The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  The only hope would be for the oven master to hide Amelia’s vase deep at the back, behind a larger piece, before Joseph carried out his final inspection, and to pray that he would not be present when the wares were unloaded.

  Philosophically, Martin decided to face that problem when it arose and turned his attention to the even greater problem of producing an opaque glaze in the turquoise colour Amelia had begged for. This was a problem indeed, for although he had learned how to produce an ordinary clear glaze, and knew that for opacity another ingredient would have to be added, coloured majolica was not a glaze produced in the normal way at Drayton’s. It was a costly luxury, in Joseph’s eyes, because colouring oxides were necessary and firing times could be longer. The great, brick-built, bottle shaped ovens were geared for plain run-of-the-mill products which could be produced more economically.

  George Drayton’s birthday gift from his youngest son had been a notable exception, and now that son was intent on finding out how his elder brother had produced the fine celadon green which had pleased his father so much.

  The very high gloss had also been exceptional, and the more Martin thought about it the more convinced he became that some special ingredient had been added. But Jefferson knew of none, other than silica. “That be powdered glass, Master Martin, an’ that gives a glaze its shine.”

  But none of Drayton’s glazes had ever produced so brilliant a lustre as Joseph’s opaque celadon, and in view of his brother’s limited experience on the practical side Martin found that particularly surprising. By the end of the afternoon he was forced to the conclusion that it had been hit on by accident, or that Joseph had found a glaze recipe unknown to Jefferson, or that the firing temperature had been responsible. Results could also vary according to the position of an article, as a famous Chinese potter had discovered by chance centuries ago. George Drayton had related the story so often that Martin knew it off by heart. Even so, he had always found it exciting, though he suspected Joseph of being as bored by it as Phoebe, who smothered yawns when it was repeated across the dining table at home — not so his mother, who nodded her head dutifully, and Jessica who, loving her father as she did, always pretended she was hearing it for the first time. The immortal ceramic piece happened to be in the middle of the oven, surrounded by others as closely as glazed articles dare be packed, and the chemical reaction set up by the toxic fumes produced a jewel-red on that single centre piece. Could such a lucky chance have produced Joseph’s high gloss celadon green?

  This was a question Martin had once put to the oven master, whose reply had quashed the idea immediately, for he had packed that particular load himself and he remembered the pieces well since they were intended for George Drayton.

  “Your brother give’em to me to fire, Master Martin. They were put in t’oven last of all, right in the front.”

  Frustrated at last, Martin flung off his potter’s ‘slop’, donned his surcoat and climbed back over the rear wall — and came face to face with Amelia, sitting in a spanking phaeton in all her wedding finery, patiently waiting.

  “I guessed you would be here,” she said blandly. “Where else would you escape to? I followed as soon as I could and here I have sat, mighty impatient. And do not ask how I knew you would exit over this wall — any simpleton can see that the main gates are too conspicuous. What are you up to, Martin Drayton?”

  She pulled aside her billowing skirts and when he hesitated she said, “Don’t be a goose, sir. I know you are filthy — I can see that for myself — but the breeze will blow much of that away and I can brush myself down later.”

  “When they see you, your parents will wonder wherever you have been.”

  “My parents shall not see me until I have titivated again, and not even then since I have no wish to return to the festivities. The bride and groom have departed — to the relief of everyone, I am sure, considering the state my brother was in. The heir’s wing has been opened up for them, as you probably know. It is traditional that a Freeman heir and his bride spend their wedding night there, and take up occupation permanently until he succeeds as Master of the Hall. In all the flurry I was able to leave unnoticed. The celebrations, of course, are still underway and seem set for long into the night, so I have plans, dear Martin. Secret plans!” Her eyes danced. “I stole this vehicle from amongst those outside your brother’s house. The driver was nowhere to be seen — in the stables, no doubt, quenching his thirst with others — and though Joseph is my host, he will not miss me because he is making great play for Agatha. In fact, the pair seem to have eyes for none but each other. I do swear she is positively moonish in her love for him. Now climb up beside me and tell me what you have been about, and then I will tell you my plans for the rest of this evening.”

  Beating off as much glaze dust as possible, Martin obeyed.

  “I have been trying to produce the turquoise colour you asked for.”

  “For my vase? How exciting! And did you succeed?”

  “Alas, no.”

  Amelia answered blithely, “You will. I am sure of that, so you are not to distress yourself. I can wait.”

  “Then I fear you will wait a long time.”

  She glanced at him sideways, the smile which always enchanted him curving her lips.

  “Will I? Then I have more faith in you than you have in yourself. And now to my secret plans. Reach beneath the seat and find what you will find…”

  Obeying, he brought out a basket covered with a napkin.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Wine and much besides.”

  “You are not planning a picnic on top of the wedding feast!”

  “Of course not, dear dolt — though you have had little enough, missing it as you did. I hope you will enjoy some of this, for I stole every item in that basket, and more. There is yet another in the back. Such fun! I invaded the kitchen at Carrion House and ordered the lot to be packed forthwith, so really it doesn’t amount to stealing. You may call it commandeering if you wish. Not that I give a jot. I chose every item and that starched housekeeper of Joseph’s promptly obeyed — I suspect in defiance of the chef and his staff hired for the occasion. Mrs Walker tossed her head at all of them, as if to show who reigned supreme in her kitchen. I think she would have sniffed had she not considered it unladylike. I near died of laughter, I do tell you, and wished you had been there to share it. But we can’t waste time talking here.”

  With a crack of the whip she turned the horse’s head and set the wheels turning.

  “Now guess!” she cried. “Guess where we are bound!”

  “Not visiting, I hope. I am not clad for social calls.”

  “They won’t object to that.”

  “They? Then we are calling on someone?” At her delighted nod he commanded, “Then set me down, Amelia. My clothes are full of potters’ dust — ”

  “That is something they are well acquainted with, like everyone else in the potteries.”

  “They? And who are ‘they’? Own up, Amelia, for I am too tired for riddles.”

  “And I am tired of being angry. Oh yes, I am angry — very angry indeed, as I suspect you are and for the same reason.” She gave a satisfied nod. “I see you have guessed, and yes, you are right. I cannot have people like Jessica and Simon ignored so cruelly. Did you imagine I even suspected until, like you, I found out today? That was why you turned tail and fled, was it not? And so hurriedly I failed to catch up with you. I had no choice but to let you go and hatch plans of my own.”

  “And very kind plans they are. And typical of you. And we will visit Jessica and Simon by all means, but not as if they were beggars who had missed the feast. Not like Lady Bountiful bearing food for the poor. How do you think that would make them feel?”

  She reined furiously.

  “What an outrageous thing to say, Martin Drayton! I hate you for it!”

  Her hand stung his cheek. Rubbing it, he smiled ruefully.

  “Now I know what makes you a good horsewoman. Those tiny
wrists of yours are uncommon strong”’

  Against her will, a corner of her mouth quivered in amusement.

  “I am glad, sir. You deserved that.” With the swift transition of mood which was typical of her she burst out laughing. “You should have slapped me in return.”

  “I could never do that. Never lay a finger on you. Never hurt you…”

  His breath caught. In one swift movement he leaned across and kissed her, and her lips felt as he had always imagined them — soft and tender and yielding.

  Both drew away, startled. Their eyes were questioning and confused and, on his part, almost frightened. What was happening to him? What had she done to him? What had made him lose his head like that?

  He moved as far from her as possible, hot with embarrassment and unable to meet her glance any more.

  There was a soft rustle beside him and her voluminous skirts brushed against his dusty working clothes. The kiss she planted on his cheek was light and swift and tender. So was her voice as she said, “Dear Martin, to be sure you are right. I should have paused to think. I should have put myself in their shoes. Jessica and Simon seem fine people to me. Proud, too. So the bounty will be left where it is and covered with the carriage rug.”

  She jerked the reins once more, and in leisurely fashion the horse obeyed. Amelia threw back her head and laughed.

  “Tell me, Martin — do you think this old nag is agile enough to carry us six miles and back?”

  “It will make slow travelling. It looks too well fed, a pampered horse and therefore lazy. I have a better idea. We will return it and use our gig instead. Drive now to Medlar Croft and you can wait there while I take this phaeton back to Carrion House, and then rejoin you.”

  She nodded, well pleased. If they were missed, no one would suspect they had driven off to a quiet little village in preference to enjoying Joseph Drayton’s lavish hospitality. They laughed together, two delighted young conspirators.

  When at last they returned, Martin drove straight to Tremain Hall because Amelia claimed to be too tired to rejoin the late revelries, though he suspected that after the companionable evening they had spent with Jessica and Simon, she, like he, felt in no mood for crowded company or for the artificial gaiety of guests who had gorged themselves on good food and wine and were bordering on weariness to which they refused to surrender. Martin was glad, for the time spent with his sister and her husband still occupied his mind. It was Amelia who had steered the conversation round to the vase he had made for her. “He played truant from the wedding feast solely to produce a glaze for it — ”

  “Without success,” he had interrupted.

  “How can you expect success when your brother makes it necessary for you to work in secret?” Amelia’s eyes had sparked with indignation. “It is my belief that Joseph intends to harness Martin to the wheel forever.”

  “You mean you have still learned nothing about glazing?”Jessica had asked, exchanging a glance with Simon which seemed to say: Did I not tell you?

  “Only secretly,” Martin admitted. “Jefferson is teaching me whenever possible, but I’m in constant fear of his being found out. He could suffer for it. So I trespass — ”

  “Over the rear wall,” Amelia announced. “He climbs it very nimbly.”

  It was shortly after that that Simon took him to see the preliminary plans for the next canal project, and after an absorbing half hour led him to the wooden outbuildings.

  “I use this one as a workshop, but this adjoining one is idle and could be put to good use as a potter’s shed. We could also build a small oven outside. Supplies of clay and chemicals could be delivered here unbeknown to anyone, and there would be no need for you to trespass over Drayton’s rear wall or to worry about Jefferson getting into trouble.” At the sight of Martin’s incredulous face, Simon had laughed. “It was Jessica’s idea. She thought of it shortly after we moved here, and I support it whole heartedly. Would it be worth the ride from Burslem and back for a few hours on a Sunday, in between church services with your mother?”

  “Need you ask? I would make a journey three times as far to put in half the time.”

  Simon had clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder and added, “When a man really wants to achieve something, he will achieve it.”

  “As you have, Simon.”

  “I have taken the first steps. You are going to do the same. We can neither of us reach our goals the easy way. You and I have to work for what we want.”

  “But it will be easier for me than for you, because of the Drayton legacy. I have only to be patient, and I shall have a partnership.”

  “Joseph has promised you that?”

  “Well — not exactly. But of course he cannot refuse, once my apprenticeship is up, even if it has to be repeated.”

  “Five years training, repeated? Why should that be?”

  “Because if I have not learned all I have to learn — ”

  “Such as glazing and then firing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And with only a matter of months to go, can so much ground be covered? Both glazing and firing take a lot of learning, I understand.” When Martin made no answer, Simon had added quietly, “If it is necessary for you to work in secret at this stage, it means you are lagging behind, so we must do something about it, and the first steps will be taken right here.”

  “But — materials cost money…”

  “They do, but we will find ways and means somehow. All Jessica and I ask is that you come here as often as possible, and the sooner the better. Then one day you will be your own Master Potter. Give me your hand on it.”

  Their handclasp had sealed it, but even so it seemed an impossible dream as, driving back to Burslem through the darkening night, Martin allowed his mind to dwell on it. Beside him, Amelia yawned contentedly and when she shivered a little he peeled off his surcoat and placed it round her, though he feared for her gossamer gown. But she cared little about the glaze dust which no amount of shaking had entirely dislodged. “I prefer it to the chill night air,” she said, and as the hours grew darker and colder she insisted on sharing the garment with him, spreading it over their shoulders and snuggling close to his side. He felt her nearness in a deeply disturbing way and longed to kiss her again. Instead, he kept his mind and his hands strictly on the reins, even resisting the temptation to let his cheek rest against her hair when her head drooped against him.

  It was still there when he drove through the Tremain gates and along the endless drive to the Hall. He took it at a more leisurely pace, unwilling to end such an evening, and she lifted her head and kissed his cheek affectionately. He could read no more into it than the fondness of a friend, but it sealed his happiness.

  “You’d best drive to the west door, Martin. The heir’s wing overlooks the main courtyard and the clatter of wheels and hooves might disturb poor Phoebe…”

  “Why do you say ‘poor Phoebe’? She has her heart’s desire, the man she has always wanted, and a grander home than any Drayton bride has ever known.”

  “Then let’s hope she won’t be disappointed. Today she saw a side of her heart’s desire which, I am sure, she has never even suspected. When my dear brother drinks too much he can be very objectionable.”

  “So is anyone when they drink too much. I’m sorry he fell from grace at the wedding feast and I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it, but I expect he has slept it off by now and tomorrow Phoebe will forgive him and they will embark on the life of wedded bliss she fully expects.”

  They had reached the west door. Martin helped Amelia down and they stood for a moment, hand holding hand.

  “Do you think so, Martin? And do you know what I think? That Jessica is more likely to find wedded bliss with Simon than Phoebe is with Max.”

  With a wave of her hand, she was gone.

  Martin flicked the whip and turned for home. With his head full of the night’s events and agog with excitement over Simon’s offer, he didn’t pause to glance back at the immense outl
ines of Tremain Hall, black against the night sky behind him, nor at the projecting wing which tradition had made the heir’s home until such time as he inherited the place. Nor at a figure standing on a stone balcony, watching his departure and clutching a robe tightly about her trembling body.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was the loveliest bridal nightgown any young woman could wish for, and Phoebe’s dreams were woven into it. Unbeknown to her mother she had tried it on in the privacy of her room, defying superstition. How could a few secret minutes jeopardise the happiness of her married life? Yet such warnings were issued to brides-to-be. A groom should never see his bride in her wedding apparel before the marriage ceremony, nor should she don her bridal nightgown before the wedding night. But was it so very wrong to anticipate the moment when she would wait for her husband to approach her?

  Perhaps the next step had been the really guilty one, though it had seemed natural at the time. Whilst Mamma was safely sleeping and Martin at work, and Clara so quiet that she must surely be nodding by the kitchen range, Phoebe had done something she had never dared to do in her life. She had locked her bedroom door, then stripped and studied her naked body in a mirror, admiring it and wondering how Max would react were he to see her so. Not that he would, of course. Her cheeks flushed at the very thought. Max loved her for her modesty and her beauty, with both of which she was supremely satisfied, and he would continue to love those qualities in her when she became his wife. He would lie beside her, she in this exquisite nightgown and he cradling her in his arms. Inevitably, he would feel her soft body beneath the folds and perhaps even imagine what lay beneath, but beyond that he would not go because Max was a gentleman and gentlemen only did that sort of thing with whores.