Mary bobbed a curtsy and turned to leave, but as she reached for the door handle Miss Hatton spoke again.
‘And there’ll be no more black potatoes and stringy meat from now on, Mrs Norris, do you understand?’
Mary turned. ‘Yes, miss.’
She curtsied again and, feeling Miss Hatton’s eyes boring into her back, left the room.
***
Frances Palmer sat and stared out of the Hattons’ parlour window and sighed. She glanced at the clock. Three-thirty! Frances let out a long sigh. What a pity that Mr Armstrong was Mr Hatton’s godson. If it hadn’t been so, there would have been no obligation on his part to take the engineer into his home when he collapsed two days before, but there it was, and although it was all very commendable of Charlotte nursing the man, it didn’t make for a convivial afternoon visit.
Frances looked at the clock. It was early, but she would take her leave and go home.
She was just about to pick up her gloves when the parlour door opened and Mr Martyn stepped in.
He had clearly come straight from Cow Yard as his jacket was dusty and crumpled and mud splattered the lower part of his trousers.
She felt an unexpected thrill run through her as his dark gaze rested on her.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Palmer,’ he said with a small incline of his head.
‘Mr Martyn,’ she replied, a little breathlessly as her gaze ran over his sharp jaw-line and broad shoulders.
‘I came to enquire about Mr Armstrong,’ he said.
Frances formed her face into a compassionate expression. ‘Miss Hatton is attending the poor man at present, but…’ She patted the seat beside her. ‘I’m happy to keep you company while you wait.’
‘Thank you but I’ll stand if you don’t mind,’ he replied, putting his hands behind his back.
Although a little disappointed that he hadn’t accepted her invitation, at least his stance with his back to the fire gave Frances a chance to admire the outline of his well-shaped legs.
‘I understand from Miss Hatton that Mr Armstrong is making good progress,’ she said, very thankful her maid had applied hair dye only the night before.
‘I be right glad to hear such,’ Mr Martyn replied, the burr in his voice adding to its depth.
How delightfully common, she thought, as another little thrill ran through her.
‘Miss Hatton said the poor man was close to collapse when they brought him here last week, and that you carried him all the way from Cow Lane,’ Frances continued, imagining his strong hands grasping her.
‘Needs must,’ he replied, raking his hands through his hair.
His movement had opened his jacket, showing off his muscular upper body beneath the shirt.
Frances stood and glided over the carpet towards him.
‘My goodness, Mr Martyn,’ she said, running her eyes over his shoulders. ‘You must have extraordinary strength and stamina to undertake such a feat.’
He studied her coolly but didn’t reply.
Standing so close to him, she could smell his earthy aroma and feel the heat from his body.
Taking a step closer she placed her hand on his chest.
‘You know you really should reconsider my offer,’ she said in a low voice, as she ran her hand back and forth. ‘I would enjoy the challenge of wearing you out.’
Giving her a glacial look, he removed her fingers from him.
Looking up at him from under her eyelashes, Frances pouted. ‘Now that’s not very friendly, Mr Martyn.’
She reached out again, this time lower, but before she could grasp what she was after, footsteps sounded in the hall outside.
She dropped her hand and stepped away.
The door opened, and Charlotte swept in.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Martyn,’ said Charlotte as she saw him.
He bowed. ‘Miss Hatton. I’ve come to visit George, I have, if it’s not inconvenient, of course.’
‘Not at all,’ said Charlotte, smiling politely at him. ‘I’m sure he’ll welcome the chance to talk pumps and tunnelling.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked at Frances and the warmth left them. He bowed and strode from the room.
As his firm tread sounded on the stairs Charlotte’s gaze lingered on the painted wood for a moment, then shifted onto Frances.
‘Mrs Palmer, how nice. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.’
Stifling her irritation at her host’s inopportune appearance, Frances smiled. ‘Not at all. Mr Martyn is so fascinating I could spend hours in his company and not weary of it.’
Chapter fourteen
‘Mr Martyn,’ announced Perry, the Truman’s butler, as he opened the door.
Josiah walked in but was surprised to find Emma rather than her father sitting on the sofa.
Although it was just eleven o’clock on a chilly May morning, Emma was wearing a fussy scarlet gown with a neckline lower than was considered respectable for the time of day.
‘Miss Truman,’ said Josiah, somewhat taken aback by the sight of her.
‘Mr Martyn,’ she said, with a dimpled smile. ‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘I received a note from your father asking me to call.’
‘He’s had to dash out, so you’ll have to make do with little old me until he gets back. I hope you’re not too disappointed,’ she said giving him a sideways look and a flutter of her eyelashes.
‘Not at all,’ said Josiah. ‘But as you’re here alone perhaps it would be better if I—’
‘He won’t be long,’ interrupted Emma. ‘And Mama will be joining us just as soon as she has finished talking to Monsieur Albert about the menu for next week’s supper party. Why don’t you take a seat?’ She patted the cushion beside her. ‘And we can chat until she arrives?’
Josiah, forcing a smile and ignoring her invitation, sat on one of the chairs by the fireplace.
Irritation flashed across Emma’s face for a second, then her sweet smile returned. ‘It’s been so long since you last visited us that I was beginning to wonder if your friendship was engaged elsewhere.’
‘Yes, it has been a while since I last enjoyed your family’s hospitality,’ he replied. ‘But only because of the demands of work.’
That wasn’t a total lie, of course. There had been all manner of things such as a temperamental pump, a late delivery of bricks and shouldering George’s responsibilities as well as his own that had kept him from the Truman’s door, but being hopelessly in love with Charlotte Hatton, he didn’t want to give Emma any further hope of encouragement. And, believe me, she didn’t need much.
‘Oh well, at least you’re here now,’ she replied, rearranging her skirts and sending him another lavish look.
He gazed around the room for a few moments before returning his attention to the over-dressed young woman opposite him.
‘A supper party,’ he said for want of anything else. ‘That sounds nice.’
‘Boring, don’t you mean,’ said Emma. ‘Mama is inviting all the old women she’s forever having tea with, and toothless, crusty husbands. And she ordered a string quartet for the evening so there’ll be no dancing.’
Josiah forced another smile.
The second hand of the mantelshelf clock ticked off another couple of minutes and then he rose to his feet.
‘I think it might be best if I called back another time,’ he said.
‘Papa won’t be much longer,’ she said. ‘And it would be a pity if after such a long walk you left without seeing him. I tell you what. While you’re waiting why don’t you take a look at the sketches I’ve done of the tunnel.’
Reaching down the side of the sofa, she picked up a tanned leather wallet.
Josiah glanced at the door.
‘I’d really like your opinion, as an engineer,’ she added, with a beseeching look.
Josiah let out a long breath. ‘Of course.’
Trying to keep a space between them, he sat down.
She o
pened the folder and offered him the top sketch.
‘This is a picture of the yard looking towards the church.’
While he didn’t think it would ever hang in the Royal Academy, it was a fair representation of the works at Cow Yard.
She handed him the next one. ‘And this is you directing the tunnellers.’
‘I’m flattered,’ he said, looking at the sketch of himself with shoulders like an ox, towering a head and shoulders above the workers.
‘Not at all,’ she said, gazing adoringly up at him. ‘I tried to show just how strong and manly you really are.’
‘I really think I should go.’
Josiah went to stand up, but Emma grabbed his hand.
‘But wait,’ she said, holding him firmly. ‘You haven’t seen—’
The door handle rattled.
Throwing the sketches on the floor, Emma yanked the front of her gown down, pulled her skirts up and grabbed Josiah’s lapels.
‘It’s the only way,’ she said, as she fell back and pulled him on top of her.
The door opened.
Josiah tried to sit up but Emma held on.
‘Mama!’ she screamed.
Josiah turned to see Mrs Truman standing in the doorway with her hands clenched and an expression like a furious gargoyle on her face.
Summoning all his strength Josiah grabbed the back of the sofa and, ripping his jacket away from Emma’s grasp, got to his feet.
‘Mrs Truman,’ he said, pulling down the front of his waistcoat. ‘It’s not what it seems.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Mrs Truman replied, giving him a hateful stare. ‘Well what is it if it isn’t you attempting to seduce my daughter to get your hands on her fortune?’
Josiah glared back. ‘I am neither a seducer nor a fortune hunter.’
‘Then can you explain why you were ravishing my daughter?’ she asked.
‘Mrs Truman, I swear, I was not doing anything of the kind,’ Josiah said, looking the older woman square in the eyes. ‘I came in response to a message from Mr Truman inviting me to call on him today to update him on the tunnel’s progress. As Mr Truman is one of the principal shareholders of the project, I naturally did as he requested.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Mrs Truman, turning to her daughter.
Emma held her mother’s furious stare.
‘It is,’ continued Josiah. ‘I presented myself promptly at eleven as he specified, only to be told that he had to dash out. Naturally, as Miss Truman was alone I offered to come back at another time, but she assured me that he would be back at any mo—’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Mrs Truman. ‘He’s in Birmingham.’
Josiah’s mouth dropped open. ‘But he sent a message—’
‘It’s all right, Josiah,’ said Emma, breathlessly as she sat up, her shoulders bare and a smug look on her face. ‘Mama might as well know the truth.’
‘Truth!’ shouted Mrs Truman. ‘What truth?’
Straightening her gown, Emma stood up.
‘That we are in love, aren’t we, Josiah?’ she said, brushing down her skirts and looking defiantly at her mother.
He didn’t reply.
Mrs Truman’s narrowed eyes shifted from her daughter to Josiah and a cold hand gripped his heart.
‘Is that so?’ she asked.
‘No...no...’ he stammered ‘I swear, Mrs Truman, I—’
‘And now we will have to marry, Mama,’ Emma said. She went to take Josiah’s hand, but he snatched it away as a yawning chasm started to open at his feet.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Emma,’ her mother snapped. ‘If you think after all the money your father spent on bringing you up like a lady, and all my efforts to secure you a brilliant match, I’m going to let you throw yourself away on a man who hasn’t a penny to his name, you’re very much mistaken.’
‘But I want to!’ shouted Emma. ‘And Papa says—’
‘I don’t care what your father says about anything,’ her mother interrupted. ‘You are not marrying Mr Martyn.’
‘But you have to let me marry Josiah,’ wailed Emma. ‘It’s the only way of restoring my reputation and making me respectable again.’
‘You’ve been reading far too many soppy romances, Emma,’ her mother replied. ‘Now sit down while I sort this out.’
‘But—’
Her mother gave her a look that would have sliced through steel, and Emma flopped back onto the sofa, her lower lip jutting out and tears brimming in her eyes.
She turned from her daughter to Josiah.
‘Will you swear that you have no designs on my daughter’s honour or fortune?’
‘As God above is my witness, I have no designs on your daughter or her fortune,’ Josiah replied, firmly, praying she would believe him.
‘And will you also swear never to breathe a word to anyone about what happened here today?’ she asked, her eyes dagger sharp as they bore into his.
Josiah matched her unwavering stare. ‘I will.’
Mrs Truman’s shoulders relaxed a little. ‘And, finally, that you will not call at this house again?’
‘I assure you, Mrs Truman,’ Josiah replied. ‘I most certainly won’t.’
‘Then, Mr Martyn,’ she said, with just the hint of a smile. ‘I wish you good day.’
Josiah bowed and fled the room, with Emma’s sobs sounding in his ears and utter relief filling his heart.
***
With the mid-summer afternoon sun streaming through the parlour window, Charlotte had just started to read the last page of the letter when there was a knock on the parlour door.
‘Come,’ she called, setting the sheets of paper aside.
The door opened and Sarah stepped in.
‘Miss Truman,’ the maid announced as Emma barged past her into the room.
As always, she was dressed as if on her way to a ball rather than calling on an acquaintance. Today was a bright-red dinner dress with matching short jacket, both with fringing and tassels at the hem and sleeves. Her walking boots were embossed Spanish leather and probably cost more than most families in the parish had to live on in a year. The whole ensemble was topped off by a hat with a brim so wide she’d have to go through a door squarely in the centre to avoid knocking it from her head.
‘Miss Truman,’ said Charlotte, rising to her feet. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Will you take some tea?’
Emma forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’
She flounced over to the sofa and threw herself on it.
Charlotte turned to the woman standing in the doorway. ‘With bread and butter and a few slices of seedy cake if you please, Sarah.’
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.
Charlotte resumed her seat and tucked the letter between herself and the arm of the chair. There was a long silence then Emma turned her attention away from the cinders and back to her host.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you unexpectedly like this, Miss Hatton,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I was just catching up on my correspondence.’
‘A romantic letter from Nicolas?’ Emma asked, glancing at the pages beside her.
‘Hardly.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘They are from the redoubtable Mrs Fry.’
Emma looked blankly at her.
‘The Quaker minister and prison reformer?’ said Charlotte.
Emma still looked none the wiser.
‘We have been exchanging letters with her regarding the Home Nursing Association she set up in Brighton,’ Charlotte explained. ‘I’m trying to establish one in this parish.’
‘Oh,’ said Emma. ‘How clever of you to think of such a thing, I’m sure I never could.’
‘And if it were a romantic letter from Nicolas I couldn’t receive it as he has not yet spoken to my father,’ added Charlotte.
‘I know,’ snapped Emma. ‘Men are such a disappointment.’
‘They are,’ said Charlotte, feeling oddly relieved rather than disappointed that Nicolas hadn’t s
ought her father out.
‘All soft words and no action,’ continued Emma, her eyes flashing angrily.
‘As you say.’ Charlotte felt obliged to reply.
‘Such a disappointment,’ Emma repeated. ‘Especially that lily-livered coward Josiah.’
‘Josiah! I mean, Mr Martyn?’ said Charlotte, hoping Emma didn’t notice her lapse into familiarity.
‘Yes Mr-spineless-Martyn,’ Emma spat out.
‘My goodness, what has he—’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come.’ Charlotte forced out over the lump in her throat.
Sarah entered carrying the tea tray.
Both young women lapsed into silence as their refreshments were set out. Charlotte sat with her mind in a whirl as to what heinous offence Josiah could have done to the woman he seemed intent on marrying, while Emma plucked threateningly at a tassel.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sarah left.
‘Done!’ Emma said as soon as the door clicked shut. ‘I’ll tell you what that jelly-hearted Mr Martyn has done, Miss Hatton. Nothing! That’s what. Absolutely nothing.’
‘I don’t understa—’
‘And I’d planned it down to the very last detail,’ continued Emma. ‘Father was out, we were alone and—’
‘Really, Miss Truman,’ cut in Charlotte, feeling affronted on Josiah’s behalf. ‘Mr Martyn is too much of a gentleman to take advantage of such a situation.’
‘I know,’ said Emma. ‘In fact, he wanted to leave as soon as he realised the situation and I had the Devil’s own job to pin him on the sofa, I can tell you.’
An image of Josiah resisting Emma predatory advances started to form itself in Charlotte’s mind, but her guest’s shrill voice cut it short.
‘I didn’t want him to ravish me,’ Emma continued. ‘I just needed it to look as if he was about to when my mother walked in.’
‘But why?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Mama has her heart set on me marrying some earl or marquis or something, and told my father point blank that she would block me marrying Josiah. My father is too scared of her to say otherwise.’ Emma’s face crumpled. ‘And now I have no hope, none at all, that Josiah will ever be mine because the only way Mama would have agreed to the marriage between Josiah and me was if we were forced to wed to save my reputation and hers amongst society.’ A solitary tear ran down Emma’s flushed cheeks. ‘It would have worked, too, if Josiah hadn’t ruined everything by denying he had any dishonourable intention towards me whatsoever.’
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