The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Mrs Palmer,’ he replied, taking it and bowing over it. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’

  She frowned slightly. ‘I’m sorry to call unexpectedly but I was concerned to hear yesterday in church that Charlotte was unwell and had been since last Friday.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said the rector.

  ‘Poor child,’ said Mrs Palmer, her face a picture of concern. ‘Perhaps I could go up and see her to keep her company for a little while.’

  ‘No!’ He forced a nonchalant expression onto his face. ‘That is to say, she’s resting but be assured Charlotte has a chill, nothing more.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ he called.

  Ellie came in laden down with a tray of tea and deposited it on the occasional table in front of the sofa.

  ‘That will be all,’ said Mr Hatton.

  Ellie curtsied and hurried out.

  ‘Let me.’ Mrs Palmer gripped the ebony teapot handle.

  He smiled and settled back.

  Having handed him a tea with three sugars and set four sandwiches on a plate before him, Mrs Palmer spoke again.

  ‘Of course, I don’t think I would have been quite so worried about dear Charlotte had it not been for poor Mr Martyn,’ she said, taking a sip of tea.

  The rector gave her a sharp look. ‘What about Mr Martyn?’

  Her brow furrowed slightly. ‘Surely you’ve heard he too is sick.’

  ‘Now you mention it, I did hear something,’ Mr Hatton replied, airily.

  Mrs Palmer sighed. ‘Such a shame. Cut down in the prime of life.’

  ‘He’s dead, then?’ Mr Hatton asked, trying to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

  She shook her head. ‘They say it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘May his passing be peaceful,’ said Mr Hatton in his best pulpit voice.

  ‘And painless,’ said Mrs Palmer.

  And soon, thought the rector.

  ‘Such a fine young man with his whole future in front of him.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘And so fond of Charlotte.’

  Mr Hatton felt the blood start pounding in his ears and the nerve in his right eye started twitching.

  The bishop’s face loomed into his mind. His spiritual superior glared at him with the weight of the Church’s condemnation in his face. All because of Josiah Martyn. The image faded but his cousin Lord Kettlethorpe’s face took its place. He imagined him, along with his numerous, aunts, uncles and cousins, looking at him with disgust because Josiah Martyn’s low-born blood was mingled with theirs. They too faded and the fashionable salons of London, hothouses of gossip, with their witty hostesses materialised in his mind as a chorus of laughter rang out from the cream of society because of Josiah Martyn.

  Something cracked, and he felt a warm, damp sensation on his knee.

  ‘Mr Hatton?’ Mrs Palmer’s voice came from what seemed a long way away.

  The rector blinked and returned to the here and now. He looked down and saw that although his finger was still looped around the handle of his teacup, it had snapped and the warm sensation was the tea from the broken cup as it fell to the floor.

  Putting down her cup and saucer, Mrs Palmer’s gloved hand rested on his arm.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, looking worriedly across at him.

  ‘Wrong! Wrong!’ he wailed, putting his hand on his forehead. ‘Oh, Mrs Palmer, if you only knew. Job’s trial were like a picnic in the park compared to the hell I’ve lived through these past few days. It’s too awful for words.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘It will help to unburden yourself, Mr Hatton, and whatever disaster has befallen you and dear Charlotte, you can rely on my discretion.’

  The rector gave her a tortured smile and took her hand.

  ‘I’m ashamed to say it, Mrs Palmer, but Charlotte is the disaster because the truth of the matter is she is not in bed with a chill, but...’

  He told her the whole story.

  ‘So perhaps you can understand why I’ve barely slept a wink since Friday for fear of the news of her wicked and debauched behaviour getting out,’ he concluded.

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘And, of course, if Charlotte’s behaviour reached the ears of the bishop or St Mary’s patron, then...’

  Something akin to ice-cold water coursed through the rector’s veins. His heart started to jump irregularly around in his chest and he clutched at it.

  ‘Not that they will,’ she added. ‘Not after you acted so boldly.’

  Mr Hatton’s smoothed his hair back. ‘Well, I am a man of firm action.’

  ‘And with Martyn soon to meet his maker and now you’ve confided in Edmund about Charlotte’s dreadful situation, as soon as you hear back from him you can decide Charlotte’s fate,’ continued Mrs Palmer, ‘and all will be well again.’

  She leant forward, and Mr Hatton’s eyes flickered onto the neckline of her gown.

  In truth, it was a little low for afternoon calls but he was no prude. She squeezed his arm and his eyes returned to her face.

  ‘You poor, poor man,’ she said, giving him a look of deep compassion.

  ‘It is my lot,’ he said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Both as a father and servant of God, to carry such burdens.’

  Her gaze flickered across his shoulders. ‘Well, you are certainly built for such a task.’

  Shifting closer to her, Mr Hatton pressed his leg onto hers.

  ‘But had I known what torment you were going through, I would have been happy to ease your cares.’

  ‘I see that now, dear lady, but I was afraid that if you discovered the shame my daughter has brought to this house I would have lost something most precious to me.’ He smiled. ‘Your friendship.’

  ‘You will always have that.’ Holding his gaze, she removed her hand from his arm and placed it on his thigh. ‘In fact, and at the risk of you thinking me too bold, I must confess, my dear Mr Hatton, my feelings for you go much deeper than mere friendship.’

  From under her lashes Mrs Palmer gave him a lavish look and her hand slid upwards. The rector felt his cods stir in response.

  Shifting closer, his eyes flicked down to her cleavage again.

  ‘Mrs Palmer,’ he said, taking her unoccupied hand. ‘If we are sharing confessions then I have one too. My feelings for you go much deeper than friendship, too.’ He slipped his other arm around her and drew her closer. ‘And now I know my affections are reciprocated, may I make so bold to declare myself further?’

  ‘Mr Hatton,’ she murmured, breathlessly. ‘You can’t mean—’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Palmer, I do.’ He pressed her fingers to his lips. ‘So would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  Wonderment lit up her face. Putting her hand on his chest, she melted into him.

  ‘Oh, my dear Mr Hatton, I most certainly will,’ she replied.

  Releasing her fingers, he pressed his lips onto hers and placed his hand on her breast, feeling the soft flesh under his fingertips. She opened her mouth under his and he filled it with his tongue. An odd metallic flavour tickled his taste buds and he wondered in passing what it might be, but then Mrs Palmer’s hand shifted onto the front flap of his breeches and he had other things to occupy his mind.

  Chapter twenty-six

  Charlotte woke from another night of fitful sleep to the sound of footsteps on the landing outside her room. She pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. Glancing at the window she guessed it must be sometime around seven o’clock as there was just the faint hint of autumn sunlight creeping under the shutters. Now, in the minutes after waking, the dreadful events of the previous day rushed back and threated to overwhelm her.

  It was now seven days since her father had thrown her into her bedroom and locked the door. She had hoped that once his temper had burnt itself out he would come to see her but after three days had passed with only Ellie and Mrs Norris attending to her needs, a sense of dread and foreboding settled on Charlotte.

  It was Friday 20th Octo
ber and had things gone as planned, she would have been Mrs Josiah Martyn for a whole month now instead of a prisoner in her own bedroom. Steeling herself to face another day, Charlotte threw back the covers and swung her legs out of bed.

  Her stomach instantly rebelled, causing her to reach for the china gazunder. Putting it on her knee, she took a couple of deep breaths and waited. Mercifully the nausea subsided, so Charlotte stood up. The woollen rug was rough on her bare feet but staved off the cold from the floorboards. As Mrs Norris had the key to Charlotte’s room and she didn’t rise from her bed until Ellie had lit the fires, for the past week her fire had remained unlit until her breakfast was brought in.

  She shivered and reached for her dressing gown. Shrugging it on, she padded across the floor to the window that overlooked the garden.

  A chill could explain away her confinement for another few days but what then? Her father couldn’t keep her locked in her room indefinitely?

  There was the briefest knock, then the door opened and Mrs Norris, followed by Ellie, entered. As she was no longer at liberty to say who could enter her room, she said nothing.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Norris cheerfully. ‘I trust you slept well.’

  Charlotte didn’t reply.

  Mrs Norris turned to the maid. ‘Set it down there.’ She indicated the occasional table next to Charlotte. ‘And then get on with the fire.’

  The maid did as she was bid while Mrs Norris set the hot water jug on the dresser beside the bowl ready for Charlotte’s morning wash.

  Kneeling by the fire grate, Ellie pulled a tinder box from under her apron.

  The kindling had just started to glow when Mr Hatton’s voice bellowed down the hall from his room at the far end.

  ‘Mrs Norris!’

  The cook glanced at Charlotte.

  ‘Mrs Norris!’ he yelled again. ‘Where the devil are you?’

  She turned to Ellie.

  ‘You know the rector’s instruction,’ she said, giving the maid a ferocious look.

  ‘Yes, Cook,’ the maid replied, keeping her eyes on the floor and dropping a quick curtsy.

  ‘Mind you do,’ snapped Mrs Norris. ‘Or you’ll find yourself on the streets.’

  Hurrying out, she closed the door behind her and the key turned in the lock.

  Ellie jumped to her feet and came over to Charlotte.

  ‘My poor lady,’ she said softly, her pale-blue eyes scanning her face.

  ‘I’m fine and I’ll soon mend,’ said Charlotte, putting her hand to her cheek and then wishing she hadn’t.

  Although the vivid purple bruise where her father had hit her had faded and the swelling had subsided, her right cheek was still tender to the touch.

  ‘Tis wicked, that’s what it is,’ Ellie said. ‘Keeping you locked up like this. It’s wrong, all wrong.’

  ‘Have you seen Sarah?’ asked Charlotte.

  Ellie shook her head. ‘No, she’s been at the hospital most days.’

  Hope fluttered in Charlotte’s heart. ‘Mr Martyn is still alive then.’

  Ellie gave her a pitying look and took her hand.

  The key rattled in the door and the maid sprang back.

  Dropping to her knees she gathered her fire-lighting equipment together and Charlotte sat back on her bed.

  Charlotte picked up a slice of toast just as Mrs Norris walked in.

  She gave them both a suspicious look which neither Charlotte or Ellie acknowledged.

  She stood for a moment watching Charlotte nibble at her toast and then crossed her hands in front of her. ‘I have to inform you that once you’ve finished your breakfast you are to dress and then pack a suitcase with enough to tide you over for a few days.’

  ‘Where am I going?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘To your brother’s. Tomorrow,’ Mrs Norris replied. ‘The rector feels the quiet solitude of the cathedral cloister would be a suitable place for you to spend the next few weeks until arrangements have been made.’

  ‘What arrangements?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, miss.’ A smug expression spread across the cook’s flat face. ‘But the coach will be ready at 11 and you are to be ready to travel by then. Ellie!’

  The maid stood up and, sending Charlotte a baleful look, she hurried out.

  Mrs Norris inclined her head a fraction, then followed the maid out.

  The key turned in the lock again and Charlotte was alone. Laying back on the pillow she contemplated her prison.

  Her walnut wardrobe and dressing table stood where they always had against the far wall. The fine lace overlay hung down on either side and the porcelain tray and candlestick stood guard on either side of the pivoting oval mirror. On the peg in the corner the bright fabric of her day gowns mingled together while in the corner of the room was her mother’s dark oak writing desk.

  Everything looked just the same as it did a week ago except now Josiah would very soon be gone.

  Tears started to form in her eyes, but Charlotte blinked them away. If she was to ensure that Josiah’s precious child survived, she had to act not weep.

  ***

  A flutter of cold air drifted across his face and the mellow tones of the nurses’ voices finally brought Josiah’s mind back to reality. He lay for a moment listening to the sounds of the hospital, then opened his eyes and stared up at the whitewashed ceiling above. He drew in a long breath through his nose, enjoying the sensation of the air filling the corners of his lungs.

  Life burst through him again like an icy waterfall and his spirits soared. He was alive. Thank God, he was alive. Then he remembered.

  ‘Charlotte!’ he shouted, flinging back the blankets covering him.

  He rolled onto his side and swung his legs out of bed but as he planted his bare feet onto the cold stone floor and tried to stand, his legs crumpled beneath him.

  ‘Where be you going, Jos boy,’ said a familiar voice as a pair of strong arms saved him from crashing to the ground.

  ‘I have to get to her, Ezra,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘Not right now you don’t,’ his brother replied, humping him back into bed and throwing the covers over him.

  ‘But I must, I—’

  Pushing his brother aside, Josiah heaved himself up again. However, although he stayed upright this time, his head swam and black spots started popping up at the corners of his vision. Nausea swept over him and he collapsed back on the bed.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Ezra, resuming his seat on the chair beside the bed. ‘You can’t be leaping out of bed like a spring hare after you’ve been laid flat on your back for over four weeks.’

  ‘A month!’ Josiah struggled up onto his elbow. ‘I have to get to the rectory and stop Charlotte!’

  ‘From doing what?’ asked Ezra, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Marrying Paget,’ said Josiah.

  Ezra laughed. ‘Well you can rest easy on that score, Brother. The wedding’s off.’

  ‘It is?’ said Josiah.

  Ezra nodded. ‘As Ellie told Sarah, when they met in the market a week ago, Captain Paget pitched up at the rectory just after breakfast, all red-faced and bulging eyes, to see Mr Hatton. He and the rector were in the study for an hour then Captain Paget left with a thunderous look on his face. When Miss Hatton came home a bit later there was a lot of shouting about an anonymous letter Captain Paget got and then the rector locked Miss Hatton in her room and—’

  ‘He knows,’ Josiah said, sitting bolt upright. ‘The rector knows.’

  ‘What, about you and Miss Hatton being engaged?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Josiah, again trying to get his legs over the side of the bed. ‘And her being with child. My child.’ He raked his fingers through his hair as he struggled to master the desperation raging inside him. ‘Someone, probably that old trollop Mrs Palmer, found out about Charlotte’s condition and I’d wager a farthing to a guinea that she wrote the letter Nicolas Paget received.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, I suppose that explains why Miss Hatton was sent to her brother’s in St Albans last Friday,’ said Ezra. ‘The rector’s put it around that she’s gone to prepare for her wedding, but Ellie says all her clothes have been sent on and her room emptied of all her personal things so it doesn’t look like she’s coming back.’

  Charlotte’s sanctimonious brother Edmund loomed into Josiah’s mind and foreboding joined the other emotions raging through him.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ he said, as his heart thundered in his chest. ‘If I hadn’t fallen ill, we’d have been man and wife now. She probably thinks I’m dead already.’

  Ezra didn’t reply. He didn’t need to; his glum expression spoke for him.

  ‘I have to get to her.’

  Josiah threw back the covers again and forced himself to his feet only to find himself nose to nose with his brother.

  ‘Get thee back in bed, Jos,’ said Ezra, flatly.

  ‘But you don’t understand, Ezra’ said Josiah, beads of sweat springing out on his forehead. ‘God only knows what her family have planned if I—’

  ‘And you don’t seem understand, Jos,’ snapped Ezra, grabbing his upper arms and shaking him. ‘You’ve been all but dead for four weeks and other than the soup me and Sarah have trickled over your teeth each day nothing else has passed your lips. You ain’t quite a bag of bones but you ain’t far off neither so you’d be lucky to get to the gates of the hospital, never you mind all the ways to St Albans. If you are intent on whisking Miss Hatton away and wedding her, you need to build yourself up first.’ His brother fixed him with a fierce stare. ‘Now, are you going to stay in that bed, Brother, or do you want me to get some straps from the matron and tie you in to it.’

  Josiah eyeballed his brother furiously for a moment then sank back onto the bed.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Ezra.

  Ezra threw the covers back over his brother, then reached down to pick up a basket from beside the chair. He plonked it next to Josiah on the bed.

  ‘Right, you can start by getting your gums around this.’ Delving in, his brother pulled out a muslin-wrapped pie and gave it to Josiah. ‘There be a small beer in the flask, an apple and a hunk of cheese in the napkin.’