The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  “Aunt Elizabeth! We are not to stay with her? Surely we shall occupy a rented town house?”

  “She has offered the hospitality of her home and naturally I have accepted. It would be ungracious to decline. And from what I hear she is an authority on fashion — the best of fashion, which means the most tasteful and discreet. This, my love, is my reason for taking you to London. I want a wife who will do me credit, not one who will embarrass me with a flamboyant taste in clothes. Your aunt has obligingly found an excellent seamstress, a women accustomed to making for the aristocracy. That is how I wish my wife to be dressed. So your trunk of fripperies will be left behind. And so will those damned curling tongs.”

  She released a torrent of protest. She ranted and stormed and then subsided with a final wail. “I thought you loved me, I thought you loved me!”

  To that he made no answer, and she continued fretfully, “You chose me as I am, as I have always been — ”

  “Not always,” he said lightly. “You cannot always have been so over-weight and so over dressed. And I trust that abominable gown you wore one memorable evening, when I supped at Tremain Hall, is buried at the bottom of your trunk, for there it shall remain for all time. I’ll not be seen in public or in private with a wife dressed like a maypole.”

  Her face crumpled, making it more unattractive than ever, but coupled with her grief was a fury which made him realise that he had gone too far too soon. He switched moods at once, becoming tender and solicitous, and kissing her to prove it. Her body smelled of stale perfume from the night before, mingled with perspiration. He withdrew with admirably controlled haste, saying he would order a tub to be brought so she might bathe before dressing.

  “And something light for breakfast, my dear. Fruit, perhaps. And coffee. But not that sickly chocolate — it will spoil your beautiful complexion.”

  Valiantly, he kissed her again, but to his surprise she turned her head away. She had not wholly forgiven him, and he heeded the warning. It would be unwise to antagonise his moneyed wife until the whole of her fortune was in his hands.

  To this end he took her in his arms again and, because she plainly craved it, satisfied her avid body despite the hour and the necessity to make an early start on their long journey. Recognising that in such a way she could always be appeased, he also recognised it as a useful means of holding sway over her — and, for himself, he could find greater satisfaction elsewhere. A vision of Meg swam into his mind even as he made love to the woman for whom he felt no love at all.

  When she moaned and sighed with pleasure, he knew he was forgiven and his criticism forgotten, and he further ensured this with promises of undying devotion. Lies were always worth the telling.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They were well on their journey to London when Joseph recalled Roger Acland’s presence at the wedding and asked how the man came to be there.

  “By invitation, my love. How else?”

  “But I understand he is not a close relative.”

  “That is true. No blood relation, at least, but his feelings would have been hurt had he been overlooked.”

  “How so? And why his feelings more than those of others uninvited?”

  “Because I meant so much to him.” Agatha cast modest eyes downward. “He would therefore have thought he was being slighted as well as rejected.”

  “Rejected by whom?”

  “By me — or, rather, by dear Papa on my behalf.”

  “You mean this man actually spoke for you?”

  “Why so surprised?” Agatha’s tone was peeved. “You spoke for me also, remember. And won. A man should be gracious in victory, so can you not feel some compassion for poor Roger? He went away a disappointed man.”

  Twice disappointed, thought Joseph with grim amusement.

  “And did your father console him for his heartbreak?”

  “Surely only I could do that, and I tried my best by sending him on his way with kind words, such as my father could scarcely have offered.”

  “He might have proffered something more substantial. Money, for instance.”

  “Money! Most certainly not. Dear Papa would never add insult to injury. And dear Roger would have been outraged at such a suggestion.”

  Would he, indeed, Joseph thought even more grimly, and with no amusement this time. ‘Dear Roger’ had not been insulted by his own bribe. The man had clearly expected it. He had even bargained — from fifty to a hundred and finally to two hundred, which was equal to a year’s wages for many a high salaried man. But Agatha’s father had been spared because any attempt at extortion would have become known to every branch of the Tremain clan, and never would Acland have been received by any one of them again.

  Plainly, the man had been too astute to jeopardise even a distant connection with so wealthy a family, so his sudden departure had no doubt appeared to be a sad, but graceful, exit for which he would be remembered with sympathy, even with admiration.

  Disgruntled, Joseph said no more. If anything confirmed his belief that Acland had been looking for a wife with money, this news did. No man would ask for Agatha’s hand for any other reason. Had she been penniless, she would not now be travelling to London as Mrs Joseph Drayton.

  He became aware that his wife was still talking.

  “…and obviously he has prospered. One could tell from his air. I understand he is now in partnership with a West Country industrialist of some kind, in a subsidiary but highly promising way.”

  A share bought with my money, Joseph thought savagely. It would be a bitter irony if he had been responsible for a rise in Acland’s fortunes when he had fully expected the man to squander the whole of it.

  When her husband fell silent, so did Agatha. There was plenty of time for thought during a journey lasting nearly four days. Joseph had hired a posting coach for their exclusive use, the most expensive way to travel, and the speediest. Guaranteed to cover more than the average forty miles a day, and with nightly reservations at the best hostelries along the route, the journey was lightened considerably.

  Even so the hours seemed long and she was peeved because her husband’s ban necessitated her travelling in the same clothes each day.

  She had planned to wear the ravishing orange cloak and yellow taffeta gown for the start of the journey, changing, for the second stage, into emerald green mousseline trimmed with purple frills at wrists and neckline, plus yellow buttons down the front and a perfectly splendid millinery concoction of emerald and mauve tulle in which jet sequins were scattered. And, for the final stage of the journey, a vivid scarlet ensemble crowned with a superb hat swarming with ostrich plumes dyed to a matching scarlet and set off with massive roses of scarlet silk. In this striking array she had anticipated a dramatic arrival in London, but now she would appear on Aunt Elizabeth’s doorstep sadly creased and soiled, and all because Joseph had been so unkind about her splendidly planned wardrobe.

  But he had been forced to allow her to wear the orange and yellow ensemble, gaudy though he considered it, because she had nothing more subdued to travel in. “But you will discard it once the journey is over, my love, and return to Burslem wearing something more tasteful.”

  “Which I will choose.”

  “With help and advice from your aunt and her expert modiste, and a final decision from me.”

  It had been no more than a mild tiff, but it rankled in her memory, springing to mind now as Joseph leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes, plainly dismissing the subject of Roger Acland, no doubt because he resented any man who had sought her hand. Such jealousy pleased her, and while her husband dozed she let her mind dwell on her rejected suitor. He had looked so eminently presentable at the wedding that she had wanted to keep his admiration for herself. She had therefore decided not to tell him about Jessica’s marriage, for had he shown the smallest sign of disappointment it would have proved that he had cared for Jessica more than she wanted to believe.

  For this reason she had remained silent on the su
bject until Roger, standing in line with other guests to bestow good wishes and congratulations on the happy couple, stooped to kiss her hand and whispered, “Dear Agatha, pray let me speak with you…soon…” And this he had ensured by claiming her in a quadrille, and after lavishing compliments upon her and declaring that never had she looked so beautiful and how unfortunate he was not to be the bridegroom, he had negligently asked, “And how is Jessica Drayton? And why is she not here, especially since she is now your sister-in-law? I have searched all over…”

  “Why? Is it so important that you see her?”

  “Not important, but I would like to know how she fares.”

  “She fares very well, Cousin. But how ridiculous to call you ‘Cousin’ when you are nothing of the sort!”

  “Why is she not here?” he repeated, the rest of her words passing unheard.

  Annoyed, she had said curtly, “Because she was not invited.” “Not invited! I recall your introducing her as a lifelong friend.” “A friend no more, I fear. Not that I am amongst the uncharitable who condemn her.”

  “And why should anyone condemn her?” A slight frown had creased his fine forehead.

  “She fell from social grace, alas.”

  “In what way? And how could a young woman so well brought up, fall from grace?”

  “I am afraid poor Jessica married beneath her.”

  “Married!” He had stumbled, then recovered.

  “She was with child, sir. By a common navvy, a canal digger.” Uncaring that he spoiled the dance by halting abruptly and therefore upsetting the progress of other dancers, Acland had stared down at her in patent disbelief. Stung, Agatha had urged him into the measure again, but he displayed no further enjoyment. After an uneasy silence, he had asked. “Where is she now?”

  “Not in Burslem. Wisely, they moved away, And I must say your concern is surprising in a man who sought my hand in marriage.” He answered smoothly, “And very disappointed I was to be summarily rejected. I doubt your father would do so now, did he but know my present circumstances. As for Jessica, I would like to wish her well. That is my only reason for enquiring after her.”

  Slightly pacified, she had answered, “They occupy an old cottage in a village some six miles distant. A place called Cooperfield.” “And when is her child due?”

  “I have no idea.” And that was the truth, for since the night that Joseph had broken the news, no mention of it had ever passed between them. “And now, dear Roger, the dance is over and you really must return me to my husband before he comes challenging you to a duel!”

  With a laugh, he had surrendered her. Nor had she any further conversation with him, but during the remainder of the journey to London her thoughts flickered to him every now and then. Had he troubled to call on Jessica? Had he enquired the way to Cooperfield and knocked on the door of the Kendalls’ cottage, and seen her as she must now have become — a village wife with a big belly, at whom no man would look twice?

  Agatha hoped so, for nothing was more disenchanting than the sight of a woman in an advanced state of pregnancy, hands roughened, hair untidy, worn down by housework and cooking and the eternal demands of domesticity, plus those of a husband who no doubt had the mountainous appetite of a manual worker. It was not a pleasing picture, but it would have effectively put an end to any attraction dear Roger may have felt for her.

  By the time they reached London, Agatha’s jealous fears had been allayed. By now it would be she whom Acland sighed over, mourning his lost chance of taking her to wife.

  Joseph’s voice cut into these satisfactory thoughts.

  “Wake up, my dear. We are entering St James’s Square.”

  After that there was no time for further dreaming, for soon they were facing Aunt Elizabeth who, in greeting, took one look at Agatha and then at Joseph, and Agatha’s complacency was immediately shaken by her husband’s words.

  “You see why I have brought her, dear Aunt Elizabeth?”

  *

  The vine was overgrown and badly in need of pruning. Whether the time was right or not, Jessica decided to tackle it. She was glad to occupy every moment as the Armstrong Canal neared completion, taking Simon away for long spells at the Manchester end. She found herself hating these occasions and awaiting his return with impatience. This she attributed to the fact that she had never experienced loneliness before.

  So home and garden filled her time, and of the two the garden was the more demanding. Indoors everything was neat as a new pin, her larder well stocked, jams and preserves made, household linens immaculate, laundry for ever up to date. Day to day tasks she completed well before noon. Caring for a small cottage presented no problems at all. Compared with helping her mother to run a house the size of Medlar Croft, it was like caring for a doll’s house, though she was aware that with the advent of motherhood the scene would change and demands become greater.

  Everything was ready for the coming child; every last item made, every last stitch sewn. She had been touched when Simon made a cradle out of cherry wood from the orchard, keeping it a secret until he placed it beside the bed in her room, but coupled with her appreciation had been a question she found oddly bleak. Did it imply that after the birth he would expect her to share that room only with her child, and that the terms he had outlined in his extraordinary proposal would still be adhered to?

  Turning her mind to the immediate moment, she attacked the vine with a garden knife, starting low and working higher until climbing became necessary to reach tangled areas above. A ladder was essential. She knew that climbing was to be avoided in her present condition, especially with her time so near — Simon had even forbidden her to mount a chair to reach high kitchen shelves, in case it should topple as she stretched up — but the slender branches of the vine challenged and beckoned her. They were interwoven through neglect, but succulent enough to bear fine grapes if encouraged.

  They were tantalisingly near, yet just out of reach. To mount two steps of a ladder would surely do no harm, providing it were set firmly. And to tidy the vine would add to other improvements she had wrought in Simon’s latest absence. He was due home this evening, and it would be good to watch his face when he saw how much she had achieved in three days. She would be able to say, “You see, I do know how to take care. I ran no risk at all.” And next year they would harvest their first crop of grapes.

  And indeed she would be careful. She would wedge the ladder firmly, and tie up her skirts, and take no unnecessary risk. So she dragged over a garden ladder, propped it carefully, tested it, and mounted the first step. Then the second. It was steady as a rock, but she was surprised to find that still the topmost vines were beyond her reach. It was necessary to climb higher, but still the ladder supported her well. She was able to reach the tangled mass and set to work.

  For how long she worked she was unsure; time flew and progress was good. The small garden knife did its work well, sending dead wood and withered tendrils catapulting to the ground, uncovering tender new shoots which would need training along strings which some former occupant of the wheelright’s cottage had put there. She made a mental note that most of the strings were rotting and would need replacing, but for now they could provide sufficient support. She would ask Simon to erect a better framework when he came home.

  Or perhaps Martin would give a hand when visiting his workshop. He never missed a Sunday, supplementing it with evenings which, because of his hours at Drayton’s, started and finished late. Sometimes Amelia came too. She would roll up her sleeves, don a hessian apron, and lend a willing hand. She had learned how to wedge clay, thus leaving him more time for creative work. He had already made a start on Neville Armstrong’s order, storing the model in a damp bin during absences. This bin was an old wooden chest bedded with a thin layer of moist clay which could be sprinkled when necessary to sustain the texture of the model between working sessions. On this damp bed, work in progress would be placed, supported on wooden batts by props of further clay, then the bin carefull
y closed. And the balls of wedged material which Amelia had prepared would be wrapped in moist rags and set aside for future use.

  But Amelia did not confine her visits solely to the hours Martin was able to put in. The girl’s growing interest in the craft of potting surprised Jessica. She would ride over to Cooperfield especially to clean the throwing wheel, empty pails of muddied water, attend to slip bins, and scrub down Martin’s work bench, leaving it spick and span for his next visit. She also copied, in a neat hand, Martin’s scribbled notes on his experiments. He was developing methods of his own, and recipes for glazes, and variations in firing temperatures — some successful, some not — all of which he jotted down on scraps of paper which Amelia then collected, sorted, and recorded in notebooks.

  She was due to make one of her visits today, and Jessica hoped that the crowd of guests prolonging their wedding visit at Tremain Hall would not prevent her from coming, for afterwards they would take tea together and talk until it was time for Amelia to leave, and thus the empty moments would be filled until Simon’s return. “I will allow nothing and no one to delay me,” he had said, and promises were Simon’s bond.

  As she worked on the vine, Jessica’s thoughts roamed to Martin and Amelia, recalling what close friends they had always been and thinking how surprising it was that Amelia, whom she had once thought frivolous, was turning out to be quite the reverse. It was hard to imagine that the young woman who arrived wearing sturdy calico, well hidden beneath a fashionable cloak in case her mother should question where she obtained such servant-like wear, and why, was the flighty girl who had been wont to swoon at balls and had possessed all the affectations expected of a fashionably empty headed miss.

  The change in Amelia was marked. Within the past few months she had rejected the vain mannerisms of her circle and emerged as an engagingly natural young woman. At the same time, she possessed an unerring dress sense and was forever a delight to the eye. A delight to Martin’s eye in particular. Jessica hoped that a kindly fate would reward him with even greater delight in her some day.