‘You look like a disapproving schoolmarm, and you are really much too pretty for that.’

  Dropping the paper negligently, he sauntered to the door, saying he was damned if he’d trail round the workshops searching for his uncle and that he would call at Medlar Croft some time soon. When he reached her side he looked down at her and smiled.

  ‘I was disappointed, sweet Amelia. I thought you were writing a novel of frustrated love, but all it appears to be is a family record.’

  ‘For family reading only, when finished.’

  ‘And am I not family, your sister’s son? Your late brother-in-law’s, too.’

  She swept past him and he went on his way, laughing. From the window she saw him cross the potter’s yard to a smart new turn-out, a carretta with an immaculately groomed chestnut mare between the shafts. It reminded her of an equippage her brother had driven when young, with a costly pair of greys, a more expensive affair even than this, which would no doubt be only the forerunner of something better if Lionel had his way, which he usually did.

  Remembering Max, and the squalls she had had with him in her girlhood, her thoughts turned inevitably to Tremain Hall and the current situation there. She didn’t underestimate the difficulties resulting from his unexpected return, but for her parents’ sake she hoped Phoebe wouldn’t stir up too much trouble. Charlotte and Ralph had lost their son for a major slice of his life and were now entitled to some peace of mind, but Phoebe would give that no consideration. She would think only of herself, and Amelia prayed that whatever difficulties her sister-in-law created would be over quickly. It was unlikely that she would ever accept Maxwell as her husband again, nor would he want her as his wife, so some reasonable solution would have to be found, otherwise not only would Ralph and Charlotte be distressed, but Olivia too. Repercussions from Phoebe’s behaviour always backlashed onto her daughter, and Olivia was unhappy enough at present.

  Had Amelia not been so absorbed in her thoughts she might have noticed that when Lionel drove away from the pottery he headed further into the village instead of out of it, and since he frequently expressed his dislike of smoky Burslem and complained that he could never pass through it without his clothes being covered in smuts, she might have formed the correct opinion that this distaste was overcome by a desire to display his smart new turn-out to the local inhabitants, continuing to Stoke for the same purpose.

  He knew he made a striking picture and wasn’t in the least surprised when admiring and envious glances followed him. He flicked the chestnut into high-stepping action, pleased and exhilarated by its speed, highly amused when children and dogs scattered before him and old people stumbled in their fear of being run down. Through the village and out again on the Stoke road he went, passing Fletcher’s forge on the way and bringing a flock of small boys racing out to see who came galloping along so fast. Some even ran out into the lane, bright eyes alerted by the echo of racing hooves. Fletcher came striding after them, dragging one or two to safety, then shouting to the driver to go more carefully.

  His words passed unheeded by Lionel, whose attention was distracted by a young woman at the adjoining cottage gate, and so ravishing was she that he not only lost his grip on the reins but all thought of his route.

  The flurry, the cries of the boys, the blacksmith’s shout and the driver’s loss of control ca
used the horse to stumble and then rear, unheedful of commands or the crack of the whip, nor did the creature calm down until Fletcher seized its martingale to avert an accident. He soothed the beast, then rounded on its owner. ‘You bloody fool! How many do you aim to kill?’

  It wouldn’t have been so humiliating if the young woman had not been watching. To appear at a disadvantage in front of any female was something Lionel couldn’t abide; it was even worse when the audience was as lovely as this. From that moment he hated Damian Fletcher, blaming him entirely for the incident.

  ‘If you hadn’t panicked like a fool, there would have been no cause for alarm,’ he flung back, then jumped down and dismissed the man, deliberately insulting him by offering him a coin. ‘Take that for your pains; I know you meant well.’ He laughed when Fletcher ignored it, turned on his heel, and went back to his work.

  Presuming that so elegant a young woman was waiting at the farrier’s cottage rather than at the forge whilst her horse was shod, Lionel hitched the reins then advanced towards her, removing his hat with a flourish. He saw then that she was not wearing a riding habit, but an extremely fashionable gown, but didn’t pause to speculate on any other reason for her presence. It was enough that she was there and that he had the opportunity to introduce himself, which he did with a courtly bow.

  ‘May I be permitted to present myself, ma’am? Lionel Drayton of Tremain Hall. Alas, I have not had the honour of meeting you until now, but I hope the privilege will be repeated very soon and very frequently.’

  In reply her voice was provocative, amused, but her words froze him.

  ‘Not if you address my husband in such a tone again, sir. You are obviously unaware that despite his present occupation — his temporary occupation — he is a scholar with high degrees. And though I may be unknown to you, I am indeed known to your uncle, Maxwell Freeman. We met aboard the Saracen.’

  His reaction reduced her to laughter. At any other moment he would have delighted in the sound, but at this one embarrassment brought the colour flooding to his face. At that, she relented a little.