The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  Not another accusing word had Meg uttered about Martha’s contribution to her mother’s death, but when the woman had appeared in the crowded churchyard yesterday she had looked through her and beyond her.

  The churchyard was packed. Funerals ranked second only to weddings as village attractions, and this one was remarkable because Mrs Gibson was actually being buried in a proper grave instead of a pauper’s. Who could have paid for it, they whispered, hazarding a guess that young Meg must have earned more by obliging the gentlemen than anyone suspected. And, as usual, their guesses were wrong.

  Because of Meg’s adamant refusal to acknowledge his aunt, Frank felt duty bound to defend the woman by pointing out that no medicines in the world could have helped Meg’s mother, but the remark was met stonily.

  “That’s as mebbe, but they could’ve deadened pain and the belladonna would’ve given sleep.”

  “She did bring belladonna t’ward the end.”

  “Aye, after you come along and threatened her. By then t’was too late.”

  To his aunt, Frank had said, “She’s bitter, an’ if ye don’t like the things she sez, it be thy own fault. Ye were harsh when y’should've bin kind. Meg might’ve done ye wrong — tho’ I’ll ne’er believe it — but punishing through the mother she loved so deep were mighty cruel.”

  But Martha could cling to a conviction as strongly as Meg.

  “I tell thee, the lass done me mighty wrong! She cheated me. She stole money as were mine by rights.”

  “Then for land’s sake tell me the size of t, an’ I’ll raise the damned money an’ put an end to this once an’ for all!”

  But stubborn Martha would have none of that. Where in the Lord’s name did he think he could lay his hands on two gold guineas, and was he so besotted by the wench that he’d do ow’t to please her?

  To that he said nothing. Besotted wasn’t the word for how he felt about Meg. It was deeper and bigger than that, and it was keeping him in Burslem as an unwilling landlubber when he longed for the tang of the sea and the smell of tar and the pitch of a rolling deck — or at the very least a cobbled dockyard. And now Meg’s mother had gone, he was biding his time before asking her to throw in her lot with his and head back to Liverpool. There was nothing to keep her in Burslem any longer.

  Before she disappeared through the gates of the potter’s yard he took hold of Meg’s shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “I’ll be waiting when ye finish.”

  “You’ll be at Red Lion then…”

  “I’ll slip away. Innkeeper won’t dare rail at a good potman like me. I’ve things t’talk about, Meg. I plan not to stay a potman all my life.”

  “I know. You don’t like it, I can tell. But you’ll go higher, Frank. Sure to.”

  “Not as a landlubber. Can’t stand the life. Leastways, not out of sight nor sound o’the sea. A stevedore on the Mersey docks can at least fill his lungs wi’tang of it.”

  “Mersey’s a river.”

  “Aye, but at sea’s mouth, an’ deep enough for the biggest ships to anchor. Many a wreck there be at the bottom of’er. She can be rough as a savage sea, can t’ould Mersey.”

  “And you plan to go back,” Meg said in a dead voice.

  “That’s what I want to talk about, lass. I planned to wait afore telling ye, but I can’t. I want thee along. There be now’t t’keep ye in Burslem no more.”

  Workers were milling round them. The bell in the yard was clanging, calling them to work. “Time for me to go — ” she began, but he drew her aside, saying urgently, “We’ll fix it tonight, lass. I’ll be waiting, as I said.”

  She shook her head. “It be no use, Frank lad. I’m not the woman for thee.”

  He grinned. “Talking Merseyside already, y’are. ‘Thee’ — real Lancashire. I’m learning ye well! Tonight, we’ll settle all.”

  “No — now. You’d best know what I am, Frank Tinsley. I been bad ever since I grew up. And you know what I means by that.”

  “I know now’t of it. I loves thee, lass. I’ll even wed thee, if ye want it respectable.”

  “Me? Respectable? I’ve never been that. If I don’t tell ye, others will. I’ll wager your aunt’s blabbed already.”

  “Forget t’ould witch!”

  “I can’t. Not yet. She’s part o’things I’ve got to settle afore I can think o’ leaving Burslem.”

  “What things?”

  “None you’d understand.”

  “I understand you be trying to get rid o’me, telling me how bad y’are. Wi’ those looks an’ that body, an’ born into poverty, I’d ne’er expect ow’t else.’Tis easy to be good if ye can afford to be — and I’ll wager men’ve bin after thee all thy born days. I don’t hold it agin ye, for there’s ne’er bin a woman in me life as were a good’un, but that ain’t t’say I’d put up wi’ ye being like’em. There’d be me t’reckon with, me lovely, if ye were. But I be willing to take a chance on’t. I loves thee, Meg lass. Truly I loves thee, an’ that be God’s truth. Come away wi’ me, Meg. Back to Liverpool. Put all this smoke and dirt behind thee, an’ breathe God’s good air…”

  A smile flickered across her face. “I’ve heard tell Liverpool fair stinks.”

  “Aye, that it does, down by t’docks, but I’ve had a belly full o’living by’em. I plans t’work on’em, but live away from’em s’long as thee be with me. There be sweet smelling places within a five mile, fields an’ all! A five-mile tramp ain’t nothing if a man’s got the right place and the right woman t’come home to. If not, it be another ship for me. What’s it to be, Meg?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “I can’t go, Frank. Not yet. But if ye really wants me, ye’ll wait. Not in Burslem, if ye don’t want to, but tell me where I can find thee, an’ I’ll come when I’ve done what needs to be done. ‘Til that day, I stay.” More and more she lapsed into his dialect when with him.

  He was about to answer when his attention was caught by a sudden rush of clogs and a last hurrying of worn out boots, bound with rags in a vain attempt to keep out the cold and the wet, and all accompanied by the murmuring of anxious voices. One or two hissed urgently, “Git inside, Meg, or ye’ll cop it — ‘ere comes t’Master!” and he turned in time to see a splendid chaise approaching. In it sat a distinguished man most handsomely garbed in fur trimmed cloak and fur trimmed, broad-brimmed hat. Costly gloves, deeply gauntleted, adorned hands clasped on a silver topped ebony stick propped before him. His face was proud, his features handsome, but above all there was an arrogance about him to which Frank took an instant dislike.

  The hurrying workers plainly feared the man, but not Meg. She made no attempt to fly before him, but remained where she was, her face openly mocking, and as the carriage approached she called in a voice the Master Potter could not fail to hear, “Welcome back, sir!” and swept low in a curtsey that was even more derisive.

  The Master Potter turned, surveyed the couple, and turned away again.

  To Frank’s astonishment, Meg burst out laughing. The sound followed the fine carriage through Drayton’s gates.

  “No wonder they said ye’d cop it,” Frank remarked, “if that man be thy master.”

  “Not my master,” Meg contradicted swiftly. “The Master of Drayton’s. That’s summat different. Well, I’d best be t’work, an if I cops it, I cops it.” She shrugged, but there was a light in her eye, almost as if she hoped it might happen.

  But she didn’t forget Frank. She reached up, kissed him swiftly, and said, “Do what thee wants to do, Frank love. Do what you feel’s best for yourself, an’ forget about me.”

  “I can ne’er forget thee, Meg. I’m taking ye wi’me, that I do swear.”

  “I’ve told you — I’ve things to do, things to settle.’Til then, I stay.”

  With Joseph Drayton’s return the atmosphere at the pot bank changed. There was no more banter, no more laughter, and no more chance to ‘go truant’.

  “Master Martin, what d’ye wager Lord High�
�n-Mighty tells on all of us?”

  It was Meg who put the question as Martin paused beside her bench. He balanced a tray of pots shoulder high, all ready for turning. Amongst them were some of his own, successfully smuggled in from Cooperfield. The surprise of Joseph’s arrival, so early in the morning and almost immediately following his return from London, half persuaded Martin to withdraw them, but after bringing them so far, and so precariously in their green state, the thought of repeating the risk urged him to take a chance. They were in exactly the right condition for turning, Meg would do the task speedily and well, and after so prolonged an absence it seemed almost certain that accumulated paper work would keep Joseph at his desk all day. His routine inspection was therefore unlikely, but even if it did take place, Martin’s potmark was on all his work, making it almost indistinguishable from that produced here. And surely his variations in shape and design would be overlooked amidst a larger batch?

  “If Freeman tries any tale-bearing, Meg, he will live to regret it. It isn’t unknown for potworkers to seek vengeance when roused. Did you never hear of the gang who ran riot and smashed every pot within sight? It happened over at Spen, when a Master Potter named Zachariah Collard thrashed a woman for breaking a set of dishes ordered by the Squire’s wife. The poor soul was swaying with hunger and couldn’t carry the load. She died as a result of the attack. The workers ran amok, and who can blame them? Pale-bearing won’t cause a riot at Drayton’s, but it will earn Max Freeman much ill-feeling.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I haven’t seen you to say how deeply I felt for you when your mother died. My own mother remembers with gratitude your thought for her after my father’s death. You brought his beaker and platter to her, which might otherwise have been lost.”

  “’T’were now’t, Master Martin. To my way of thinking, Mistress Drayton had a right to’em, so it weren’t stealing like the Master Potter said.”

  “He accused you of theft?”

  “Aye. Mebbe he wanted to keep’em for’imself, though I doubts it, seeing the way’e got rid of things belonging to the late Master.”

  “What things?”

  “Can’t say I rightly know, Master Martin, but I saw him clearing just about everything from that big desk. I couldn’t miss it, the door being open as I went by. The finishing bell had rung an’ we were all on our way out, but the new Master Potter were staying late. Looked to me as if he were searching for something perticler, but o’course I didn’t dare ask what, though I could’ve given a guess.” A touch of her former mischief peeped through. “I’d rolled’em up in my apron and were on my way to give’em to Mistress Drayton — an’ well were she pleased. So what the Master said next day, made no matter.” “Meaning he had heard from my mother how you brought them to her, and so he accused you of stealing?”

  Meg shrugged, but Martin frowned. It was the first he had heard of Joseph’s anger over the incident.

  “I am sorry you suffered like that, Meg.”

  “’T’were no suffering! I weren’t even worrit. Let him think what he likes, methought. All I cared about was comforting Mistress Drayton. It seemed a small thing to do.”

  And Joseph’s reaction to it seemed a small thing to trouble Martin’s mind as he returned to the throwing shed, but throughout the morning an unanswered question lingered there. He had always known that Joseph considered it morbid for his mother to display the items from which her husband had taken his final meal. “A paltry platter and beaker are worthless, my dear Mother. You should dispose of them.” Martin had heard him say that on many occasions, uncaring that his young brother might feel hurt, but never had Martin suspected that Joseph might have been anxious to lay his hands on them. Nor did there seem any reason for it, other than pride in the fine glaze he had produced.

  Or had he wanted to destroy them along with other mementos of their father, whom he had regarded with an impatience amounting to contempt in the years immediately prior to his death, especially during the months of his decline? Such a reason for harshness seemed inadequate, but Martin could think of no other. All he could now do was thrust the question from his mind and get down to work.

  As he turned away, Meg asked in a lowered voice so that fellow-workers could not hear, “Master Martin — did Mistress Drayton see that my mother were laid in a proper grave?” Seeing from his expression that he had no knowledge of it, she continued thoughtfully, “If t’weren’t, then I be certain-sure who did. It’d be just like’em. They were right kind to us, months back, were Master an’ Mistress Kendall. They be fine people.”

  He didn’t mention that his sister had been at Ashburton at the time of Mrs Gibson’s death and might have known nothing of it at the time, in which case it was more likely to have been Simon alone who unobtrusively made sure that she had a proper Christian burial. That, he almost said, would be just like such a man.

  Max Freeman was as surprised as everyone by Joseph’s early arrival. He was aware that Agatha and her husband had returned from London only two days ago, but after days of coach travel a longer spell of recovery would be taken for granted by most people. He had therefore seen no reason to hasten to the pot bank, where he had nothing to do but try to keep an eye on the workers. Even that was difficult, not only because they regarded him suspiciously, but because idleness was never in evidence. The most skilled were paid a penny for every score of pots they managed to throw, mould, glaze or fire, according to their duties; consequently no minutes were wasted. Even the wedgers, earning a fixed wage of a shilling a day, never paused in their labours since a maximum amount of clay had to be handled for that sum, and no money was paid until every batch had been carefully weighed.

  Consequently ‘going truant’ during the Master Potter’s absence had been minimal, so to justify himself Max had compiled an exaggerated list of misdemeanours.

  He felt little guilt about this, believing all it would result in would be stern reproof and some form of mild punishment for suspected culprits, because the Master Potter would never be so unwise as to penalise a worker and so deplete his or her output. For breakages there would be the usual docking of wages, but he preferred not to think about that.

  He therefore answered Joseph’s summons with a light heart, though slightly troubled by a heavy head following a late night’s cockfighting accompanied by the usual drinking and, unluckily, more financial losses. The resultant overspending of his Tremain income was tiresome, but at least there would be no necessity to appeal to his father for help — angrily denied on many an occasion — because Joseph was so splendidly accommodating, God bless him.

  So he faced the Master Potter with equanimity, little knowing that his bland expression was more than usually jarring, and that after a month’s absence Joseph found his complacency more irritating than ever. And Joseph was in no mood to tolerate even greater irritation than he had endured for the past month.

  “Well, what have you to report?” he rapped. “Apart from your usual financial troubles, I mean. I have no doubt you expect those to be dealt with first, but they must wait.”

  Max felt chilled. After a month’s honeymoon, even with ungainly Agatha, a man should sound more affable.

  Tossing a paper onto the desk, he answered stiffly, “I have this extensive list of misdemeanours to show you, brother-in-law.”

  “‘Sir’. We are not in any family parlour here. To address the Master of Drayton’s correctly is something you should have learned by now.”

  “Dammit, Joseph, I am not one of your labourers!”

  “Nor do you behave like one. They work. You do not. They also report for duty punctually. You do not. I suppose you thought I would still be absent, hence your arrival two hours late this morning. How surprised you must be to find the Master Potter at his desk!’ He picked up the paper, glanced at it, dropped it. ‘In return for this ‘extensive list’ I can show you another. A list of your debts to me. They grow apace and, I have no doubt, have continued to grow in my absence.”

  Max ran his tong
ue over lips which felt suddenly dry. This was a different Joseph from the man he had known before the wedding. In those days he had been affable, almost conspiratorial over what he had indulgently referred to as ‘escapades’. Now he used the ugly word ‘debts’ and his voice sounded like an echo of his father’s. Max resented that.

  “I have an extravagant wife,” he blustered. “You have no idea how wildly Phoebe spends my money. She thinks of nothing but new gowns and costly adornments. Marriage seems to have gone to her head. I recall she had little enough as a Drayton — ”

  His voice froze in midstream. Joseph’s face was suddenly rigid, his eyes steely, and in a voice which struck fear into Max’s heart he said, “Never again let me hear you belittle my sister. A wastrel like you is undeserving of a wife so pure and sweet. Hurt her, and you will regret it. Disparage the name of Drayton, and you will regret that also. Heed what I say. Have a care. You will have me to reckon with otherwise.”

  Max stumbled to his feet, eager to be gone, but anger made him reckless. He flung back, “It isn’t I you should be reprimanding, but young Martin. Ask what he has been up to whilst you were gone, ask where he has been going, and with whom. Ask that slut Meg Gibson. She should be able to tell you, having been rolling in the hay with him!”

  There was an astonished silence and then, to Max’s surprise, Joseph Drayton burst out laughing. Not being a man much prone to laughter, the sound was almost unfamiliar and had the effect of quenching Max’s fury. Gladly, he joined in. The threatening moment was over. He could relax and be himself again.

  “Can you imagine it, Joseph — that limping whippersnapper with a lusty whore! I’ll wager he is the first cripple she has ever copulated with! How would he do it, do you think? Kneeling on one leg with the freak one cocked?’ The picture he conjured up was so comical to his own mind that he slapped his thigh in merriment. “Or mayhap,” he spluttered, “she has to — ”

  He broke off, suddenly aware that Joseph’s laughter had ceased. There was an unreadable expression on the man’s face and the tension in the room had not lessened.