The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Charlotte looked puzzled. ‘How, Mr Clever, do you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘He got his sums wrong,’ said Josiah, sliding hishbody against hers. ‘He miscalculated the time he had to secure you as his wife.’

  ‘And how did he do that?’ laughed Charlotte, feeling his springy chest hair as she idly played her fingers across his chest.

  ‘Because he hadn’t taken into account that, as you are the most beautiful woman in the land, others would want you, too,’ he continued, taking her closer. ‘Nicolas reckoned that a well-bought-up daughter of a clergyman, with an understanding heart, would be prepared to wait until he could talk his mother around to his way of thinking. Of course, there was one thing that would destroy all his careful estimations, something that he couldn’t possibly have reckoned into the equation.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Me.’ Josiah’s eyes darkened, and he smiled. ‘Because once I laid eyes on you I knew that while there was breath in my body I wouldn’t rest until I made you my wife.’

  Charlotte’s heart squeezed.

  ‘Oh, Josiah,’ she said, sliding her hands around his neck and snuggling into him.

  ‘And furthermore,’ he kissed her, ‘although it’s well past midnight, I should think about getting you back to the rectory.’ Slipping his hand onto her bottom he held her against his substantial erection. ‘You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve loved you just one more time.’

  Chapter twenty

  Charlotte’s father stood with his back to the altar, his Bible in his hand and the same tight-lipped expression of disapproval that hadn’t left his face since Mrs Norris had informed him about his maid’s situation two months before. Despite it being the last Friday in July, outside the rain lashed against the windows and, although it was only just past noon, the verger had to light the lamps in their sconces so that the wedding party could see themselves.

  Wedding party was a grand name for the small gathering of people huddled in the Lady Chapel.

  Taking her eyes from her father’s sour face, Charlotte looked at Sarah who, in her new gown of brown cotton with the pretty lace collar that Charlotte had given her, looked every bit the blushing bride. The small posy of flowers she held in front of her shook slightly as she stood next to Ezra and repeated her vows.

  Charlotte’s gaze left the happy couple and returned to Josiah, her head swirling with love at the sight of him standing on the other side of his brother.

  He was dressed as the occasion warranted, in a dark suit, white shirt and mulberry-coloured cravat. The shoulders of his jacket stretched to accommodate the breadth of his upper body while the trousers fitted snugly around his long legs, hinting at their muscular form as he shifted position.

  Although he could only have shaved a few hours ago, the shadow of his bristle could already be seen on his angular jaw.

  It was three weeks since the night they’d fallen into each other arms and, alone in her bed each night, Charlotte ached for there to be another. There couldn’t, of course, it was much too dangerous, so she would just have to count the days until October.

  ‘Is there a ring?’ her father asked in a voice that suggested not.

  Josiah’s mouth took on a hard line. He fished in his waistcoat pocket and placed a ring on the prayer book in her father’s open hand.

  Perhaps once we are married Father will see Josiah for the man he really is? she thought, as her eyes focused on his square chin.

  Her father sneered at the modest band of silver and the glimmer of hope evaporated.

  Her father sniffed. ‘Repeat after me. With this ring…’

  As her father’s voice echoed in the cold, cavernous chapel, she stole another glance at Josiah to find his gaze on her.

  His eyes darkened as several emotions mirroring Charlotte’s own feelings passed across them, sending a shiver of excitement through her.

  Her father coughed.

  Praying her father hadn’t seen the love in her eyes, Charlotte returned her attention to the matter at hand.

  ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ He snapped the leather-bound prayer book shut. ‘When you have the sixpence you can let the verger know and I’ll write the certificate.’

  ‘I have it here.’ Josiah patted his breast pocket. ‘So if you could oblige, Mr Hatton, we’ll take it with us.’

  Charlotte’s father sniffed. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Josiah gave him a nonchalant smile. ‘We have a wedding lunch at the cottage, nothing special, but in view of your association with the bride you would be welcome to join us.’

  Her father gave Josiah a disdainful look.

  ‘Thank you, no.’ He looked at Charlotte. ‘Don’t be long.’

  Josiah offered his hand. ‘Good day.’

  A purple hue mottled her father’s face. He glared at Josiah for a moment then, clasping his hands firmly behind him, he spun on his heels and marched off to the vestry.

  Charlotte watched her father stomp off for a second then turned to the newly married couple. ‘Congratulations.’

  Ezra bowed.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hatton,’ he replied. ‘And thank you for seeing Sarah so well kitted out and for the sheets you gave us.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she replied.

  Josiah stepped forward and shook his brother’s hand. ‘Well done, Brother.’

  He turned to Sarah and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘He’s a lucky man.’

  ‘I keep telling him that,’ she replied, sending her new husband a wry look.

  Everyone laughed, then Josiah and Ezra exchanged a look.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Martyn,’ Ezra said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s get your wedding lines from the rector.’

  Tucking her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, Ezra led his new wife across the black and white tiles of the aisle towards the vestry.

  Left in the empty church, Josiah gently took Charlotte’s elbow and guided her behind a pillar. Secreting themselves behind the stonework, Josiah took her hand, sending a shiver of excitement up her arm.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asked, studying her closely in the dappled light from the window. ‘I mean, are—’

  ‘Yes, completely,’ she replied, gripping onto him.

  ‘And?’ His gaze rested briefly on her stomach.

  ‘Any day now,’ she replied, thinking she had set her clean cloths ready the week before.

  Hidden from view, Josiah slipped his arm around her and drew her close, making her again wish the days until they could leave would speed by.

  ‘I thought I’d go mad for want of holding you these past two weeks,’ he said, pressing the fingers of the hand he was still holding to his lips.

  ‘And I you.’ She smiled up at him and their eyes locked.

  ‘My darling,’ he whispered, drawing her closer.

  Heedless of the danger, Charlotte melted into his arms as excitement quivered through her.

  ‘Josiah,’ she said, resting her head on his chest and feeling dizzy from the strength of his body.

  ‘I know,’ he said in a low, vibrant voice that sent another tremor of pleasure through her. ‘But as soon as my half-yearly dividend arrives in October, I’ll make the arrangements.’

  The sound of two pairs of footsteps echoed as Ezra and Sara walked back into the empty church.

  ‘I have to go,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But kiss me before you do.’

  Closing her eyes, Charlotte stretched up and pressed her lips on his. His arm tightened around her waist for a second, then he released her.

  Mindful that her father could emerge from the vestry at any moment, Charlotte gave Josiah a last lingering look then, not daring to look back, she hastened toward the church doors, thinking that in just three more months she, not Sarah, would be the new Mrs Martyn.

  ***

  Hidden in the shadow, Josiah watched the woman he loved, more than l
ife itself, glide out of the church then he turned back to his brother and his new wife.

  ‘Are we off to the Mayflower then for a pie then, Big Brother?’ Ezra asked, grinning at Josiah.

  ‘You and Sarah go ahead, I have to speak to the rector first,’ Josiah said, keeping his eye on Mr Hatton who had stood up and was now wandering towards the exit.

  ‘What do you want to say to that old windbag?’

  Josiah gave half a smile by way of an answer

  ‘Well, me ol’ pal,’ said Ezra, giving him a pitying look. ‘Whatever it is I wish you luck ’cos that there rector don’t seem too fair and happy today.’

  ‘When is he ever?’ Josiah replied. ‘I’ll see you in the Mayflower in a while.’

  Ezra and Sarah left, arm in arm.

  Pulling down his jacket, Josiah squared his shoulders and strode through the vestry door.

  The rector was alone and stowing his vestments in the cupboard as Josiah entered the anteroom at the side of the chancery.

  He glanced around as Josiah entered.

  ‘Your brother has already gone,’ he sniffed, turning back to his task.

  ‘I know,’ said Josiah. ‘But I was hoping I could have a quick word with you before I join him for the celebrations.’

  The rector gave him a glacial look. ‘If you must.’

  ‘About when you saw me in Paradise Street some weeks back. I’d like to explain.’

  Mr Hatton closed the door. ‘There is no need.’

  He went to walk past but Josiah stepped in his path. ‘I insist.’

  Mr Hatton ran his belligerent gaze over him.

  ‘The incident may have coloured your opinion of me, sir,’ continued Josiah. ‘So, I would like you to know that the young woman you saw me with was in great distress. She asked me to help and I did what any gentleman would and gave that assistance, that is all.’

  A mottled flush crept across the rector’s cheeks and his piggy-eyes narrowed.

  ‘The unfortunate woman you refer to is, in fact, a notorious prostitute and plies her shameful trade around the docks.’

  ‘True,’ said Josiah. ‘She may have been abroad that night for immoral purposes but only because her son was seriously ill and she needed the money to pay for the doctor.’

  Mr Hatton looked unconvinced. ‘So you didn’t give her money, then.’

  ‘I did give her a florin,’ said Josiah, holding his future father-in-law’s fierce gaze. ‘But only to pay the doctor. That, sir, is the truth.’

  Mr Hatton picked up his top hat from amongst the registers and papers scattered on the central table.

  ‘So you, Martyn, were concerned, were you, that as I witnessed you and one of the riverside sluts in conversation, you may have lost my good opinion.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘Well, let me assure you that seeing you in Eliza Peasman’s arms has not changed my regard for you one jot.’ A tight smile lifted the reverend’s heavy jowls. ‘It is of no surprise to me that one such as you would slake your base urges in such a manner or that you should try to pass your shameful action off as charity. After all, you have continually pressed your unwelcomed company on those far above your station, so seeing you cavorting with a notorious trollop only confirms my impression of you.’ ‘His caustic gaze ran over Josiah. ‘You may ape a gentleman, Martyn, but you are what I have always known you to be; an ill-mannered, jumped-up peasant.’

  ***

  Sarah’s replacement, Ellie, set the last tureens out on the sideboard and gave her a small smile.

  ‘Thank you, Ellie,’ said Charlotte, returning the young girl’s nervous smile.

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

  Rising from her seat, Charlotte went over to where their luncheon was spread. ‘What would you like, Father?’ she asked, picking up a plate.

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘Stewed veal,’ said Charlotte, lifting the central tureen’s lid. ‘With peas, young carrots and potatoes with sweet macaroni pudding to follow or dover sole with a caper sauce with custard tart.’

  ‘I’ll have the fish with plenty of sauce,’ he replied, tucking his napkin in his collar. ‘And don’t stint on the potatoes.’ He folded the paper and set it beside him.

  ‘What about vegetables?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps a spoonful or two,’ he replied. ‘But make sure you put plenty of butter on the potatoes. I could hardly taste it yesterday.’

  Charlotte loaded her father’s plate as instructed and, after setting it in front of him, returned to gather her own food.

  Taking her plate, Charlotte grasped the fish slice but, as she stirred it, a waft of poached fish drifted up and a wave of nausea rolled over her.

  Her mind flitted to the top drawer of her dressing table where the clean monthly pads she’d laid ready two weeks before were still untouched. Taking a deep breath, she placed the utensil back and reached for the server for the veal instead. Slipping a portion of the white meat with a few potatoes onto her plate, Charlotte returned to the dinner table.

  Her father’s eyes flickered onto her sparse plate. ‘It that all you’re having?’ ‘I’m not very hungry,’ Charlotte replied, draping her napkin across her lap.

  ‘I’m not surprised. After being in such company I’ve all but lost my appetite too,’ her father replied as he shovelled another heaped forkful of veal and potatoes in his mouth. ‘If it wasn’t bad enough that I have to lose a perfectly good servant because she’s been ruined by that uncouth labourer Ezra Martyn, I have to suffer that brother of his who apes his betters. He addressed me as if I was his equal, can you imagine.’

  Charlotte’s heart sank.

  Her father stabbed a chunk of meat onto his fork. ‘The man’s got no understanding of his station but I told him.’

  ‘Told him?’ echoed Charlotte hollowly.

  ‘I certainly did.’ He shoved the loaded fork in his mouth. ‘Told him. Told him he was an ill-mannered, jumped-up peasant. And I blame you for this, Charlotte,’ her father said, jabbing his knife at her.

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Because his kind see your condescension towards the lower orders as a licence to become familiar,’ he replied, anchoring a sausage with his folk. ‘You take after your mother in that regard.’

  ‘But, Father—’

  ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that disgraceful business of you getting that Peasman slut’s boy admitted to St Thomas’s under my patronage, either,’ he continued. ‘Six shillings that little escapade of yours cost the good folks of this parish. Six shillings for a dreg that would be better off out of its misery and in the graveyard.’

  ‘Father!’ snapped Charlotte. ‘How can you say such a wicked thing?’

  ‘I say but the plain truth,’ her father replied, cutting into his third slice of bacon. ‘You mark my words, the Peasman brat might be all baby smiles now but in a year or two he’ll be pinching apples off the market like the rest of the snotty-nosed lowlife around here.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Father, but I think six shillings is a small price to pay for a child’s—’

  ‘Enough!’ Mr Hatton threw his napkin on the table. ‘Let me remind you, as you seem to have forgotten. Our founding father, Sir John Hatton, was elevated to the peerage by Henry Tudor on Bosworth Field in recognition of his service in the battle. His grandson, Marmaduke Hatton, was in the party who rode north to greet King James I on the Scottish border when he road south to claim his throne. Since that time the family has stood beside kings and governed England to this present day with my cousin Sir Leonard Hutton serving in the government. I had hoped that allowing you to accompany me as I mingled with people of quality over the last few months would have helped you realise that you should behave as befits your aristocratic ancestors, but it seems not.’ He jabbed a chubby finger at her. ‘Therefore, I must tell you plainly that as both your father and priest, from this day on you will have no sluts and their brats hanging around my back door for handouts,
you will take no more baskets of food to those too idle to work and you will leave the birthing of infants to the toothless old women whose business it rightly is, because I’ve had enough of my name being dragged in the mud. You don’t seem to understand that your primary duty and obedience is to God, your class and your family, not the Devil’s brutish masses. And, as for that Martyn fellow, I absolutely forbid you to speak his name in my hearing ever again.’

  Chapter twenty-one

  As the second hand started its third turn around the dial of the mantelshelf clock, Frances forced her hand to remain perfectly still on her knee.

  It was somewhere close to eleven in the morning and she was sitting in her back parlour. Opposite her, taking advantage of the light of the south-facing window, Mr Van Mayer manoeuvred her diamond necklace under his jeweller’s loop.

  It was last day of August and it had been a long, tedious month. Anybody who was anybody had left for the country, meaning all social gatherings had ceased. It was just as well because despite selling half her paintings and china, her coffers were all but empty. As the rector, despite her flattery and lavish looks, hadn’t yet taken the hint and proposed, when the flurry of end-of-the-month bills arrived a few days ago, Frances had decided that to maintain her wealthy widow charade, she would have to resort to drastic measures.

  Van Mayer had been recommended to her by Ebenezer Epstein as a gem specialist with the best reputation in Hatton Garden.

  Reputable jeweller! As Frances was concerned, the stumpy individual pawing her jewellery with his chubby hands would have looked more at home squatting on a lily pad.

  After turning over her double-string set of pearls and opal ring, he set them down on the low table between them and removed his eyeglass.

  ‘Well,’ said Frances, unable to contain herself any longer.

  ‘It’s a nice piece,’ the jeweller replied.

  ‘It most certainly is,’ she replied.

  ‘But several of the larger diamonds in the piece are either cloudy or flawed,’ he said, looking up across at her.

  ‘Flawed!’ snapped Frances. ‘I’ll have you know, my late husband had it made in Bond Street and gave it to me on our wedding day.’