The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  “You are becoming charitable, of a sudden,” Phoebe remarked pettishly.

  “If the admiration of everyone amounts to charity,” Max argued, “then everyone present is being charitable tonight — except you. And that, I suspect, is jealousy.”

  Ralph Freeman looked at Max in surprise. “That is the first intelligent observation I have ever heard you make, my son. There may be people here who are assuming an admiration they will readily discard when the night is over, country society being riddled with prejudice, but many more will be feeling as I do — filled with a genuine admiration for Si Kendall. I, too, rose from nothing.”

  “My dear husband, never so lowly as he. Your father may have been no more than a humble parish priest, but — ”

  “My dear, a humble parish priest is one of the poorest paid servants in any community, with never any money to spend on educating his children. Like Kendall, I am self taught.”

  “Then he is to be admired as greatly as you,” Charlotte said sincerely, “and my dear Max’s tribute is well earned.”

  “Agatha, my dear, put that food aside and spare a greeting for your mother-in-law, whom you have not yet deigned to notice.”

  “Oh, Papa, surely you are not embarking on one of your tirades!”

  But Agatha obeyed, kissed Emily on both cheeks, and admired her gown. “But have I not seen you wearing it many times before?”

  “I need no new clothes at my age, my dear.”

  “I declare, Joseph must buy you some! Joseph, did you not hear me? It is time your mother had an elegant gown or two, which you can afford with ease now you are so prosperous. Have you visited the pottery and seen his splendid new sanctum, Mamma? Have you, Papa? You must indeed. All of you must see it. I chose the furnishings, including a truly impressive desk. But he will not allow me to clear the old one, though it holds only two drawers which would take me no time at all to empty.”

  “Business premises are not for women,” Joseph told her.

  “Is that why the drawers were locked when I came to the pottery to see the new furniture installed?” Agatha said roguishly. “Or do men always guard their secrets so jealously?”

  “I shall empty the drawers myself and transfer their contents to the new ones.”

  “That is a task I could do for you, sir,” Max put in eagerly. “I have little to do all day.”

  But Max’s offer passed unheard, drowned in a sudden flurry amongst the crowd. Sir Neville was walking to a dais at the far end of the ballroom, and there were expectant murmurs as he mounted. Someone nearby was saying something about a display there. “Have you seen it, my dear? A model of the canal, with a horse standing on a bridge — quite magnificently made.” And Charlotte Freeman was saying that if only the crush would thin a little perhaps they would all catch a glimpse, and her husband was assuring her that they would take a look later on, and Agatha was glancing round for food again, and Max was reaching for another glass of wine, and Phoebe was fanning herself and looking very bored, and Joseph was wearing an expression which should have warned his wife that he was determined to go home, and Emily —

  Where was Emily? Over there, with Jessica and Si Kendall, and Amelia and Martin. They were all standing close to the dais, and Kendall’s arm was about his wife’s waist and she was looking up at him with blatant adoration.

  No woman with her disgraceful past had the right to look so happy, thought Phoebe, who now shared Joseph’s desire to escape from the humiliation of being brought here to pay homage to those two. Really, it was a most unpleasant event altogether and how Agatha could dismiss it in the greater enjoyment of food, Phoebe couldn’t imagine, any more than she could imagine why dear Mamma should seem to have forgotten the dreadful sin Jessica and Si Kendall had committed not so many months ago.

  But Mamma seemed to be changing in some subtle way these days. She was never openly critical, but somehow she made it plain to Phoebe that she was no longer at ease with her. One might even think, if one didn’t know her better, that she was actually disapproving. Or was disappointed more apt a word? Of course, not. How could any mother be disappointed in a daughter who had married so well and would shortly produce a future heir to Tremain Hall? Always providing it was a boy, of course.

  And if it is, dear God, may it not resemble a father who so outrageously accuses its mother of jealousy — in front of everyone, too!

  Now Sir Neville was proposing a toast — to the Armstrong Canal and to the man who had built it, and people were raising their glasses and calling Simon Kendall’s name. Even the Freemans were joining in, despite the fact that they knew all about his background and that he had got Jessica with child before marriage.

  Tight-lipped, Phoebe refused to drink and Joseph, she was pleased to see, didn’t even raise his glass. They stood together, united in silence.

  People were calling for Kendall to make a speech, but this he would not do. He had always been a shy man; reserved, people said. But they liked him. Everybody liked him these days, declaring that he would go much farther yet.

  But the climax of the evening had not yet come. Neville Armstrong was enjoying himself and obviously had no intention of stepping down from the dais. Instead, he suddenly held aloft a magnificent ceramic horse, forelegs dancing, hind legs rearing, mane and tail splendidly flying. It shone in the light of a thousand candles, its red-gold coat agleam. Even Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes from it and, as for Joseph, his attention was riveted. Such a piece of ceramic modelling was rare in Burslem, home of homely pottery. It seemed to proclaim all the beauty that could be created from a lump of raw earth.

  So this was the horse someone had been talking about. It had been placed on a model of a bridge spanning the Armstrong Canal, sharing the honours for a reason no one yet knew. Someone in the crowd called the name of Red Empress, and it echoed throughout the ballroom.

  At that Neville Armstrong cried, “Another toast, my friends, not to Red Empress, but to the creator of this image — Martin Drayton, the finest craftsman ever to come out of the potteries!”

  Beside Phoebe, there was a shattering of glass. Jerking round, she saw Joseph’s hand bleeding. He had crushed his wine goblet without even being aware that he did so, for the blood ran unheeded. She uttered a startled exclamation which he did not hear. He was staring toward the dais with so terrible an anger that she shivered at the sight of it.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was a magical evening for Emily. Not for years had she been to such an occasion, and not even Agatha’s comments on her oftworn gown could spoil it for her. As mother-in-law to Simon Kendall she basked in reflected glory; as mother to his wife she almost preened with pride. But there was more than vanity in her satisfaction; there was maternal pleasure in her daughter’s happiness. Jessica’s marriage was turning out well. No mother could have hoped for more.

  But more had certainly come, and unexpectedly. Martin’s achievement was a complete surprise. It did not occur to Emily to wonder where he had made the ceramic horse; it was a natural assumption that he had made it during the course of his work at the family pottery, and the whole thing had been kept a secret to be revealed only on this night. And she was glad that Joseph had come to Ashburton to hear him praised. He must be as proud as she, though she really must ask him why he had remained silent about Martin’s exceptional talent. She decided, indulgently, that dear Joseph had not wanted to spoil the surprise for her.

  Hearing Neville Armstrong’s praise of her youngest son had an amazing affect on Emily. It changed her from a timorous little woman into one only too eager to hold up her head and to talk about his achievement to anyone who would listen. It was disappointing that no one had time to — they were all too busy crowding round the display, or striving to get a word with Sir Neville, or jostling for a place near Simon Kendall and his wife. But Emily could wait. Meanwhile she looked on contentedly, sipping wine and toying with food for which excitement scarcely left her any appetite.

  She wished her George was
here. Jessica had always been especially dear to him and Emily would have liked him to see how happy she was now. At the time of what she had come to think of as ‘dear Jessica’s tragedy’ she had been thankful that he knew nothing about it, but things were different now. Everything was different now. And perhaps everything else would be different from henceforth, perhaps even Joseph would be reconciled to Jessica. The fact that he had attended tonight’s reception was regarded by his mother as a heart-warming sign, indicating a change of heart. Perhaps he had also come to congratulate Simon Kendall. If so, it would be the perfect culmination to a perfect occasion.

  So Emily continued to look on contentedly, smiling on Amelia and Martin — those two seemed inseparable these days — and missing not one glance exchanged between Jessica and her husband. They stood close together, and even from this distance she was conscious of the affection uniting them. So different from Phoebe and Max…

  Emily forced her mind away from her other daughter, who seemed to have grown beyond her and bore no resemblance to the light-hearted child she had once been. Of course, her marriage had not turned out to be all her mother had expected and sometimes she dared to wonder whether Joseph had been wholly wise in arranging it. At the time it had seemed the ideal solution, though Emily now found it hard to recall what precisely it had been designed to solve. Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave things as they were, with Phoebe staying at home to await the arrival of the Prince Charming she had always dreamed about.

  Martin was looking embarrassed by the praise showered on him. He had always been shy, but never more so than tonight. He seemed anxious to avoid all the fuss and flattery — though if he regarded it as flattery, he was mistaken. Their host’s tribute was being endorsed by everyone who could get near to the beautiful model. They clamoured to touch it — something Neville Armstrong was discouraging, fearing for its safety — and apart from admiring the craftsmanship they also clamoured to know how he had achieved such a splendid glaze, and shyly, stumblingly, Martin was answering. Beside him, Amelia beamed proudly.

  In the potteries almost everyone was connected with the industry in one way or another and Emily hoped her youngest son would be wise enough to give away as little information as possible. She had learned long ago that professional secrets should be jealously guarded.

  Then he was swallowed up in the crowd, and she was looking across at Joseph and his wife. Agatha was as bouncy as ever, but Joseph was silent and unsmiling. That surprised her, for he had every reason to look pleased following the tribute Martin’s work had won, and for which The Drayton Pottery could take the credit. Such success could only increase its prestige, yet from this distance it looked as if Joseph was actually frowning — but that could only be due to her troublesome eyesight, which seemed to be getting worse these days.

  Then the gap closed, and Jessica and her husband were in her line of vision instead. Jessica was looking in the direction of the now unseen Joseph and saying something urgently to her husband, and despite the aura of happiness about her Emily felt she was concerned about something. That must be my tiresome eyesight again, she thought; playing tricks, giving false impressions. On such a night as this nothing could cause anxiety or concern.

  And yet, very faintly, she felt it herself when she glimpsed her eldest son again. He was leading his wife away. They were going home. Perhaps Agatha was feeling unwell; she seemed to have a lot of indigestion and stomach upsets lately and, judging by the amount of food she had consumed tonight, Emily was not surprised. She therefore dismissed the twinge of anxiety and turned her attention to the glittering scene about her. She was enjoying it all immensely.

  But Jessica had seen her elder brother’s face, and was chilled by it.

  “Simon, we must go to Medlar Croft tonight — ”

  “I shall be driving your mother back there, in the same way that I fetched her, but you must remain here. I’ll not have you venturing out in such weather.”

  “If my mother can, I can, but I wish she had accepted the invitation to stay overnight. Martin, too; though I realise that having to start work at six o’clock in the morning made it impossible.”

  “Which was your mother’s reason for declining. My darling, you look distressed. What has upset you?”

  “Joseph’s face. I caught a glimpse of it just now. He is angry.”

  “We expected that, didn’t we? But we can’t blame Neville Armstrong. Enthusiasm carried him away. He is delighted with everything tonight — as I am with you. You look beautiful. You take my breath away.”

  “If I am beautiful, it is because of you. I love you, Simon.”

  Instinctively, she stood a little closer. She was not ashamed of revealing her feelings for him. In the weeks since they had really become man and wife, their importance to each other had deepened and strengthened, and every time they made love they gave and received the ultimate in happiness and were forever ready to give and receive it again.

  But Neville Armstrong’s unexpected announcement sparked a fear in Jessica.

  “He promised not to say a word. I told him how dangerous it could be for Martin. Joseph is a merciless man, and it wants only two weeks to Martin’s birthday, when his apprenticeship ends.”

  “Admit you were overjoyed when you saw his horse so proudly displayed.”

  “Not to mention the model of the canal — -your canal. And such a huge model, too.”

  “It was specially made by a woodworker in Stoke, big enough for Red Empress to stand on the bridge. Yes, I was proud too; proud to have had a hand in building the canal and proud of my young brother-in-law. You must forgive Armstrong for being carried away by the excitement of it all.”

  “Naturally I do, but if only he could have waited long enough for Martin to come into his own!”

  “You know the old man well enough to be aware of his impetuosity. And he is too delighted with his ceramic model to restrain his enthusiasm before so many notable guests, many of whom have travelled a long way — including the one heading for Martin now.” Simon’s eyes followed a short, soberly clad man wending hi$ way through the crowd to the corner where Martin now hid. Overcome by shyness, the boy had made his escape very adroitly, but not from the sharp eyes of the stranger whom Simon now recognised. “I haven’t seen John Wesley since he preached on Cobblers Green,” he continued thoughtfully. “Few people thought he would ever set foot in Burslem again…”

  Amelia understood Martin’s aversion to gush and flattery, and was anxious to help him overcome it. “One day,” she was saying, “you will be accustomed to all this…you will be acclaimed the great artist that you are…oh yes, you are a great artist, Martin dear, pray do not contradict! I like you the more for being modest, but I shall not allow you to hide behind a bushel — or was it beneath, and what is a bushel anyway? Something very uncomfortable from the sound of it, and totally unnecessary, for your light is going to shine very bright indeed — ”

  Her affection and inconsequential chatter was cut short by his start of surprise and, following his glance she exclaimed, “Good gracious, isn’t that the man the rabble pelted with clods of earth?”, to which Martin made no answer because he did not hear. Looking from him to John Wesley and back again, Amelia smiled a little, gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, and slipped away unnoticed.

  When it became obvious that the famous preacher was approaching him, Martin stumbled to his feet, his shyness deepening, but the stocky man was holding out his hand and saying, “When Sir Neville sent me a pressing invitation to break my journey to Newcastle in order to attend ‘a double celebration’ I knew only what the main one was to be — the canal’s completion. The second filled me with surprise and admiration. You must forgive a stranger for seeking you out, but you have a rare talent on which I must congratulate you.”

  The fine, sensitive hand had a strong grasp, the piercing blue eyes were penetrating but friendly, and the smile put Martin immediately at ease.

  “Sir,” he stammered, “you are no str
anger. I have heard you preach — ”

  “Here in Burslem? You were present on that memorable day? Then you witnessed my defeat and heard me preach little.’ The smile was rueful. ‘I failed to acquit myself well.”

  “Sir! Any other preacher would have fled long before you were forced to give up.”

  “But I never give up, Master Drayton. Nor must you. You have a vocation too, and if and when failure comes, as it sometimes must to all of us, you must not be defeated by it. I shall return to Burslem, and sooner than people expect — except Sir Neville, who knows me well. I intend to start a centre here, an extension of the three already established in London, Bristol, and Newcastle. My visit that day convinced me that Burslem is an ideal place for it. Life has taught me never to flee from a battleground again, as I did from Georgia…” It seemed to Martin that the piercing blue eyes were touched by a sudden shadow and, puzzled, he said, “But Methodism is gathering strength in America, thanks to you, sir. Or so I have heard. Your successor declared so on a recent visit home.”

  “George Whitefield is a loyal friend.” The keen eyes met Martin’s frankly; the shadow was lighter but still there. “My time in Georgia taught me much and was therefore not wasted, though I was conscious only of failure at the end. I made mistakes. I was stubborn and in many ways bigoted. I benefitted more from the lessons I learned then, I am sure, did the souls I was sent to care for. But Methodism is a hard teacher, not least to its preachers.”

  “Yet you left the Church to devote yourself to it.”

  “That, young man, is a common belief and a mistaken one. I never have and never will desert the Church into which I was ordained. I shall remain a loyal son of the Church of England to the day I die, as did my father. The Methodist movement is a movement within that Church and if separation ever comes about, it will not be with my consent.”