The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  He’d been lost from the moment he’d walked into the rectory, and it had taken all his willpower to talk to the giggly girl at his side instead of staring at Charlotte, the woman he loved. Seeing her in her unadorned green silk gown alongside Emma, in her expensive frills and flounces, only served to highlight the contrast between the two women.

  As he followed his host into the rectory drawing room, his eyes sought Charlotte out and found her looking at him. Not wanting to embarrass her by making his attentions too obvious, Josiah picked up his coffee and glanced casually around the room.

  Mr Truman stood by the fireplace quizzing George Armstrong about the whys and wherefores of Roman cement, while Edmund Hatton sat with his father in the winged chairs and continued to discuss the ills of society, much as they had done for the past half an hour over the brandy.

  A prickle of apprehension started up Josiah’s spine and he turned and found Mrs Palmer regarding him curiously. She gave him a teasing smile and indicated the free chair beside her. Thankfully, Mrs Paget took it to save him having to refuse.

  Captain Paget started towards the chair beside Charlotte and Emma.

  ‘Nicolas! I’ve left my shawl in the dining room,’ his mother called.

  Pressing his lips into two tight lines, Captain Paget marched out of the room.

  Josiah walked across the room and took the chair instead.

  ‘A splendid dinner, Miss Hatton,’ he said, sitting back and crossing his legs.

  ‘Thank you,’ Charlotte replied.

  He was sitting so close to her that he could see her individual eyelashes and delicate complexion.

  ‘You’re looking very elegant tonight, Mr Martyn,’ Emma said, batting her eyelashes at him.

  ‘Thank you.’ He gave her a mild smile then looked back at Charlotte. ‘You must be enjoying your brother’s visit, especially as he and his wife are set to stay the full month.’

  ‘I am,’ Charlotte said, without any real enthusiasm.

  After being in Edmund’s company for a little over three hours, Josiah didn’t wonder at it.

  ‘I’ve just been telling Miss Hatton how regularly you call on us,’ Emma cut in just as Josiah was admiring the shape of Charlotte’s mouth.

  ‘Your father and I have much in common and I enjoy exchanging ideas with him,’ said Josiah, tearing his eyes from Charlotte.

  Emma arched her neck. ‘Of course you do.’

  Nicolas came back and draped his mother’s shawl around her shoulders. Seeing Josiah sitting next to Charlotte, a furious expression narrowed his eyes.

  Grabbing a free chair, he set it on the other side of the sofa next to Emma who proceeded to tell him at length about her recent shopping trip to Regent Street.

  Josiah’s eyes returned to Charlotte and he found her looking at him again. They stared wordlessly at each other.

  There was a rustle of silk.

  Josiah looked up to find Mrs Palmer standing beside them.

  He rose to his feet.

  ‘Why thank you, Mr Martyn,’ she said, brushing against him as she took the seat he’d just vacated.

  ‘Your father tells me you are to visit your relatives in Stockton next month, Miss Truman,’ she said, arranging the folds of her skirt around her.

  ‘We are. My cousin Harriet is to be wed.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘At last.’

  Mrs Palmer gave her a questioning look. ‘There has been some delay?’

  ‘There has but only because her fiancé, Marcus Law, dallied for over five years before finally speaking to her father,’ Emma explained. ‘It was his old aunt’s fault. According to Hattie, she had a tight control of his allowance and demanded his attention at all times, throwing a fit of vapours if he didn’t jump to her command,’ Emma went on. ‘Of course, they had an understanding but what good is that, I ask you?’

  Lowering her eyes, Charlotte studied her fingertips.

  Emma straightened a rebellious bow on her skirt. ‘Anyhow, his aunt died two months ago so it has all ended well.’

  ‘I would say your cousin’s fiancé was very fortunate that she waited for him,’ Josiah said. ‘And was not whisked away by some other bold fellow.’

  Nicolas’s colour heightened. ‘I think it is dangerous to judge a situation, Mr Martyn, without knowing all the facts.’

  Mrs Palmer looked shocked. ‘Surely, Mr Martyn, you do not propose that a man should ignore his obligations towards his elderly relative just to gratify his own desires?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Josiah replied, looking across at Nicolas. ‘But where I come from, once a young man has made his affection plain he’d be expected to step up and make their attachment official, so there can be no doubt. A man with a true affection would do right by his sweetheart, no matter what.’

  Mrs Palmer clapped her hands lightly. ‘Well said, Mr Martyn.’

  Nicolas’s lips pressed into an angry line. ‘That may be the case amongst your class, Martyn, but even a gentleman with deep affection—’

  ‘You talk of love, Mr Martyn,’ interrupted Mrs Palmer.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So, Mr Martyn, if you were in love, you would allow no obligation or duty to stand between you and the object of your desire,’ Mrs Palmer asked.

  ‘None,’ he said, forcing his eyes not to stray back to Charlotte. ‘In fact, I would go as far as to say this, ma’am. Love has its own duty and I would obey it.’

  Captain Paget’s colour went from bright pink to purple in an instant. ‘It is not always as straightforward as one would like it to be.’

  ‘Life seldom is,’ Josiah said. ‘But love surely—’

  Something crashed onto the floor and all heads turned.

  Mrs Paget lay back on the sofa, her hand on her chest and her eyes closed. Her cane was at her feet, as was the cup of chocolate she’d been holding.

  Captain Paget jumped up and dashed to her.

  ‘Mother!’ he yelled, throwing himself on his knees at her feet.

  There was no response.

  Everyone rose and gathered around the old lady. Charlotte retrieved a small bottle of smelling salts from the sideboard drawer and went to the sofa but, before she could uncork it, Mrs Paget’s eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Nicolas,’ she said, in a faltering voice.

  ‘I’m here, Mother,’ he told her, taking her hand and rubbing it gently.

  ‘I thought I’d gone that time,’ she said, struggling up a little. Someone offered a cushion and Nicolas placed it behind her.

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Mother,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got years in front of you.’

  ‘Would you like me to fetch you some water, Mrs Paget?’ Charlotte asked.

  Mrs Paget nodded.

  Her son started to rise but his mother gripped his arm. ‘Don’t leave me, Nicolas,’ she whispered. ‘I feel angels hovering near.’

  Nicolas patted her hand again. ‘Shh, Mother. You’ll recover in a moment or two, you always do.’

  Turning, Charlotte left the company huddled around the old woman.

  ‘Is Mrs Paget all right?’ Josiah asked, as she walked past him.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s just one of her turns.’ She glanced over her shoulder to where Nicolas fanned his mother with his hands. ‘Don’t worry; she always recovers, normally when I’m out of sight.’

  She lowered her gaze and hurried out of the door.

  Stepping out of the way to allow those who had rushed to Mrs Paget’s aid to resume their seats after the drama, Josiah picked up his drink and tucked himself beside the ornate fireplace.

  He took a sip and someone touched his arm. Josiah turned expecting to see Emma but instead he came face to face with Mrs Palmer.

  She gave him a mischievous look.

  ‘I found your defence of love very entertaining.’

  ‘I was just playing my part in the evening’s conversation,’ he replied, noticing how the cochineal on her lips had seeped into the minute wrinkles around them.

  ‘I would like to hear more.’ Sh
e traced her fingers up the inside of his arm. ‘Why don’t you call on me one afternoon and we could discuss it further?’

  Josiah smiled. ‘You are most kind, but I couldn’t compromise a lady’s reputation.’

  She stepped closer. ‘How considerate, but you need not worry, my man, Masters is very discreet.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Josiah.

  ‘Mr Martyn.’ She pouted. ‘I thought you’d forgiven me and we were friends again.’

  ‘I have forgiven you, Mrs Palmer,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll not be coming calling.’

  Taking a step nearer and hidden from view by the chimney breast, Mrs Palmer’s hand slipped down between them.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her hand smoothed up the back of his thigh causing a jolt of excitement to course through him. ‘Because a young man such as yourself, strong and in your prime, must have other desires.’ She grasped his buttock. ‘Hard desires, that are in need of satisfying.’

  The door opened and Charlotte came back into the room, carrying a glass of water.

  Josiah turned and faced Mrs Palmer.

  ‘I may have, Mrs Palmer,’ he replied, forcing his eyes to stay on her over-painted face. ‘But I’ll not be easing any of them with you.’

  ***

  Sitting up, Charlotte punched her pillow for the fourth time since the hall clock struck midnight. She settled back again and, shutting her eyes, willed herself to sleep. Instead, her mind continued to do what it had done since she’d turned down the wick in the lamp an hour and a half before, and ran through the whole evening yet again.

  Well, in truth not the whole evening, just the recurrent image of his angular jaw, the shape of his hand holding a glass, the deep rumble of his laugh, and the way her breath caught in her throat each time he looked down the table at her. And if that wasn’t enough to drive sleep from her head, what really kept sleep at bay was Emma’s question.

  Was he courting Emma? And if he was, then why on earth did it bother her so much?

  The clock in the hall sounded out the half hour. Charlotte’s eyes snapped open and she sat up again.

  This was hopeless!

  Swinging her legs out of bed, she shoved her feet into her slippers and then reached for her dressing gown draped over the footboard. Perhaps if she got herself a warm drink she could finally settle to sleep.

  Securing the sash around her waist, Charlotte took the box of Lucifers from the drawer and, after a couple of attempts, re-lit the lamp. She picked it up and quietly opened the door.

  As she crept past her father’s door to the right, and the guest room where Edmund and Martha slept, she reached the top of the stairs and glanced at the narrow door tucked by the window leading up to the cramped servants’ quarters under the eaves, occupied by Longman and Mrs Norris.

  Thankful that it was Sarah and not the cook who slept in the kitchen, as in some households, Charlotte made her way down the stairs to the kitchen, the lamp throwing angular shadows across the walls as she descended. The click of the brass handle seemed to sound through the house as she opened the door to the kitchen. The door to Sarah’s understairs boxroom was closed and Charlotte tiptoed across the black and white tiled floor so as not to wake her.

  Reaching the range, she found that although the coals had been damped down, the plates were still hot. Not enough to boil milk for chocolate but certainly enough to warm some wine.

  Charlotte crossed back to the pantry and went in, closing the door behind her. Holding the lamp high she found a bottle of claret and she had just started to gather the honey and cinnamon when she heard whispered voices in the kitchen. She turned down the lamp and, tucking it behind the flour bin, grasped the bottle of claret by its neck. Holding her breath, she pushed open the larder door very slightly and peeked out.

  She could make out Sarah’s shape but, to her amazement, there was a man with his arm around her waist. Sarah pushed him away and reached for the kitchen lamp. She struck a match and lit the wick, turning the flame down low once it flared.

  Through the crack in the door Charlotte could see that instead of being tucked up in her bed, Sarah was very much awake. And she had company.

  She was dressed in the dress she’d worn that evening but had a shawl around her shoulders. In the soft light from the lamp beside her, the young woman’s round face wore a happy glow as she looked up at the man.

  He was dressed in baggy work trousers, a calico shirt covered by an old waistcoat and had a red handkerchief tied around his neck. He looked familiar but Charlotte couldn’t quite place him.

  He drew Sarah to him but she pushed him off. ‘Now stop that,’ she told him with a giggle in her voice.

  ‘Just one more kiss, me sweet, before I leave ’e,’ he replied.

  Sarah nudged him. ‘Keep your voice down or you’ll wake the house,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know why I let you talk me into this, Ezra Martyn.’

  Ezra Martyn! Of course.

  As she watched Ezra Martyn canoodle with her maid in the lamplight, Charlotte couldn’t help but imagine what it might feel like to have Josiah’s mouth close over hers and have his sea-green eyes look upon her with the same intensity and purpose as his brother was doing to Sarah.

  Longing swept over Charlotte.

  Nicolas’s smile had never left her breathless and dizzy the way Josiah’s did, nor had his voice ever sent her bones vibrating, as Josiah’s rich tones did.

  ‘You have to go,’ Sarah whispered in between kisses. ‘If Mrs Norris finds you she’ll go straight to the rector and be as pleased as punch to have me dismissed.’

  Ezra pulled Sarah into his arms and she tipped back her head and smiled up at him. ‘Just a minute more and then I’ll be off.’

  Charlotte watched the lovers embrace again then caught hold of herself. What on earth was she doing? Instead of sculling in the cupboard she should reprimand Sarah. It was totally unacceptable for a kitchen maid to invite a man friend into her employer’s house, especially under the cover of darkness.

  ‘I had better go,’ she heard Ezra say. ‘Josiah will wonder why I’m late off shift otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t know why you can’t just tell your brother about us,’ Sarah whispered. ‘You’re a grown man after all.’

  Charlotte put her hand to the pantry door. She wouldn’t dismiss Sarah; after all, she was a good girl and Charlotte was pleased that she had a beau, but she would give her a severe talking to about entertaining him in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s because of Miss Hatton,’ Ezra replied.

  Charlotte stopped.

  ‘What’s Miss Hatton got to do with your brother?’

  ‘It’s just that I think he has a soft spot for Miss Hatton,’ Ezra explained.

  Charlotte’s mouth dropped open as Sarah gave a low laugh. ‘I thought you said your brother had brains. Miss Hatton is set to marry Captain Paget...’

  That wasn’t true. She wasn’t set to marry Nicolas at all.

  And, to be honest, if he wasn’t man enough to stand up to his mother, she wasn’t going to marry him anyway.

  ‘And from what I seen this evening,’ continued Sarah, ‘Your brother’s looking to fix himself up with Miss Truman.’

  Feeling suddenly empty Charlotte leant back onto the pantry wall and stared at the jars of pickles and chutneys on the shelf opposite.

  Sarah and Ezra said their whispered farewells, then the back door shut and the bolts at the top and bottom were drawn across. The kitchen fell silent. After several moments she opened the panty door and without re-lighting the night lamp, felt her way across the kitchen. She retraced her steps through the house to her bedroom, slipped off her dressing gown and slippers and climbed back under the covers.

  She lay staring up at the canopy with her hands on her chest, and her heart thundered underneath them.

  Josiah’s words ran over in her mind.

  Love had its own duty.

  But who was right? Ezra or Sarah? Who was the lucky woman who had won a place in Josiah’s heart
?

  Chapter thirteen

  Josiah wiped the dirty water out of his eyes and ducked back inside the shield. The labourer was resolutely holding the poling board used to support the sides of the excavated tunnel in place, but water was still spurting out on either side. Josiah gave a deep sigh and wondered, not for the first time in the past three weeks, if he would ever see the light of day again. It was a week after Ascension Day and a full month since the dinner party at the rectory.

  Although the tunnel continued to crawl forward at a snail’s pace, he and George had rarely been home, mostly catching an hour or two sleep in the office above, and Josiah felt the strain. George, however, still coughed incessantly and barely ate.

  It was now over a year since Josiah had started working on the Thames tunnel. He had almost gotten used to the perpetual wet and cold of the shaft but when they struck the level of sodden sand and gravel a week ago, Josiah questioned the preacher’s description of Hell.

  With absolute certainty he now knew that when the damned were cast down on the last day, it would not be into a fiery furnace but a cold, wet, putrid hole much like the one he stood in now.

  ‘More oakum,’ he bellowed, the sound of his voice echoing in the cavern behind him.

  ‘There go, Mr Martyn,’ Nelson, one of the mud-covered navvies working alongside him, said.

  Josiah grabbed a handful of packing and jammed it into the area each side of the board. Nelson smashed it home with a swing of his sledgehammer, narrowly missing Josiah’s fingers with every blow.

  ‘The water’s still seeping out,’ Nelson said, as the last strand disappeared behind the poling board. ‘If we don’t stop it we’ll be swimming in it soon.’

  Cursing roundly, Josiah rolled on his back and thrust his feet against the board. The wet from the floor of the cell spread through his waistcoat and shirt.

  ‘Get more cement then call Mr Armstrong.’

  The man touched his forehead and climbed down from the cell.

  Looking up, Josiah could see the miner in the cell above struggling to plug the leak behind his poling board too. Drops of pungent water dripped onto him, so Josiah turned his head to save it going in his eyes. He shifted in the dirt and the cold, the damp patch on his back spread further.