The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  “I am not a whore, and I cannot get rid of it. I don’t know how and, besides, I don’t want to — “

  “ — because that man fathered it? Then go to him, find him, see if he will marry you! I guarantee he will not. He agreed all too willingly that in return for the money I paid him he would never see you again.” Joseph took a sheet of paper from his desk and held it out. “See for yourself. This is the agreement he signed before he grabbed the money and beat a hasty retreat. He was out of Burslem within the hour. You and your brat are the last things a man like that would wish to be saddled with. Now do you want to have his child?”

  She spared not a glance for the paper.

  “I want it because it is mine.”

  “And how do you propose to support it, pray?”

  “I have no idea. I thought perhaps I could go to Harriet to have it, then decide what to do.”

  Joseph laughed.

  “Are you forgetting that your sister’s husband is the son of a noted bishop? His main source of income is derived from that wealthy and influential family. Do you think he would risk it by harbouring an adulteress? His stern father would strongly condemn such an action. The bishop is noted for his rigid views and his condemnation of immorality. And have you considered the embarrassment you would cause Harriet?’”

  She knew her brother had used the word ‘adulteress’ deliberately, to shock and shame her. The last thing she wanted was to hurt or embarrass Harriet, who had never been anything but kind and affectionate, understanding her almost as much as Martin did, always taking her side. But now her sister had greater loyalties and it would be unfair to expect her to divide them.

  Jessica said desperately, “I will support my baby somehow. Somehow.”

  “On the streets? Begging? Selling your body? Why not, since you value it so little? You can take up that trade if you wish, but not within a hundred miles of here, or I’ll see that you regret it. And stop fighting back tears. Do you think they will move me? There is only one way in which you can remain a member of this family and that is by doing as I say. You may not know how to get rid of the child, but there are ways and means. There is a woman in Burslem who will do it and hold her tongue for the right sum.”

  “Not Martha Tinsley! Joseph, I beg you — help me, please, but not that way.”

  “I am helping you in the best possible way.”

  “But the things she does!”

  “How do you know what things she does? Are you acquainted with the woman, have you found it necessary to seek her help before?”

  She wanted to strike out at his handsome face, to smash his composure, to wipe the sneer from his mouth. People admired that mouth, especially women, and especially Agatha Freeman who, Jessica suspected, had always been enamoured of him. She had once heard Agatha describe his mouth as beautiful, but to her surprise she had also heard Martin, when only fifteen, describe it as sensual. Facing her elder brother now, she could not credit him with any feeling at all, let alone sensuality.

  But his features were certainly the finest any Drayton had ever possessed, the nose finely bridged and aristocratic (‘autocratic’, said Martin), the eyes compelling and deeply set, lips moulded in a natural curve which imparted a belying gentleness to his expression, chin squarely cut and with a slight cleft — a chin which gave an impression of underlying strength that never failed to impress the opposite sex. But nothing about Joseph impressed his sister. At this moment she hated him more than she had ever done.

  Forcing herself to be calm, she answered, “I know nothing of the woman’s practices, but one hears things.”

  “From where, pray?”

  “From behind fans in elegant withdrawing rooms, from ladies whiling away the time whilst the gentlemen linger over their wine. Not all discuss needlepoint or child rearing or domesticity. I have heard more tidbits of scandal from young women like Agatha Freeman than I can recall hearing from any other source.”

  “I refuse to believe it. Agatha is a well brought up young woman.”

  “That kind is frequently the worst.”

  “Be quiet! And don’t attempt to tar others with the same brush as yourself.”

  She was surprised by his defence of Agatha, but his reply angered her too much to spare it further thought.

  “I am tarred with no brush but the one you are using!”

  “You will be, unless you do as I tell you. Tinsley is a midwife and a medicine woman, a herbalist to whom many people turn. No harm she could do to you could be greater than the harm you have already done yourself.”

  “I have heard that her practices are highly suspect.”

  He brushed that aside, declaring that she had no doubt been listening to a lot of unfounded gossip. “Come to your senses! You have no choice, but to obey me. Get rid of this child quickly and no one will ever know.”

  “Martha Tinsley will.”

  “And keep her mouth shut, or I’ll see she is driven out of Burslem at dead of night, never to return. Moreover, your identity will be kept secret.”

  “Impossible. That old woman knows every face for miles around.”

  “Then cover it. Veil it.”

  “That will be difficult when she has me at her mercy.”

  “Stop being melodramatic. It is she who will be at my mercy. One question, one scrap of curiosity, one slip on her part in any way at all and she will be punished. Your worry is unnecessary. The only thing the woman will be interested in is earning the reward I shall promise through a go-between, for naturally I shall have no direct dealing with her. My identity will be unknown to her. Yours, she will not dare reveal.”

  “And this go-between — who will it be?”

  “That’s not your concern. I know how to enforce silence. Yours too, sister. You will accept this merciful help and then take up your normal life again and no one will be any the wiser — except you. I trust you will emerge a wiser person in every way. After marriage, you will obey your husband, but until then you will obey me, as head of this family.”

  *

  The gold coin lay on the table, winking in the sun. Meg had never seen a golden guinea in her life. Awed, she wanted to touch it, but dared not. Where the Master of Draytons’ was concerned she always trod warily. She knew just how far she could go and was never so unwise as to go farther because, so long as her mother lived, she was too dependent on his bounty. Once alone, it would be different. She would turn her back on him then and take her chance with fate.

  “And what d’you want me to do for this?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You know the Tinsley woman?”

  That startled her. What in the name of the Blessed Virgin did he want with old Ma Tinsley?

  “’Course I knows her. Everybody does.”

  “You are to convey a message to her.”

  “From you, sir?”

  “On someone’s behalf. She is to expect a visitor, a woman, tonight.”

  So that was it — the bastard had got someone with child and wanted to get rid of it. Another man’s wife, no doubt.

  “You are to tell her that the visitor will come to her house after dark.”

  “And the name, sir?”

  “I have no knowledge of that. It is an unfortunate woman I have been told about, and wish to help out of the charity of my heart.”

  But charity didn’t extend to golden guineas. He never offered anything like that, even for her favours, but how could a young woman in her position demand more? Besides, too much money in her pocket would have puzzled her mother, even making her suspicious. As things were, she guessed nothing. She was grateful for the apparent opportunities that came her daughter’s way to work late, sometimes even on the Sabbath if pots had to be ready for drying-out because a firing was planned within the next few days. These were feasible excuses which a sick woman believed and was comforted by, for it was this extra money that bought medicines from Martha Tinsley; arrowroot for the stomach because pain meant almost constant nausea, belladonna for merciful sleep
, and herb poultices for the breast which tortured her night and day.

  The lump was now almost as big as an egg, but Doctor Wotherspoon would only shake his head and sigh and say he was sorry but, alas, the affliction was one which struck down many an unfortunate woman, and then he would be on his way to patients who could afford to pay his fees. Old Ma Tinsley might not be a learned medical man, but she didn’t charge like one, either. Because of this, people turned to her and minded their own business about her other skills.

  “Furthermore,” the Master Potter was saying, “you will inform the Tinsley woman that the visitor must rest comfortably in her cottage when their business has been completed, and if it is not finished by daybreak — “

  “Oh, I’ve heard tell it don’t take so long as that, sir…” His angry face silenced her.

  He continued stonily, “— the visitor will then remain in the cottage until darkness returns. During that time Tinsley will leave her entirely alone, except to feed her and attend to her creature comforts if necessary. At no time must she try to engage her in conversation, or to question her. When night comes, the visitor will depart. And mark this well — Martha Tinsley will not breathe a word of the woman’s visit, nor the reason for it, or the two golden guineas being offered for her services will be forfeit. Even worse will befall her should she disobey at any time in the future. Providing she fulfils these instructions absolutely, the payment will be hers. You will take it to her yourself the day following her visitor’s departure, for there will be no payment in advance. And you, too, will breathe not a word to anyone about my part in helping this unknown person. Is all that understood, Meg Gibson?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then be on your way. This guinea will be yours when you return.” “I’ll deliver the message, sir, but the money must be in coins what I can use. Where would the likes of me be getting a gold piece? That’s what they’d be asking, any place I tried to spend it. Mostlike they’d think I’d stole it, and tell the magistrates. And there’s my mother. She’d wonder, too. I don’t make money like that at work, and what I do earn extra — well, she don’t know how I come by it. But a gold guinea! She’d know full well I didn’t earn that in the finishing shed.” That amused him. “So she thinks you’re a good girl, does she, Meg?” When she shot him a dark look, he checked. Those black eyes could threaten as well as disturb.

  “You may have the money in any way you wish,” he said hastily, “but get along to Martha Tinsley and be sure you deliver the message correctly. Repeat it now, to be sure.”

  She answered airily, “No need! I’ll say it word for word, and be back in no time.” She added with a touch of bravado and a knowing look in her eyes, “I take it Ma Tinsley’ll know what the lady’s come for, sir?” and was gone before he could reply. Her laughter — faint, but mocking — lingered behind.

  By late afternoon the summer sky had clouded over, threatening a storm, and by nightfall it was in full spate, damaging trees, flattening hedges, overturning carts and buffeting the unwary. Simon Kendall, riding head down as he turned into the lane which housed both Martha Tinsley’s cottage and his own, thought with some longing of his hearth and of the comfort it would offer when he put a tinder to the kindling. Whatever the season, he set logs there each morning before setting out for the canal ditch. The journey was long and meant leaving before five and returning after nightfall.

  By that time he was ready to ease off his high boots, draw a tankard of Staffordshire ale from the butt in his kitchen, and settle down with the books Martin Drayton loaned him. Some of these came from George Drayton’s library at Medlar Croft, but others, Simon suspected, were discarded volumes from his brother’s university days which Martin had secretly annexed and which the successful Joseph never missed. None of these could Simon read expertly, as yet, but simply to handle them and turn the pages and study the illustrations, picking out words here and there, gave him satisfaction.

  After that he would turn to the primers. These were relics from Martin’s brief schooling and very glad Simon was that the boy had not thrown them away.

  “They are yours,” Martin had said. “Keep them, Si, though at your present rate of progress they’ll soon be no further use to you.”

  A desire for learning was a bond Simon Kendall shared with the younger Drayton brother, but Martin’s elementary grounding had given him a head start. Tonight, Si resolved, he would not go to bed until he had mastered a whole new chapter, and then copied it out in his painstaking copperplate. His thoughts absorbed him so much that he was almost unaware of the torrential rain, and because he knew every curve and dip of the route to and from the canal ditch, he had no need to pick his way carefully. He could keep his head down and his cloak high about his ears without worrying, for his horse knew the route equally well.

  Martha Tinsley’s cottage was half way down Larch Lane, some distance before his own. His lay out of sight beyond a bend, the lane terminating at his front door. The situation was isolated, but his mother had brought him up to keep himself to himself, so he was not only accustomed to the isolation, but liked it. And although she had been unable to school him, she had taught him good manners, to speak well, to mind his own affairs and not to interfere with those of others. As far as his nearest neighbour was concerned, this last was still his policy although, in some respects, difficult.

  He had been born in this cottage as, some claimed, Martha Tinsley had been born in hers, but having spent his lifetime here Simon knew that to be untrue. Like most roving women of her kind, she had simply appeared in Burslem one day, seen the empty cottage, and moved in. No one troubled to move her out because no one knew who the place belonged to, and no one wanted it in the state it was in.

  She wasn’t a bad neighbour, as neighbours went, despite the reputation she had quickly earned for witchcraft and other undesirable practices, many of which were so useful that people held their tongues. Passing along the lane, he would see things and hear things that disturbed him, but short of breaking into her home he was unable to prove a single suspicion. Nor could he charge Martha with what he had heard — the cries, the suddenly stifled screams. To unfortunate women, Ma Tinsley was a benefactress. No doubt, in her own mind, she felt the same. She was helping those with a particular need by the only means she knew and, since no doctor would do the job unless paid highly for his skill and his silence, her methods went unchallenged.

  And the woman was indeed a kindly neighbour. On cold winter nights he would find his buckled slippers waiting close to a well-guarded fire, and an appetising pigeon pie keeping hot in the oven. She would plant herbs in his garden when the season was right and lift his potatoes and onions, then she would put the kettle on the hob, hands begrimed and gnarled face sweating, and grin her toothless grin when he drew back imperceptibly.

  “Stink, don’t I, sir? Mayhap I’d best be washin’ me body down, like young Meg Gibson do of a Sat’d’y night, but I ain’t nivver took all me clo’es off in me life — leastways, only for the gents in me youth. Oh, aye, many a one I ’ad, an’ pleased ’em mighty.’

  Then she would cackle loud and long, for she had a cackling sense of humour that went down well in the Red Lion, where folks roared lustily at old Ma Tinsley’s yarns. Never a word would they say against a woman who entertained them so vastly and, into the bargain, cured many an ache and pain for far less money than old Wotherspoon demanded.

  Simon was half way down the lane when his horse reared. Something had startled the beast, but close as they were to Tinsley’s place, no sound came from there. A light burned dimly within, but the cottage was silent.

  Unhitching the storm lantern from his saddle, he held it high and saw the figure of a woman huddled by the gate. She was drenched through. Her head and face were concealed by a shawl, but something about her slender figure confirmed that she was young.

  She remained where she was, unmoving despite the horse’s startled movements. Her back was half turned and when he cast a beam of light toward her sh
e jerked away, fleeing into shadow. Something about her frantic haste told him she was in a state of distress bordering on terror, and within seconds he had dismounted and hurried after her. She began to run then, stumbling blindly along the rutted track, and when he caught hold of her she struggled for release.

  Feeling her sodden sleeve, he exclaimed, “In the name of heaven, how long have you been huddled there?”

  Dropping her head to avoid the light, she made no answer. He put the lantern down and, still holding her, made to uncover her face, but she jerked aside so violently that she would have fallen had he not caught her. And still she kept her head averted, huddling deeper within the shawl.

  He said gently, “You are afraid to go in there — isn’t that why you have been standing at her gate, trying to summon courage? Well, listen to me, whoever you are, and do as I say. Go home.” “Tell me where you live, and I’ll take you.”

  She shook her head, saying nothing, but he could sense the fear shuddering through her.

  “You mean you’re afraid to go home? Believe me, nothing could be worse than facing Martha Tinsley’s ministrations — in certain circumstances. I can guess why you are here because I’ve seen many women come and go for the same reason. Some survive. I have heard of others less fortunate. Then their families blame it on the will of God. Will yours say the same?”

  She uttered a faint moan and began to tremble. Rapidly, it became violent shivering — and no wonder, he thought, drenched as she was. At that he picked her up bodily, called softly to his horse, and when the animal drew up beside them he put her in the saddle and sprang up behind her.

  “And don’t fight, ma’am, unless you want to land both of us in the ditch.”