Walking from Carrion House to the pottery, the dreadful story echoed in Olivia’s mind. How could she fail to dislike a house where such a man had lived, and how could she fail to recoil from the very idea of living there herself?
Eagerly, she hurried to the modellers’ workshops. She had finished her spell with the paintresses and, at last, had moved into the sphere she craved. Here she had the choice of clay to work with — fine white earthenware, terracotta, or heavily grogged clay for outdoor figures which had to withstand the elements. Not for a long time yet would she advance to porcelain, but she was more than content with this big step forward.
The tranquillity of a pottery on a Sunday, after six days of noise and bustle, was like a benediction following her mother’s stressful company. Even when long firings were still underway, there would be only the distant roar of dragon flames and the occasional voices of the fire men shouting above them, all far removed from the modelling sheds. Firings couldn’t be halted because church bells rang, but at Drayton’s any man who wished to worship could leave his post for the village church while someone else took over, Martin frequently doing so himself, and not a penny of the man’s extra pay would be docked. Rival potters declared he was soft with his workers, at which Martin would merely smile, particularly when their men deserted at the first chance and his own remained loyal.
When Olivia had at last been told that she was to advance to the modelling workshop, her uncle had added wryly, ‘But don’t let it go to your head, my dear. You won’t be doing anything of your own for a long time yet. You’ll be concentrating on fairings and knick-knacks and whatever the foreman delegates to you, and all, for a start, will be miniature items which you’ll probably find fiddlesome, but hour after hour you will have to work on them until you’ll never wish to see a frippery little gew-gaw again, or a hedgehog or mouse or piglet or any other farmyard animal to adorn some child’s nursery. But chafing against routine production will be useless. You’ll have to persevere as you have persevered ever since you came to work here — and I’ll be as proud of you and as pleased with you as I’ve been since the day you started down by the canal with the toughest women in the potteries. But of course,’ he had finished with a sideways glance, ‘if you were to play truant from Tremain Hall as I played truant from here once-upon-a-time, and took out of its damp bin the model of Amelia you were forced to put aside, I wouldn’t have any knowledge of that, now would I?’
That was the day he had placed the key beside her modelling stand, giving her no opportunity to thank him.
Her portrait of Amelia had been preserved throughout the months, clay condition unimpaired, and although she had once decided that she would either want to discard it and begin anew, or finish it as best she could and delegate it to a corner where few but she would see it, she found, on looking at it now, that its potential was rather better than she thought. No, she would not discard it; she would struggle to improve it, scale down the forehead, rebridge the nose, heighten the cheekbones very slightly, take away a heaviness in the line of chin. Excitement touched her as she ran her fingers over the moist clay. She was surprised that this amateurish attempt should offer possibilities for improvement, and she blessed her uncle for storing it away so carefully. Swathed in moisturised rags it emerged unscathed, thanks to his secret attention.
What a dear he was, what dears they both were, he and Amelia! Not for the world would she disappoint either of them by declining to attend their supper party next Sunday, even though she didn’t look forward to meeting Damian’s wife, who would surely eclipse her. It was a meeting which had to be faced, and it would be easier in the company of people she loved, but to steer her mind away from apprehension she focused all her attention on her work and, as always, discovered in it a merciful release. Forgotten was her mother’s petty spite, forgotten her own anxiety, forgotten even was Damian himself until fatigue forced her to stop and, scrubbing her hands at the pump in the yard outside, she saw him riding past. Glancing through the gates he caught sight of her, halted, and called her name.
She answered with her usual lightness, glad that distance prevented him from sensing her delight. It was becoming increasingly hard to hide her reaction to him.
‘What are you doing at the pottery on a Sunday?’ he called. ‘And how did you break in?’
‘I didn’t. I have a key — my own. What do you think of that?’ She smiled as she dried her hands on her sacking apron, untied kit, and rolled down her sleeves as he dismounted and entered.
‘I don’t see any transport, Olivia. Don’t tell me you walked all the way from Tremain?’
‘No — from Carrion House. My mother is going to live there. I was viewing it with her and left her inspecting the latest improvements, which are going ahead at speed. From there it isn’t a long walk across the valley.’
‘Are you going to live there, too?’
She shook her head.
‘That will displease her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Carrion House may not be more than a couple of miles away, but Tremain is considerably more, even from the outskirts of Burslem. A very long walk home.’
‘I don’t mind that. I was born in the country. If I wasn’t riding in the park as a child, I’d be walking there.’
‘And that is vast enough, God knows.’ He had tethered his horse by the well and now stood looking down at her, his discerning eyes taking in more than she wanted him to see. She knew it, could feel it, and turned away from it.
‘It’s growing dusk,’ she said. ‘I must be on my way.’ So saying, she went back to the modelling shed, aware that he was following, and was immediately overcome by a ridiculous trembling because of it. She wished he would go. When tired, it was difficult to hide her feelings.
She was about to cover her work when his hand stopped her. ‘Not yet, Olivia — ’ She paused, self-conscious because he was studying the model of Amelia. Because he was not looking at her she cast him a quick glance and, to her surprise, saw unfamiliar lines upon his face, lines of tiredness she had never noticed before.
Martin had told her how hard Damian was working. ‘Too hard, in my opinion, but perhaps having a beautiful and elegant wife is something a man must slave to support.’ It had been an uncharacteristic remark from her uncle, and one which he had hastily covered by saying, ‘Not that I’ve met her. I’m going by Amelia’s testimony. “She’s exotic, like an orchid,” was how she described her, and orchids are costly, I understand.’
Damian asked, ‘Is this your work, Olivia?’
‘An attempt. My first, begun sometime ago. It’s not good, but I hope to improve.’
‘Must you always underrate yourself?’ He turned and looked at her. ‘Sometimes I don’t think you realise just what sort of a person you are.’
She swathed the work in its damp clothes, glad of something on which to concentrate because his remark baffled her, then she carried the model and its base over to the bin and placed them inside. As she straightened up she winced at the pain in her neck and shoulders, realising only then that she had worked for too long.
He placed her cloak around her and, with an arm about her shoulders, led her away. In the cobbled yard he lifted her into the saddle and when she protested he said, ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to let you walk all those miles? Now give me that key.’
She dropped it into his outstretched hand, and after locking the gates, he mounted behind her. Increasing dusk and the hood of her cloak masked her face, but even so she averted it to avoid selfbetrayal. She had never been so close to him before, never felt his nearness. She had to brace herself to avoid contact, but his arm forced her to lean against him and in this way they rode out of the valley, up the hill past Medlar Croft, over the crest where stood Carrion House, and out onto the long road to Tremain; silently, but for the clop of hooves and the beating of her heart which she was convinced he must surely hear, or at least feel through the closeness of their bodies.
CHAPTER 19
Selecting the right dress for the occasion was as important to Olivia as to Caroline, but for a different reason. She needed to boost her confidence. Forewarned by the painting of Damian’s wife, she knew she could not compare as far as beauty was concerned, so she concentrated on making the most of her figure which, she felt, was passably good though many a young woman possessed better. At least her waist was small, her shoulders comely — or so Grandmother Charlotte always declared — and her height neither undersized nor overtall. She held herself well and moved well, thanks to her grandmother’s tuition when young, and she lacked any gaucherie, but the whole added up to something which she considered infernally dull. However, since Amelia had vouched for Caroline’s charm, she felt she was unlikely to be patronised by this creature from another world. No doubt I shall like her very much, she thought as she brushed her long dark hair and clasped two thick side-strands low at the back of her head in the fashion called ‘the V-drape’.
Inspecting her final appearance, she knew it to be as good as she could make it. Hip pads supported the graceful fall of her skirts, while another at the back did the same for a soft cascade of lace flounces, perfecting a dress which emphasised her small waist. The neckline dipped low in front. She wore no jewels round her throat and no bracelets at the wrists. A gold brooch set with a pearl and diamond cluster, a present from Grandmother Charlotte on her seventeenth birthday, was pinned at the left shoulder, with matching clusters through the pierced lobes of her ears.
The shimmer of coral silk added a subtle warmth to her complexion, which was ivory in colour and mercifully clear. Her mother would have insisted on an application of carmine wash-ball on cheeks and chin, and rouge on her lips, and kohl on the eyelids — ‘You look so negative, child, so pale and lifeless!’ — but heavy make-up made her feel bizarre and since Phoebe was not interested in what sort of a picture her daughter presented at Amelia’s supper party, she was spared any inspection tonight.
She was ready long before time, so went along to her grand-parents to say goodnight and to ask if there were any messages for Amelia and Martin.
‘Only that we send our love and hope you all have a pleasant evening — ’
‘ — which is more than we are likely to have at Lady Bellowes,’ put in old Ralph. ‘With a voice like hers, she couldn’t be more aptly named.’ Turning to his grand-daughter, he finished, ‘The penalty of age, my dear, is getting trapped by invitations from people we don’t want to see, then having to issue them in return.’
His wife tapped his hand reprovingly, but laughed even so, and at that moment Max and his son appeared.
‘We’ve come to say goodnight,’ said Max, ‘and since my daughter is already here, there’s no need to send a message to the heir’s wing. We are ready to leave whenever you are, Olivia.’
‘And how pretty you look,’ Miguel added frankly.
Ralph barked, ‘She always looks pretty, m’boy. Best looking gal for miles, our Olivia.’
‘You are prejudiced, Grandfather.’
‘Indeed, he is not,’ said Charlotte. ‘I entirely agree.’ Presenting her cheek to be kissed she added, ‘Have you ever known your grandfather to lie? Believe me, my dear, he isn’t lying now. Nor is Miguel. Come here, grandson, and say goodnight.’
The boy bowed solemnly and kissed her hand, at which the old lady gave a gentle smile and his grandfather nodded an approving head. ‘Got to admit the lad has good manners,’ he had said more than once to his wife, and although Charlotte dismissed it as Latin gallantry, she liked it. Deference to age was nice in the young.
Watching them depart, she observed the grace of Olivia’s walk and the swing of her long, shining hair, but wondered why there had seemed to be an underlying uneasiness in a girl who, normally, was never shy, but always ready to meet people and to be interested in them. There seemed no reason for her to be nervous about tonight’s supper party, but uncertainty had come over strongly. Surely it couldn’t be due to her mother’s rejection of Amelia’s invitation, or to the fact that her parents refused to socialise together? The situation was embarrassing, but would be accepted as soon as Phoebe was established in her own house. Then they could all start living their lives normally again.
After they had gone, Ralph surprised his wife by saying, ‘Olivia’s nervous. Did you notice? Now why should she be nervous? Because she is going out for the first time with a father and brother whom she never knew existed? That it, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know … ’
‘Max called her “daughter”. Notice that, too? Nice, I thought.’
‘I noticed, but she didn’t. At least, I thought not. No, she is apprehensive about tonight for some other reason, and I wish I knew what it was.’
Ralph patted her shoulder with affectionate clumsiness and said, ‘Well, there’s now’t t’do about it, as the locals say, so we’d best forget it and get along to the Boring Bellowes … ’
Charlotte was wrong on one count — Olivia had been very much aware of her father calling her ‘daughter’, and even more aware of the self-conscious way in which he said it; an anxious sort of way which made her feel sorry for him. He was ill at ease when with her, too eager to please. On the day she told him that she would not be accompanying her mother to Carrion House he had been almost embarrassingly grateful.
‘I feel at home here,’ she had explained. ‘I belong here … and there’s something about that place which makes me ill at ease.’
‘I never liked it very much myself, but that might have been because I disliked the man who owned it. Your mother and I had our wedding breakfast there. Joseph insisted on it. He was proud of his banqueting hall and made the most of it, packing it with guests and making sure that food was elaborate — and that wine flowed to the bridegroom’s table, set apart at the head of all. I behaved disgracefully, as I’m sure you have heard, but even when I reached the fuddled state I could feel him watching me, satisfied and contemptuous. That made me worse, of course.’
Changing the subject, he then asked if she would like to retain her room in the heir’s wing. ‘Miguel and I don’t want you to feel driven out … and after all, you are both my children.’
She told him that she would very much like to retain it, and that settled the matter. ‘But you’ll see little of me, Father, except on Sundays when the pottery closes — and not always then because I snatch time there whenever I can. And on weekdays work starts at six — ’
‘ — and for six days a week, I know. I remember from the old days. It may surprise you to know that on the plantation I put in hours just as long, and never minded except for the time it robbed me of Conchita’s company, and my son’s.’
‘But it was for them that you worked … ’
‘Which gave a meaning to it all, yes. My father would have been pleased at the way in which I applied myself to the job, for he never thought I could apply myself to anything. For the first time in my life, I was really interested. I had an aim and a purpose. Until then, I had failed in all he put me to. Because there had never been any necessity for me to work, I resented it. I couldn’t see why a self-made man should want his son to be self-made, too, when there was no need.’
‘Was that why you disliked the pottery?’
‘That, and other reasons. It was not my world, nor did I want it to be. I was useless there, except to Joseph when he wanted me to spy on workers and report their misdeeds — ’
‘Which you surely never did!’
‘I’m ashamed to admit that I — obliged. I was disliked, unpopular, and I hit back. I would report anyone going absent without leave, and any paltry misdemeanour so long as it appeased the man who was getting a hold over me. There — now you know the worst of me. Perhaps it’s better so.’
‘I would have preferred not to know.’
‘And I would prefer you to know me as I am. Be happy in your potter’s world, Olivia. It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’
‘I love it. It’s exciting and rewarding and ch
allenging and fulfilling.’
And an escape, too, she thought.
Driving now toward Burslem, seated beside her father and opposite her brother, Olivia’s thoughts turned inevitably to the evening ahead. She had not dared to think of Damian too much since their last meeting, but in unguarded moments she would remember the intimacy of that long ride and hope he had found it as potent as she, which was ridiculous, of course. He had merely been giving a lift to a young female who had foolishly spared no thought to the question of getting home. With characteristic impulsiveness she had left her mother at Carrion House without even saying where she was going, or asking her to drive into the valley when she was ready to leave and pick her up, so of course Phoebe had departed without her.
Olivia was glad of that, for otherwise she would never have had that enchanted ride through the night. Somewhere along the route she had fallen asleep, stirred by his nearness every now and then and instinctively curling closer, finally waking when he carefully lifted her down and set her on her feet. Not until she was fully awake did he release her.
‘You’re home,’ he said. ‘This is the side entrance, isn’t it?’ And there it was, looming darkly beside them, the private door which enabled her to enter unseen. Her mother would have taken to her bed long since, now that Acland seemed to have gone out of her life, so it would be easy to slip along to her own room undetected. There would be no questions, no comments, no reprovals. The magic would remain unimpaired.
‘Dear Olivia,’ Damian had said as he let her go, ‘promise me you’ll never again drive yourself into a state of fatigue.’ With a gentle hand he had touched her cheek and, breathless, she had stumbled away from him, not looking back as she opened the heavy door, but when she reached her room she had sped to the window, hoping for a glimpse of him to prove that it had not been a dream. And the proof had been there. He was mounted again, looking up at the house, his face touched by shadow. Then he turned and rode away, heading for the valley and the woman who waited in his bed, and Olivia had wept over the futility of loving a married man.
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