by Rona Randall
But she would be even more anxious to avoid being seen if threatened with dire penalty if she were.
Fornication he shall not commit; Matrimony he shall not contract. What applied to the apprentice did not apply to the master, apparently. Joseph had not yet married, but why should he practise celibacy meanwhile? He was a man like any other, and Martin had learned at a very early age precisely what fornication meant and that men were at liberty to indulge it without censure, whereas women were not.
But such matters were not for discussion with sisters; nor was he a mischief maker; nor had he any wish to destroy the accepted family picture of Joseph, for their mother’s sake.
And Joseph was very circumspect. At work he never so much as glanced in Meg’s direction. Martin had yet to see him exchange even a word with the girl, except when inspecting the pots she turned so expertly. It was a mystery how they had ever become more closely acquainted, for Meg was no more than a turner, putting rims to the bases of pots with a skill much admired by Martin. He had learned the craft of turning at the same bench and many a helpful tip she had given him.
He yearned for the day when he would be free of his brother’s supervision, but that day would be long in coming even if Joseph did take him into partnership when his final year was up. His brother’s seniority would restrict that partnership to a junior one, but at least he would have his foot on the first rung of the ladder and his dream of becoming a Master Potter would be less remote.
A five year apprenticeship was supposed to equip a man in all branches of the craft, but with little more than a year to go Martin knew he was still far from being fully qualified. Perhaps Jessica was right in saying that so long as he produced a requisite number of pots every day he would never advance beyond the throwing wheel, but there were spheres beyond that which had to be mastered if a man was to become a potter in his own right. Glazing, firing, designing, mixing his own blends of clay and producing his own glaze recipes, doing chemical experiments to create individual colours which other potters had not yet discovered…all this he knew himself to be capable of learning even though Joseph had retarded his progress by keeping him on the wheel for longer than expected.
Meanwhile, there was Jessica to think of and right at this moment there was nothing more important than that. The idea of marrying Max Freeman was plainly anathema to her, and this Martin could well understand. Sometimes he wondered how Amelia came to have such a brother, uncouth in comparison with her daintiness, coarse in comparison with her refinement.
“If you are right,” said Jessica, “then I have some brief respite at least…”
But she needed more than a brief respite to decide how to cope with the situation. On thirty pounds a year a young woman could not run away from home and support herself. The sum was adequate as a dress allowance for a young woman of reasonable social standing, but Joseph would certainly curtail it should she disgrace the family name. In that event she would be forced to survive by her own wits, but she had no skills and no qualifications for anything greater than governessing, and who would employ an unmarried, expectant mother?
As the days passed she became increasingly certain of her condition, and what had previously been a guilty promise of happiness now became a threat from which there was no escape. At least, she thought wryly, it would forestall marriage to Max Freeman, for what man would accept a pregnant bride? But the alternative was also undesirable. If, by some miracle, she was allowed to remain with her family, the child would be disposed of, sent to a baby farm and never seen again. Such was the order of things when an unmarried daughter subjected her family to such disgrace, and for the birth she would be sent away to some discreet address while a mythical tale of ‘indisposition’ was circulated. Everyone would pretend to believe it, but when she returned and people shunned her she would know the truth had slipped out. She would be ‘the bad Miss Drayton’ from thenceforth, and hold her head up as she might, scorn the wagging tongues, dismiss them as unimportant, she would have to endure the same censure at home.
There remained one alternative — Martha Tinsley. Jessica closed her eyes and shuddered at the thought. What did she do, that old hag who had come to the rescue of so many whores and misguided village girls, who had charged the Freemans’ underhousemaid ‘all of a shilling for getting rid of it’? There were whispers about drugs and demon potions, manufactured by the old woman from diabolical recipes, but worse hints were bandied behind closed doors, of sharpened knitting needles and nameless instruments and even of death.
It never occurred to Jessica that there was yet another course — to go ahead with the planned marriage and keep silent. A man so conceited as Max would never admit he had been deceived. The usual story about premature birth could be put about and if shrewd folk guessed the truth it would be concluded that he was the father and had done the right thing in marrying her. Privately, Max might punish her for it for the rest of her life, but at least the truth would be kept secret.
Time passed while Jessica’s tension increased and her mother waited to hear that Joseph’s plans had succeeded and she could begin to prepare for her daughter’s wedding. And what a proud day it would be when two of Burslem’s leading families were united! The Freemans, of course, were wealthier than the Draytons and therefore higher up the social scale, but there had always been friendship between the two families, their children had grown up together, and in any case Emily’s clever son was rapidly restoring the Drayton fortunes and, with them, the family’s social esteem.
So her thoughts took flight. Jessica first, then why not Phoebe? So amenable a girl would be easy to find a husband for, even though her mother had long suspected that Max appealed to her as much as she did to him. But she was a docile creature and once he was married to Jessica she would accept the situation.
That decided, Emily’s thoughts turned to Martin, who had eyes only for Amelia whenever they met. In the midst of her happy expectancy Emily was saddened by thoughts of her crippled son, for what chance had he of marrying well, homely and plain looking and destined to do nothing more than throw pots on one of Drayton’s wheels? “The lad will fare well enough at that,” Joseph assured her frequently, “and so long as we can stop him from wasting time on these silly animals he models, his thrown work will be a credit to us.”
“But he cannot remain a thrower forever, dear Joseph. He will be entitled to more than that. Drayton sons have active shares in the pot bank as soon as they qualify. It is a family legacy, a family tradition.”
“And Martin will benefit by it when he qualifies. Even then, he will serve Drayton’s in whatever is the best sphere for him, and only I can name that.”
Emily shelved the matter, confident that whatever Joseph decided would be right. And there was plenty of time in which to consider Martin. The boy was young and content enough, and a niche for him was assured. She could only pray that he would not wed some ignorant village girl who would jump at the chance to better herself and therefore be willing to overlook a man’s physical shortcomings, but a young lady like Amelia would have many chances to marry well and would surely reject poor Martin.
But of more immediate concern was the future of her own daughters and, of the two, the greater problem was Jessica, whose character was the more difficult, making the prospect of finding a husband even more so. She could only hope and pray that the girl’s refusal to marry Max would be overcome by common sense.
To her gratification, Jessica made no further reference to the matter, but went about the house calmly and quietly. In fact, she was unusually quiet these days, which was surely a good sign. Perhaps it meant she was coming to her senses and there would be no more wild defiance.
The way she toyed with food also suggested preoccupation, and what could be the cause of that but the prospect of being wed? This indicated that she was giving it serious thought, though perhaps regarding it nervously. Such a state was natural in a bride-to-be, but would pass.
By the time Joseph sent word that hi
s negotiations were complete and that he would expect his mother to bring Jessica to Carrion House at eight-thirty that very evening, Emily was convinced that her wayward daughter had come to heel.
Joseph felt and looked handsome in a long sleeved brocade waistcoat flaring gently from waist to knee. Such a garment was now called a smoking jacket by fashionable gentlemen, and he wore it well. He knew that as head of the Drayton family he made a more imposing figure than his father had ever done, for he was taller, and straighter in shoulder and carriage. These attributes had enabled him to look down physically on George Drayton at an early age, having achieved his splendid height by his mid teens. Looking down on his father in other ways came later, when he entered the pot bank after university and discovered what a dreamer the man was. A time-waster. A man with his head in the clouds. No wonder other branches of the family had achieved greater success and regarded absent minded George with either disapproval or disappointment.
Never having been interested in books, Joseph understood their attitude. Since graduating — and not outstandingly — he had personally never opened another volume. Books had served the purpose of equipping him with enough superficial knowledge to hold his own in any average conversation, and since the intellectual kind held no appeal he had cultivated the art of avoiding it. Social assets were more valuable to a man who hoped to get on in the industrial world, and he prided himself on possessing more than enough. He could also boast an astute business head. On this he had been complimented by Drayton relatives who prided themselves on their own industrial success. Oh yes, young Joseph would be a credit to the family; he would put that deteriorating pot bank on its feet again and be worthy of the name of Drayton.
He knew they said it, he knew it to be true, and he had rapidly proved them right.
They were sound, respectable stock, the Draytons. Sound financially and morally. No breath of scandal had ever touched them, nor ever would. They married sensibly and profitably and brought up their families to observe the same code. George had been an oddity whom they had neither understood nor been proud of, but perhaps there had to be an oddity in every pack now and then. Not that any Drayton now living could recall a bookworm amongst any branch of the family. Such creatures, like artists, were to be viewed askance and certainly never mixed with. The ability to make money was the yardstick by which a man should be measured, and Joseph was measuring up well.
He was very conscious of this tonight. Self-satisfaction sat on his erect figure as comfortably as his elegant clothes. He felt benign and, after one of Hannah Walker’s substantial but somewhat unimaginative meals, sufficiently wined and dined. Not that she would continue in the role of cook-housekeeper for long. The time had come for him to increase his domestic staff in line with his increasing social ambitions. The woman would take a back seat when his plans reached fruition; she might remain as housekeeper, but someone more skilled on the culinary side would be essential. A chef, preferably French. If Hannah Walker didn’t like it, Hannah Walker could go. People were always expendable.
He was aware that the majority of Burslem inhabitants already regarded him with a certain awe because he lived more grandly than his father had ever done, but Carrion House must provide even greater evidence of his success and win even greater esteem for him. He had recognised the potential of the place when first viewing it, and therefore scorned the ridiculous tales about it. To be offered such a bargain was sufficient inducement to reject any nonsensical legends. Nor had he ever been conscious of anything sinister about the place, having eyes only for its decayed grandeur and a vision of the splendid background it could make for himself A man of substance needed a worthy setting.
He had already gone a long way toward achieving that, but was resolved to make his home even more fitting, not only for himself, but for the wife he proposed to install in it.
Since the prospect presented no problems, he was able to turn his mind to more immediate concerns. His tiresome sister had to be dealt with, and since she was involved in the pattern of things the sooner everything was tied up, the better.
Approaching Ralph Freeman had required confidence, but Joseph had never known a lack of it and the proposition he put forward had much to commend it. The father of a daughter who was proving difficult to marry off would have the good sense to see that. As far as Joseph was aware, there wasn’t a really eligible man within miles who had ever sought the hand of buxom Agatha. He had never been attracted to her himself, but since the news of her inheritance had come to his ears he had had the good sense to act quickly, knowing other men would do the same. Not that he feared any serious rivals; most would be fortune hunters, which was something the astute Ralph Freeman would quickly detect and of which he could never accuse Joseph Drayton. A man who had turned a dwindling family business into an increasingly thriving concern needed no better testimonial.
But there was more to commend him than that. Unwieldy Agatha, with her heavy features and ridiculous taste in dress, would need taking in hand, moulding into the role required of her, and it would take a man of determination to achieve that. The vast amount of money already lavished on her had achieved nothing; she remained lumpish and unattractive, increasingly eclipsed by young Amelia, and well must her parents be aware of it. Coupled with native shrewdness, Ralph Freeman’s desire to marry of his eldest daughter would influence him in favour of a man who was becoming increasingly successful and could therefore never be suspected of having eyes on her money.
All this had placed Joseph in an advantageous position, with a bargaining power he had not hesitated to use, so he was justified in feeling complacent while waiting for his mother and sister to arrive. It wanted another ten minutes before they were due and he was confident they would not be late. His mother knew how greatly he disapproved of unpunctuality and since so much hinged on this meeting she would be more than eager to arrive on time. As for Jessica, she would do as she was told. Whether she wanted to come or not, she had no choice. She had been eager enough to call at his house when hoping to get her own way; now she would learn that it was her brother’s way, as head of the family, which had to be heeded.
And, by Jupiter, she should be grateful to him for all he had done. He had saved her from a disastrous marriage to an impecunious nobody and manipulated a comfortable future for her with a man of means and of good social standing. For that she should thank, not God, but himself.
Catching sight of his reflection in an ornate Venetian mirror, Joseph smoothed his dark hair with satisfaction. Despite being fashion conscious, he never wore a wig except on the strictest formal occasions because his natural hair was justifiably admired. Even in London, he had heard, men of fashion were attempting to discard the wig, or wearing only a very brief affair which frequently looked ridiculous with natural hair protruding from beneath, so why not reveal all of it when it was so splendid as his own? He liked the long waves flowing back from his head — and so did stupid Agatha. She had once dared to put up a pudgy hand to stroke them, but he had evaded that. Her touch held no appeal. Nor did the idea of touching her in return, but a man had to tolerate certain things and even do certain things if they were to his advantage. Agatha would serve his purpose, but it was a pity that well bred women lacked the earthy appeal of the Meg Gibsons of this world.
Thinking of that young woman disturbed him. She had a way of intruding into his thoughts, and the more frequently he had her in his bed the more he wanted her — and, ironically, the more she challenged him. Why did a cheap little whore leave him feeling that nothing he did could humble her? And cheap she certainly was. She accepted whatever he paid her. With a sick mother, she had no choice. But sometimes the way in which she picked up his coins seemed to convey a greater contempt for him than he felt for her. She would pocket them without glancing at them, toss him an unreadable smile, and swagger away with an air that suggested she would not be returning.
But she always did, and there was no reason in the world for him to feel a strange uneasiness whene
ver she departed.
It was almost as if she mistrusted him, whereas it was his mistrust of her that had first brought them together. He had found fault with her work solely to delay her when the day’s shift was done. A complaint to the chief turner meant that she had to report to the Master Potter for reprimand, and the dreaded threat of discharge. In this way he had avoided singling her out for personal attention under the observant eyes of her fellow workers.
It also created an opportunity to find out why she had stolen the utensils from which his father had taken his last meal, but all she had done was to look him straight in the eye and say, “I thought Mistress Drayton would like to have ’em, sir. To keep in memory of the master.” And because her words confirmed his mother’s, he could give no reply other than to chide her for trespassing and to reprimand her for stealing.
“And how did you know where they were?” he had added, and again she had been not in the least disconcerted.
“I’d washed ’em, sir, and then replaced ’em. I loved him, y’see. Everybody loved him. Then I wanted to do something to comfort his poor lady, so I went back and took ’em. D ’you call that stealing, sir — making sure that someone that has a right to things, gets ’em?”
There had been scorn in her face. A hint of mockery. There had also been an inviting body and sultry eyes and a mouth that stirred a craving in a man. It had been impossible to let her go. She had stood there, waiting to be dismissed, as dirty and dishevelled as any woman from the potteries after a thirteen-hour day, her skirt filthy with clay dust, hands and face darkened with it. But not even the film on her thick mane of hair had disguised its richness. Most of the women swathed their heads in a strip of old cloth which, more often than not, was already filthy when they put it on, but Meg Gibson scorned that. Every morning she arrived with shining hair because she had swilled it beneath the village pump on the way home the night before.
