The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  *

  Agatha was surprised but pleased when her son raised no objections to attending Amelia’s Sabbath supper, despite the fact that no one interesting was likely to be there and no young people other than Miguel, to whom he quite naturally objected. For herself, she was becoming quite used to the boy. He was amiable, unobtrusive, a bother to no one, nicely mannered, and seemed to spend his time exploring the estate either on foot or on horseback. To see him galloping across the park, dashingly attired in his Mexican riding kit, was quite a colourful sight and one she even enjoyed watching. When he caught sight of her he would flash his dazzling smile and wave so joyously that it was impossible not to smile and wave in return.

  If it hadn’t been for all the trouble his arrival had caused and the disappointment it meant to dear Lionel, she could easily have liked Miguel. As it was, she loyally supported her son’s attitude, knowing how deeply he was hurt by the loss of what should have been his by right. A lifetime of hopes had been smashed within a matter of minutes. Such a shock would take a long time to recover from. Meanwhile, she did her best to assuage it by frequently reminding him that even if Miguel did eventually become Master of Tremain, he himself would be handsomely provided for. And there was always the Drayton legacy, under the terms of which he could claim a share. That would be highly profitable now that the pottery had reached such a pinnacle of success and seemed likely to achieve even more. ‘There’s no stopping Drayton’s,’ people said. ‘They’re outstripping every potter in Staffs.’

  ‘Did you see your uncle about the matter?’ she asked as they bowled toward the valley.

  ‘What matter?’ Lionel said absently.

  ‘Your share in the pottery. Don’t you remember my urging you to make sure of it?’

  ‘Oh — that. Yes, I did call, but he was away in the sheds and naturally I couldn’t be expected to go in search of him. My clothes would have been ruined. Amelia advised me to call at the house sometime, but plainly didn’t want me to. In fact, she seemed quite indignant that I should expect to have a share in the business.’

  ‘You are entitled to it. She knows that.’

  ‘And so do I. And so I told her. But she harped on the necessity for me to work my way up, like any manual worker — like Olivia, in fact, and you know what a sight she looks at the end of a day’s work. Would you have me stoop so low, when my father never did?’

  ‘Of course not, my love. Your father worked on the administrative — ’

  ‘So you’ve told me often enough,’ he interrupted impatiently.

  ‘When I do get the chance to have a word with my uncle, I’ll remind him of that.’

  ‘Perhaps the opportunity will come tonight.’

  He hoped not. He had no desire to waste time in his uncle’s study while that ravishing young wife of the village blacksmith was around. It was because of her that he was attending this tedious family affair. He had recoiled from the idea when hearing that his uncle and his Mexican brat were to be present, that really the whole purpose of the evening was to strengthen family ties, and that two outside guests were invited to meet them … until he heard who the guests were. The blacksmith could be ignored, but his wife could never be.

  ‘They do say she is very well born and highly placed in Colonial society,’ Agatha had said. ‘Rich, too. There is no doubt about that, for my brother checked the story before docking.’

  ‘Why? An eye on her money?’

  ‘Shame on you, Lionel — as if Max has any need! He is plainly successful and, now he’s home, his Tremain income will be substantial because the capital has been accumulating in his absence, as well as the untouched interest awaiting his return. When dear Papa dies Max will have all his share as well, and no doubt much besides. I know it is hard on you, but try not to think about that. You can’t begrudge it to the rightful heir — ’

  ‘I can begrudge it to the wrong one, and I can’t see what Max himself has done to deserve it.’

  Agatha sighed. ‘It’s true that Papa always deplored his laziness, but he can’t be accused of that now. As for the blacksmith’s bride, Max told me that he verified the story because he had met many a woman who pretended to be what she was not, and he didn’t want Miguel to be gulled at an impressionable age. If her air of wealth was all a pose, the truth could have served as a warning for the boy.’

  ‘That stripling! Don’t tell me he fell in love with her!’

  ‘If he did, it could be only calf love, but disillusionment can be painful and naturally his father didn’t want anything like that to happen.’

  ‘Do the brat good. He’s too big for his boots.’

  ‘I don’t think I can quite agree there, dear boy. He seems a nice enough lad in his way — a Latin way, of course, and hardly suited to his new background, but it will be many years yet before he succeeds his father.’

  ‘Must you harp on that?’ Lionel muttered, his spirits diminishing.

  Agatha continued serenely, ‘Everything about the Colonial heiress turned out to be genuine. Many prominent passengers knew of her, worthy people whose testimony was reliable. And clever Max learned even more from the ship’s captain, who of course had her seated at his table. Only the rich and important are invited there.’

  ‘So he’s “clever” now, is he, your rake of a brother?’ When his mother frowned, Lionel laughed and kissed the top tier of her chins. His spirits had risen again. Without seeking it, he had the confirmation he wanted — the blacksmith’s bride was everything he hoped for.

  ‘What I would really like to know,’ he said, ‘is how she came to marry Fletcher and, even more, how he came to marry her. Seduced her beneath a hay rick, d’you think? Compromised her so that her respectable family were compelled to call the banns? That trick is as old as time.’

  ‘Oh really, Lionel, the things you say!’ His mother’s amusement belied the reproach. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time an ambitious tutor has wormed his way into a wealthy family. He taught her young brothers, I understand. What puzzles me is why he came home and chose such a different way of life.’ But as the carriage turned through the gates of her sister’s home, Agatha’s mind switched to a matter which concerned her more. ‘What a deplorable hour to invite anyone to supper! I am famished!’

  ‘Despite the laden tray Pierre sent to your room at seven, and the one before that at five?’

  ‘Morsels! Mere morsels to keep hunger at bay. At my age, a woman needs frequent sustenance. How my sister can wait so long for meals, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Blame the pottery’s uncivilised hours — hours you would have me share.’

  ‘Never against your wishes, my son.’

  Any form of work was against his wishes, but to gain a share of the Drayton income was not, so perhaps he would be wise to corner his uncle tonight. Short and sharp and to the point, that was the key to it. Coupled with his Tremain allowance, additional funds would enable him to lavish attention on the lovely young woman from Georgia and, judging from her thinly-disguised response at their one-and-only meeting, she would be a willing prey. He recognised a lusty woman when he saw one. He also recognised a socially ambitious one, though in this instance it would be less a case of ambition than of yearning for accustomed standards. Obviously, she had been trapped into marriage by an impecunious nobody with an eye to the main chance, so serve the man right if he lost her.

  In any case, a wife who held the purse strings dictated the conduct of her marriage, and her husband had to accept it. Fletcher could therefore be dismissed without thought.

  And so he was, until they came face to face, when even Lionel was forced to admit that the man had more distinction than a common labourer was entitled to. He even looked at home against the background of Amelia’s charming reception room, and his grey brocade suiting was well tailored, if somewhat too subdued for Lionel’s taste. Personally, he would have chosen a more elaborate fall of lace to the shirt, and breeches of satin in a lighter tone for a more effective contrast, with facings o
f matching satin down the front and on the big cuffs of the full-skirted jacket. A lot more jewels, too. Rings set off a gentleman’s hands well, but perhaps their absence from those of a blacksmith was merciful. On a manual worker’s, they would have looked incongruous.

  All the same, a complete lack of jewellery indicated a lack of imagination. A larger pin in the lace at his throat would have been entirely acceptable, though Lionel had to admit that the black pearl Fletcher wore was a good one. A relic from his schoolmaster father who, who from all accounts, came of quite respectable stock, or a present from his wife?

  Well, at least the man had had the good sense not to compete with his betters in the matter of dress. Quiet, but correct in every detail, he passed muster surprisingly well. One might even call him good-looking. And on that patronising thought Lionel dismissed him and focused attention on the wife instead.

  And how well she deserved it, with her lovely hair emphasising the shining amber tones of her gown and the deeper fire of garnets blazing against her white throat. She had the almost pearly skin of real red-haired beauties, delicate as the petals of camellias, somehow suggesting coolness with smouldering fires beneath. His blood quickened at the thought. He wanted to touch that skin, to caress it in all the most intimate places. When their glances met, the thought communicated itself, as he intended it should, but instead of being momentarily flustered, as many a woman might have been, she displayed a serene disregard which immediately challenged and delighted him.

  Oh yes, he was right about her! She would be fair game indeed, and the hunt would be enjoyed on both sides.

  Then he noticed Olivia, looking very fetching but not nearly so striking as the beauty from Savannah. From her appearance tonight it was hard to believe that his cousin spent most of her days messing about with clay. He was glad to see she could still look presentable and said so beneath his breath as he greeted her. When she laughed and Amelia asked why, she said frankly, ‘Lionel is relieved because I’ve left my working clothes at home.’

  ‘Well, darling,’ he drawled, ‘I never see you in anything else these days. It’s hard to distinguish you from the village pottery women now.’

  So saying, he strolled across to a sofa where Caroline Fletcher was seated and, placing himself as near as possible to her, crossed his elegant satin knees and lolled indolently against the serpentine back. There was no one else he wanted to greet; certainly not that handsome Mexican boy who was beginning to look too much at home at Tremain, nor corpulent Max who was the cause of all the trouble, nor Martin Drayton, who was always so disconcerting. He couldn’t think why the man had this effect, for he had no looks to speak of and was a cripple into the bargain, but he had an exasperating air of assurance which could only be attributed to his success. A rum fellow, his uncle Martin. It was hard to imagine what Amelia saw in him, but from all accounts she had loved him all her life.

  To his surprise and annoyance, Damian Fletcher said from across the room, ‘Miss Freeman would look distinguished wherever she went, whatever she wore. As for the pottery women you apparently scorn, she has the rare gift of making them feel at ease and winning their respect at the same time.’

  To Lionel’s further annoyance Amelia agreed. Agatha, thankfully sipping Madeira, paid no attention, but the Mexican boy had the audacity to express admiration for his half-sister, and Max smiled and nodded his head. Then Caroline Fletcher exclaimed, ‘Surely you’re not the female potter I’ve been hearing about, Miss Freeman?’ Her shocked tone immediately established her as Lionel’s ally, which pleased him well.

  ‘And what is wrong with being a female potter?’ Martin Drayton said amiably. ‘Many are as talented as the men.’

  Caroline gave a dazzling smile.

  ‘I’m sure they are. It just surprised me that a well born young lady should become one.’

  ‘Talent has nothing to do with birth, Mrs Fletcher, which is fortunate for Drayton’s. I’ve encouraged my niece since she was so high. Not that a skill such as hers could have remained suppressed. I would be happy to show you evidence of it some time.’

  ‘And I should be delighted to see it, for it would be something new to me. At home, young ladies paint water colours and embroider samplers and do all the ladylike things, but pottery-making is confined to industrial workers.’

  Olivia said easily, ‘I don’t in the least mind ranking as an industrial worker. One has to be industrious to succeed in a craft like mine.’

  ‘An art like yours,’ Martin corrected gently, with which Amelia agreed and added that she would be proud to show everyone the ceramic portrait of herself which Olivia was working on, and Max immediately said he would like to see it, echoed by Miguel who said how much he wished he could show Olivia some samples of Mexican pottery, whereupon Lionel promptly asked if he was referring to his mother’s cooking pots, thereby provoking Caroline to laughter which no one else shared.

  At that, she assumed a look of endearing guilt, hanging her head in mock shame and saying, ‘Oh dear, now I have vexed my husband, but I hope not my hostess too? If so, you must forgive me, Mrs Drayton, for I meant no offence. It was just that I found the idea of Miguel producing homely cooking pots as works of art quite divinely droll. Dear Miguel, you too must forgive me.’

  Her tone was velvet smooth, but, sitting close, Lionel could feel laughter quivering through her even as the boy stammered that she had nothing to apologise for, and that in fact he had been thinking of his mother’s pots, from which she had hated to be parted even when she had her own servants. ‘She was always in the kitchens, supervising them, because she knew just how Mexican dishes should be cooked and just which pots they should be cooked and served in. She had been trained to, you see.’

  At that Caroline, pretending to be impressed, murmured, ‘Well, well — and to think you never told anyone, that throughtout the voyage I never even knew!’ and the boy flushed, sensing mockery.

  Amused, Lionel decided that he could have great sport with this young woman if only they could escape from his relatives, and especially from that husband of hers. The man was looking across at her with an expression so enigmatic that Lionel was glad he couldn’t read it and turned his attention to the more welcome contemplation of the man’s wife. This attention he maintained throughout supper, at which he was fortunate enough to be placed opposite her so that he was able to gaze his fill without appearing to do so deliberately.

  Even better, he was able to stretch out a leg beneath the table and gently caress her ankle with his own, and although not responding she made no attempt to withdraw her foot. It lay relaxed against his even as she joined in the general conversation, and by the end of the meal it was returning pressure for pressure, sending secret messages of amusement and enticement and promise. She was the skilled flirt he had suspected and the hunt, he knew, was to be quick and easy.

  It wasn’t the successful evening Amelia had hoped for, though on the surface all went smoothly and conversation flowed. Only she, sensitive to undercurrents, was aware of her brother’s anger because his son had been hurt and the boy’s mother derided. Only she appeared to notice Max’s heavy silence and the way in which he avoided conversation with Damian’s wife, seated next to him. If he had admired the woman during the Atlantic crossing, that admiration had gone, and if the boy had idolised her, that idolatry had suffered a rebuff. Mercifully Olivia, seated between father and son, poured out all the warmth of her nature, easing tension. What would we have done without her, Amelia wondered, her eyes signalling the words to her husband at the end of the table, his quiet smile answering her.

  Next to Amelia sat Damian, to whom she was glad to turn. He was the ideal guest, she thought; considerate, courteous, a good conversationalist, masking his reactions to her nephew’s blatant admiration of his wife and his wife’s undisguised enjoyment of it. She was a vain, spoilt creature whose ears deserved to be well boxed, Amelia thought, remembering the young woman’s thinly veiled derision of Miguel’s mother and observing how closely she
now sat to the table, her body slightly turned as if one leg were stretched out — exactly the position in which Lionel was sitting opposite her, both blandly believing that no one guessed they were indulging in one of the oldest forms of suppertime flirtations in the world, foot teasing foot beneath the table.

  That Max knew what was going on, Amelia had no doubt, for after one or two observant glances he had turned away and not attempted to engage either in conversation again, and Amelia had guessed that Caroline Fletcher had ruined her chances of ever being invited to Tremain Hall. That will disappoint her, she thought, remembering their meeting in the Fletcher cottage and the strong impression she had carried away of a young woman determined to climb the local social ladder as speedily as possible. Her whole manner had been blazingly self-confident, sure that the shipboard friendship with the heir of Tremain was to be the Open Sesame to social success. Poor Damian, Amelia thought suddenly. And poor Olivia. That they should be kept apart by this spoilt young woman was damnable.

  The thought startled her. What made her feel that Damian felt as Olivia did? The man never betrayed his feelings and she had no evidence that he kept as stern a hold on them as Olivia did on hers, but now it had taken root nothing would dislodge the thought.

  On the other side of Damian, Agatha was ploughing her way through the meal as if it were the first she had had for many a day, interspersing mouthfuls with observations on the food, either in grudging praise or regretful criticism. ‘You must let my Pierre coach your cook, Amelia dear — plain Staffordshire fare is so heavy compared with French, though I grant you this calf’s head is quite palatable, considering.’ Considering what? Amelia didn’t trouble to ask. Her sister’s devotion to food mercifully prevented her from noticing Lionel’s behaviour, and in any case she could never see any fault in her son.

  After the fifth course, a really excellent tipsy cake of which Agatha had a second helping, she wiped her mouth and, suppressing burps, said, ‘What news these days, Amelia? It seems a long time since we caught up on sisterly gossip.’