The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Jumping down from his front perch, Josiah stretched and looked around the yard. Although it was still early, the courtyard and the inn it served was bursting with prosperous-looking men smoking pipes and supping ale, and farm workers in smocks with webbing tied around their lower legs. A meaty smell drifted into Josiah’s nose and set his stomach rumbling. Tempted through he was to answer its call he resisted, as finding Charlotte was his priority. Catching his holdall as the rear man threw it to him, Josiah slung it over his shoulder and headed towards the street.

  As he passed under the low arch through which the coach had just entered, anticipation and fear twisted together in Josiah’s chest: the anticipation of holding her again and seeing her swollen with his child and the fear that she had already been forced into marriage and he was too late.

  ***

  With her heels resting on the foot stool and the logs crackling in the hearth, Charlotte turned the page of the book she was reading. She’d found it amongst a handful of others on the sideboard and, as she didn’t fancy reading the exploits of the Emperor Hannibal or General Monck’s campaign in Scotland, she’d settled on a romantic tale between a medieval knight and a fair damsel. To be honest, although she was turning the pages at regular intervals, Charlotte doubted she could have told anyone who the main characters were or what the story was about. It was hardly surprising. Midday had come and gone an hour ago, as had her lunch of game pie, cabbage and potatoes, and her brother Laurence had still not made an appearance.

  She had toyed with the idea of taking a stroll but that would have meant having the belligerent Scofield shadowing her, so she dismissed the idea. With nothing else to do but while away the time until Laurence arrived, Charlotte had to content herself with a book.

  To save her being holed up in her bedroom all morning, Mrs Colman had put the small, private parlour at the back of the inn at her disposal. The room itself was hardly bigger than her chamber upstairs, but it did overlook the small cottage garden. The herb patch and shrubs were stark and white with hoar frost but with a couple of nuthatches scrabbling around in search of worms and a red-chested robin hopping between the redcurrant and blackberry bushes, it was a pleasant outlook.

  The logs shifted in the grate sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Putting the meeting with her eldest brother and whoever he had paid to marry her aside, she turned the page.

  She’d only just finished reading the first paragraph when the door burst open and a soldier staggered in.

  He was probably only a few inches taller than her and somewhere in his mid to late thirties. It was difficult to gauge if he was fair or dark as there was so much oil anchoring his hair to his head the colour had been obliterated.

  Although dressed in his formal navy coat, instead of it being buttoned up as it should have been, the front gaped open to reveal a none-too-clean shirt beneath. With the buckle of his sword belt obscured by his overhanging belly and his buff-coloured riding breeches straining to contain his beefy thighs, he didn’t look like a man whose main diet was army rations.

  He cast his unfocused eyes around the room. Spotting her sitting by the fire he flashed his over-large teeth at her in a grin.

  ‘Good day.’

  ‘Good day, sir,’ said Charlotte, hoping having exchanged civility he would now leave.

  He didn’t. Instead, letting the door close behind him, he staggered across the room towards her, the sword dangling from his left hip swinging wildly with each step.

  He stopped in front of her and, grasping the back of her chair, loomed over her.

  ‘But my, you’re a good armful, aren’t you?’ he drawled, his unfocused gaze running brazenly over her. ‘And pretty to boot.’

  Charlotte stared at him. ‘I beg your—’

  ‘Ops, where are my manners?’ He straightened up and, narrowly avoiding poking his right eye out, saluted. ‘Captain Pollock at your service.’

  He let out a loud belch and a wave of stale brandy fumes engulfed her.

  Charlotte jumped to her feet. ‘You’re drunk!’

  ‘Madame.’ He glared at her. ‘I may have had a snifter or two to ward off the chill but drunk, never!’

  He belched again and staggered a few steps to the right before getting his balance.

  ‘You most certainly are,’ said Charlotte. ‘And as a gentleman I must ask you to lea—’

  ‘I’ve met your sort of woman before,’ he interrupted, his bloodshot grey eyes sharp with rancour. ‘All sugar on the outside and vinegar beneath. The sort who’d tut, tut at a chap for having the odd drink or two in the officers’ mess.’

  ‘This is a private parlour,’ said Charlotte, not bothering to hide the full force of her disgust. ‘Sir, I must ask you to —’

  ‘A firm hand.’ He grabbed her wrist and thrust his face into hers. ‘That’s what you need, a firm hand.’

  Shaking with fury, Charlotte wrenched her arm free. ‘How dare y—’

  The door opened and her brother Laurence strode in bringing the chilly air and noise from the inn’s tap room with him. He was trussed up in his regimental navy jacket with gold frogging across the front and around the cuffs, matching breeches, riding boots and with a thick woollen cloak over the top.

  Although a little greyer and heavier than when she’d seen him two years before, he was much as she remembered him, with her mother’s fair hair and complexion and her father’s sour features.

  Slamming the door behind him, he surveyed the scene.

  Charlotte’s assailant dragged himself to attention and saluted. ‘Major.’

  Laurence returned the salute. ‘Stand easy.’

  Pollock did, and Charlotte’s brother turned his attention to her.

  Giving her a cool look, he strode over and kissed her briefly on the cheek.

  ‘You passed a good night, I trust, Sister?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Charlotte replied, matching her brother’s unenthusiastic tone.

  ‘Well you’re here now,’ he replied. ‘And I see you’ve already met Clive.’

  Charlotte looked puzzled. ‘Clive.’

  ‘Captain Pollock,’ Laurence explained.

  ‘Indeed, Larry,’ the man beside her replied. ‘We were just getting acquainted.’

  He took her hand and would have lifted it to his lips had Charlotte not snatched it back.

  ‘Acquainted!’ snapped Charlotte. ‘You were attacking me.’

  Clive gave her a smarmy smile then looked back at her brother. ‘So are we gadding off to the old church, then?’

  Laurence shook his head. ‘Damn vicar! Said it would have to be tomorrow as he’s off to some minor gentry’s reception somewhere.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him who you were?’ asked Clive.

  ‘I did and your connections,’ said Laurence. ‘I even showed him the archbishop’s licence but the bally jackanape wouldn’t budge.’

  ‘Probably one of these Luddite fellows,’ said Clive. ‘You know, always spouting that “all men are equal” hogwash.’

  ‘Well, it’s damn impertinent,’ said Laurence. ‘I shall be writing to the Bishop of Peterborough to tell him so.’

  ‘Oh well, tomorrow it is then. We can make an early start toasting my last night of freedom.’

  Clipping his heels together he bowed to Charlotte, then saluted her brother and marched unsteadily out of the room.

  As the catch clunked in the lock, Charlotte rounded on her brother.

  ‘You’re not seriously going to marry me to him, are you?’

  Laurence’s mouth pulled into a cheerless line. ‘You’re lucky to be marrying anyone after the way you’ve behaved.’

  ‘You mean fallen in love?’

  ‘Love!’ he sneered. ‘Lust, don’t you mean? And with a grubby labourer.’

  ‘For your information, Brother, Josiah Martyn was an engineer,’ Charlotte replied as saying his name aloud tore at her heart.

  ‘Well, whatever he was, he was no gentleman,’ He jabbed his finger at her. ‘And in
stead of berating me, you should be on your knees thanking me.’

  ‘Thanking you for what? Marrying me to a drunk who was threatening to show me a “firm hand” when you walked in?’

  ‘Thanking me because although Father would have been content to have you married off to some common soldier I managed to secure you a respectable match. Clive Pollock’s uncle is the Earl of Morpeth.’

  ‘So if he’s such an eligible catch why has he agreed to marry me? asked Charlotte.

  ‘He’s a little embarrassed at the moment,’ her brother replied, struggling to hold her gaze.

  ‘So you’re paying off his gambling debts?’

  Her brother didn’t deny it.

  Charlotte gave him a questioning look. ‘You have told him my about condition, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course I told him,’ said her brother. ‘Clive’s not a fool.’

  ‘No, just a boorish drunk,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘Enough! All that is required of you is that you be ready to go to the church at eight o’clock as the vicar is expecting us at nine.’ He picked up his tricorn hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘And you can think on this while you’re getting ready in the morning, Sister dear. Clive’s uncle is in his seventies and childless, and with just two cousins older than him with no issue, he has a reasonable chance of inheriting the title. So, who knows.’ He smiled smugly. ‘One day you might redeem yourself completely by becoming Lady Morpeth.’

  Turning, he marched to the door and stormed out, slamming it behind him.

  Charlotte collapsed into the chair. Resting her head back, she closed her eyes. She could never be Lady anything, the Duchess of wherever, or even the Princess of somewhere, because no matter what, in her heart she was, and would always be, Mrs Josiah Martyn.

  ***

  As he strolled under the carriage gate into the crown yard a fair-haired copy of Reverend Hatton emerged from the main saloon and Josiah knew his search for Charlotte’s whereabouts was over.

  Since he’d jumped down from the coach at eight, three hours ago, he’d visited almost every hostelry in the town and asked discreetly if a young dark-haired woman travelling with just a servant had arrived recently. Thankfully he’d struck lucky at The Angel when one of the maids he’d spoken to said her cousin who worked at The Crown had mentioned a young lady matching this description. She had arrived in a mud-splattered coach the day before. In addition, whilst on his stroll around the watering-holes of the town, he’d noted the times and destinations of the coaches travelling north from Northampton.

  Josiah watched as Major Hatton peered imperiously around for a second then signalled to a soldier chatting with the young woman who was filling a bucket at the pump on the other side of the cobbled space.

  The private hurried over.

  Major Hatton barked something at him. The soldier saluted and marched into the inn.

  Setting his hat straight and with a sour look reminiscent of his father, Charlotte’s brother marched across the yard and back into the bustling market square beyond, passing Josiah without a second glance.

  Shouldering his knapsack, Josiah headed towards the door. Lowering his head to avoid braining himself on the solid-looking top lintel, he walked into the main bar.

  With its low-beamed ceiling and white walls punctuated at regular intervals by blackened beams, the main bar of the Crown looked very much as the other inns he’d been in that morning. Like them too it was packed to the gunnels with pipe-smoking farmers and stout-bellied merchants. There was also, as you’d expect in a garrison town, a fair number of soldiers sitting at tables with tankards in their hands, playing cards.

  Squeezing his way through, he went up to the counter. An older woman serving behind it, the proprietor’s wife judging by her dress and manner, came over.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘A small,’ Josiah replied.

  Taking a half-tankard from the stack on the bar she turned and shoved it under one of the barrels behind her and turned the tap.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘We have a pie or two from midday if you’ve a hankering for them.’

  As he’d had a bowl of stew at The Griffin in Bridge Street not an hour before, Josiah shook his head. ‘That’s kind of you, mistress, but the beer will do,’ he replied, lowering his bag of tools to the floor.

  She placed it in front of him and he handed over a couple of coins.

  ‘You’re busy for a week day,’ he said, glancing over at the queue of yeomen lined up in front of a clerk sitting at a desk in the window.

  ‘Yes, Althorp estate yule rents are due now the harvest is in,’ she said. ‘Folk come from as far afield as Huntingdon and Banbury so we ain’t complaining but I can’t say as how I won’t be happy when it packs up tomorrow.’

  Josiah took a slurp of his beer. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘We brew it ourselves,’ the landlady said with justifiable pride. ‘You ain’t from around these parts.’

  ‘No, Bristol,’ Josiah replied. ‘On my way home for a week or two.’ He swallowed another mouthful. ‘Did I see Major Hatton walk out of here as I came in?’

  ‘I expect you did, he’s a regular of ours,’ said the woman. ‘He was in here a while back. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Josiah. ‘But his father was a vicar at the church in Hertfordshire where I attended. I think his younger brother followed his father into the church.’

  ‘So I hear,’ said the landlady.

  ‘He had a sister too if I remember correctly,’ said Josiah. ‘Although I don’t know what became of her. She’s probably married by now.’

  ‘Not until tomorrow she’s not,’ chuckled the landlady.

  Although his heart was pounding in his chest, Josiah looked puzzled. ‘You mean she’s here?’

  A merry smile danced across the woman’s face. ‘In the parlour yonder.’ She indicated the door at the far end of the room with a nod. ‘She’s all set to be married tomorrow. Got her dress and everything, so Dolly, my maid tells me. Come all this way through dreadful weather to marry her sweetheart. Perhaps you should go and pay your respects.’

  Overcoming the urge to dash across the room, Josiah shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  Someone banged his tankard on the counter at the far end and the landlady bustled off to serve him. Picking up his knapsack, Josiah strolled towards the door and wedged himself on the end of a bench full of boisterous farm labourers. The soldier he’d seen talking to Charlotte’s brother in the yard was sat at a table across from Josiah and had clearly been ordered to guard the door.

  Although the thought of Charlotte being only a few paces away was almost overwhelming his reason, Josiah forced himself to stay where he was. Taking a sip of beer, he waited.

  People came in and others left while the girls serving threaded their way through the crowds, ferrying tankards and steaming plates of food to customers. Josiah was beginning to despair of ever slipping past the man Charlotte’s brother had placed on sentry duty when one of the green-coated rifle men who were lounging against the wall shouted something across at the handful of blue-coated artillery men around the fire. Throwing their ale back they rose to their feet. A couple of insults were exchanged and then one of the riflemen pushed an artillery man who shoved him back, then others joined in.

  Casting a quick look at the door, the blue-coated soldier detailed to keep watch on the parlour stood up. Cracking his knuckles, he headed towards the developing fight.

  Putting down his tankard, Josiah rose and strolled across to the parlour door.

  ***

  With her feet up on the footstool and her head resting back on the hard wood of the chair, Charlotte stared blankly ahead.

  Even after Edmund had told her of her fate, Charlotte had somehow managed to keep her spirits up. However, having met her prospective husband, she could feel her determination to survive slipping away. To be honest, having suffered just five minutes in Clive Pollock�
��s company, were it not for the small life growing inside her, she would have dashed from the room and thrown herself under the first mail coach that thundered past.

  Feeling tears pinching the corners of her eyes, Charlotte closed them. She took hold of her mother’s crucifix that hung around her neck. Squeezing it until it dug into the palms of her hands, she prayed fervently for the strength to endure.

  The handle rattled as the parlour door squeaked open and closed again.

  Having no inclination to see her brother’s arrogant face, Charlotte didn’t open her eyes.

  ‘Charlotte,’ a familiar voice said.

  Her heart leapt then galloped off.

  Her eyes blinked open and she gasped as Josiah’s ghost, inexplicably sporting a trimmed beard, strode across the room towards her.

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t speak. Thankfully she was sitting down as the floor shifted precariously sideward before settling back in place. The baby reacted to her pounding heart by doing a somersault and Charlotte clasped her stomach protectively.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the apparition said, its eyes flickering onto her hands. ‘You’re not seeing a ghost. See,’ he took her hand. ‘I’m alive.’

  Charlotte stared up at him. His face was thinner and his hair longer, with the additional beard, but the eyes brimmed with love like Josiah’s did and the hands holding hers were as warm and strong as she remembered.

  ‘I wrote to you at your brother Edmund’s house to tell you I was alive and coming to fetch you, but—’

  ‘Josiah!’ she threw herself at him, her arms clasping him around the neck. She burst into tears.

  His arms wound around her.

  ‘It’s going to be all right, my love,’ he said softly, holding her tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably into his chest. He kissed her hair. ‘It’s all over. I’m here and I’m going to take care of you and our baby.’

  She raised her head and looked at him. ‘You know! How?’

  He smiled.

  ‘I heard you tell me.’ He pressed his lips on hers. ‘Now listen, we haven’t got much time. There’s an overnight mail coach to York that leaves from the George Hotel in the market square at nine tonight and we have to be on it.’