The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  Joseph’s vicious treatment of the boy increased her anxiety. If, as the superstitious said, misfortunes came in threes, the first for Martin had been his dismissal from the family industry, the second the destruction of his pottery, but a third could surely not involve him since he had reached rock bottom and the only step he could now take was the first in a long climb upward.

  She was not prone to fanciful fears, but if a third blow were to come she felt instinctively that it might focus on Simon, and though she dismissed the thought, apprehension persisted despite all evidence that things were going well. The group of industrialists who hoped to link the Trent, Mersey, and Severn rivers, were confident of success. Headed by Neville Armstrong, who had pledged his bond in so high a sum as £10,000 if the scheme received the blessing of Parliament, they awaited only a summons for him to attend the Commons Committee to answer questions following an examination of the scheme. If successful, only the Royal Assent would be needed after the Act was passed — the final formality before a working body could be formed and a Surveyor General appointed, and since Simon had executed the original surveys it was now a foregone conclusion that the appointment would be his.

  Meanwhile, there was nothing to do, but wait, and perhaps it was this waiting that disturbed her. Uncertainty became an uneasy whisper at the back of her mind, and not without cause, for he was increasingly preoccupied, less communicative than usual, and although loving her with his customary ardour she knew that he spent sleepless hours during which he would remain very still beside her — anxious not to disturb her, or anxious that she should not be aware of his wakefulness.

  Sometimes he would rise very quietly and go downstairs, until at length she could restrain her anxiety no longer, and followed. Invariably she found him poring over charts and maps, but on one occasion there had been no sign of him and, alarmed, she had hurried outside. She found him at the drawing bench in his work shed, marking figures and lines on fresh sheets of paper. During the past year his reading and writing had become fluent and his written outpourings therefore caused her neither surprise nor curiosity; he was forever working on ideas to improve roads or transport or polluted air. He was a born pioneer, with a pioneer’s zest for charting the unknown.

  So she had asked no questions that night. Beside him was a stack of sheets already closely covered with his painstaking script. They might have represented something totally new, or prospective improvements in the Grand Trunk scheme, for which he now waited with evident impatience and she with increasing anxiety.

  “You chafe too much,” she had said. “Can’t you forget it for a while, rid your mind of it until the parliamentary decision comes through?”

  He had said nothing to that. He had smiled very gently, and kissed her, and taken her back to bed, and made love to her until the threatening whispers were driven from her mind.

  Another disturbing thing happened at this time. She began to dream the same recurring dream, and in it she sometimes saw Roger Acland and sometimes she did not. But always he was there, vowing vengeance. Damn you both…you will be sorry for this, the pair of you…Even when he didn’t appear in the dream, she would hear his voice, and when he did appear, the ferocity in his face matched the ferocity of his words, and she would wake up, cold and sweating with fear.

  Once she had wakened with a cry and Simon, rousing, had taken her in his arms, urging her to tell him what had alarmed her.

  ‘I am afraid …afraid…”

  “Of what, sweet love? It was a nightmare, no more. You are safe, you are with me. Nothing can touch you.”

  “I am afraid for you…”

  “Never be that. Never be afraid for either of us. We have each other, whatever happens.”

  She did not tell him of her feeling that he was threatened, nor of Acland’s parting words the last time she saw him. The man had gone out of their lives. He could touch neither of them. But the dream had been so real that it haunted her for a long time and in a vain attempt to dismiss it she occupied herself with every possible household task, necessary or unnecessary. It was in this spate of domestic fervour that she found the cradle Simon had made and which he had removed from her room when it proved to be unneeded. He had placed it at the back of a store cupboard and this lonely relegation saddened her.

  Taking it out, she dusted it, polished it, then found it impossible to sentence it to dark imprisonment again. She carried it upstairs and placed it where it had formerly stood, beside the cedar chest in the room she had occupied alone. It seemed to bring the place to life, or the promise of life. She resolved to say nothing to Simon. She would wait for him to notice the cradle for himself and to learn, as she herself now learned, how greatly she wanted to see it in use.

  Forcing her mind away from the thought, she went outside to Martin’s workshop. She was not surprised to find Amelia with him, for the girl had come every day since the disaster, smothering her fine clothes in sacking and working in a way which would have astonished her elegant friends, especially those who believed her to be nothing but a social butterfly. No task was beneath her, nothing too menial. She scrubbed and swept and salvaged — a small whirlwind of determination.

  Amelia had ridden over post haste the minute she heard of the disaster from her brother, whom she had met on his way back to Tremain Hall at a far earlier hour than usual.

  “Do you always leave the pottery so early?” she had asked. “I thought you were supposed to work the same hours as everyone else.”

  At that, he had shrugged. “I’ll take my leave without asking permission from the Master Potter. From henceforth, he’s in no position to turn the screws on me — in any direction. I have spiked his guns, and this latest news won’t do him any good, either.” At that, his amusement had been obvious, but when he told her why, she was aghast.

  Unaware of her shock, Max had continued with relish, “The man imagines no one guesses who the culprit is, but it’s all over the pottery and beyond. People can put two and two together, especially his workers. They hate him as much as I do and know him a great deal better, though I have no illusions any more.”

  “But what of Martin! Have you no feeling for him?”

  “He’ll get over it. He’ll have to.”

  His indifference enraged her, and without heeding another word she had headed for Cooperfield. Only later did she recall her brother’s final words — something about Joseph not being the only one in for a fine surprise. Max was unimportant. Only Martin counted and this she made no attempt to conceal. Dismounting hurriedly at the cottage gate she had raced to him, flung her arms around him and declared, “Don’t dare send me away! Don’t dare say I can’t help! I can work as hard as anyone and I’ll prove it to you!”

  And so she had done, and was still doing. Looking on, Jessica knew that these two were closer than they had ever been in understanding, companionship, and affection.

  Every morning Martin arrived from Burslem at the hour he would have reported at Drayton’s, working methodically, every minute occupied. He took no account of time, obsessed only with the need to get started again, rebuilding every shelf, every work bench, every smashed tool; re-making and re-casting every ruined mould.

  After his initial shock and anger, the boy had never referred to the devastation; he had simply set to work and remained at work. After repairing the damaged shed, with Simon’s aid, he had refused further help from his brother-in-law and set about rebuilding shelves and benches and storage bins. Every penny he had managed to save had gone into this re-establishment. Now he was rebuilding the kick wheel, much of which had been smashed beyond repair, but he had salvaged the turntable of beaten metal which Simon had forged, then made a new revolving shaft.

  So Amelia’s support meant much to him. Each day he would watch for her arrival, and she never disappointed him, even though her time was limited by the strictures of her parents, from whom she made no attempt to hide the truth because such regular departures from home had to be explained. Her mother, at first, ha
d been aghast. “My dear child, have you considered what it will do to your hands? It will ruin them!” but her father had chuckled about the boldness of the present-day miss, and nodded his approval. “Hard work never injured anyone,” he told his wife, “not even a gently nurtured young lady who plainly has no wish to be.” And so Amelia got her way. (“Though I would have done so anyway,” she declared.)

  Amelia was leaving just as Jessica appeared. Peeling off her sacking apron she pushed a strand of hair aside, leaving a heavy smudge on her face and blissfully unaware of it. Never had she enjoyed life so much, and having to return home at the hour stipulated by her parents was irksome. “But I must humour them,” she explained indulgently. “Especially since Max has taken himself off.”

  Seeing Jessica’s surprise, she added, “For an extended tour abroad, he said. Or Phoebe did. We had the news from her only this morning, though apparently he departed yesterday. Papa was livid, but Phoebe not in the least concerned. Her only vexation was that Max had merely left a note on her dressing table, but having since made sure that financially she has nothing to worry about, she was blandly indifferent. Almost pleased, I should say.” Sacking apron rolled up, broom and scrubbing brush put away, Amelia wrapped herself up for the ride home, dropped a kiss lightly on Martin’s cheek, waved goodbye to the pair of them and called as she departed, “I shall be back tomorrow, I promise!”

  “And so she will,” Jessica said, at which her brother smiled and nodded. Then he indicated the partially rebuilt kick-wheel.

  “Another twenty-four hours, and I shall have one as good as before. Then I can really set to work.”

  “I wish Joseph could know!”

  “He will learn soon enough. I doubt if there is anything that brother of ours doesn’t find out. Though at the moment his mind should be occupied with other thoughts…”

  “What thoughts?”

  “A few dark hints I threw at him when last we met.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Need I tell you?”

  “You mean you called on him after — ”

  “ — after he ruined this place. Naturally. Not that he was in the least perturbed, nor is likely to be. Threats cannot touch him and hints are not enough.”

  “Hints about what?”Jessica asked, puzzled.

  Martin turned back to his work. He had said enough, too much perhaps. And he had only suspicion to go on, suspicion which could not be substantiated so long after his father’s death. And even the evidence of lead in the glaze used on George Drayton’s pots would in no way prove that it had been put there to slowly kill him. The gradual absorption of lead over a period of time was not yet recognised as being possibly lethal, and there would have to be many more cases and much more investigation to establish the danger of lead in a pottery glaze, or the likelihood that if used in such a way it could penetrate orally.

  There was absolutely nothing Martin could do, other than accuse and be frowned on because of it. If he voiced his suspicions his mother could be struck down by shock and he would be damned as a man who tried to accuse his own brother of murder. Never again would he be listened to, or heeded, and after his impulsive words last night he felt sure that Agatha’s lead-glazed beaker would be disposed of.

  So he answered Jessica lightly. “Hints about being responsible for all this — ” With a nod he indicated the wrecked workshop. “Naturally, he declared he knew nothing about it.” Glancing at his sister, Martin added thoughtfully, “You look concerned about something. I hope you aren’t worrying about this tiresome business. You know I will put it all to rights. I am practising John Wesley’s advice to work methodically and systematically. He says that is the way to real achievement.”

  “You scarcely need such advice, brother. You have always been a hard worker and will be so all your life.”

  “But it’s nice to know that great men have been the same. Now tell me what is worrying you. There has been a cloud behind your eyes for days.”

  Had it ever been possible to hide anything from this discerning young brother?

  “I fear for Simon,” she told him frankly. “I am uneasy, afraid of disappointment for him…”

  Martin paused in his labours.

  “Concerning the new appointment? But I thought it was taken for granted?”

  “Perhaps it is dangerous to be too optimistic.”

  “Or perhaps you are merely being pessimistic — which is unlike you. The waiting is no doubt at the root of it. It can’t be easy for either of you. When the suspense is over, you will laugh at your fears.”

  “I hope so. I hope so, indeed.”

  He put a brotherly arm about her shoulders, shaking her affectionately. “Listen to me, Sis — I know Simon will get that appointment. How can he fail? Sir Neville and everyone else concerned with the project is confident of it.”

  “Except one dissenting voice.”

  “Whose?”

  “I have no idea, but it has been there almost from the start. Some ambitious industrialist in the West Country, I understand; someone opposed to the idea of having one Surveyor General over all. Whoever it is, he plainly wants to be responsible for the whole construction, not content with only a portion of it in his own region. Hence his opposition to having one responsible man in authority.”

  “I take it this antagonist is a builder.”

  “I suppose so, or else someone who has investments in the industry”

  “Whoever he is, surely he can’t influence the others?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t know…Despite Simon’s inscrutable face, I feel that underneath he is as worried as I. That is why he is working night and day on other projects. He is huddled over his work bench at this moment, and has been since daybreak.”

  “Then how can you fear for such a man?” Martin’s encouraging shake was repeated. “He will never be beaten.”

  But the news Jessica feared came the next day. She saw it in Neville Armstrong’s face when he dismounted at the gate.

  She met him at the cottage door and said without preamble, “Simon is in his workroom — ”

  “I’ll go to him there.”

  “And I with you.”

  In silence, they proceeded, and when her husband looked up he said after one glance, “So it has happened. They refuse to have me.” At Jessica’s inarticulate cry — angered, hurt, protective — Simon said, “Hush, my dear. You mustn’t be upset. I have been expecting it.”

  “Not all of them are against you,” Neville Armstrong hastened to say, “but unfortunately even a small majority has proved sufficient to turn the scales.”

  “But they were all in favour!”Jessica protested.

  “In the beginning — except one.”

  One dissenting voice. Spreading mischief. What mischief? There could be nothing to blacken Simon’s name, nothing to damage his reputation or cast doubt on his skill.

  “I think I know the one,” Simon said. “A man down in the West Country, who accepted a certain gentleman as a partner some months ago and has apparently been listening to his tales…”

  “That is the one, but I would scarce call his new colleague a ‘gentleman’. Not that upstart, Acland. I have met him, and disliked him.”

  “And what lies has he spread about me?” When Armstrong was silent, Simon said impatiently, “Come, sir, you may as well tell me. And I have a right to know. How can I fight gossip if I am ignorant of it?”

  Jessica cried, “There is nothing that can possibly be said against Simon!”

  “Unfortunately, not all the people prepared to back the scheme have met your husband, and none knows him so well as I.”

  Simon demanded, “What sort of character has Acland drawn of me in his whispering campaign? Morally degenerate? Ill educated?”

  “As to the latter, the tale he has spread is that you can neither read nor write — ”

  “That was true at one time. I can prove otherwise now.”

  “As I am well aware, and have said so. I have a
lso said what I think of the other slur — ”

  “Which is?”

  Armstrong moved uncomfortably, cleared his throat, then said in some embarrassment, “If your wife will leave us — ?”

  “I most certainly shall not!” Jessica cried. “Anything concerning my husband concerns me; any lies or slander about him I must hear!” She stamped her foot impatiently. “Tell us, Sir Neville. Tell us!”

  The old man said in a rush, “The damned fool condemns Simon as immoral because he made his wife pregnant before marriage.” A stunned silence sent him groping for words to end the horrible moment. “Unfortunately, many of the backers are deeply religious — chapel-goers, Baptists, and even followers of this new Methodism John Wesley is preaching. Moralists, all of them. Fanatical moralists who cannot be taken as typical of all Christians. Narrow minded moralists who deem a man unfit to hold a responsible position if he transgresses.”

  Simon was almost laughing. Jessica herself had a wild desire to laugh, but also to cry, to scream, to accuse. She was prevented only by her husband’s steadying influence. He reached out and grasped her hands, and the stormy protest she was about to make died unspoken. Then he said with unshakeable calm, “What man wouldn’t wish to transgress with such a woman as Jessica? I am happy to have that sin laid at my door. To hell with Acland. I shall survive despite him.”

  The ugliness was gone, all tension with it. She relaxed, and the shadow of Roger Acland faded into oblivion, vanquished for ever. It died without even a whimper, so unimportant was it, so negligible. Never again would it trouble or threaten her, and if ever she recalled it, it would be with indifference, as one recollects a minor affliction, long cured.

  Neville Armstrong said briskly, “I have spoken my mind, believe me. And I have done more than that. I have withdrawn from the whole project, and I am glad to say that one or two others have followed suit — and all influential. Whether the Act comes through or not, I want no part of the scheme now. And it may well not be passed, since a tremendous amount of opposition is coming from people who are against cutting up the countryside to aid barge transport, and others refusing to sell their lands, and others who dislike all thought of progress or resent the idea of industrialists lining their pockets more than they already do. If it falls by the wayside, we will wait — and start again when the time is more favourable. That will finally put paid to the meddlesome gentleman from Bristol, and next time we will investigate interested parties more carefully. Meanwhile, I am wondering if there is some other canal scheme we could plan, in an area where it would be more appreciated.”