The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘Which won’t please your husband.’

  She shrugged. She wanted neither to think nor talk about her husband. Sensing her thoughts, Lionel smiled.

  ‘Is he still angry with you? Hasn’t he forgotten your disgraceful outburst that night?’

  ‘What was disgraceful about it? It was the truth. I did come to England because of him and I am worse off than I have ever been in my life and I can never go home with him at my side. My father has stipulated that.’

  He was startled. ‘Why? What dark deed did the worthy Fletcher commit to be so condemned?’

  She yawned, and drew closer, her hand now urgent. ‘Oh, it’s ancient history and very boring … ’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Some time, perhaps. Not now.’

  ‘He disgraced himself in some way? Then why did you follow him?’ When she was silent he said with amusement, ‘Did you disgrace yourself too, sweet Caroline? If so, I can guess how, and I wish I had been the man involved.’

  ‘You are the man involved — now.’

  They fell silent, and remained so until Lionel turned into a side lane and halted.

  ‘From here, we must walk,’ he said.

  ‘Walk! In the dark! To where, pray?’

  ‘You will see. Come.’ He lifted her down. The side lane to Carrion House was only a stone’s throw away and a high wall concealed it from the kitchen quarters. There was sufficient light from a watery moon for them to pick their way to the arched gate close to the garden house. They were well out of view as they descended the slope to it. The newly-cut key turned silently in the lock. He had made sure of that by slipping in here earlier today and oiling it. He had even made some attempt to tidy up the place, smoothing the faded oriental coverings of the divan and shaking the collection of cushions. The faded curtains remained drawn back, but the small lead lights darkened the place and no one would be able to detect anything within, should such a remote possibility as a passer-by threaten them. Certainly Aunt Phoebe would not be stirring outside this evening. He had made sure of that, too. In fact, he had prepared everything superbly well and his hands were impatient as he stripped Damian’s wife.

  ‘Where is this place?’ she murmured. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A place built for love, as I told you.’

  ‘But — who owns it?’

  ‘Someone who never uses it and isn’t likely to. We are safe, my darling. Now for God’s sake be quiet.’

  She obeyed because she was incapable of resisting him, and it was all that she had hoped for, and waited for. In the darkness, their bodies and senses merged and the inexplicable twinge of apprehension she had felt earlier was vanquished. And Lionel was insatiable. ‘You’re an animal, a beautiful savage,’ he murmured when at last they lay, spent, on the deep divan.

  They slept. When they wakened she stretched luxuriously and in the filtering moonlight she saw his white body beside her and thought how splendid it was and how handsome his features were and how clever he had been to find such a place. When she said so, he murmured a drowsy agreement.

  ‘And it’s ours, divine Caroline. No one will come near this place, but us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He teased her lips with a forefinger, whispering that the place was haunted.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. Or so people believe. You should hear the tales they tell.’

  Though he laughed as he spoke, she shivered and reached for her clothes.

  ‘I want to go.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘We’ve been here a long time and suddenly I don’t like this place. I’ll not come here again.’

  ‘Liar. You’ll come here willingly whenever I want you.’ He yawned, stretched, reached down to the floor for her garments and handed her the first that came to hand. He hoped she wasn’t going to become tedious or tiresome now he had finished with her. They had had a splendid time this evening and would have many more so long as she didn’t spoil things.

  She was dressing hurriedly, urging him to do the same and be quick about it. He didn’t like her tone-peremptory, dismissive, dictatorial, like a mistress who had been served by a slave and now wanted to be rid of him. He was damned if he’d be spoken to like that by any woman, much less one who thought her money could buy anything and any man she wanted.

  ‘Hurry,’ she insisted. ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘Afraid of ghosts?’ he taunted as he dragged on his clothes.

  ‘Stop talking about ghosts.’

  He laughed, and called her a coward. At that, she reached out and struck him with surprising accuracy considering the dim light. He caught her wrist and held it, no longer laughing. ‘You’re a vixen. A termagant. I’m beginning to feel sorry for that husband of yours. Did your money buy him, and does he give you good value for it in bed?’

  She pulled away, and he was suddenly contrite. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you, Caroline, but you have to learn who’s master in a relationship like ours. If we’re to have any future together, that is.’

  ‘A future?’

  ‘Why not? Your father may have forbidden you to return with the man you married, but would he do the same with someone who had the necessary credentials? You value social standing, I can tell. What’s wrong with mine?’

  ‘You’re talking of the impossible. I’m already married.’

  ‘But wouldn’t remain so if you went back to Georgia without him. I gather your family is connected with the law, so they should know how to dissolve inconvenient ties.’

  The prospect pleased her, though she was careful not to show it. ‘We’ll talk about that some other time. Meanwhile, let’s get out of here. I don’t know why the place makes me uneasy, but it does. There’s a sort of — atmosphere.’

  ‘Very likely,’ he drawled as she searched his pocket for the key. ‘I’ve heard tell that sudden deaths leave their impression on a place.’

  She choked. ‘Sudden deaths?’

  ‘Yes, sweet Caroline. My father’s. He was found dead on that very couch where we’ve been making love. He’d been there for days, undiscovered.’

  She retched. Through it, she gasped, ‘For God’s sake open that door — let me out of here!’

  He did so unhurriedly, saying he hadn’t realised she was so squeamish. She fled silently up the sloping lawn, uncaring when the side gate slammed behind her. A wind had risen, so the noise would be easily explained, Lionel thought as he locked the door of the garden house and sauntered after her, noticing that the curtains of his aunt’s withdrawing room were closed. By now he would have expected the pair of them to be in bed, his aunt and Roger Acland. He had fixed that little matter decisively, making sure that Phoebe would be too occupied to glance from her windows or take a turn in her garden at an inconvenient moment.

  He followed Caroline out into the night, and was vexed when he discovered that her elegant little carriage had gone. He heard the clatter of its wheels and the ring of the pony’s hooves fading into the distance, and cursed her soundly. But he wasn’t worried about losing her. He had become too necessary to her to be discarded. In a day or two she would be seeking him out, finding excuses to waylay him, but he would punish her for leaving him so abruptly. He vowed to be unavailable when next she beckoned. She would have to wait until he wanted her. Not that he would keep her waiting too long; just enough to make her anxious. He was confident of complete success where Caroline Fletcher was concerned. He even found time to think with some amusement about Phoebe and her tardy lover. He had had to offer substantial bait to make the man come to Burslem again.

  ‘She has come into money,’ he had written. ‘Very considerably. Enough to buy a fine property and with plenty of funds to maintain it in style. But she frets for you. She is lonely in her splendid house. Lonely, and free. She waits for you.’

  That brought Acland at once. He had arrived by the Bristol stage late that afternoon. Lionel had watched for it, confident that this time the man would be unable to res
ist temptation. He had seen him step straight from the coach to the door of the Red Lion — no Duke’s Head in Stoke for him this time. Why? Was he short of cash? It didn’t matter. He would head straight for Carrion House; the letter sending her address guaranteed that.

  ‘The best time to call is the evening, if I may suggest it. She will have supped by then and be feeling her loneliness, ready to welcome you the more eagerly … ’ Which meant that his besotted middle-aged aunt would be blissfully unaware that her oriental garden house was being put to convenient use. And so it had proved. He was proud of all he had accomplished, and when Caroline got over her squeamishness he saw no reason why he shouldn’t use that key as often as he wished.

  Damian was sitting beside the fire when his wife returned. Her clothes bore telltale creases and he guessed she had shed them in her usual way — in a heap on a floor somewhere. Her hair was dishevelled, though she blamed that on the wind. ‘It blew my bonnet clean away!’ The bonnet was an expensive confection of flowers and feathers and sparkling ornament and he remarked that he was surprised she should wear such a thing in a high wind.

  ‘It wasn’t blowing when I went out.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To the vicarage over at Cooperfield. I was taking some clothes for the poor.’

  ‘Why Cooperfield? Six miles away. The parish church in Burslem accepts items for the poor.’

  ‘But they get so much, and small parishes get so little.’

  ‘You are very charitable.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were going.’

  ‘Did I not?’ She was amiable, but indifferent. ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘Since you planned to go out, why did you ask me to stable the new pony? I heard you drive away only a short time later. I’m surprised you didn’t ask for it merely to be put under shelter.’

  ‘I forgot. That I was going out, I mean.’ She headed toward the narrow staircase, but when she reached it he said, ‘I can always tell when you’re lying, Caroline. You are lying now. You haven’t been on any errand of mercy to one of the outer villages. I won’t ask where you have been, because I’ve a shrewd idea — not of your actual rendezvous, but of the reason for it. Don’t worry, I am not going to pry because, frankly, I’m no longer interested. You’ve been unfaithful to me, with Lionel Drayton, for some time now. I’m right, aren’t I? Do you want to marry him? If so, and if a divorce can be arranged, you may.’ When she opened astonished eyes and attempted to answer, he forestalled her. ‘We don’t love each other any more, you and I, and I doubt whether Lionel Drayton loves you either. I doubt if he’s capable of really loving a woman. The best thing you can do is return home.’

  She avoided his eye. ‘I can’t. Yet.’

  ‘For reasons I know nothing about? Don’t tell me — I can give a fair guess. Your people were displeased with you for some reason, and shipped you off to join your husband, warning you not to return until whatever scandal you’d created — was it with Captain Mannering? — had been forgotten in Savannah. Fortunately, with so much scare-mongering going on I think they’ll welcome you back to the fold. You might be safer here, but they’d be anxious about losing touch with you.’

  ‘Scaremongering?’ she echoed sharply.

  ‘Warmongering. The Colonies and Britain have been heading for disaster for a long time, so it seems likely that you’ll have to make a choice between your redcoat officer and some civilian well placed in high circles. Does the prospect seem unattractive?’

  ‘No, but returning home has greater appeal.’

  ‘And how does it appeal to Lionel Drayton? Will he accompany you, or follow you?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I want is to see Savannah and my people again.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy here, Caroline. Unable to fit in. I shouldn’t have expected it, or hoped for it, as I once did. Tell me when you wish to leave, and I’ll journey to Liverpool and book a passage for you on the first available ship.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said hurriedly. She was surprised, relieved, but not flattered by her husband’s co-operation. Even so, she was ready to make the most of it for she had taken a sudden aversion to Lionel Drayton and knew he would be difficult to shake off. A man so unscrupulous would stop at nothing; a man who would make love to a woman on a bed where his father had lain dead for days and then blandly tell her about it, had a frightening streak. Better some stuffed uniform like Charles Mannering. Better, by far, Damian himself. But Damian didn’t want her now and she had enough sense to realise that even if she won him back she would never be content with the little he had to offer.

  With characteristic optimism, she thought of the coming voyage home. There might be some attractive and well heeled man on board. Who knew?

  Even so, she said a little sadly, ‘I suspect you’ll be glad to have me out of the way because you’re in love with Olivia Freeman. That startles you — not being in love with her, I mean, but my guessing it. I must confess I’m not exactly flattered. She’s nice, even attractive in her way, but I shall never understand a young woman, born in her position, turning her back on all that to work alongside clay-workers.’

  ‘But then you could never understand Olivia if you spent your lifetime here,’ he said gently. ‘Not as I do.’

  ‘And as she understands you?’

  ‘I hope so. I hope so very much.’

  *

  To Phoebe, the room was like a beautiful shell, enclosing her, shutting her off from the outside world. She hadn’t expected that. She had visualised guests flocking to her parties, admiring her, praising the beautiful home she had created, while she accepted their compliments with becoming modesty. Some would remember the splendid establishment Joseph had built for himself here, and how he had scoffed at the ridiculous legends attached to the place — as, indeed, she did herself. Nothing sinister could happen to her here and Joseph’s tragic death had not been sinister, either. Unfortunate, unexpected, unbelievable at the time, though everyone had been forced to accept it eventually, but by no means sinister.

  She didn’t know why she recalled the legends of Carrion House now; stories whispered behind hands in the village for years and recollected at the time of Joseph’s death. The pink and gold decor about her, with elaborate festoons of flowers and birds on walls and ceiling so that the place seemed like a bower, and satin upholstery on sofas and fragile gilt chairs, and costly hot-house flowers pouring out their fragrance until the atmosphere was heady with it, all assured her that nothing terrible could happen in this house. The ghosts were laid; the evil influences banished. Not that she had ever accepted their existence, but it was nice to feel that she was secure in her beautiful shell.

  Dear Lionel had called on her today, and told her that Roger would be coming and that she was to stay indoors, awaiting him. ‘If not tonight, then tomorrow night or the night after,’ he had said. ‘Be ready for him, wear your loveliest gown — your jewels, too. No one wears jewels so well as you do, pretty Phoebe,’ but of course she had denied having more than her modest diamond-and-pearl necklace and a few baubles. Certainly no rubies.

  Now she waited, praying it would be this evening. An ornate Venetian mirror above the fireplace told her she looked beautiful. Her face didn’t reveal a single line, so well had she applied her painted mask, which seemed to take longer to achieve these days because somehow she seemed to need more and more. Waiting for the pastes to set, and then the final coating of enamel before the application of rouge and kohl and a final dusting of white lead powder, was not so easy as it used to be, but she endured it despite the irksome irritation beneath. At one time there had been no pricking, no itching, no unpleasant sensation at all. Mercifully, this subsided after awhile, replaced by a feeling of stiffness which one became used to. All was worth enduring for the final result, which was particularly good tonight. How ridiculous of Martin to say that the ingredients must be harmful! What did her younger brother know about such things? Com
placently, she surveyed herself. At her throat, Charlotte’s rubies glowed richly, the perfect foil for her beauty.

  How long was it since she had seen dear Roger? A matter of months; lonely months fraught with heartache and the shock of her husband’s reappearance. Naturally, loving her as he did, Acland had kept away, not wishing to embroil her in further trouble. All the excuses came readily, and she accepted them. She had been foolish ever to doubt him, foolish to be so fearful. When he came she would thank him for protecting her with his silence, and he would see for himself how safe and indeed how easy it was for him to visit her now. Easier, by far, than at Tremain Hall, with inquisitive Agatha daring to try the bedroom door at inconvenient moments.

  There would be no need for such fears here at Carrion House. In her own exclusive property she could receive anyone she wished at any time she wished. Of course, discretion would be useful for, as Max had reminded her, a husband retained jurisdiction over his wife, whether living with her or not. That was the tiresome law currently prevailing, so they would have to be circumspect, but not unduly so. People turned a blind eye on the affaires of unattached people — even old Charlotte Freeman had said as much — and as far as her husband was concerned she was now officially unattached, though not divorced. Who knew, perhaps divorce would come later, Roger persuading her to share his life and his home in the West Country, but she would make sure that they retained Carrion House because she hadn’t put all this time and thought into restoring it only to let it go again, and it would taunt Max every time he saw it, reminding him of all it had cost him.

  Sitting here in her beautiful shell, she discovered that there was delight in expectation. It eased the waiting. If he didn’t come tonight, she would wait again tomorrow, and the next day, because she was confident that he would come. Dear Lionel had assured her of it. It was wonderful to think of all dear Lionel had done for her. He was so like his father, bless him. If Joseph hadn’t been her brother, she would have loved him, of that she was sure, for he had certainly been her ideal man until Roger Acland supplanted him.