The Potter's Lady (4 page)

The turner, Joseph Priety, had hired and trained Rylan as a handler. The training had been brief, but once he’d gotten the knack of things, he’d been able to attach handles to hundreds of cups each day. Mr. Priety paid him forty cents a day, a sum Rylan had thought quite magnificent until he learned the other handlers were being paid ten cents more each day. That had been his first lesson in business, and he’d been learning ever since.

Rose looked up at her brother and grinned. “I’d prefer to see the pottery rather than the books, of course.” She glanced at Mr. Bancock. “I just completed my education at the Philadelphia School of Design for Women, and I had the opportunity to visit two potteries during my studies. I’m eager to see if your pottery is much the same.” She let her gaze drift toward Rylan. “I believe those potteries were a bit larger than yours, Mr. Bancock.”

The owner nodded. “What is most important is not the size of the business but the quality of the product.”

“That’s true, Mr. Bancock.” She flashed him a smile. “I hope your artists create some of the same gilding and lovely hand-painted designs we examined in those potteries.”

He motioned toward the door. “Follow me. We should begin at the slip house, since that is where the process begins.”

Mr. McKay matched the older man’s stride, leaving Rose to walk alongside Rylan. He hadn’t expected her to come along to the slip house, but she appeared determined to be included. Snatches of Mr. McKay’s conversation drifted on the afternoon breeze, and it didn’t take long before Rylan realized Mr. McKay was explaining the reason for their delay.

When they stepped inside the slip house, Mr. Bancock waved to the supervisor. “These folks are here to tour the pottery. Why don’t you explain the process?” Mr. Bancock stepped closer to Rylan while the supervisor detailed how the dry clay, flint, feldspar, and water were mixed together in a blunger to form liquid clay known as slip.

Rylan’s employer leaned close to his ear. “Did you know Mr. McKay already visited the brickyard earlier today?”

Rylan nodded his head. “He told me at the hotel.” A look of defeat shone in the old man’s eyes. “He hasn’t purchased the brickyard yet, so don’t give up hope. I think his sister is more interested in the pottery.”

Before Mr. Bancock could ask anything further, Mr. McKay looked in their direction. “Your process is somewhat different from the process we use for making bricks, but there are some similarities. I see you use a pug mill to work the clay.”

Mr. Bancock nodded. “We do, but before we place the clay in the pug mill for kneading, the excess water must be strained in the filter press.”

Rose wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. No doubt she hoped to ward off the dampness that permeated the slip house. Her gaze darted around the room and settled on several burly men hefting huge rectangular blocks of clay across the room. When they thrust the large hunks of clay onto the wedging table, the crashing thud was so powerful, she took a backward step and bumped into Rylan.

Rylan grasped her shoulders as she struggled to gain her footing. He dropped his hold the moment she’d steadied herself. From the heightened color in her cheeks, he was certain of her embarrassment.

“I’m still startled when I come in here and the men make that first toss of the clay onto the wedging board.” He hoped his words would ease the awkward moment.

The hint of a smile curved the corners of her mouth as she continued to watch the men work their clay. “Wedging reminds me of kneading bread.” Her smile intensified. “Of course, the clay is much more difficult to work.”

Rylan nodded and returned her smile. “I hope your bread would not be so heavy as those wedges of clay.”

“I must admit that it has been a long time since I’ve made any bread. If I tried to knead and bake a loaf, it might turn out even heavier.”

Her brother glanced over his shoulder when she chuckled. “Was there a joke I missed, Rose?”

She shook her head. “No, Ewan. I merely mentioned that kneading clay reminded me of making bread.”

Although Mr. McKay’s brows dipped and his eyes registered confusion, he didn’t ask for further explanation. Instead, he returned his attention to the pottery owner. “Where next, Mr. Bancock?”

“The clay shop.” Mr. Bancock directed them toward the brick building. Once inside, he opened his arms in a sweeping gesture. “This is the largest department of the pottery. You will see about a quarter of the pottery workers in here.” He motioned Mr. McKay to one of the work stations, where the jiggermen and their helpers worked in harmonious movement. “About one-third of these workers are skilled.”

Ewan moved beside one of the jiggermen and watched for a moment. Without looking up, the man nodded toward his machine. “I make seven-inch plates.”

“And how many plates do you make in a day?” Ewan asked.

“On good days when my helpers are here, I can make fifty dozen a day.” He pulled down the mold lever and swiped away the excess clay before dipping his hand in a pot of water. “There are jiggermen who may be faster, but no one can make a finer plate. We all take pride in our work, whether we’re making cups, plates, or special orders for urns and vases.” He spoke with a hint of bravado, almost as if he expected Ewan to challenge his worth.

Rose moved a bit closer to the owner. “Do you have difficulty maintaining workers, Mr. Bancock?” When he shook his head, she continued. “I heard this man say something about not being able to work at full capacity because his helpers aren’t always here.” Without waiting for his answer, Rose turned toward her brother. “We need to be certain we won’t experience a shortage of workers.”

Mr. Bancock cleared his throat. “To answer your question, Miss McKay, I have no greater difficulty maintaining employees than any other pottery. Or brickyard. As I mentioned before, the skilled workers hire and pay for their own helpers.”

The jiggerman lifted the lever of his mold and, with both hands, removed the plate and placed it alongside several others on a board. “We hire young fellows to work in the batter-out and mold-runner jobs. They need to be strong and fast. But even with their youth, they tire out and take days off. Then we run behind. I can’t fault them too much. I figure the mold-runners travel about fifteen miles a day, carrying wet or dry molds that can weigh between six and twelve pounds. And being a batter-out requires just as much vigor.”

The jiggerman pointed to one of the young workers who placed a chunk of clay on the table and lifted a thick circular piece of plaster referred to as a bat. “That bat weighs near twenty pounds.”

The muscles in the youthful worker’s arms bulged beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his chambray shirt as he raised the bat overhead and slammed it onto the mound of clay. When the clay was properly prepared, the batter-out lifted the bat onto the mold.

Mr. Bancock nodded toward the boards where the jiggerman placed the wet plates. “During the course of the day, the batter-out also carries boards that weigh about fifty pounds to the finisher. He lifts at least a couple thousand pounds a day.”

The jiggerman bobbed his head. “This here is brutal work. And well I should know. I did both of those jobs before finally becoming a jiggerman.”

As they continued through the clay shop, Mr. Bancock stopped long enough to give them a brief description of the work. Rylan came alongside Rose when they neared the section where cups and bowls were produced. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped his head close to hers. “When I became a handler, I believed I had the most important job in the pottery.” He grinned down at her. “When I turned thirteen years old, I changed my mind.”

Rose gave a slight shake of her head. “These children should be in school, not working alongside their parents or hired to help the skilled workers.”

“That may be true, but any of these children will tell you they prefer food and a warm bed rather than school. And I’m guessing not every child in Ireland receives a grand education. When I started to work in the pottery, my mam and da told me schooling was the same in Ireland as it is in this country—for those with money.”

Rose acknowledged there was some truth to his comment, but she didn’t totally agree. “Even if children must work, they should still have an opportunity to learn how to read and write.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you know how to read and write, Mr. Campbell?”

Rylan greeted one of the workers before giving Rose an affirmative answer. “I can even keep books, Miss McKay. I went to school until I began working in the pottery. The rest I learned at home or from Mr. Bancock. If the desire is strong enough, these things can be learned.”

“Aye, but there must be opportunity, as well. How many children who worked in this pottery received the opportunity to learn from Mr. Bancock?”

There was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes when Rylan admitted he was the only one who’d been given that opportunity. “To have one child learn is better than none, isn’t it?” He was enjoying this exchange with her and didn’t want it to stop. Miss McKay was the most interesting young woman he’d ever met, and she was quite pretty, as well.

“Indeed, one is better than none, but how much better if all children had that same opportunity.”

There wasn’t any further time to discuss children or education. Mr. Bancock waved Miss McKay and her brother into the greenware room so they could glimpse the numerous shelves of pottery. “We allow all of the greenware to dry in this room and then it’s placed in the saggers.” He nodded toward the oblong fireclay saggers being filled with the pieces of dried greenware.

“The kiln crew loads the saggers into the kilns for the bisque firing. After the bisque firing, the kiln drawers remove the ware from the saggers and transfer it to ware baskets that are then taken to the bisque warehouse. No need to go to the kilns. I doubt your sister would appreciate the excessive heat.” He turned to look at Ewan. “Would you like to visit the warehouses or continue to the glazing and decorating rooms?”

“’Tis getting a wee bit late in the afternoon. I’m thinking it might be best if we return tomorrow to complete the tour and go over the books. I know Rose is quite interested in the decorating, and I don’t want to rush through the remainder of our visit.” Ewan arched his brows. “Unless it is inconvenient for you, Mr. Bancock.”

Mr. Bancock straightened his shoulders. “Whatever you prefer, Mr. McKay. I want to make sure you have time to see everything before you make any decision. I believe this to be the finest pottery in the entire state, but you must decide whether it is where you wish to invest your money. If it’s God’s plan for you to be here, I know it will happen.”

Ewan extended his hand to the older man. “What you say is true. I, too, am a man who believes God directs my path.”

After Ewan had assured Mr. Bancock they would return at nine the following morning, Rose grasped her brother’s arm. The two of them picked their way through the drying mud and crossed the railroad tracks before Rose looked up at her brother.

She wasn’t certain if he was merely tired or if he’d been disappointed with their visit to the pottery. Years ago it would take only a glance, and she’d know Ewan’s mood, but she’d been away from him too long, and there had been many changes in both of their lives. The frequent teasing and pranks at school had trained Rose to hide her emotions. She imagined that Ewan had learned to hide his, as well. Maintaining his temper while coping with Aunt Margaret and the operation of the brickyard had likely honed Ewan’s ability.

They’d walked the short distance to the hotel and were entering the front door when she squeezed his arm. “You’re very quiet. I’m eager to hear your impressions of the pottery.”

“I do na think it’s fair to compare the brickyard and pottery until our visit is complete and I examine the books.” A hint of Ewan’s brogue laced his comment. “I have a feeling Mr. Bancock is keen to sell.” Rose arched her brows as Ewan directed her toward the dining room. “Let’s have our supper before we go to our rooms. The weight of this decision is heavy on my soul. Once I go upstairs, I want to spend time in prayer before I go to bed.”

She would have preferred a late supper but didn’t complain. While Ewan had gone to call on Mr. Trent and visit his brickyard earlier in the day, Rose had remained at the hotel and relaxed. She waited to speak until they were seated and had both ordered the evening special of lamb chops and roasted potatoes.

After giving her linen napkin a quick shake and spreading it across her lap, she leaned forward. “Did you find Mr. Trent indifferent?”

“Nay. Why do you ask?”

“You said Mr. Bancock appeared eager to sell, so I wondered if Mr. Trent had been uninterested when you were at the brickyard.” She swallowed a sip of water. “I didn’t find Mr. Bancock particularly forceful.”

A waiter stepped forward and poured their coffee before moving to the next table. Ewan poured cream into his cup and stirred. “He was not forceful, but I sensed urgency in his behavior. Did you not notice how he looked at Rylan when we arrived? There was something that passed between them. Mr. Bancock was doing his best to hide his disapproval, and Rylan acted apologetic, yet I’m not sure why.” He lifted his coffee cup.