The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  He knew this because he had seen her doing it as he rode back to Carrion House. There she would be, sleeves rolled up, one bare arm wielding the iron pump handle, the other rinsing her long tresses beneath the flowing water. There was relish in the way she dowsed her head, bending over with her hitched up skirts revealing bare and shapely legs, of which she was patently unconscious. She was aware only of the water, relishing its coldness and its cleansing power and the stimulation of it after endless hours standing at a bench with her turning tool in hand, peeling away the leather-hard clay until a foot was formed, and then on to the next…and the next…and the next…working through an endless line until it was time to pocket the shilling for her day’s work and hurry along to the village pump to get rid of the dirt.

  Sometimes she filled the wooden pail provided for the use of villagers, and carried it on her head to her home down by the marlpit. At those moments she put him in mind of a Biblical woman bearing a pitcher, erect, graceful, magnificently poised, going on her way with negligent ease, and the rhythmic sway of her body would stir the same lust which even thinking about her could arouse in him.

  He could recall her now, shaking back her wet mane of hair before heading for home with that challenging step, as if daring the world and everyone in it to ridicule her desire to be clean.

  It was a mercy that his heavy front door bell clanged on its chain at that moment, echoing throughout the house and disrupting his thoughts. Meg was his torment and delight. Her power to disturb him even when absent was uncanny. Often he hated her for it and resolved to have done with her. No woman had ever obsessed him as she did, and it was galling to be enslaved by such a cheap little baggage. Then her allure would overcome him and he would send for her, satiate his desires, and send her packing, vowing never to see her again because a man who was prominent in the community was unwise to saddle himself with an encumbrance of her kind — though he had to acknowledge that she made no demands, never pestered, never bargained, never thrust herself forward, never intruded. She merely came at his bidding and departed with the same secret, unreadable smile.

  All the same, he must break free of her. Burslem was a small place where nothing remained secret for long. He marvelled that their association was still unsuspected, and knew that this was due to her circumspection as well as his own. Or perhaps it was because no one would ever dream that a gentleman of his rank could be numbered amongst Meg Gibson’s clients. On that thought, half comforting, half shaming, he turned his back on introspection and waited for his housekeeper to show his mother and sister into the room.

  Jessica felt the chill that she always felt when entering this house. Despite her brother’s efforts the hall contained no welcome, though it certainly impressed. It was a vast area with a vaulted ceiling flanked by heavy oaken cross beams and featuring, at the farthermost end, an enormous gothic fireplace of densely carved stone in which the heat of any fire, no matter how huge, was lost within the yawning chimney. The walls were also of stone, as were the floor and the winding stairs sweeping upwards from each side, so that voices and footsteps echoed as if in some immense tomb.

  This impressive entrance hall was admired by everyone but herself, so perhaps it was only she who disliked it. She shrank from it particularly at this moment, despite the evening sunshine streaming through mullioned windows.

  Walking up the hill from their own home, her mother had commented on the balminess of the air. “So fresh, up here, away from the valley!” And so it was, until one entered Carrion House. Stepping across this threshold, one stepped into a different atmosphere — heavy, sombre, forbidding. If only Joseph would fling the windows wide one might be able to breathe, she thought, but her brother had an aversion to draughts and maintained that the winds up here on top of the hill had to be kept at bay, otherwise the windows rattled and chimneys smoked and the rising pollution from the valley filled his elegant rooms.

  Now Jessica wanted to turn and run, but Hannah Walker was holding open the vast front door and her mother was returning the woman’s respectful greeting. Jessica could do nothing but follow, and despite her reluctance and her dread of what was to come, she was secretly amused by the way in which the housekeeper ignored her. So the woman had neither forgiven nor forgotten the pointed comment and the stormy departure of her last visit…

  How long ago that seemed! Another time, another world. A time which held neither doubt nor any real anxiety, a world secure in the love of a man she had believed could never be false. She had come here on that memorable day feeling apprehensive, but not really afraid. Apprehension accompanied her again, but this time shot through with fear. She would have to summon all her determination if she were to survive this interview.

  Her mother was preceding her with a light step, almost skipping in her excitement, and Hannah Walker was opening the double doors leading to the master’s fine withdrawing room — for Carrion House had no such thing as a homely parlour — and Joseph was coming towards them, looking as handsome and self-assured as ever, both hands extended for his mother but sparing not a glance for his sister. He kissed Emily on both cheeks and urged her into the most comfortable chair in the room. “And a glass of Madeira, Mother? I have an excellent one. And some marchpane? I know you are fond of it.”

  Only then did he notice Jessica, as if by accident. “Ah, there you are, sister — be seated, pray.” His tone of indifference was familiar because it was adopted when either she or Martin were out of favour, but Phoebe never sampled it because she never was. Still secretly amused, Jessica sat down, folded her hands, and waited.

  But her mother could not. She scarcely sipped her wine before bursting out, “Dear Joseph, your news, I beg you! You have summoned us here to — ”

  “— to hear something splendid, yes.’ He bestowed an indulgent smile on his mother, enjoying her impatience, enjoying his power, and the dread in Jessica’s heart instantly eclipsed any private amusement. When he condescended to place a glass of Madeira at her side, she left it untouched, but neither he nor his mother noticed. They were a pair of delighted conspirators, Emily humbly grateful and her son full of self congratulation.

  “You have achieved it? Oh, my dear son, that is splendid indeed — and how good of you, how clever!”

  Joseph sat down in his favourite armchair, crossed his well shaped legs in their fine silken hose, and nodded complacently. “I think I can say the same,” he agreed. “I have accomplished a most satisfactory arrangement, satisfactory to both sides, and when you hear the details you will be happier still.”

  Emily Drayton almost bounced in her seat.

  “I cannot wait to hear! You have seen dear Mr Freeman, talked with him — ?”

  Joseph nodded. “Also with Max, later. The young man was somewhat taken aback, but when he heard my generous offer he was more than agreeable.”

  “You mean Jessica’s dowry? Dear Joseph, I do hope you can afford it without depriving yourself unduly. Have you been over generous? I expect you have.”

  “At times like this generosity is a wise investment, and knowing that Max has been regrettably unsuccessful in any line of work his father has set him to, I guessed that something in addition to a dowry would influence both.”

  “In addition?” His mother’s voice held a doubtful note. “What more can we possibly offer?”

  “A financial share in Drayton’s. An income, my dear mother, when he becomes a member of the family.”

  “But he needs no further income! His father is rich, and so are all his family connections. And — forgive me, Joseph, but I am afraid I really must point this out — only Drayton men have ever been part of the business, and it is a family tradition that none but Draytons will ever be. Indeed, part of the Drayton bequest, right from the time the pot bank was founded, was that shares should be equally divided between male Draytons only…”

  Her voice trailed off as her son held up a silencing hand.

  “I am aware of that, but rest assured that Max Freeman will not becom
e a part of it. Nor would I wish him to be, since he is ignorant of the trade. He will merely draw an income as part of the marriage settlement. I could scarcely offer less, considering Jessica is so plain and has attracted no prospective suitor — other than an impecunious scoundrel from whom I mercifully saved her. The truth must be faced, my dear Mother. Other branches of our family have been a great deal more successful than us, and though it is my intention to equal them and even outstrip them eventually, our financial standing is not yet on a par with the Freemans. Max could have his pick of many a wealthier bride. It needed extra enticement to get him for Jessica. I have always suspected he preferred Phoebe.”

  Still uncertain, but diffident as always, his mother said, ‘Well, if you say so, Joseph, I am sure you are right, but what of poor Martin? It was your dear father’s intention that his two sons should share the business equally, so it seems to me that giving a third share to an outsider…”

  “Young Freeman will not be an outsider once he is married to your daughter, and his share will not be equal. Fair and far from parsimonious, yes, but not enough to give him any importance. You must respect my judgment in this matter.” Joseph moved impatiently, and his mother was instantly apologetic.

  “Of course, dear son, of course! Naturally, I understand and am grateful — as, I am sure, is Jessica.” For the first time she remembered her daughter and turned to her, saying, “This is wonderful news, my dear! I am sure dear Charlotte Freeman will be inviting us to Tremain Hall almost immediately… such excitement there will be!” She raised her goblet. “We must drink to the happy couple, Joseph — but no, on second thoughts, let us all drink to the future! Come, Jessica, your wine is untouched — “

  Her daughter left it so. She spoke for the first time.

  “Perhaps a more fitting toast would be to Joseph’s bartering powers, Mamma. He buys off one man, then buys another. His business acumen seems unique, but I refuse to be used as barter.” Her mother gasped and wine spilled down her dress. She reached out blindly to replace the glass, and missed. It fell with a tinkle to the floor and a dark stain spread at her feet, but all she saw was her son’s outraged face. Then his voice thundered.

  “How dare you, miss! How dare — “ Choking with fury, he turned on his mother. “Madam, is this how you bring up your daughters? To be insulting and ungrateful, to have no respect for the head of the family, to say what they will however ill mannered?”

  “Indeed not! I am appalled! Jessica, apologise at once. How can you say such monstrous things when dear Joseph has taken so much trouble to arrange a desirable match for you? The least you can do is to thank him.”

  “How can I thank him for a marriage which is anything but desirable to me!”

  Joseph threw up his hands. “The stupid miss has a head full of romantic dreams. The sooner she realises that marriage is a practical arrangement between a man and a woman, for their mutual benefit, the better. I suppose, sister, you are still hankering after that scoundrel I saved you from? A fine alliance that would have turned out to be! The man hadn’t a penny to his name and only paid attention to you because he thought you would have plenty. I soon enlightened him on that point and he was thankful to make a profitable escape. Ah, you wince — and it serves you right. Now perhaps you will come to your senses. You are damned fortunate to be getting a husband like Max Freeman. You should be on your knees, thanking me indeed.”

  “Jessica — please — heed what your brother says. Marriage is a very desirable state for a woman. It gives her security, children, and a husband to care for her, as mine did…”

  ‘In this case, not as yours did, Mamma. Max has no love for me, nor I for him. I dislike him. I find him coarse and loud and — and — “

  She broke off. Self-control was slipping. The room seemed to be closing in on her, trapping her. If only she could get away from this oppressive house she would be able to think clearly, face up to her problem, decide what to do. Instead, others were deciding for her, had decided already, were forcing her along a path she could not possibly take. There must be some other way out, some other means of coping with her predicament, but even as the thought raced through her head she knew there was none.

  Her mother pleaded, “It will all come in time — affection, respect, growing accustomed to each other’s little ways…”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Joseph rapped. “The girl will go through with this marriage after all the trouble I have taken to arrange it. It is costing me a pretty penny, let me tell you.”

  “You have told us already,” Jessica retorted. “Otherwise Max would not have agreed — you made that clear, too.” She took a deep breath. “He would agree even less willingly — in fact, he would not agree at all if he knew — ”

  “Knew what? About your stupid infatuation for his distant cousin? He wouldn’t give that much for it — ” Joseph snapped his fingers contemptuously, then the look on his sister’s face made him pause. He became uneasy. “If he knew what?” he repeated quietly.

  The moment had come. She was chilled with icy resolution.

  “I think it would be better if Mamma withdrew.”

  “Why should she, in heaven’s name? Whatever nonsense you now have to say can be said before both of us, though personally I consider you have said quite enough and I am prepared to listen to you no more.”

  He turned his back on her, but Emily Drayton, more sensitive than her son, was suddenly afraid. “What is it, Jessica?” she asked fearfully. “What would make Max Freeman unwilling to marry you?” When her daughter turned compassionate, unhappy eyes upon her, her voice sank to a whisper. “What, Jessica — what?”

  But before Jessica could answer, Joseph spun round.

  “My God!” He stared at his sister, thunderstruck. “She means she is going to have a child!”

  Chapter Four

  “How soon?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When did you last — ?”

  “Two months. Nearly three.”

  “You could be mistaken. I understand even two months can pass without — “

  “I am not mistaken. I know. I feel it.”

  It astonished her to be discussing her bodily functions with her brother. Such subjects were taboo in refined households. Even undressing in the presence of one’s own sex was not done. As children, sharing the same room, Jessica and Phoebe had been taught to turn their backs when disrobing and to pull voluminous nightgowns over their heads so that undergarments could be shed from beneath the folds and thus avoid exposing their nakedness. As for a man and woman referring to such an embarrassing subject as female menstruation, only with a doctor could it be discussed — and then only if unavoidable. Yet here she was, alone with Joseph in his study, facing a frank inquisition.

  “Have you seen a doctor? If you have, I hope to God it wasn’t Wotherspoon or the news will be all over Burslem by now.”

  “I thought doctors respected confidences.”

  “That old man tipples.”

  “And yet you called him to Father, the day he died.”

  “Only because he was nearest to hand. It was obviously too late to save him, so all Wotherspoon had to do was certify the cause of death. But it is you we are discussing, and this shameful business you have brought upon us. It will have to be dealt with, and soon. You saw the shock it caused your mother, poor soul.”

  She had indeed. Emily had slumped into a neat little heap on the floor and now lay prone on a chaise longue, sipping the brandy Joseph insisted she should have. He had picked her up and carried her there and, fearing his housekeeper might have heard his mother’s wail of horror, had warned his sister on no account to let the woman in. Later, taking Jessica to his study, he had turned the key of the withdrawing room behind him, first assuring the weeping Emily that she had nothing to fear, that he would take care of everything, that they had only to keep their heads, that nothing would be made public nor be allowed to ruin their plans.

  Jessica might have known he
would adopt his inquisitor’s stance, back to the fireplace, arms folded, face stern, just as he had the day she confessed her desire to marry Roger Acland and begged him not to oppose it. Today’s circumstances couldn’t have been more different, but his attitude was the same, judicial, condemning, without a jot of human understanding or compassion. She stood before him, as she had then, hands clasped loosely before her, anticipating the sentence to be passed on her, but knowing, this time, that she was defeated before the cross-questioning even began. On that day he had listened stonily to her impassioned speech, then mocked her for it. Today her only opportunity to speak was when answering questions.

  “It was Acland, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t ask where you behaved like a strumpet with that schemer because I have no desire to know, but mark you this — your sluttish behaviour is not going to ruin my plans, which happen to extend beyond your marriage to Max Freeman. I asked how imminent the birth was, because if it were early days it would be easy enough to pass it off as an early conception, not unknown even on a marriage night, followed by a premature birth, and no one any the wiser — “

  “I would never agree to that!”

  “ — but the Freemans will expect a conventional period of betrothal, followed by a lavish wedding planned weeks ahead, so time rules out any concealment of that nature. And whether you agree to anything or not is beside the point. You will have no choice but to abide by any decision I make, and my decision is this — the child will be got rid of. You will not give birth to it.”

  “I must!”

  “There is no ‘must’ about it. I’ll not have a sister of mine bringing the Draytons into disrepute, nor causing a rift between the owners of Tremain Hall and myself. You think all I arranged was your marriage, but other things were discussed, other plans made between Ralph Freeman and myself. All would come to naught if he believed I had deceived him, tricking him into a marriage between his son and my sister because she was expecting another man’s child. He is the kind of man who would have no further dealings with me. You wretched little whore, can you think only of yourself?”