The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Your daughter introduced us some weeks back at church,’ Josiah cut in.

  ‘Oh yes, I seem to recall now,’ he replied, not taking Josiah’s offered hand.

  George stood back. ‘And, of course, you know Miss Hatton.’

  Josiah smiled. ‘Good day to you.’

  ‘And Mrs Palmer,’ added George.

  All sociability left Josiah’s expression and his mouth pulled into a straight line.

  ‘Mrs Palmer,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Mr Martyn,’ she replied, answering his frosty look with a lavish one.

  ‘Well,’ said George, indicating the passageway with a sweep of his arm. ‘Shall we—’

  A violent cough gripped him, robbing him of breath.

  Miss Hatton went over to him, her face full of concern. ‘Are you all right? Is there anything we can do?’

  George drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth.

  ‘It’s nothing, Charlotte, honestly it will pass in a moment,’ he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I will have to leave you in Mr Martyn’s capable hands, and seek some fresh air.’ He bowed and, with his cough echoing around them, climbed back up to the wheelhouse.

  The rector offered Mrs Palmer his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  She took it and they strolled forward to inspect the gleaming metalwork of the tunnelling frame with his companion gliding beside him.

  Miss Hatton followed them.

  ‘I never imagined it would be so hot down here,’ Charlotte said, fanning her hand across her face as they walked into the tunnel. ‘How can the men work in such heat?’

  ‘They get used to it,’ Josiah replied, falling into step alongside her.

  ‘And all this noise,’ she said, as they passed men shovelling dirt into buckets attached to a drive belt.

  Josiah looked puzzled. ‘Noise? What noise?’ he shouted.

  She laughed and the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her swept over him again.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, then Mrs Palmer’s voice cut between them.

  ‘Is this the famous shield everyone is talking about?’

  ‘It is,’ Josiah replied, dragging his eyes from Charlotte. ‘Designed and built by Mr Brunel himself. It works like a giant apple corer and, as you see, it’s divided up into individual cells, like a honeycomb. Men shovel out the mud in sections, then secure the section by adding bricks, then move the shield forward and repeat the process.’

  ‘How interesting…’ said Mrs Palmer, sounding quite the opposite.

  ‘The Times said that coaches will be running through the tunnel under the Thames in just three years’ time, Mr Martyn, do you agree?’ Miss Hatton asked, looking up at him in amazement.

  ‘I do,’ he replied, finding himself mesmerised by her mouth. ‘The finished tunnel needs to be 1,300 feet long. We have to build eight feet each week and that will require twelve thousand bricks for every foot of tunnel and...’

  Miss Hatton listened wide-eyed as he explained the engineering behind the tunnel plan while her father fidgeted beside her.

  ‘And is it true,’ Miss Hatton said as he finished, ‘that—’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s all very interesting, Martyn, but we’ve taken enough of your time,’ said Mr Hatton, stifling a yawn as he cut across his daughter. ‘I expect you have things you need to do.’

  Josiah did, but he didn’t want to do any of them now, not with Miss Hatton gazing up at him.

  She frowned. ‘But, Father, I was just going to ask Mr Martyn about—’

  ‘It was good of you to spare the time,’ said Mrs Palmer, linking her arm in Miss Hatton’s and trying to lead her back to the foot of the stairs where her father was already waiting.

  Miss Hatton stood firm. ‘I was just going to ask about the—’

  ‘You heard Mr Truman tell us how his daughter plagues poor Mr Martyn about the tunnel.’ She smiled sympathetically at Josiah, inviting him to agree with her.

  He didn’t.

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Palmer,’ he said, with a polite smile. ‘I’m very happy to answer all and any of Miss Hatton’s questions at any time.’

  Mrs Palmer gave him an amused look then made her way over to join the clergyman at the entrance to the shaft.

  When the older woman was out of earshot Josiah stepped closer.

  ‘I be— am pleased you came to visit, Miss Hatton,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘So am I, Mr Martyn,’ she replied, gazing up at him.

  The urge to slip his arm around her slim waist and gather her to him swept over Josiah again.

  ‘We’re waiting, Charlotte,’ the rector’s testy voice called across.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Giving Josiah a quick curtsy, Charlotte hurriedly walked over to join the rest of the party.

  Mr Hatton had already started up the ladder by the time Josiah got there, and Mrs Palmer stood back to let Charlotte ascend next.

  When it was her turn, Mrs Palmer gripped the ladder but, as she put her first foot on the first rung, she slipped.

  Josiah reached out to catch her, and her gloved hand caught hold of his bare forearm.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, regaining her balance.

  She glanced down and disturbed the dark hair on his forearm as she ran her hand along it.

  ‘Capable hands indeed, Mr Martyn,’ she said, in a throaty voice.

  ***

  As the French carriage clock on her mantelshelf struck a tinkling one o’clock, Frances shrugged her silk negligee over her shoulders and walked over to the mahogany table under her bedroom window. She poured a large glass of brandy and took a mouthful. The fiery liquid rolled down her throat as she gazed over the ink-black river. Her mind drifted back to the morning’s visit to the tunnel.

  She had expected it to be dirty and noisy, but in her effort to secure Mr Hatton she had felt obliged when he had suggested she accompany him and Charlotte.

  However, the moment she saw Josiah Martyn striding towards her with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt buttons undone, she was heartily glad she’d decided to say yes to the excursion.

  He was certainly a sight for any woman’s sore eyes, especially in his snugly fitting trousers and tousled hair and well…

  She frowned.

  It was a pity they’d met under such difficult circumstances as the silly boy still seemed to hold a grudge against her for her motherly outburst, but she thought she’d made it abundantly clear that she was willing to forgive and forget, so she hoped he would put the unfortunate circumstances of their meeting aside so they could move onto a more satisfying relationship.

  There was a faint snoring behind her. She turned and her gaze rested on Masters lying against her headboard with his eyes closed. Taking another mouthful of brandy, she studied her coachman’s bare upper body with its clump of curly chest hair.

  The Cornhill Domestic Bureau had sent several strongly built fellows along before Tom Masters sauntered in. That was ten years back and in those days his energies were boundless, but then his stomach had been flatter and his hairline had sat lower on his forehead, too.

  He let out a long snore then a faint whistle cut through the silence. Frances pressed her lips together and marvelled at his insolence. She could have forgiven him a little nap if he’d been up and ready straight after, but now it took him over an hour to recover.

  Frances smoothed her hand down her body and felt the silk of her negligee warm on her bare thighs. She drew in her breath and her breasts rose beneath the flimsy fabric.

  Despite bearing Arthur, she still had the suppleness of a girl and thanks to the careful application of Bon Cherie hair restorative, the few wisps of grey hair didn’t mar her otherwise youthful appearance.

  If Masters wasn’t man enough to meet her expectations any longer, then it was high time she found one who was. An image of Josiah Martyn sprang into her mind and a smile played across her lips.

  He wouldn’t need a snooze after. />
  Masters stirred and blinked. He smiled across at her. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  Frances threw the last of the brandy down her throat.

  ‘Only if you’re going to put on a better show than the last one,’ she replied.

  He rolled over onto one elbow and the blanket slipped down below his hips. Her eyes flickered down.

  ‘Of course,’ he grinned.

  ‘Make sure you do,’ she said, letting the negligee float to the floor and sauntering back to bed. ‘Or you’ll feel my temper.’

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the bed. He arched over her and kissed his way across her shoulder.

  Frances studied the canopy as her body relaxed. She imagined that it was Josiah Martyn’s capable hands rather than Masters’ now all-too-familiar ones caressing her.

  Chapter nine

  Ezra woke with a start as Josiah burst through the door. He blinked and looked toward the window where the Christmas morning light was already creeping around the edge of the shutters, then back at his brother. Josiah had a night’s growth of beard and was carrying a full bucket of water and kit bag.

  ‘Have you been down there all night?’ Ezra asked, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I buggering well have been,’ his brother replied. ‘That cow of a shield took it into her head to slide into the mud. I’ve spent all night working alongside Isambard trying to stop the bastard lump disappearing all together.’ He threw the bag at Ezra and a meaty smell coupled with fresh pastry wafted up. ‘I brought breakfast on the way back.’

  ‘Good man,’ Ezra said, getting up. He shovelled a scoop of coal onto the embers in the grate then moved the kettle to the centre of the fire to boil. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

  Going to the wash stand, Josiah put the bucket down. He went to his clothes chest at the foot of the bed and got out a clean shirt and fresh undergarments before stripping to his small clothes.

  ‘A quarter to eight,’ he replied, splashing water into the wash basin and starting his ablutions.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get some sleep?’ Ezra asked.

  Josiah gave him a scathing look. ‘It’s Christmas Day, Ezra. I’m going to church.’

  A smile crept across Ezra’s face. ‘Of course you are as I’m sure you’d like to see Miss Hatton in her new Christmas gown.’

  Ignoring him, Josiah contorted his face and continued to scrape his chin.

  ‘You’ll be dead on your feet by dinner time if you don’t get some shut eye. I don’t think Mrs Brunel will take kindly to one of her guests taking a nose dive into their plate.’

  Josiah wiped the remnants of soap from his face. ‘I think I’ll send my apologies to Mrs Brunel.’

  Alarm shot through Ezra. He had arranged to meet Sarah at two. He intended to get a waterman to ferry them to St Katharine’s Stairs and then stroll around the outer wall of the Tower. He’d even planned to treat them both to tea and cakes by the river.

  If the truth were told, Ezra was fond of her, very fond actually, but she worked in the Hatton household and with Josiah’s preoccupation with the daughter of the house, well…it could make things a little complicated.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, they would think you very rude.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m sure Mrs Brunel will understand when Isambard tells her the struggle we had last night,’ said Josiah, whipping his cravat around his neck and looping the bow.

  Ezra’s afternoon of canoodling with Sarah under the battlements of the Tower was fast evaporating, as if Josiah stayed home on Christmas day, he’d feel obliged to stay with him.

  ‘Although,’ said Josiah, straightening the knot. ‘I’d be a fool to forgo home cooking for a greasy pie at the Mayflower.’

  Ezra suppressed a smile.

  His brother clearly remembered who else had been sent an invite to Christmas dinner at the Brunels’.

  ‘You would,’ agreed Ezra, wiping the remaining soap from his face with a towel. ‘I know what I would do if it were a choice between a pie down the Flower or a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.’

  Picking up his hat, Josiah set it on his head, then grinned. ‘I’ll think of you, Little Brother, when we carve the goose.’

  Ezra grinned back.

  With Miss Hatton sitting across the table from Josiah, Ezra would bet a pound to a penny that the last thing on Josiah’s mind would be his little brother.

  ***

  As her father swept past her at the rear of the procession from the altar to the vestry Charlotte, along with the rest of the congregation, sank to her knees.

  Resting her hands on the back of the pew in front, she bowed her head and closed her eyes but after just a couple of moments she opened one and peered across to where Josiah Martyn was deep in prayer.

  She’d noticed him as soon as he walked in. How could she not in his plum frock coat and matching waistcoat, paired with the new-style trousers which, Charlotte couldn’t help but notice, emphasised his slim hips and long legs. Wondering in passing what it would feel like to run her fingers through his thick curls, Charlotte sent up a small prayer of thanks.

  Although George had assured her at lunch on Friday that he and Josiah had been unaffected by the escaping gas, until she saw his broad figure strolling into church she hadn’t really been at ease.

  Although he looked tired, his stride was still firm and his shoulders square. Charlotte found her gaze wandering over to him when she should have been concentrating on the Christmas liturgy, which was a little embarrassing as each time she’d found him looking back at her.

  Thankfully, Nicolas and his mother were spending a few days with his uncle on his Buckinghamshire estate, so she didn’t have to worry about him scowling at her every time she and Josiah Martyn exchanged a few pleasantries

  Closing her eyes, Charlotte finished her oblations and rose from her knees.

  As she smiled and exchanged seasonal greetings with her father’s congregation, Charlotte could see out of the corner of her eye that Josiah had left his pew, and her heart sped up a little when she realised he was making his way down the aisle towards her.

  Feeling somewhat flustered, Charlotte raised her head and looked at him. He paused for a moment but, just as he stepped forward, Jacob Larkin, whose mother Charlotte had helped nurse back to health after a bout of milk fever, pushed past Josiah.

  As it was a special day, like most of the children, Jacob been scrubbed clean under the street pump and was in his best clothes which although worn, had been patched and brushed clean. Also, as he was attending church he was wearing his boots.

  Dashing across the black and white tiles he skidded to a halt, his right arm bent behind his back.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jacob,’ Charlotte said, smiling down at the boy.

  ‘And you, miss,’ Jacob replied.

  ‘How’s your mother and little sister?’ she asked.

  ‘Ma’s dandy now, thank you, miss,’ he replied. ‘And Suzy’s all right, I suppose, but she don’t do nuffink.’

  ‘Well, she’s only a few months old,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘That’s what Ma says. And anyway,’ he sniffed. ‘I got this for you.’

  He thrust forward a handful of snowdrops and wild garlic, mingled with lavender stalks and tied up with a length of twine.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Jacob,’ she said, giving the child a wide-eyed smile. ‘They are lovely.’

  Bending down, she gave him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘’S all right.’ Giving her a shy smile, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘See yer, miss.’

  Charlotte ruffled his hair and Jacob ran off, back into the mill of people.

  Smiling, she watched him for a moment, then her attention shifted back to Josiah and her heart did a little double step.

  Again, they stared at each other for a heartbeat then he walked towards her.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Martyn,’ she said, as he stopped in front of her.

  ‘And to you, Miss Hatton,�
� he glanced across to where the young lad was now standing by their mother. ‘I see you have an admirer.’

  Miss Hatton’s gaze softened again, and she smiled. ‘That’s Jacob Larkin, and don’t let his tender gesture fool you. He’s a cheeky rascal.’

  ‘I was the same myself, when I were his age,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘I can’t believe that for a moment,’ she laughed.

  He joined in, his laugh rolling over her in a deep wave.

  Their eyes met again holding the moment between them, before Charlotte forced her brain to work again.

  ‘Have all the men recovered?’ she asked.

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘From the gas,’ she explained, noticing the shadow of bristles beneath his freshly shaved cheeks. ‘George mentioned it at lunch the other day.’

  Josiah smiled, starting an odd ache within her.

  ‘More or less,’ he replied. ‘But I expect the three-day holiday they’ve been given over Christmas will see them fit and rested by the time they get back.’

  ‘I’m sure you will be too.’

  Josiah smiled that sideways smile of his. ‘I’m afraid I’m back to work tomorrow with Mr Armstrong, as number one frame is still unsteady.’

  One of the choir boys, still in his red robes, came over.

  With some effort Charlotte shifted her gaze from Josiah. ‘Yes, Samuel.’

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ he replied. ‘But the rector’s sent me to fetch you. Something to do with the parish registers.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Tell him I’ll be there straight away.’

  The chorister left, and her attention returned to Josiah.

  ‘Well, if you only have one day to yourself I hope it will be a merry one,’ she said, smiling up at him.

  ‘I’m sure it will be,’ he replied. ‘And I look forward to seeing you at the Brunels’ house later.’

  ‘The Brunels’?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I understand you and Mr Hatton are invited to dinner.’

  They were, but her father had sent their regrets by return without telling her of its arrival.

  ‘We were, but unfortunately my father had already invited Mrs Palmer and her son for the day so sent our regrets,’ she said, feeling the bitterness of her father’s decision afresh.