The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘We will be,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll slip down the back stairs when the beadle calls the all’s well at eight-thirty.’

  Josiah shook his head. ‘Your brother’s got a man guarding the door so I’ll have to create a diversion.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Charlotte. ‘My room looks out over the stable, so when the beadle rings the eight o’clock bell, I’ll climb out of the window and across the roof.’

  Josiah stared at Charlotte, all happy eyes and smiling face looking up at him as if she’d suggested she take a turn around the garden rather than clambering out a first-floor window and negotiating her way across frozen roof tiles in the dark.

  His gaze shifted down to the noticeable bulge beneath her satin sash.

  ‘But you can’t.’

  ‘Oh, Josiah,’ she laughed. ‘I’m with child not ill and it’s not as if I’m about to deliver.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ he said, wondering in passing why they were even having this conversation. ‘It’s much too dangerous.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘When I was a tot I was always climbing trees. And, besides, the stable roof slopes away so it’s not probably not much more than your head-height at the edge.’ She gave him an effortless smile. ‘And if we’re lucky you might find a ladder from somewhere to help me down.’

  ‘But what if you slip or twist your ankle as you—’

  ‘Look, Josiah,’ she said, cutting across him. ‘As soon as my brother discovers I’ve gone he’ll be gathering his best men to pursue us. If he doesn’t discover I’m missing until he comes to fetch me to church in the morning, then we’ll be on the Carlisle flying coach going north before he’s saddled his horse and,’ she gave him the look she used when explaining something obvious to the Sunday school children, ‘more importantly we’ll be at least ten, more likely, twelve hours in front of them.’

  Josiah bit his lip.

  She was right, of course. Even the fastest mail coach couldn’t outpace a rider on a horse, especially a corn-fed army horse. If they had any hope of getting to Gretna before her brother caught up with them, they needed to get as far in front as possible before the alarm was raised.

  ‘All right,’ he said, wondering if the Thames gas was still addling his brain. ‘But only if you promise me you won’t get onto the roof until I’m there to help you.’

  ‘I promise,’ she said, putting on a solemn face. ‘But you ought to go.’

  Again, she was right. With every moment he stayed, the risk of discovery multiplied but having spent every waking hour since he’d fought his way back from the dead imagining the moment when they would be reunited he just had to kiss her once, just once.

  Slipping his arms around her waist he drew her into him. Looking fearfully at the door, Charlotte placed her hands on his chest.

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  Feeling the solid lump of the baby against him, he smiled. ‘Nonsense.’

  He looked into her eyes and Charlotte’s lips parted ready for him to cover them with his mouth.

  The door handle rattled and they sprang apart as Charlotte’s brother burst into the room.

  His eyes narrowed and as a red hue spread up his throat and mottled his jowls, they darted from Josiah to Charlotte and back again.

  ‘Who the devil are you, sir?’ he barked, putting his hand on his sword and glaring at Josiah. ‘And what is your business with—’

  ‘Here it is,’ said Charlotte, turning from the sideboard and holding a book in her hand. ‘It was the Complete Sermons of Charles Wesley you were looking for, wasn’t it?’ She looked at her brother. ‘Oh, it’s you, Laurence, I thought it was the maid bringing the tea.’

  ‘Who’s this damn fellow, Charlotte?’ her brother shouted.

  ‘Green,’ said Josiah, ignoring his pounding heart and extending his hand. ‘Ezra Green.’

  ‘Mr Green had use of the parlour yesterday,’ said Charlotte, as her brother continued to glare at Josiah. ‘And left the book he was reading. He just came to reclaim it.’

  Without looking at Josiah, she placed it on the table.

  ‘This is a private parlour,’ snapped Laurence.

  ‘Indeed, and I didn’t mean to disturb your wife,’ said Josiah, dropping his hand and picking up the leather-bound volume. ‘And I ask you pardon, sir.’

  Laurence eyed him suspiciously. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Bristol,’ Josiah replied. ‘Which is where I’m bound. It’s a long journey and this,’ he held up the book, ‘will relieve the tedium of it.’

  Laurence looked between them again and Josiah held his breath.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, after what seemed like an eternity. ‘But this lady is my sister not my wife and you are fortunate her fiancé wasn’t the one to come upon you or he’d have run you through.’ He stepped away from the door. ‘You have your damn book. I wish you good day, Mr Green.’

  Forcing a cool expression onto his face, Josiah inclined his head towards Charlotte. ‘Your pardon, miss.’ He turned to her brother. ‘Sir.’

  Eyeing him belligerently, Laurence grunted.

  Taking that as the cue to leave, Josiah walked to the door, thankful it was Major Laurence Hatton’s eyes not his sword that was piercing the space between his shoulder blades.

  ***

  ‘How’s your headache, miss?’ asked the maid, as she picked up Charlotte’s supper tray.

  ‘Better,’ said Charlotte, with a wan smile.

  The girl, with an apple-round face and bright curls, looked relieved. ‘I’m right glad to hear it. My sister gets them sick headaches from time to time and can’t do a thing for days. Still,’ she eyed the empty plate and bowl, ‘at least you managed to get something down you.’

  Actually, she didn’t have a headache and although the stewed kidneys and onion were delicious she would have eaten it had it tasted like shoe leather as she had a long night ahead.

  Her heart had nearly stopped when Laurence walked in and came face to face with Josiah. However her brother seemed to accept the explanation as he didn’t mention the incident again. Tea had arrived shortly after Josiah had left and she and Laurence drank it in virtual silence, punctuated only by the occasionally stilted observation on the weather and the quality of the sandwiches and cakes.

  Laurence had looked positively delighted when, halfway through his second scone, she’d informed him that she was developing a sick headache and needed to lie down. Clearly he was looking forward to another round of banal small talk over the evening meal as much as she was.

  Having reiterated menacingly that she was to be ready with her bags packed at the dot of eight in the morning so as not to keep him waiting, he stuffed the last tongue and pickle sandwich in his mouth and left.

  Snaffling the remaining sandwiches and two scones in a napkin for the journey north, Charlotte returned to her room. She hurriedly finished packing the few items she would need then, exhausted, she climbed into bed. Covering herself with the counterpane she spent a blissful few moments thinking about the baby before falling into an exhausted sleep.

  Hardly surprising really given that she’d been through every emotion known to man in the past three hours.

  Somewhere outside, the night watch bell rang out the seven o’clock all’s well.

  ‘Shall I come back and help you get ready for bed?’ asked the maid, as she reached the door.

  ‘No thank you,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I want to shift this headache so I’m going to retire soon and don’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘Very good, miss,’ the maid replied, bobbing a curtsy. ‘I’ll be back in the morning at seven to bring your morning water.’

  ‘Could you make it half past?’

  The maid frowned. ‘You brother said seven.’

  Charlotte gave her a pleading look. ‘Please?’

  The young girl hesitated for a second or two then nodded. ‘All right, half of the hour it is, miss, after all, ain’t it the bride’s right to make the groom
wait for her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte.

  Balancing the tray on her arm, the maid grasped the handle and then glanced at Charlotte’s wedding dress hanging between the pegs.

  ‘So beautiful,’ she sighed and left the room.

  Charlotte lay very still until she was sure the maid had gone, then she dashed to the door and threw the iron bar across.

  Diving into her bag she dragged out her stout walking boots and shoved her lighter day shoes in the space. Putting her boots on, she laced them up. Then, wrapping her thick shawl around her shoulders and across her chest, she tied it behind her. Gathering up her hairbrush and ribbons, she stuffed them in the bag. She shrugged her coat on and, without even glancing at her wedding gown, she fastened her bag. Finally, taking her bonnet from the dressing table, she pressed it on her head and tied the ribbon securely.

  She hurried to the window and threw it open. An icy blast whistled past Charlotte, chilling her cheeks in an instant. Above her the stars twinkled in the clear night sky while ice coated the roofs and window panes below.

  Although the night watch hadn’t yet called the hour, Charlotte dropped her bag out of the window. Ducking beneath the raised frame, she climbed out after it. Her boots slipped on the icy slate, so she grabbed the window sill and clung on.

  Despite it being bitterly cold, the streets below were bustling and the sound of men’s voices drifted up. From her perch Charlotte could see that the stallholders in the market square opposite were packing up their wares while in the public houses surrounding it, farmers and merchants, having finished their business, were enjoying the town before hitching up their wagons and heading home in the morning.

  Something touched her nose and she looked up to see snowflakes drifting down. They were already settling on the roofs opposite.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  Twisting around she saw Josiah’s head above the guttering.

  ‘Throw your bag,’ he said in a loud whisper.

  Hooking her elbow over the sill, she grabbed her tapestry bag and heaved it towards him. It skidded across the icy roof and Josiah caught it just before it disappeared over the edge.

  He pulled it aside and looked back at her.

  ‘Now stay there and I’ll come up,’ he said, stepping up so his shoulders were visible.

  ‘No,’ she called back. ‘Some of the tiles are loose so they might not take both our weight. I’ll come to you.’

  Her right foot slipped and in the dim light of the waning moon fear flashed across his face. ‘For God’s sake, be careful.’

  Although her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest, Charlotte forced a smile and nodded.

  Taking her courage in her hands and saying a silent prayer, Charlotte hunkered down onto her hands and knees and started to inch along the roof towards Josiah.

  ‘That’s it, sweetheart, I’ll soon be able to reach you,’ he said, stretching his arms across the roof towards her.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte moved forward but as she put her right hand on an uneven tile it shifted, throwing her off balance. She tried to right herself but instead her boots lost their traction and she started to skid towards the edge of the roof.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Josiah hissed.

  Forcing herself to stay calm and with her heart practically bursting from her chest, Charlotte rolled onto her hips and pressed herself flat to the tile. The wet coldness of the slate scraped across her face but, mercifully, it slowed her descent and after a few yards she stopped sliding.

  ‘Charlotte!’ said Josiah, the strain in his voice audible.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Charlotte, taking steady breaths to slow her pulse.

  ‘I’m coming up,’ said Josiah.

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte, glaring at him. ‘I’m fine.’

  His mouth pulled into a tight line, but he stayed where he was.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Charlotte wriggled down the remaining few yards over the frozen tiles until Josiah grabbed her ankle and guided her onto the top rung of the ladder and then down. Relieved to feel solid ground under her feet, Charlotte turned and found herself enveloped in Josiah’s arms.

  Grabbing his upper arms, she looked up at him.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, as snowflakes steeled on his eyelashes.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well then, the soon-to-be Mrs Martyn.’ He kissed her and smiled the mischievous smile of his that always set her heart dancing. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  ***

  With his temper at boiling point, Laurence Hatton stomped into The Crown at precisely eight o’clock the following morning, bringing the icy weather and snow from his boots with him.

  Without acknowledging the landlady’s greeting, he stormed through the public bar and promptly stumbled over a sleeping yokel. The man, whoever he was, lay in the middle of the bar floor in a grubby smock cradling a stoneware jug and wearing an idiotic smile.

  Laurence regarded the drunk malevolently for a second or two, then kicked him.

  Granted, he wasn’t known for his serenity of disposition but the events so far this morning would try the patience of a saint. Although he’d clearly told Pollock to meet him in the officers’ mess at six, when he’d arrived just before the hour there was no sign of him. If that wasn’t enough to sour his stomach, his annoyance rose several notches when Pollock could be found nowhere on the base. In fact, after sending soldiers scurrying in all directions to find him, it transpired that the damn man hadn’t returned to the barracks the previous night.

  Having marched into town through a foot of snow he’d then searched every ale house along the way only to finally locate the bugger in The Flying Horse, tucked up in bed with some flea-bitten floozy. If that weren’t bad enough, when he’d dragged Pollock out of bed and to his feet, he was still drunk. He’d had to spend ten minutes in the freezing yard holding his soon-to-be brother-in-law’s head under the pump to sober him up.

  Leaving him with the threat of an immediate posting to Van Diemen’s Land if he wasn’t in the church in half an hour, Laurence had marched back across town to The Crown.

  Kicking the unconscious man again, Laurence stepped over him and continued on to the private parlour. Grabbing the handle, he burst through the door only to find it empty.

  His mouth pulled into an ugly line.

  Slamming the door, he marched back out to the main bar as the clock over the fire chimed the half past.

  ‘You, girl!’ he barked, jabbing his finger at the maid who’d just walked in from the kitchen. ‘Where’s Miss Hatton?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she replied, bobbing him a brief curtsy. ‘I expect she’s still getting dressed.’

  ‘Which room is she in?’ snapped Laurence.

  ‘Number five, at the far end,’ the maid replied. ‘But I don’t think—’

  Shoving the girl out of his way, Laurence strode to the flight of steps leading to the rooms above, his booted footsteps echoing up the stairwell.

  His mood soured further when he noticed the pitcher of water for Charlotte’s morning wash was still sitting outside the door.

  Marching along the corridor he stopped in front of the room.

  ‘Charlotte!’ he bellowed.

  Nothing.

  He banged on the door.

  ‘Answer me, Charlotte!’

  Again, silence.

  He grabbed the handle and tried to open the door but couldn’t.

  ‘Charlotte!’ he yelled. ‘Open this damn door! Do you hear? Now!’

  There was still no response.

  Laurence glared at the porcelain oval with the number five painted on it for a second or two then, stepping back a couple of paces, he threw himself at the door.

  His shoulder protested as it collided with the solid oak, but the door burst open and he fell into the room.

  In a sweeping glance Laurence took in the curtains flapping in the open window, the unruffled bedclothes and untouched wedding dress. His anger move
d from fury to red-mist rage in the blink of an eye.

  Clenching his fists, he kicked the door with the sole of his boot. It bounced against the wall and rebounded.

  An image of the man he’d caught in the parlour with Charlotte the day before loomed into Laurence’s mind, coupled with the description of the scoundrel that Edmund had sent with his letter of warning.

  He kicked the door again sending chips of plaster flying across the room. Turning on his heels, he marched out of the room.

  There was only one place they could be heading and, unfortunately, they were at least twelve hours ahead of him, but no matter. With a swift horse and winter storms closing in, he was confident he’d catch the eloping pair long before they reached the Scottish border.

  Placing his hand on the butt of his pistol, a cruel smile lifted the corners of Laurence’s thin lips. And when he did catch up with them, that bastard Martyn would rue the day he’d drawn his first breath.

  Chapter thirty-two

  ‘Charlotte,’ Josiah’s voice said softly.

  Reluctantly, Charlotte dragged herself out of the warm blanket of sleep surrounding her and opened her eyes. Josiah was looking down at her with concern written all over his face.

  ‘Sweetheart. I’m sorry to wake you but we must go.’ He forced a smile onto his tired face. ‘Just ten miles.’

  Ten more miles wasn’t much really, certainly not considering they’d travelled over two hundred and fifty miles in the past five days. It was somewhere close to three in the morning and they were in the main parlour in The Fighting Cocks in Carlisle.

  They’d boarded the York Comet outside The George Hotel in Northampton just as the driver had rung the departure bell, and reached The Golden Fleece in York at four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Charlotte was dizzy with tiredness. However, as they’d missed that day’s flying coach to Carlisle, they’d found themselves a room in the small hotel away from the main part of the town before rising before first light to board the Tally-Ho to cross the Pennines.

  They’d made good progress until they reached Richmond when they were overtaken by a blizzard that blanketed the hills and villages with snow. The coach driver had battled on and although they were reduced to a walking speed through the high drifts they were only a few hours later than expected. Charlotte had practically fallen off the coach with exhaustion, which had alarmed Josiah. He’d wanted to take a room for the night and continue their journey on Friday’s flyer. However, knowing that Laurence was probably no more than a day behind them, Charlotte managed to convince him she was fine. After an hour by the fire and a bowl of hot stew she’d put on her brightest smile and they’d reboarded the coach for the night journey over the moors.