The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  “And what does he decree?”

  “Surely you guess? That I shall never marry Roger Acland and that if I defy him, my thirty pounds a year will cease. I shall be faced with penury. As if I, or my dear Roger, would care!”

  “Did you threaten to disobey?”

  “Of course! Wouldn’t you expect me to? You should defy our dear brother yourself, Martin. Drayton’s would founder without you.’ ‘That’s untrue. Joseph has put the place safely on its feet.”

  “Very well, it would not founder, but nor would it flourish as it should and could if Joseph would acknowledge your ability. You are meant for greater things than working on the throwing wheel, but your talent in that direction is too valuable for him to relinquish easily — if ever. So long as you can produce a steady supply of pots from six in the morning until seven at night with only a brief pause for midday dinner, and so long as Drayton’s can continue to manufacture the same basic designs year in, year out, a thrower you will remain, though you have said yourself that clay can produce more beautiful things.’

  He could make no answer because what she said was true. In early boyhood, when he first began washing and raking clay for hours on end, sleeves rolled up on wet and muddied arms and eyes alert for pebbles and fragments of grit which could cause a pot to explode in the oven and damage other pots so badly that all would have to be thrown away, he had discovered the beauty of pure, perfectly wedged clay, and delighted in the feel of it, so smooth and malleable to the touch.

  One day he had wrapped some in a dampened kerchief and taken it home to model in the privacy of a disused attic, for it was useless to indulge his hobby elsewhere. If discovered, his attempts would be ridiculed, for no Drayton had ever produced anything so frivolous as reproductions of animals or birds, in which Martin delighted. Such things were impractical. Pots had to serve a useful purpose. Scraps of inferior clay could be utilised for trifling cottage ornaments, fairings to be sold for a farthing at village fairs, but good clay had to be put to good use, not wasted on frivolities.

  But his secret activity had remained a secret for no time at all. Clara, the family maid and the only servant his mother could now afford, had invaded the attic at Phoebe’s behest one wet afternoon when Martin had been at work. Bored, Phoebe had wanted to dress up; there were ancient dresses in basket trunks up there, left by former generations of Drayton women, and dressing up did help to while away dull hours.

  “But naturally, dear Clara, I cannot soil my skirts by climbing the stairs to that musty dusty place, and you are so accustomed to running up and down them…”

  Phoebe could put a wheedling note into her voice that no one could ever resist, but he gathered that his sweet-tempered sister had been greatly annoyed when Clara was a long time returning, and even more so when instead of a pile of dresses she saw merely a small heap of crude clay animals carried carefully in the maid’s work-worn hands. Dear Clara had actually expected Miss Phoebe to be as enchanted as she with the unfired clay models, but Phoebe had not been. Nor had Joseph, when he saw them. Only Jessica had been genuinely admiring and his mother maternally indulgent.

  “They are very pretty, my son, very pretty indeed.”

  “Pretty!”Jessica had cried. “What an inadequate word! They are beautiful. Cannot all of you — you, dear Mamma, and you Joseph, and even you, Phoebe — see them for what they are, evidence of a talent that shouldn’t be wasted?”

  But Joseph had dismissed them as rubbish and declared that never would Drayton’s produce such things because there was no money in them. “We can put good clay to better uses, practical uses. Household crocks and cooking pots, pitchers and platters, tankards and knife handles, butter dishes and salt pigs, that is what people want, not crude toys like these. And the next time you want to idle away spare hours on such nonsense, young sir, I will thank you not to help yourself to Drayton’s best quality clay. I pay a shilling a day, no less, to the men who wedge it. You will work with good clay only on the wheel, never on hand formed trash like this. Concentrate on becoming an expert thrower, at which you are shaping well despite that leg of yours. It is obviously no handicap on the treadle.”

  Any reference to the deformity of his right leg was an embarrassment to Martin. Shorter than the other, and misshapen, it was the mistaken belief of his family that he was unaware of it because it had been so from birth, but throughout his life he had been deeply sensitive about it, hating it because it set him apart from others of his age, barring him from many of their activities.

  Jessica was the only member of the family who realised how deeply he felt things and for this reason she had encouraged his talent for drawing, of which modelling in clay was, for him, the ultimate and most satisfying extension. Therefore her dismay when Joseph seized his raw models and broke them, saving the fragments to be thrown into the slip bins next morning, had been as acute as his own. Even now Martin could recall her protesting cry and their elder brother’s curt reminder that all discarded clay could and should be re-processed and re-used.

  “No successful potter tolerates waste. Every scrap can be redeemed. Remember that, young brother.”

  So it had been Martin’s task, next day, to throw his broken models into the bins, to see them sink in the muddied water and then to scrape out other bins whose contents were now ready to be reclaimed. Some of this liquid clay was harvested as ‘slip’, a texture smooth enough to flow and therefore suitable as an adhesive for handles and for use as a surface decoration. Being astute, Joseph preferred to manufacture unadorned articles which demanded less time and saved wages into the bargain, because workers who decorated pots earned an extra penny an hour, and highly skilled ones as much as two.

  The remaining slip was spread on plaster slabs until surplus moisture was absorbed and the residue could be kneaded and wedged until it was thick enough and pure enough for re-use. Not the smallest air bubble must be allowed to remain to ruin one of Drayton’s good, heavy, household crocks.

  But slip could also be coloured with pigments, as could glazes whether clear or opaque; all this Martin dreamed of doing when he was a qualified potter. Until then, there was no hope of persuading Joseph to vary Drayton’s sensible ware. Coloured glazes were used only for specific orders and prepared by qualified glazers — and occasionally, but very rarely, by Joseph himself. He had produced a fine gloss glaze for the platter and beaker Martin had made for their father’s birthday, but refused to reveal the recipe to anyone. George Drayton had been using them on the day he died.

  Jessica’s voice cut into Martin’s thoughts.

  “You are not listening, brother.”

  “Indeed, I am. You were reminding me that clay can produce more beautiful things than Drayton’s good-selling pots. That is true, but it cannot produce things more useful.”

  “Are you actually defending our brother? And are you content to remain a chattel in the pot bank our forefathers established, and which Joseph now owns lock, stock and barrel?”

  “I shall qualify for a partnership when my apprenticeship is served. That is a Drayton bequest and must be observed.”

  “Then I hope he makes sure you reach that stage by the end of your last year. It seems to me that he values your talents as a thrower so much that he aims to keep you on the wheel forever. Then you will never qualify in all branches and be cheated out of your rights.” Little did she realise that she was voicing Martin’s secret fears. Even so, he was glad he had diverted her. He hoped this indicated that her unhappiness was not so intense as he feared, but knew he was wrong when she declared, “Well I, for one, will never be subservient. Nor will I be a chattel in my mother’s house, as Joseph would wish until he decides to wed me to a man of his choosing. I vow I shall be mistress of my own house — Roger Acland’s house — and Joseph is wasting his time in trying to frighten me.”

  “Frighten you? In what way?” He had expected their elder brother to be strict, even harsh, but surely Joseph must be aware that Jessica, unlike her pretty twin, could nev
er be intimidated?

  To his concern her voice shook as she answered, “He told me he had sent Acland packing, that I would never see him again. As if I would believe it! And that I will prove, I swear. I’ll elope with Roger if I can persuade him. Alas, he is too fine a gentleman to try to turn a young woman against her family, and I’ll warrant I shall find it difficult to put the idea into his head, but I shall surely try. Don’t look so aghast, brother. Wile is the only weapon a female possesses and I shan’t hesitate to use it. I will lure dear Roger to the altar by whatever means I must employ, and I know I shall succeed because we are in love. My revered brother cannot change that, however hard he tries. I know dear Roger as Joseph does not. He has declared his love for me and I know him to be constant and true.”

  Pray God she is right, thought Martin.

  Announcing her intention to get her lover to the altar by whatever means were necessary was an exaggeration. Such steps, Jessica knew, would not be required. Anger against her eldest brother was lulled by the recollection of secret embraces and secret avowals which convinced her of Acland’s devotion. With him beside her she could brave a dozen Josephs, and she had no doubt that when Roger heard of her brother’s attitude he would go straight to Carrion House and add his own defiance to hers.

  He had wanted to call on Joseph in the first place; only her persuasion had prevented him. Not that he had actually said in so many words that he wanted to seek her hand in marriage, but the inference was there.

  “I imagine your eldest brother, as head of the family, would wish to inspect a prospective suitor,” he had ventured. Since such was the custom of the day, despite the absence of a marriage act governing the age of consent, it was indisputable, so dear Roger’s statement could only have been made because the idea was in his mind. Nor did he deny it. She had therefore decided that it would be better if she prepared her brother for the news, fearing he would not welcome someone whom he would regard as a foreigner because he was not Burslem-born. A visit from her would pave the way for Acland’s approach and make Joseph more amenable.

  Or so she had thought.

  “Are you eager to get home, Jess?”

  “Why, no,” she answered, surprised because Martin had slowed down within a short distance of the house. “Truth to tell, I am far from eager for Phoebe’s company, let alone dear Mamma’s, for she would be sure to ask why I failed to join her for the Sunday afternoon walk and Phoebe will surely be peevish because she had to accompany her alone. Phoebe hates these walks because Mamma always chooses the muddiest lanes — or so she declares. Why?” Jessica repeated. “Have you a mind to drive somewhere?”

  “To Cobblers Green. I hear that John Wesley is to speak there this very afternoon.”

  “Then may God protect him! The male population of Burslem will welcome no one preaching against their sins. What gives you such a fancy, Martin? I have never known you enjoy anyone’s sermonising. The moment the Reverend Hartley enters the pulpit your eyes glaze with boredom.”

  “Because I have heard him preach a thousand times or more, and always in the same dreary fashion. Wesley is no country parson but a man of action, a man of courage. His aim to educate the poor seems admirable, and his evangelism may be worth heeding since it springs from an educated mind. He was at Oxford and has even travelled in America. He interests me.”

  She looked at his frank young face — square chinned, snub nosed, anything but handsome beneath a thatch of unruly mid-brown hair. Joseph’s fine head of hair, which he refused to conceal even with a fashionable bob-wig except on formal occasions, was swept back with an elegant black tie-bow for daily wear, but allowed to flow over his high stock at other times. Joseph’s dark hair was greatly admired by the ladies, but Martin’s untidy locks merely added to his Puckish appearance, especially after Jessica had yielded to his pleas and cropped them short with a pair of kitchen scissors, to their mother’s dismay. Martin’s curls had been Emily Drayton’s pride and joy in his childhood, atoning for what he lacked in looks and, she hoped, drawing attention away from his infirmity.

  Studying him now, Jessica felt a rush of affection for her good natured brother, with whom she shared a greater affinity than with any other member of the family. Twins were supposed to be closer to each other than other relationships, to have identical looks, identical thoughts, and even identical experiences when their lives took separate paths, and though it was true that Jessica found Phoebe’s thoughts transparent, the half hour between their actual birth seemed to have totally divided their characters.

  With Martin she shared a deeper understanding, so now she said indulgently, “Dear Martin, any celebrated man who passes through the district interests you, but let us head for Cobblers Green, by all means.”

  After Evensong, when Joseph had escorted his family back to Medlar Croft and then departed for his own house, and the evening dish of tea left her mother nodding, and Phoebe escaped to while away the time tittivating before her mirror, and Martin limped away to Burslem’s bowling alley to play ninepins after swearing Jessica to silence because it was still the Sabbath, Jessica too would make her escape, slipping away through the shrubbery to a gap in the hedge leading to Merrow’s Thicket and thence to the forgotten gazebo just within the Tremain acres, and there Roger would be waiting and she would yield to his ardour with an abandon of which she had never dreamed herself capable. There would be no time for hesitation, so impatient was her longing for him, so hungry her senses, and guilt had ceased to be a torment because she no longer believed that so natural an expression of love could really be wicked.

  But she longed to be rid of secrecy. Above all, she wanted to bear Roger’s name so the whole world would know they were man and wife. And he felt the same. He had said so. Therefore she was confident that all Joseph’s threats would leave him unperturbed and that without further delay he would take matters into his own hands. Precisely how, she was unsure, but he was a man who went straight for whatever he wanted — “And I wanted you, Jessica, the moment I saw you, looking serene and pious in your family’s pew.”

  Serene? She had been brought up to appear so because that was how a lady should always look, irrespective of her inner feelings. One wore a mask so the outer world saw only the face it was meant to see. Even discarding the mask in the presence of one’s family was a fault of which she was continuously guilty. She had hurled it aside before Joseph today — wildly, furiously, ablaze with reproaches and defiance, and she had not troubled to replace it for Martin’s benefit, knowing it would be useless because hiding their thoughts and feelings was impossible on either side. They knew each other too well.

  As for piety, that, too, was assumed because duty demanded it. For the major part of her life Jessica had sat in the family pew on Sundays, letting her mind wander while her lips murmured the responses and her eyes roamed over the congregation, viewing the same familiar faces year in, year out, yet scarcely seeing them. They were part of the background, part of the familiar pattern — until one Sunday in early spring when her glance had strayed across the aisle to the adjoining Freeman pew. Although Tremain Hall had its own chapel, used mainly for baptisms, marriages and funerals, the family maintained a traditional pew in the parish church, and it was in this pew that a new and striking face caught Jessica’s eye.

  It was an arresting face, olive skinned and handsome, with dark eyes set beneath level brows and a mouth that disturbed her. She had been studying it, wondering why it should have such an effect, when she became aware that its owner was studying her in return. Although she promptly turned away she was aware of his eyes upon her for the rest of the service, and when he was presented to her by Agatha Freeman outside the church, she knew well enough that he had contrived it. To be so singled out was a new experience in her life. It was pretty Phoebe whom men usually wanted to meet.

  After that, Roger Acland’s attentions intoxicated her. She could deny him nothing. Nor would she this evening, hidden from the rest of the world, and so important were these
moments, so vital in both their lives, that she knew she would need no guile to persuade him to elope — but if he hesitated out of concern for her reputation, if he demurred for fear that such a step would alienate her from her family — no, not even then would she resort to the most persuasive reason of all, despite her avowal to wield any available weapon.

  It was essential to her peace of mind that he should choose to marry her because he wanted to, not because, being an honourable man, he felt it his duty. Apprehensive though she was, fearful that her suspicions were not ill founded, distressed by the thought of the anguish it could cause her mother — sometimes even appalled by what she had done and at other times unable to believe that it was actually she, Jessica Drayton, who had forgotten the moral teachings of a lifetime to revel in the wild abandonment of love and to seek it more and more until guilt no longer troubled her — nonetheless she wanted no marriage that could turn ugly through resentment and bitter with recrimination. She would not stoop to trap the man she loved, though how she would survive if fate decreed they should not wed she dared not think. Girls who bore illegitimate children were outcasts in society, rejected by their families, flotsam to whom the world owed nothing. Nor did the men responsible.

  Chilled, she drove out the thought. It would not, could not happen to her.

  Chapter Two

  Cobblers Green was the centre for village gatherings, a broad stretch overlooked by the Red Lion. Here the maypole was set on May Day and here people strolled after Matins on Sunday, the only day of the week free from work. But on Saturday nights respectable folk gave it a wide berth, for it was to here that the landlord dragged the inebriated and deposited their bodies at closing time, while the local Watch tied the most violent of them to the Red Lion’s signpost since the village stocks were regrettably no more.