by Rona Randall
Then Joseph spoke.
“I never heard such rubbish, and I am not referring only to your crude mode of speech and even more crude imagination. I believe not a word of it.”
“Then do as I say — ask them where they slip away to. Ask where they go when they leave their benches early. Look at that list and see for yourself how often I have marked their absence. Why, they even take the precaution of not leaving together — sometimes Martin goes first, and sometimes Meg — so their connivance goes unsuspected. But I have noticed that their disappearances overlap.” This was untrue, but it sounded convincing.
But Joseph was still incredulous. His lip curled as he answered, “And how much credence can I give to any statements made by you, when I have no doubt that you absented yourself more frequently than anyone?” Even so, he glanced at the paper. “I will study this at my leisure. Meanwhile, I want to know how much effort you have put into my primary reason for having you here — to wit, acquainting the wealthiest of your friends with the merits of Drayton ware, thereby spreading its reputation.”
“Fudge! I have already told you that people of quality look for quality in everything. No earthenware or stoneware for them! Produce something more elegant, such as fine porcelain and china, and decorate with the copper plate transfers now being produced by Sadler & Green of Liverpool — I heard Martin discussing them with Jefferson only recently — and then I will have something to show to the right people. And pray, no more pretence about your ‘primary reason’ for having me here. Your only reason was an eagerness to buy me as a husband for your saintly little sister when her twin preferred another man. By God, I would have fared better with Jessica! It’s plain that she doesn’t shudder at a man’s bodily demands. Does Agatha shudder at yours, dear brother-in-law? I doubt it. I have always suspected an underlying lustfulness in that sister of mine. Frustrated Agatha has been longing to gain carnal knowledge for herself, unlike my own dear wife who nursed fairytale dreams of chaste kisses and unsullied romance. And don’t protest again, I beg you, for I am the one who lives with Phoebe, I am the one married to her, I am the one who is admitted to her bed on sufference, I am the one who gives not a fig for her purity because purity is insufferably boring. He who mistakes frigidity for purity is a fool, so let me hear that word no more. And, if you please, no more magnanimity about taking me into this place. It was never my idea. Nor had I any need. My mother saw no necessity for me to work, and no more did I.”
“But your father did. Unfortunately it is I who have to tolerate your presence here, useless as you are, in return for which you reap financial benefit you do nothing to earn.”
Max waved that aside. “All part of the marriage settlement, dear Joseph! You made no bones about it at the time, so make no bones about it now. As for not earning it, tolerating frigid Phoebe as a wife earns it an hundredfold. Now I will leave you to study the misdemeanours of your labourers. I have other things to do.”
“What is it today? Bear-baiting? Goose-riding? And more debts at the end of it?”Joseph dismissed him contemptuously. “When you can spare time from such essential occupations, you might like to see the pile of promissory notes I hold, and the interest accruing thereon.” “Interest! You have never mentioned interest! Nor have you ever suggested that my notes should be honoured!”
“Surely it was unnecessary? Promissory notes represent debts and debtors must always pay interest. Money lenders impose it, naming their own terms. So do I.”
“Of all the diabolical — !”
“Drown your sorrows, Freeman. Forget such unpleasant things as creditors who may one day pounce.”
“Hell’s teeth, are you threatening me?”
Joseph raised his eyebrows blandly.
“I only said may. That suggests a doubt, does it not?”
Relieved, Max took his departure, glad to escape from such an unpleasant interview and more than eager to forget it.
Behind his retreating back, Joseph smiled sardonically. The gullible young fool. By nature feckless and irresponsible, he had been made worse by a doting mother who could deny him nothing. Charlotte Freeman’s adoration of her son had undermined her husband’s attempts at discipline because, unlike him, she had been born to wealth and therefore believed that a gentleman of leisure need occupy himself with nothing more than the customary pleasures of a gentleman’s life.
Max certainly did that. Self-indulgence dominated his existence, a fact of which Joseph had been well aware before manipulating his sister’s marriage. When next he saw Phoebe he must contrive to be alone with her and to point out that all she needed was patience, because her husband’s weaknesses must eventually be his downfall and when that happened she would be left in a very comfortable position, safe in the heart of a rich family who were in honour bound to support their son’s wife.
Joseph also knew, because he had made it his business to find out, that Charlotte Freeman was in the unusual position of owning property and revenues in her own right because a forebear had so willed it, imposing so many legal strictures that despite it being customary for a woman’s money to merge with her husband’s on marriage, the Common Law practice had been overruled. With this Will, the necessary instrument acceptable to Equity had been established, with two requisite male trustees to act on her behalf. Such cases were rare, but they were not unknown, and in the event of anything happening to Max, Charlotte might well pass on to Phoebe a share of her personal estates. If left with the responsibility of a widowed (or deserted) daughter-in-law she would scarce be likely to divide it solely between her own two daughters.
So if Max drank himself to death — or was forced to flee the country due to some scrap with the law, a not unlikely contingency — so well and good, thought Joseph. Phoebe would be sitting very comfortably indeed.
Soothed by these reflections, Joseph turned to the paper Max had tossed onto his desk, and as he read, a frown creased his forehead. The ‘extensive list of misdemeanours’ comprised petty thefts, trifling insolences, ridiculous tales of men and women copulating in dark corners — all too blatantly invented to be worth heeding. Pot workers never stole from each other because none possessed anything worth stealing and, if any had been insolent to the Tremain heir, no doubt he had asked for it. As for copulation during working hours, nothing could be more patently false because none could afford to so squander working time for which they were paid piecemeal. Carnal appetites had to be satisfied after the day’s labours — and Max Freeman was an even bigger fool if he thought the Master Potter would believe such trumped up charges.
Of greater seriousness, however, was the truancy attributed to his brother and Meg Gibson, the reason for which Joseph refused to credit. And yet it haunted him. Taunted him. As Meg herself had taunted him when he drove through the main gates this morning. She had had the audacity to execute a sweeping curtsey, as if mocking his newfound grandeur.
Until his marriage, Joseph had ridden to work. Now he agreed with Agatha that it was more fitting to be driven — one thing they had in common was an awareness of their social importance — and the expensive chaise he had ordered prior to the London visit had awaited his return. It was considerably superior to the modest affair he had maintained as a bachelor, mainly for churchgoing on the Sabbath. In those days he had handled the reins himself. Now a uniformed coachman sat upon the box, and the whole turn-out met with Agatha’s approval.
From her bedroom window, she had watched him depart this morning — rousing herself especially to see him go, though no doubt returning to her tumbled bed immediately afterwards. She slept amidst a veritable bank of pillows, wallowing in their depths like some monstrous animal and then plaintively demanding to know why he chose to leave her after performing his husbandly duties. And always he would provide the same reason. “I am a restless sleeper, my dear. I fear I would disturb your slumbers.” At that, with a world of significance in her voice, she would purr, “I could lull you, my love, if only you would stay with me…”
Dea
r God in heaven, how obtuse could some women be?
But in some ways Agatha was surprisingly alert, asking intelligent questions about the pot bank and listening to his plans for further development with a greater interest than he had expected. That was gratifying, because when it came to installing costly new ovens, which he had hankered after for some time, she might be too enthralled with his ideas to realise that her money was paying for them. Now she was his wife, her entire wealth would become his and he could do what he liked with it, but there was no point in making it too obvious.
He was also resolved to encourage her pride in him as Burslem’s leading Master Potter. This pride she already possessed, but it would do no harm to foster it even more. He had been gratified by it this morning; it had shone in the homely face watching from the window. And not only had it pleased him, it had secretly amused him, for she was unaware that it was she who had been responsible for the purchase of such a handsome conveyance and would unwittingly be paying for it.
But Meg Gibson had mocked, and the memory inflamed him. Her face came between himself and his work, her inviting lips smiling, her bright eyes challenging, the eternal temptation of her driving from his mind Max Freeman’s absurd indictment.
And yet — hadn’t there always been a camaraderie between Meg and his brother? He had seen Martin pause to speak to her many a time. He had heard their laughter echoing across the potter’s yard. He had also heard Martin defend her against critical tongues. Never before had he attached any significance to any of this, though he had always warned his brother against familiarity with the workers. “Remember you are a Drayton, a descendant of the founders, not a common labourer…” To which Martin had once retorted, “Then don’t treat me like one, especially in front of them.” For such insolence he had been punished by being denied the noonday break for a week.
But this time, by God, his punishment would be greater if Freeman’s accusations proved to be true.
Concentration proved to be impossible. Not even the accumulation of a month’s delayed problems could rid Joseph’s mind of disturbing thoughts. Meg’s face haunted him — laughing as he emerged from the church with his bride on his arm, mocking as he arrived in splendid style this morning. She was brazen, insolent, outrageous, and eternally desirable. Hours spent with her in the past rose to haunt him now. He had even recalled them during the London visit, particularly when in bed with avid Agatha. There was a world of difference between a desirable body and an undesirable one, but for the rest of his life he was tied to the latter — or so convention decreed.
He slammed an angry fist down on the condemning list. He knew he should tear it up and forget it, but he also knew that he would not. He had to find out whether there was a word of truth in Max Freeman’s accusations concerning young Martin and Meg.
He sent for her then. She entered with her usual swinging step, but more noisily because this time she was not barefoot. The sound of clogs disconcerted him. He had expected no more than the usual rustle of her skirts, accompanied by the upright grace acquired from years of carrying trays of pottery on her head. When she had finished turning rims on bases, she had to carry them to the finishing shed to be fettled until smooth so that glaze adherence would be better. As a result, she had the superb carriage of eastern women accustomed to balancing pitchers on their heads. Not even her clumsy clogs changed that, and the marked contrast between the beauty of her walk and the ungainliness of his wife’s struck him anew.
What a time poor Elizabeth Freeman had had, trying to teach Agatha how to hold herself, and what a time the seamstresses had had, trying to create gowns to disguise her heaviness. And through it all Agatha had sulked, hating the plain colours her maiden aunt selected, and the simplicity of style she and the dressmakers decided on, and the fact that she herself was not even consulted.
“You must leave it to me, dear child,” Elizabeth had said repeatedly. “You cannot be expected to have a good eye for fashion, having lived in the country all your life.” To this Agatha had protested that she had an entire wardrobe of beautiful clothes at home, in a whole range of lovely bright colours, and why she had not been allowed to wear them in London she failed to understand.
“It was your husband’s wise decision, niece. He is obviously a man of good taste.”
To Joseph, later, Agatha had petulantly declared that her aunt’s idea of good dressing was infernally dull. “At home, everyone notices me the minute I enter a room. Now no one does, and the only compliments I receive are from staid matrons who deem it elegant to look most painfully ladylike. Yet wherever we go I see women clad in truly magnificent creations, and men unable to take their eyes off them. Why cannot I be dressed like them?”
“Because I do not wish it. Because you are not the type to carry such fashions well. And because I wish my wife to look like the lady I expect her to be.”
Now he thrust aside these irritating reminders, yielding to inevitable comparisons between the woman he had married and the woman he desired. Even with a clay-smudged sacking covering, tied round the waist with sisal-hemp, Meg Gibson could eclipse all those startling London ladies whom Agatha so envied.
She reminded him that she was waiting by saying meekly, “You sent for me, sir?”
“I did.” He glanced at the paper before him. “It has been reported to me that whilst I have been away you have absented yourself from work on several occasions.”
To his astonishment, she didn’t deny it.
“I’ve made it up by working late, sir. Ask the foreman.”
No penitence there. No admission of guilt.
“What I want to know is why you played truant.”
“Were it truant, sir, when I turned out as much work as I ever does?”
“That is no answer. Tell me why you took leave without permission.”
“You weren’t here to give it, sir.”
“What of your foreman? Did you ask him?”
Meg assumed an innocent air, puckering her brow to suggest that she was trying to remember, then she smiled dazzlingly as she answered, “I can’t rightly recall, sir. Mebbe the foreman will.” The smile vanished. “As to why, my mother was sick unto dying.”
“She has been so for years.”
“Was, sir. She was sick for years.”
There was no radiance in her face now. It was white and drawn, shocking him as much as he was capable of being shocked.
“You mean she is dead?”
Meg nodded, struggled to answer, then burst out, “Buried yesterday, she were, and t’were thee as put her there. Thee and Ma Tinsley.”
“You cannot blame others for her death, Meg. It was inevitable and no doubt a mercy. Now put it behind you. You have your own life to live.”
“Aye. And I mean to, sir. Right well I do.”
“That is wise. Life could hold much for you…” His eyes strayed from her lovely face to the thrusting young breasts which even the rough sacking could not wholly conceal. They were firm and round and beautifully formed, not overweight and sagging, nor bulging over whalebone. She could strip in seconds because there was no restricting framework to contend with. Free and lovely Meg. His flesh yearned for her.
“Be there anything else?” she asked in a voice which sounded respectful and yet denied it.
“Yes — yes, there is — ” He didn’t want her to go. It was so long since he had talked with her that he forgot what had passed between them the last time she stood on this spot — and it was even longer since she walked through the side entrance of Carrion House. How could he contrive that again, now the place seemed to abound with servants?
Pulling himself back to the moment, he said, “About my brother — it appears he too has been truanting.”
“I can’t believe that, sir. Not Master Martin. He’s a real worker, that one. Never eases off. No,” she repeated emphatically, “believe it I never will.”
Instead of reassuring him, her fervour disturbed him. She was defending the lad too vehemently. Susp
icion stirred again, but questioning her further would be useless. He would have to find out for himself.
Assuming that his silence indicated dismissal, she bobbed a curtsey and turned to leave.
“Wait! Who was the man standing beside you outside the gates this morning?”
She smiled. It was a slow smile, starting in her eyes and spreading to her softly curving mouth.
“That be Tinsley, potman at the Red Lion. Ma Tinsley’s nephew. You recollect Ma Tinsley — the midwife you promised two gold guineas? ’T’would be wise to pay, sir. She ain’t forgot, even after all this time.”
The door shut behind her. He felt uncomfortable, threatened, and despite all attempts to dismiss it, the feeling persisted.
Chapter Twenty-three
In the stream of workers heading for home across the potters’ yard at the end of the day, Martin drew alongside Meg. She smiled, and despite the fact that beneath the din of tramping clogs and shouting voices conversation could scarcely be overheard, she lowered her voice as she said, “Master Potter’s set on learning what we’ve bin up to, Master Martin.”
“So Freeman did carry tales.”
“Much use it’ll do either of ’em. Your brother got now’t out of me, nor ever will.”
‘Don’t risk punishment on my behalf, Meg. Any likelihood of that and I will tell him about my workshop at Cooperfield, and how often I have been there and when, but on no account will he learn that you helped me in your spare time.”
She laughed. “Not always in my spare time, eh, Master Martin?”
“No, we have both played truant during this past month, but only I must bear the blame for that.”
“We still got through the same number o’ pots, and so I told him — leastways, about me. I didn’t say a word about you, Master Martin, and don’t go letting on about Cooperfield. That workshop be yourn and now’t to do with Master Potter.”
