The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Which is why I pray God will bless us in the first year of our marriage,’ said Nicolas.

  Josiah’s head snapped back.

  ‘You and Miss Hatton are engaged?’ he asked, looking as if he’d just been hit in the face with a plank.

  ‘Not officially,’ said Nicolas quickly, thankful his mother was out of earshot. ‘And I have yet to formally speak to her father, but dear Charlotte and I have an understanding.’ He gave a light laugh. ‘Although she is much too modest to say, I believe she would like me to wear my captain’s uniform for the ceremony. Six years I served until we defeated that jumped-up peasant Bonaparte thanks to my dearest uncle, Lord Tolworth. It was he who bought me a commission for my coming of age,’ Nicolas said, emphasising his aristocratic connection to a man whose father probably signed his name with a cross. Resting the tip of his cane beside his foot, Nicolas fixed his eyes on the man before him. ‘However, military matters aside, Martyn, I want to make it clear that Miss Hatton and I have an understanding and I tell you this to avoid you imagining a situation you have no right to ponder. I hope I make myself clear.’

  Taking his solid-gold seven-jewelled Hunter from his waistcoat pocket, Nicolas held it aloft then released the cover so it sprung up almost in the other man’s face. Leaving it long enough for Josiah to see the manufacture’s royal warrant etched on the gold lid, he snapped it closed and slid it away again.

  ‘Well, it’s been diverting to hear about your digging,’ said Nicolas, doing his best to look down his nose at the tall engineer. ‘But Mama and I are dining en famille with the Hattons, so I can’t tarry further. I bid you a good day.’

  A smug smile spread across Nicolas’s face. He gave the curtest of nods but, as he turned to go, Josiah spoke again. ‘And good day to you, too, Paget,’ he called after him. ‘And be assured, if by chance we do hit the underground sea, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ***

  A faint snore beside him caused Nicolas to leave his contemplation of Charlotte’s downturned face as she sat opposite him, and turn to the woman sitting to his right on the sofa; his mother.

  Although she was supposed to be reading the book she had open on her lap, she was in fact fast asleep, with her half-spectacles sitting askew on the bridge of her nose and a small rivulet of dribble on her chin.

  He was hardly surprised after the quantity she’d just consumed. For all her protestations about her delicate digestion and reflux, she’d tucked into the fatted goose, roast potatoes and vegetables as if she hadn’t eaten for a week, but it was probably the double helping of port trifle that had finally sent her into the arms of Morpheus.

  According to the clock on the mantelshelf it was just coming up to three-thirty in the afternoon and he was sitting in the rectory’s drawing room on the first floor.

  Behind him Mrs Palmer was playing a light piece on the piano while Mr Hatton, sitting next to her, turned the pages of the music sheets.

  Nicolas was sitting on one of the long sofas on one side of the fireplace, while Charlotte sat on the one opposite with her head bowed over her embroidery hoop.

  His eyes flicked down to the swell of her breasts above the edging of lace and a sigh rose up in him. She was lovely, truly lovely, especially in that shade of blue. Any man with blood in his veins would say as such.

  He frowned as the conversation with Josiah Martyn some four hours before loomed large in Nicolas’s mind. Damn upstart!

  Charlotte snipped off the length of silk she’d been working with and reached into her sewing box beside her.

  Nicolas glanced at his mother again and, satisfied that she was well and truly asleep and Mr Hatton and Mrs Palmer were engrossed in their music making at the other end of the room, Nicolas stood up. Crossing the Persian fireside rug between them, he sat next to Charlotte.

  She paused as she drew out a length of red silk and smiled.

  He smiled back.

  She re-threaded her needle and picked up the embroidery hoop again.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ he said, indicating the fabric in her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘It’s a birthday present for my friend Susan. It’s for her dressing table. She loves cats, so I’ve embroidered three of them playing in the middle.’

  She tilted it for him to see and the faint smell of violets drifted up to him.

  Under the pretext of getting a better view, Nicolas shifted nearer and pressed his thigh against hers.

  Charlotte shifted away so there was a space between them.

  Nicolas wasn’t perturbed. It was quite natural that a gently brought up young woman of delicate sensibilities would recoil at the physical nature of a man’s desire. After all, where would society be if women let their passions run wild?

  ‘You’re so skilled and...’ He continued in a low voice. ‘…so very beautiful.’

  Charlotte’s eyes flickered across at her father and Mrs Palmer.

  ‘You should not say such things,’ she said, matching his whispered tone.

  ‘But you know how I feel about you,’ he replied.

  ‘Do I?’

  Nicolas looked hurt. ‘I think I have made my admiration plain, Charlotte, in so many ways.’

  ‘And over so many years.’

  ‘Just two, I think,’ he replied under his breath as Mrs Palmer launched into another piece on the piano. ‘And you know Mama has delicate health, so—’

  Charlotte stabbed the needle through the fabric. ‘You have mentioned it.’

  As if she knew she was the subject of the conversation just at that moment, Mrs Paget gave a snort.

  Nicolas held his breath as his mother shifted a little and then settled back to sleep.

  He looked back at Charlotte. ‘Father courted Mama for seven years before he spoke to her father,’ he continued, almost in a whisper.

  ‘I might not want to wait another five years.’

  She turned from him.

  A heavy weight pressed down on Nicolas’s chest as he studied her profile.

  ‘It’s that navvy, Martyn,’ he blurted out.

  With her needle poised in the air, Charlotte stared at him.

  ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Dammed impudent, I call it. I’ve met his type before,’ Nicolas continued, picturing her talking to the bounder in church that morning. ‘He has that sort of rough, earthy appeal that some women find irresistible.’

  As he said the words, Nicolas realised how ridiculous he sounded.

  Charlotte was a clergyman’s daughter, for goodness sake; she would never lower herself to look at a mud-shoveller like Martyn. He relaxed and waited for her to laugh in his face at such a ludicrous suggestion.

  She didn’t.

  ‘I talk to lots of people after the service on Sunday,’ she replied, bending over her work again, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.

  ‘It seems to me that you talk to him more than most,’ said Nicolas.

  She looked up and her eyes narrowed. ‘Does it?’

  Nicola squared his shoulders. ‘Yes, it does. And what’s more, Charlotte, I don’t like it and I won’t have you talking to—’

  ‘Really,’ she cut in and regarded him coolly. ‘I don’t really see what business it is of yours who I talk to.’

  ‘But, Charlotte, my dearest one.’ He took her hand firmly to show her engineers weren’t the only men with strength. ‘You know I want nothing more than to call on your father, but I must wait until Mama comes around to the idea.’

  ‘Then I think, Captain Paget, until you actually call on my father, you can have absolutely no say in who I talk to and,’ she snatched her hand away, ‘no right to take such liberties.’

  Chapter twelve

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Charlotte’s father, pushing his empty plate from him and easing back in his chair.

  ‘I must say, Father, I’m inclined to agree,’ said Edmund, doing the same.

  They were sitting opposite each other at the much-planned dinner party with their guests ranged around t
hem like a pair of ruddy-faced Toby jugs.

  Her brother Edmund and his wife had arrived in a flurry a week ago and the household had still to recover. Her father had welcomed him as if he had been lost at sea rather than living in the cathedral close in St Albans.

  Edmund was stouter and rounder than the last time Charlotte had seen him and although he had oiled and combed his hair with precision, his pink scalp could be seen through. Martha, in contrast, was even thinner.

  Whereas most women rounded after becoming a mother, Martha’s angular features were even sharper now than when she’d been plain Miss Payne. Her long nose looked like a boning knife and Charlotte wondered that her elbows didn’t shred the sleeves of her gown as she dressed each morning.

  All those gathered around their large oval dinner table nodded in agreement. Charlotte breathed an inward sigh of relief. She had spent all week planning the correct places for each bowl and plate so that everyone was able to select the dishes they required without having to lean and stretch over others. Edmund was right; the dinner had been delicious.

  ‘Capital dinner,’ he continued, wiping his mouth. ‘I doubt I’ve ever tasted beef so well-fatted or an orange jelly so orangey.’

  Her father sat in his usual place at the head of the table flanked by Mrs Palmer and Edmund respectively. Charlotte was seated halfway down on Mrs Palmer’s side of the large mahogany dining table, which placed her opposite Josiah Martyn.

  She’d spent hours thinking about the right dress for the evening and had settled on her new green silk evening gown the moment Mr Martyn had remarked on how green suited her the week before.

  He had taken care with his dress too and was smartly dressed in a navy suit with a crisp white shirt and ruby cravat. Charlotte couldn’t help noticing the way the angle of his winged collar accentuated the squareness of his jaw while the bleached lawn cotton drew attention to his black curls.

  He sat between Mrs Paget and Miss Truman, while Charlotte was seated next to Nicolas on her right and George Armstrong on her left. He still looked a little too pale for Charlotte’s liking, but he’d insisted that he felt well enough to join them.

  Edmund belched into his napkin as Longman and Sarah removed the debris of the final course.

  Martha put her hand on his arm. ‘Is your dyspepsia troubling you, my dear?’

  Edmund waved her away with a flourish of his napkin. ‘A little discomfort is a price I am willing to pay for such a feast.’

  Charlotte hoped he would say the same in a few hours’ time when he couldn’t sleep and woke the house up searching for medicinal brandy.

  ‘I agree,’ Nicolas said to the right of her. ‘A meal fit for a king.’

  ‘Or a bishop,’ Mrs Palmer replied smoothly.

  There was polite laughter and Edmund’s face formed itself into what just passed for a modest expression.

  ‘There has been no announcement yet.’ His small mouth curled into a coy smile. ‘But I stand ready to do God’s bidding.’

  There were murmurs of approval again.

  Charlotte’s father gazed down the table and his eyes settled on Josiah. ‘I suppose you’re more used to fish in your part of the world, Mr Martyn.’

  The space between Charlotte’s shoulder blades prickled.

  Amusement played across Josiah’s lips. ‘I’ve tasted the odd slice of beef or two, rector, even in Cornwall.’

  ‘But not ginger cream or strawberry tartlet such as you have been served tonight,’ persisted her father.

  Mrs Palmer laughed. ‘I don’t think Mr Martyn noticed any of the dishes set before him with such pretty company, do you, Miss Truman?’

  Emma Truman lowered her eyes and dimpled as a guarded expression crossed Josiah’s face for an instant.

  ‘Indeed. Even Cornwall, a county renowned for its beauty,’ his eyes rested on Charlotte, ‘pales beside the company at this table.’

  Emma Truman giggled and Mrs Palmer clapped her gloved hands lightly. ‘Gallantly said, Mr Martyn.’

  ‘What did you think to our tunnel, Mr Hatton?’ George Armstrong asked Edmund.

  ‘Very impressive, although I did think it would be a little further forward by now,’ Edmund replied.

  ‘We would ’ave been if the board were more forthcoming with the funds,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘The board has a responsibility to the company shareholder and cannot waste money on embellishments, Mr Martyn,’ Charlotte’s father told him.

  ‘I hardly call a drain to take the effluent away an embellishment,’ Josiah replied. ‘Perhaps if the shareholders had to lie in raw sewage for eight hours they’d have a different understanding of the matter.’

  Above his cravat a flush coloured her father’s throat as he glared down the table at Josiah. He drew a breath and Charlotte rose to her feet.

  ‘If the gentlemen are to talk engineering and drains, I think the ladies might like to retire,’ she said.

  Closing the door of the sitting room, Charlotte took her place beside her sister-in-law on the sofa under the window, while Mrs Paget and Mrs Palmer sat on the matching sofa at the side of them. Emma Truman, in order to avoid crushing her voluptuous skirt, sat on the chair on the other side. Sarah served the coffee and retired, leaving the women to their own company.

  Even with the wall between them, the sound of male laughter rumbled through to them. Charlotte’s mind went to Josiah, now puffing smoke into the air and warming brandy in a glass.

  Shaking the image aside, she reached for the coffee pot. ‘Would you like a coffee, Mrs Paget?’

  Nicolas’s mother gave her a baffled look. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you would like a coffee,’ Charlotte repeated, raising her voice.

  The puzzled expression remained on the old woman’s face.

  ‘Miss Hutton asked you if you wanted coffee,’ Mrs Palmer told her.

  Mrs Paget’s brows pulled together. ‘You should speak up, girl. You’re not in church now.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ Charlotte asked, struggling to maintain her polite smile.

  Mrs Paget shook her head. ‘No, I can’t stand the stuff.’

  Charlotte turned to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked, holding a cup in one hand and the sugar tongs in the other.

  ‘Only one, thank you. I have such a sweet tooth,’ Martha replied. ‘But I must not give in to it as my physician tells me sugar can plump one up.’

  ‘I am always telling my son that,’ piped up Mrs Paget. ‘I can’t remember how many times I’ve warned him that if he’s not careful he’ll run to fat, just like his father did.’

  Obviously Mrs Paget’s hearing came and went.

  ‘That was an excellent meal, Charlotte dear,’ Martha said, stirring her drink. ‘Of course, we dine weekly with the bishop, so we are used to such rich fare.’ She turned to Emma Truman.

  ‘I have to compliment you on such a lovely dress. It is so pretty.’

  Next to Martha’s unadorned black evening gown Charlotte’s flannelette nightgown would have looked exuberant, but Charlotte had to concede that Miss Truman’s pink silk dress with its liberal sprinkling of blue bows suited her very well.

  Emma’s face lit up. ‘How kind of you to say so, Mrs Hutton. When I saw the fabric in Clark & Debenham, I just had to have it.’

  Martha smiled, and the conversation drifted on about cooks and curtains and how to keep mice out of the pantry.

  Emma finished her coffee and after she replaced her cup on the tray, came and sat next to Charlotte.

  ‘I am so pleased to meet you again, Miss Hatton,’ Emma said, arranging her skirts around her.

  ‘And I you, Miss Truman,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘Have you been to see the tunnel again recently?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Sadly no,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I’m afraid my parish duties keep me fully occupied these days.’

  ‘What a shining example of Christian virtue you are, Miss Hatton,’ Emma said.

  �
�I try to follow our Lord’s teaching,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I hear, however, from Mr Armstrong that you take a great interest in the tunnel and are a frequent visitor.’

  ‘I am,’ Emma agreed. ‘And I find it completely fascinating.’

  ‘It is,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s a marvel at how man’s ingenuity has overcome nature.’

  Emma twisted a ringlet back into line. ‘That pump at the top is so large. I doubt there is another in all England that could match it.’

  ‘I think not,’ Charlotte added.

  Emma’s face broke into a charming smile. ‘The moment I met you all those months ago at the yard I knew we should be friends, Miss Hatton.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Charlotte said, pleased to note that Emma’s nose was very like her father’s broad one.

  ‘I was wondering,’ she said, fiddling with the lace at the edge of her cuff. ‘If I could impose on your good nature at such a short acquaintance? I would like to ask your opinion, if I may?’

  ‘Why, of course,’ replied Charlotte.

  A slight flush coloured Emma’s cheeks. ‘It’s quite a delicate matter but I know I can trust your total discretion, and as your father is a clergyman your judgement must be sound.’ She glanced briefly at Mrs Palmer and Martha on the sofa opposite and, seeing them absorbed in conversation, continued. ‘What do you think of Mr Martyn?’

  ‘Mr Martyn,’ said Charlotte, feeling a little lightheaded as the image of him sitting across the table from her flashed through her mind. ‘I’m not sure what—’

  ‘I know he is not a gentleman but, as my father says, he is the most brilliant engineer of his generation and set to make his fortune,’ Emma continued.

  ‘I think your father’s right,’ said Charlotte. ‘Mr Martyn seems just the sort of man who will go far and I know Mr Armstrong and Mr Brunel rely on him absolutely.’

  ‘I’m sure they do, Miss Hatton,’ Emma laughed. ‘But what do you think of him as a suitor?’

  ***

  After what seemed like an eternity, Josiah swallowed the last of his brandy and filed through the adjoining door with the other men to join the ladies.

  From the moment they had glided out to their coffee he’d been counting the minutes on the solid brass mantelshelf clock until the last cigar was stubbed out and the last glass drained.