The Drayton Legacy

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The Drayton Legacy Page 42

by Rona Randall


  Martin had few orders in hand, but would not admit it. Commissions on a par with Red Empress might be few and far between, despite the admiration the model had won.

  Ignoring him, the Master Potter proceeded to his fine new quarters. Undaunted, Martin followed, blocking the door with his foot when his brother was closing it. At that, Joseph whipped round. “I told you to be gone.”

  “I will leave as soon as we have discussed this.” Martin produced the small package of white lead. “This also,” he added, holding up the newly glazed beaker. “I notice you don’t ask how I came by them.”

  Joseph stared, then walked across the fine Turkey carpet to the elegant new desk chosen by Agatha, shedding his fur lined cloak and sable tricorne and matching gauntlet gloves as he went.

  “I have no notion of what you are talking,” he threw over his shoulder. “I have never seen those things before. And now, be on your way.”

  Martin stood his ground.

  “Who is the beaker for this time, Joseph?”

  “How should I know? The pottery turns out hundreds of them.” “But not lead-glazed.” He placed the beaker and the package before his brother and said, “There is no need to tell you what this substance is, since you glazed the article and therefore know the ingredients — as I know the ingredients you used in glazing the things I made for our father.” When Joseph tried to speak, Martin added, “I had these fragments analysed.” Taking from his pocket the screwed-up paper he had carried around on his person ever since the analysis, he spread it, opened, beside the other items. “At a low temperature your recipe has fired matt this time, but the lead content is there and I am sure that further analysis will prove the amount to be the same — or perhaps more, depending on how effective and how speedy you want it to be this time. Father’s death from lead poisoning was slow.”

  “You are talking nonsense. The death certificate confirmed natural causes. Be off with you, Martin, and take your fairy tales with you. No one will believe them, nor any other trumped up stories, especially when prompted by spite. You want to hit back because I have sent you packing. Do you imagine no one will guess that? As for helping yourself to things that don’t belong to you, I could charge you with theft — ”

  The words clipped off.

  “Then you admit it — you admit this package of white lead is yours. And you know where it came from — that table over there, from a locked drawer which had to be forced. The package was spilled by accident. But for that, I would never have suspected. See the stain on the carpet? That confirms what I say.”

  “How dare you break into my property!”

  “There was no need.”

  He didn’t say why. Nor did he trouble to name Max. When the stolen papers were missed, the real culprit would be evident, though from Max’s exultant statement it appeared that Joseph would be unable to touch him. What sort of a hold he had wielded over Max, and why the theft of those papers should end it, Martin had no wish to know. Nothing was important to him beyond this moment.

  As he gathered up his fragments of glaze and re-wrapped them, he was aware that his brother’s face had paled. The pallor emphasized shadows beneath his eyes — had he stayed up late last night, after leaving Medlar Croft? Whatever the cause, guilt had not kept him awake, for guilt had never troubled Joseph, nor ever would.

  Martin left his brother sitting in his splendid new surroundings, the new beaker on the desk before him, and walked out into the world to start a new life, but as he stepped outside, one last derisive challenge followed him.

  “You think you have won, but you are wrong. It is I who have defeated you, young brother.”

  Jessica and Simon left Medlar Croft shortly after Martin had gone to the pottery next morning, reaching the wheelwright’s cottage before he arrived to start his first day’s work as his own master. While Simon remained outside to check that the wood ash beneath Martin’s kiln was cold enough to be sifted and then washed for use in future glazing, a task he had made his own, she went upstairs to change her gown — the lovely gown Simon had taken her all the way to Manchester to buy, and which had cost even more than the five guineas he had originally given her. It was his celebratory gift from the bonus he had earned on completing the Armstrong Canal.

  As she covered it in a holland bag and hung it away, she reflected that she had no right to feel so happy at a time when Martin had been so cruelly treated. But wasn’t it better that he should be out of Drayton’s altogether than under Joseph’s oppressive thumb? Simon was confident that one day the boy would come into his own, and if Simon was confident of that, so was she.

  Coupled with her desire for Martin’s success was an equal desire that he should have as great a happiness as she now had. Life had been good to give her so much. Sometimes she felt it was too wonderful to last, that a generous fate must decide to withdraw some of its bounty, and sometimes she would be haunted by Roger Acland’s threat of eventual retaliation and hear the echo of his words — You will be sorry for this…My God, how sorry you are going to be! But that she firmly dismissed, for the man had gone out of her life and could not touch her now. Her whole happiness pivoted around her husband and the only way a malignant fate could hurt her would be through him, and so long as she had him, she had everything.

  It was good to be back in the wheelright’s cottage. Simon sometimes talked of the house he would build for her one day, as if this place were unworthy of her, but she loved it and doubted if she would know greater happiness anywhere else. As for Neville Armstrong’s hint that Simon would make a worthy heir, she neither thought about that or breathed a word of it to her husband. Time had a pattern for peoples’ lives, and its present design for her own was all she desired.

  She felt this strongly as she descended the stairs and saw Simon waiting for her. She went straight over to him, reached up, and kissed him. Then she saw the gravity of his face, and was alarmed.

  “Something is wrong — something has happened — ”

  He said gently, “Not to us, dear love. To Martin. His workshop is wrecked. Everything is destroyed.”

  There was scarcely a retrievable item. Even the mould of Red Empress had been hacked to pieces. The throwing wheel was demolished. The set of fluted bowls which had shared the successful glaze firing with the model horse, and which Jessica had promised to deliver for Martin tomorrow, lay in a thousand fragments. Glaze ingredients had been spilled and ground into the floor. Clay had been thrown out into the slush to dissolve into muddy water with the rapidly thawing snow. Shelves had been wrecked, tables lay in splinters, windows were shattered. The only thing to survive the onslaught was the brick-built kiln outside. It stood as a mocking reminder of lost hopes and dreams.

  She guessed who the destroyer was, and so did Simon. And so would Martin, when he came. He would remember, as she did, the children’s playroom at Medlar Croft which Joseph had systematically wrecked one day when Martin was a child, and how he had laughed to see them terrified by his vandalism, her arms about her small brother in a vain attempt to protect and console him. Phoebe had fled, but Martin had stood his ground whilst Joseph smashed his toys before his eyes, one by one, exulting in the deed. That too had been Joseph’s vengeance against Martin for refusing to obey him.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘But it is dull,” wailed Agatha. “I wanted that lovely shiny green, like your father’s.” She eyed the beaker with distaste. “Did you really glaze it yourself, Joseph, or did you set the task to someone else, someone less expert? If so, I am deeply offended, for I understood it was to be a personal gift from you to me, made wholly by yourself.”

  “My dear wife, I am a Master Potter, not a worker, not a thrower on the wheel, but I did glaze the article personally, therefore it is a personal gift and should be appreciated as such. And the matt surface is pleasing. Many people would prefer it.”

  “Well, I do not.” She set the beaker aside, thinking how uninteresting it was, not only in colour, but in shape. It was like an
y run-of-the-mill product of Drayton’s. They turned out hundreds of these beakers annually.

  “Your mother told me that Martin made your father’s — ”

  “Which you called nondescript. Remember?”

  “At that time I had not seen this. Martin’s beaker was at least better designed and the colour was beautiful. Why can’t the pottery produce more like his? Why not set him to the task?”

  “He is no longer working for me.”

  “He must be! He is apprenticed to Drayton’s. Besides, he is one of the family.”

  “His apprenticeship is finished.”

  “Then he now becomes a journeyman, doesn’t he, with the additional incentive of a starting share in the business because he is a member of the family? And after his triumph at Ashburton, what an asset he will be! He can produce far more exciting things than this very ordinary beaker.”

  “Had he qualified, which he has not, he would have been entrusted with more ambitious work, though I would never tolerate anything fancy. That model of his was decidedly gaudy.”

  “Oh, no! I thought it beautiful.”

  “You have always had a liking for the garish. Your taste in dress is evidence of that.” The censorious note in his voice made her apprehensive, as before, but a stronger reaction this time was annoyance. He had not adopted that tone since the very early days of their marriage — was it really so short a time ago? — but now she was ready to stand up to it.

  Ruffled, she opened her mouth, only to be cut short. He had arrived home in a very testy mood, and sounded testier still when he snapped, “Never have the audacity to question my authority at the pottery. It is not your sphere. As for my brother’s dismissal, he should have expected it.”

  “Dismissal! I thought you said his apprenticeship had finished, not his employment?”

  “His employment would have been assured had he not broken the terms of apprenticeship. Fortunately, I found out just two weeks before it ended.”

  “Poof!” cried Agatha. “You can disregard a paltry two weeks, surely? A talent like his should be kept in the family. Ifyou reject it, a rival potter will welcome it.”

  “Drayton’s will survive well enough without him. As for my gift to you, if you dislike it it can be thrown away. I fear you are spoilt. Your Aunt Margaret’s legacy bestowed too much on you and those two trustees see that you never squander it. Beware you do not become close fisted, as they are.”

  “Papa and Uncle Joshua have never denied me anything on which I set my heart. Clothes, jewels, whatever I fancied have come out of the income from dear Aunt Margaret’s bequest.”

  “And what of the capital? And the properties? What do they intend to do with all that?”

  “What they already do — administer it carefully so that it continues to bring me a substantial income.”

  “Which no one but yourself can touch, and not even you without their co-operation, let alone a husband who is rightfully entitled to the whole of it.”

  “As with Mamma’s fortune, it remains tied.”

  “A fact carefully concealed from me, not only by your parents, but by you.”

  “Not deliberately, Joseph. At least, not by me. It never occurred to me to discuss it.”

  “So there it all remains, lying fallow. Useless. Gathering moss which could be put to good use — in your home, for instance.”

  “As it already has been. Let me remind you, dear Joseph, that I have paid for most of the improvements here — I dare swear all of them, though you have not shown me the evidence. But would you have been so extravagant without my money, prosperous though you are? Even your splendid new sanctum at the pottery was paid for by me, as were the furnishings, and not out of my Tremain income which has now become yours. You have Aunt Margaret’s bequest to thank for such gifts. Papa and Uncle Joshua released a substantial sum to purchase things for myself. I have not yet told them what those items were.”

  He made a mock bow. “Am I expected to pay homage?”

  Really, he was in a testy mood. It made her feel quite tearful. And he had arrived home much later than usual; so late that Pierre had raised a storm in the kitchens and then come raging to her, as if her husband’s tardiness were her fault! But trying to remonstrate with Joseph when he returned had achieved nothing. He had scowled and delayed the meal still further by retiring to his room to indulge in a leisurely toilet. That too was disturbing, for sometimes she thought that Joseph bestowed more consideration on his French chef than on any other member of the household, including herself. To ignore the man’s wishes was most unusual, clearly indicating Joseph’s ill humour.

  But by the time he had emerged, looking very handsome in one of his long smoking waistcoats of richly worked brocade, she was so ravenously hungry that she had been quite unmoved by his elegance, and quite uncaring that he had little to say to her. Throughout the meal his thoughts had appeared to be far away. He had even seemed unaware that Pierre’s excellent cooking was marred. He ate and drank mechanically, then moved to the withdrawing room where he inconsiderately lit a long stemmed clay pipe. Nor did he think of retiring to his smoking room to spare her the disgusting fumes. She had wafted them away with her fan, exaggerating the gesture to mark her displeasure, but it passed as unnoticed as herself so that by the time he remembered the gift he had brought her, she was ill disposed to receive it.

  After smoking in silence for some considerable time, he said unexpectedly, “You know, of course, that in the event of my death I will leave you well provided for, and if we have sons, the Drayton Pottery will be theirs?”

  “Joseph, I beg you — do not talk of death!”

  “It is necessary, for it comes to all of us, we know not when. A married man has responsibilities to his wife, and a married woman to her husband. It cannot be too soon for us to secure the future for one another.”

  “Our future is together — ”

  “Until death do us part. We must not shrink from that, nor from our duty to each other. We must both prepare wills ensuring that each inherits totally. I will see my lawyer in Stoke as soon as the roads are clear, and you will accompany me. There we can tie up everything and never refer to the matter again. You will have a greater feeling of security once that is done and, I hope, greater trust in me.”

  “I have the utmost trust in you!”

  “I am reassured to hear it. Sometimes I fear you may be influenced by the sentinels who stand guard against me. I refer to your two vigilant trustees.”

  “You imagine it, Joseph! They are no more vigilant than they have been since I came into my inheritance. Aunt Margaret herself laid down the terms of her will, so securely that I gather no one can break them until I die when, of course, all goes to my heirs. That means our children, dear Joseph — not, I am afraid, yourself, so I cannot bequeath all to you totally.”

  “And if we have no children?”

  “Then, naturally, you inherit everything. But of course we will have children. I am young and healthy and dear Doctor Wotherspoon made so bold as to comment to dear Mamma, when I was about to wed, that never had a young woman been so ably built for childbearing. It seems that a woman with a fine figure is well disposed that way.” She blushed profusely. She always believed that blushing was becoming. And it came easily when Joseph referred to the physical side of marriage, of which child bearing was a natural result. So she interpreted this conversation as an indication of his desire, and promptly responded.

  “I think I will retire early, dear Joseph…” There was invitation in her voice.

  “Do so, my love. I will not disturb you unless you wish.”

  One of his most devastating smiles accompanied the words, bringing renewed colour to her face and the inevitable longing which not even his bad moods could quench. Passing behind his chair, she slid her arms over his shoulders, engulfing him. The back of his head was embedded between her billowing breasts, unable to be dislodged until she released it. He looked back at her then, his face inscrutable, but his words banis
hed the evening’s ill mood.

  “Furthermore, I will stay with you all night, if you wish.”

  ‘Oh, Joseph, I do wish it…I do…I do…”

  It was tiresome that Mrs Walker should intrude at that very moment.

  “It’s young Master Martin, sir.”

  “Send him packing, Mrs Walker. Tell him we do not receive callers at this late hour.”

  “Better still, tell him we are just about to retire,” Agatha added, thinking that anyone, even a callow youth, should know better than to delay a husband and wife on their way to bed.

  But Mrs Walker hesitated. She had always liked poor limping Master Martin, despite his championship of that rebellious Miss Jessica, and she wholeheartedly disliked her new mistress and the change she had wrought in the Master. Before his marriage, unwelcome callers would have been disposed of with courteous and mainly justifiable excuses, and the idea of refusing to see his own brother just because this great fat creature wanted him in her bed did not, to Mrs Walker’s mind, come under the heading of courtesy. The advent of a wife had disrupted the peaceful regime his housekeeper had enjoyed as his sole servant, and she blamed the young woman entirely for the invasion of other servants whom, as a bachelor, he had never considered necessary. Mrs Walker could still see no wrong in her master; in her mistress, she could see nothing right.

  “If you will forgive my saying so, sir, I think you should receive him. He looks distraught and I doubt he would have called so late were not something amiss.”

  “In that case, he would be wise to go home to bed. Things invariably seem right after a night’s sleep.”

  “This will not,” said Martin from the door. Entering unceremoniously, he paid a brief acknowledgement to Agatha then faced his brother. His hair was tousled, his clothes covered in dirt, his hands begrimed; he was anything but the well turned out young man who arrived at the pottery freshly scrubbed and spruced each morning and who repeated this ritual toilet at the pump in the potter’s yard before leaving. He could never bring himself to walk through the village without the worst signs of the day’s labours removed.

 

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