by Rona Randall
Before the Master Potter started being driven to work in a fine new chaise, he had ridden daily on a horse called Dapple, so named because of such a mark in such a place. It wasn’t much to go on, but there were no doubts anywhere. Everyone guessed and no one was likely to forget. But there was nothing they could do other than retreat into sullen silence, get on with their work, and pray the Almighty to punish the wrongdoer first chance He got, a prayer which Meg most devoutly shared.
So when the Master Potter summoned Meg a few weeks later, being civil to him was more difficult than ever. She wanted to spit on him instead. It would have pleased her to see him raise a fine lawn kerchief to wipe the insult from his face, and then discard it in outrage and disgust. But to indulge such temptation would be going too far, too soon. Besides, she wanted greater vengeance than that. For such a gesture he could get rid of her, and the chance she sought would then be lost.
By nature impetuous, she was finding this waiting well nigh unbearable, especially with Frank going out of her life. No — not out of it. How could she think such a thing? But away, yes. To spare the pain of parting he had done it quickly, not telling her until the moment was almost upon her. “I leave tomorrow morn,” he had said. “Five sharp.”
Although vowing not to see him depart, she had done so. Torturing herself, she had watched him leave from the Hiring Cross along with Zach Dobson. That was all of four weeks since, and the memory grew no less vivid, no less painful, as did the memory of him waiting at the pottery gates at the end of each day and the recollection of his arm about her waist as they trudged up Larch Lane each morning. Her world was empty without him, and as she obeyed the Master Potter’s summons she had to drag her thoughts away from Frank Tinsley. Not for much longer could she endure this separation. Not for much longer could she wait. She had either to force the situation or abandon it, but to do the latter meant abandoning what she regarded as her bounden duty — vengeance for her mother’s suffering, the meting out of justice. Her own desires must not be allowed to thwart any of that.
The door to Joseph Drayton’s fine office closed behind her. She said mechanically, “You sent for me, Master Potter?”
“I did, Meg. I want to know what gossip is going around.” “Gossip? None that I know of, sir, but then, I don’t listen to gossip.”
“I want you to do so, from now on.”
“Why, sir?”
“I sense unrest. I want to know the cause.”
“I ain’t likely to be told, sir.”
“You work in the centre of things. You know everyone. You must surely hear…”
“The only thing I’ve heard is about Master Martin, sir.”
He looked at her sharply then.
“What about him?”
“That he left Drayton’s suddenlike and for no good reason — leastways, none that anybody can think of. Everybody’s sad about it, but not surprised…”
“And why not?”
The look in his eye discouraged further indiscretions, so she sidestepped by saying, “’Cos of Sir Neville’s praise, sir. Seems Master Martin made a fine model of that mare Red Empress, an’ Sir Neville were mighty pleased, so everybody thinks that’s the reason for Master Martin starting up on his own.”
The lie was accepted only because it laid no blame at the Master Potter’s door, and well she knew it.
“And what else have you heard, Meg?”
“Now’t else, sir. What else could there be?”
When he made no answer, sitting there frowning at his grand new desk, she noticed that he looked paler than usual, but every bit as handsome. That cut no ice with her. She hated his fine features, and the mouth which had covered her own all too often, and the splendid body which had taken hers to satisfy its lusts, treating her as if she were some cheap plaything to be picked up and discarded at will. She hated his hands because they had touched her, and the high bridged nose of which she knew he was secretly very proud, but which somehow showed disdain for people he considered beneath him — such as herself. She hated everything about him and soon, please God, the moment would come when he found that out. Until then, this waiting game had to be played to a finish.
“Will that be all, Master Potter?”
“No, Meg. I want you to listen to all that is said in this pottery, and report it all back to me.”
“I doubt if I can do that, sir.”
“Why not?”
She answered with a spark of her old wickedness, “Some of the women’s gossip might shock ye…and as for the men’s, they keep it quiet when women are around.”
“I don’t mean that kind of talk.”
“What other kind is there?”
“Disloyal talk. Criticism. The unjust criticism levelled by dissatisfied workers against their betters.”
“Mebbe they don’t know who their betters are, sir.” When his eyebrows raised she hurried on, “I mean, my better in the turning shed is the chief turner; in the throwing shed it be the chief thrower, though the men there looked up to Master Martin as that for many a long time. They miss him, same as everybody. As to glazing — ”
“I am not speaking in that sense. I want to know precisely what goes on and what is said behind my back, in all things, and by whom. I want every mischief-maker routed out.”
“Then ye’d best be asking Master Freeman again, don’t ye think, sir? I recollect he spied real thorough, once afore.”
His slight flinch satisfied her. To get the smallest barb through his complacency was a triumph.
“Master Freeman is no longer with Drayton’s.”
Her lovely face registered bland astonishment.
“Him as well, sir?”
This time she had certainly gone too far. She was surprised when he checked a swift rise of anger, surprised when he didn’t order her back to work. Instead, he was staring at her in the old familiar way — stripping her with his glance. At that her own anger rose. Frank never looked at her like that, nor expected her to yield. He wanted her, but never took her. Not until I wed thee, for that's the way I loves thee, Meg…And he meant every word. Even on their last evening together he had asked for no more. He had taken his leave before desire became too much. That was love, that was respect, and that was something outside the Master Potter’s ken. And when at last she shared Frank’s bed, it would be all the sweeter for the waiting.
There was another way in which Frank had demonstrated the depth of his feelings for her, and that was in concern for her safety. “When I’ve left,” he had ordered, “I don’t want ye walking these lanes unprotected; not in the dark, I don’t. Arm yourself wi’ summat to lash out with — summat ye can surprise a body with — summat t’scare the hell out of’em!” And he had looked around for a weapon she could easily conceal, finally settling on the Polynesian knife, now the handiest tool in her kitchen, and making her swear to carry it wherever she went, despite her protests that she had nothing to fear in Burslem, where everyone knew her and she knew everyone.
To avoid facing Joseph Drayton’s blatant desire, Meg now let her eyes roam round the splendid room. A withdrawing room in a mansion must be as grand as this, she thought, reflecting further that it must have cost as much as all the wages earned by Drayton’s workers in a twelvemonth. “If this pottery were mine,” young Master Martin had said after visiting his brother’s fine new office for the first time, “I would use that room to display the finest work produced here, with the craftsmens’ names alongside so they would become known and customers could ask for items made by them personally. A sort of Drayton Museum, full of beautiful, hand-made pieces.”
Martin Drayton had the right ideas and his work should be featured prominently amongst the rest, she thought as her attention wandered, but his struggle now would be long and hard, thanks to this swine of a brother.
Movements from the other side of the desk caught her attention. The Master Potter had risen and was coming round to her. His approach was more distasteful than it had ever been, but she had to fac
e it. Even when he halted in front of her and caressed her face with his long fingers she checked an instinct for flight. Frank had gone; she had surrendered the chance to go with him. She could not fling, aside her sacking apron, casting it with all its clay and dirt onto this fine thick carpet, the likes of which she had never seen, then race to him at the Red Lion, begging him to take her. It was too late…too late…
But it was at her own choice that she was here and she clung to the belief that it was the right one. There was a reckoning to be made, cruelties to be avenged, justice to be done.
Joseph Drayton’s voice, thick with desire, murmured, ‘I have missed you, Meg. You must come back to me.’
“How can I do that, sir, now you have a wife?”
“I will arrange it, and she will never know.” The voice became more impassioned and the hand became bolder, sliding down within her bodice until it cupped one of her firm young breasts. She could feel the heat of it, and the trembling of it, and the urgent demand of it, but in herself she felt nothing but ice-cold hatred. This hand had withheld payment to an old woman and, in consequence, comfort to her own mother. This man had increased her suffering and hastened her death. Therefore this man must suffer in his turn.
“I don’t see how, sir. I can’t come to your house, as afore.” “There is a garden house, newly built.”
“A whim o’ yours, sir, or your wife’s?”
He actually smiled at that. “Clever Meg — how did you guess? A whim of mine, naturally. But more than a whim — a necessity. I had to make some provision for our meetings, and this will be ideal. There is access from the side lane, but well beyond the entrance you used to take. That is used by servants now — ”
“Thanks for not including me with’em!” she answered pertly, at which he smiled, pleased because she was putting up no resistance. She always pleased him, and would do so again. He had known that all along.
She read his thoughts, but concealed her own.
“And when d’ye want me, Master Potter?”
“Soon. I have waited long enough. Too long. But the place had to be constructed and — ”
“ — and ye’ve been wed so short a time that anything quicker would’ve bin — unseemly, is that the word, sir?”
His flickering glance was suspicious. She read it well. Was she mocking him? Was she over confident, bold? Did she threaten to step out of place?’
She made her answering glance suitably meek, deceiving him again, and suspicion died.
“Very soon,” he repeated. “Tonight.”
“Not tonight, sir.”
That annoyed him.
“Why not? Does another man expect you? I believe you associate with a potman from the Red Lion.”
He missed the clenching of her fists, clasped behind her back, her head tilted upward as she looked at him.
“You be wrong — sir. About the potman.” This time she found it impossible to keep the chilly note from her voice and with a swift movement she was away from him, rid of the groping hand, weeping inwardly for Frank. She wanted to cry out to him that he had nothing to fear, nothing to worry about, that she wasn’t going to be unfaithful to him, but how could she send the words winging across the miles?
“Not tonight, sir,” she said again.
‘Cruel Meg! I have been starved of you, and you deny me! You must come when I say. I cannot and will not wait.’
“There be a spate of late work tonight, sir, and the rest of the week too if that big order ye chivvied us about is like to be finished on time…”
“You will be excused from it, Meg.”
“But I can’t be, sir. The chief turner’s put me onto the job special-like. He says all the big pots must be turned by me, and that’s a mighty big task, sir. And don’t ye think every other body would be wondering why I weren’t working at it? They’d wonder why I be let off so light. I’m thinking it wouldn’t be wise to set’em whispering, asking questions and suchlike. That wouldn’t please ye, now would it, sir?”
Plainly, it would not. He remained silent, frowning, until Meg wheedled, “Why not the Sabbath, sir, same as afore? The pottery be closed on Sunday, so how about then? Not by day, o’course, now you be wed.’ T’wouldn’t do for your lady wife to see a wench creeping into that garden place. Can it be seen from the house?”
“No, but I agree that darkness would be safer. But if you bring a lantern, dowse it as you approach. Even down the side lane its reflection might be seen from the kitchens. The wall is low just there. But go carefully — if you stumble and cry out, you might be heard.”
“Don’t worry about me, Master Potter. Like a cat, I can see in the dark. An’ I’ll come barefoot. Clogs echo on rough stones, an’ that side lane’s mighty rough.”
He was pleased with her forethought, and said so. His hand caressed her face again, hungrily. He was like an animal starved of food, she thought, though no doubt he’d been with his wife as often as he wanted. She hid the disgust he filled her with.
“Till Sunday night then, Meg. It will have to be late. About midnight, when the household is abed.”
He gave her cheek a final pat, dismissing her, and looked surprised when she did not move.
“That will be all, Meg. You may go.”
“When all’s settled, sir. Ye’ve forgotten something.”
“And what may that be?”
“Money.”
“You will receive the same as before.”
“Not this time, sir. Or I don’t come.”
He had reseated himself. Now he leaned back and stared at her, his face a mixture of surprise and amusement.
“Are you trying to name your own price, impudent wench?”
“My own price, Master Potter, or I don’t come.”
He laughed aloud.
“And what is your price, pray? What did you receive hitherto? A shilling, was it not? Very well, I will make it two.”
“Not two shillings, sir. Two guineas, or I’ll break a promise made to ye long ago — a promise to keep my mouth shut. Ma Tinsley would be mighty interested to know who offered her so much, then didn’t pay up.’T’would be gossip at the Red Lion afore the day were out. And I want the money afore I oblige ye — just in case ye break the promise a second time. Don’t look so upset, sir. Ye’ll be glad to pay, I’m sure. There’ll be nothing on your conscience then, will there? Must’ve troubled ye quite a bit, swindling that pore soul and knowing I knew all about it.’Course, I can’t name the lady who needed ‘help’, seeing as how I never knew who she were, but I can let Martha know who offered the two gold pieces.”
“You blackmailing slut!”
“That big word ain’t one I knows, sir. As for t’other, I’m no slut and well you knows it. Many’s the time you’ve watched me at the village pump, washing myself after the day’s work. Did you think I didn’t know? Not another woman at Drayton’s Pottery keeps herself so clean as me. You knows that, too, or I wouldn’t have been sent for now or any other time.” Pride was reflected in her speech, overcoming the dialect which seemed to have grown stronger these past months, tinged with neighbouring Lancashire. “As for the money, all I want is what’s due to an old woman, ill as she’s treated me — but you don’t have to know ow’t about that. I’m not wanting money for myself. Not a penny piece. That seems a good bargain, don’t it? You always enjoyed me and wanted me again — same as you be wanting me now, and that’s real badly, ain’t it, Master Potter? And here I be, offering myself for now’t!” The dialect was creeping back. “Ye can’t refuse an offer like that, now can thee?” He didn’t. He couldn’t. He had waited too long, wanted her too much, spent distasteful hours in his wife’s bed, thinking of Meg and planning and scheming to have her again, using Agatha’s income from the Tremain estates for the finest garden house for miles around — and why not, since that much of her income, at least, was now his? He had been cheated out of the rest for the time being…
Meanwhile, while he waited to inherit all, was he to be denied ever
ything he craved, just for a paltry two guineas? For the pleasure of enjoying Meg again, her silence alone was worth the price. After that, there would be nothing to stop him from enjoying her whenever he wished. She would be at his beck and call.
“When do you want this money, Meg?”
“Now, sir. If you please, sir.”
She watched him put down the shining coins. Breathlessly, she picked them up. She had never handled gold coins before and probably never would again, so she savoured the moment. And she would savour yet another, when she held them out before Martha Tinsley’s disbelieving eyes, then turned her back on the woman for good.
She had waited long enough for the moment to come when her sexual hold over Joseph Drayton would again be powerful enough to make him yield to her threats. And Frank would never know what riches she had bestowed on his aunt before leaving Burslem to join him.
“Sunday, Meg. Don’t forget. I shall be waiting for you.”
“I won’t forget, sir. I vow it. And a vow is something I never break.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Whether it was the setback to Martin’s career or some uneasy premonition that sparked Jessica’s fear that fate might not be so kind after all, she could not tell. She only knew that life could hurt her most through two people — her husband and her younger brother — and that if misfortune struck either, the happiness she had so miraculously found could be placed in jeopardy. Both were nearer and dearer to her than anyone. For her mother she felt a warm but mainly dutiful affection, for she had never been so close to her as to her father, but Simon was now the most important person in her life and next to him ranked Martin.
