The Rector's Daughter Read online

  Jean Fullerton is the author of fourteen historical novels and two novellas. She is a qualified District and Queen’s nurse who has spent most of her working life in the East End of London, first as a Sister in charge of a team, and then as a District Nurse tutor. She is also a qualified teacher and spent twelve years lecturing on community nursing studies at a London university. She now writes full time.

  Find out more at www.jeanfullerton.com

  Also by Jean Fullerton

  No Cure for Love

  A Glimpse of Happiness

  Perhaps Tomorrow

  Hold on to Hope

  Call Nurse Millie

  Christmas with Nurse Millie

  All Change for Nurse Millie

  Easter with Nurse Millie

  Fetch Nurse Connie

  Wedding Bells for Nurse Connie

  Pocketful of Dreams

  A Ration Book Christmas

  A Ration Book Childhood

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Jean Fullerton, 2019

  The moral right of Jean Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 961 5

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Dedication

  To Janet Gover, Rachel Summerson and Jenny Haddon, who have listened to me banging on about the ‘tunnel book’ for almost half a decade.

  Chapter one

  Drumming her fingers silently against the ruby-coloured twill of her skirt, Charlotte Hatton, daughter of Reverend Percival Hatton, rector of St Mary’s, Rotherhithe, stared through her parlour window at the great swathe of people making their way down Church Street toward Cow Yard.

  In the reflection she saw Mrs Palmer reposition the curly ostrich feathers in her new hat for the fourth time in the overmantel mirror.

  ‘Mama,’ whined Mrs Palmer’s nine-year-old son Arthur, tugging at her sleeve. ‘I want to go now!’

  Ignoring the boy, Mrs Palmer pulled the long hat pin out yet again and slid it back at a different angle.

  Standing a little taller than Charlotte’s five feet three, Mrs Palmer must have been in her early forties with only a few wisps of grey running through her dark-brown hair. She was slender to the point of being thin so, unlike Charlotte, she didn’t have to fiddle with the fichu across her chest to keep her neckline respectable.

  She had been one of their first visitors when Charlotte and her father had taken up the living just over a year ago, and now, much to her father’s delight, was an almost daily visitor to the rectory.

  Arthur left his mother’s side. He pushed in front of Charlotte and pressed his nose against the pane, his breath forming a steaming patch on the chilly glass.

  ‘Doooo hurry, Mama,’ he said, twisting back to look at his mother. ‘If we don’t get there soon there won’t be any space.’

  Going by the stream of people passing the window, Charlotte was afraid Arthur might be right. After all, it wasn’t every day you’re able to witness history. Today, 2nd March in the year of our Lord 1825, was the day Mr Brunel was breaking the soil for an engineering feat which had never been attempted before: tunnelling under London’s mighty river; the Thames.

  Although it would take some three years to build, when it was complete carriages would travel between where they were in Rotherhithe to Wapping on the north bank. Unsurprisingly, many thought it folly and doomed to failure, but Charlotte sided with those who called the project the Wonder of the Age, and vowed to be one of the first to walk from one side of the river to the other through Mr Brunel’s subterranean tunnel.

  ‘There will not be any spaces,’ Mrs Palmer replied, as she adjusted the feather yet again.

  Finally satisfied, she turned and smiled.

  ‘I think we are now ready,’ she said, picking up her parasol and holding her other hand out for Arthur.

  The boy took it and they walked through to the hallway. Charlotte opened the front door just as St Mary’s tenor bells sounded. Stepping out into Church Street, she and her companions plunged into the sea of people togged up in their Sunday best. They pushed through the crowds, side-stepping the bare-footed children dodging between them.

  Costermongers – their stalls laden with oysters and coffee – and pie vendors hoping to make a bob or two, lined their route to Cow Yard. Their numbers were probably matched by pickpockets with the same aim. In addition to the usual street traders a new breed of merchant mingled amongst them; the souvenir hawker selling cheap plaster statues and pins with images of what the entrance to the Thames Tunnel would look like when it was completed in three years.

  Finding herself jostled by a press of people, Charlotte tried to quicken the pace.

  ‘There is no need to hurry, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Your father is one of the dignitaries invited to see Mr Brunel break the earth where the first shaft is to be dug, plus he is the rector in which this project is taking place, so we are assured of entry.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Charlotte replied, as a coach with smartly painted livery passed them, lurching unsteadily on the uneven cobbles. ‘Although I did read in The Times that the whole government is coming, including Lord Liverpool, to support Mr Brunel’s plans.’

  ‘To my mind, a well-brought-up young lady should rely on her father to inform her of such things, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Rather than read it herself a newspaper.’

  Swinging on his mother’s arm, Arthur thumped into Charlotte, causing her to stumble.

  ‘Such an energetic spirit,’ said Mrs Palmer, smiling indulgently.

  Charlotte didn’t comment.

  They pressed on until they arrived at the wooden corral that surrounded the shaft site. The band was already tuning up.

  ‘We had better find our seat,’ said Charlotte as they squeezed through the entrance. ‘You know how Father hates tardiness,’ she added as her cape billowed out, caught by a sudden gust of wind.

  Mrs Palmer patted her arm. ‘I’m sure he will be too busy rehearsing his speech to notice if we are a little late.’

  Charlotte gave her a wan smile. ‘Let’s hope.’

  Gathering her skirt up high to avoid the mud underfoot, Charlotte picked her way across the main yard where a huge iron circle lay on the dirt. Sliding behind the men and women admiring its craftsmanship, they headed for the reserved seating at the far side of the arena.

  A man dressed in a navy suit with a Thames Company badge on his lapel, and carrying a clipboard, greeted them. After finding their names on the second page of his list, he unhooked the rope. Stepping up onto the platform they made their way along the front row to the end seats next to the brass band.

  ‘What a crowd,’ said Mrs Palmer, correcting the angle of the ostrich feather as they settled in their seats.

  She was right. It lo
oked as if the whole of London, dressed in their Sunday best, had come to see history in the making. Across the heads of the milling crowds Charlotte spotted her father, dressed in his formal clerical court garb of black breeches and gaiters. Even at this distance, she could see his florid face above his tight collar.

  He was standing with two other smartly dressed gentlemen and a small man wearing an enormously tall top hat. The shorter man, who Charlotte judged to be not quite her height, was gesticulating furiously towards the ground and then up to the sky. The two men beside her father were listening to him without interruption and, surprisingly, so was her father.

  ‘I must say you look rather fetching in your new outfit, my dear,’ said Mrs Palmer, cutting across her thoughts.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Palmer,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I copied it from an illustration entitled ‘Paris Mode’ in last month’s Lady magazine and made it myself.’

  Mrs Palmer, fingering the double frogging on the edge of her jacket, gave a syrupy smile. ‘How very clever of you, and the unsophisticated style suits you perfectly.’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘The design was described as perfect for the “fresh-faced younger lady”.’

  A dark flush splashed up Mrs Palmer’s throat and her lips pulled a little tighter for a second, then she too smiled. ‘Is Captain Paget coming today?’

  ‘If Mrs Paget is well enough to be left,’ Charlotte replied.

  Mrs Palmer’s expression formed itself into one of deep concern. ‘Poor Captain Paget, always at the mercy of his mother’s nerves.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I can’t see, Mama,’ wailed Arthur. ‘Why can’t we be on the platform like them?’ He jabbed his finger toward where Charlotte’s father stood amongst the dignitaries on the stage.

  ‘Because it’s reserved for important people,’ his mother replied. ‘I’m sorry, my lamb, but—’

  ‘But I want to!’ Arthur clenched his fist and screwed his face up. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not—’

  ‘Miss Hatton,’ cut in Mrs Palmer. ‘Perhaps you should get a little closer to the platform to ensure you can hear your father’s speech.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Perhaps I should.’

  Hooking her reticule over her arm, she rose to her feet.

  ‘And would you be a dear and take Arthur with you?’

  Charlotte forced a smile. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘I’ll meet you in the refreshment tent after the speeches.’

  Arthur jumped down and Charlotte held out her hand.

  ‘Do as Miss Hatton says, Arthur,’ his mother called after them.

  ‘Of course,’ he shouted over his shoulder, treading on people’s feet as he side-stepped along the bench.

  ***

  Josiah Martyn dragged his handkerchief from his trouser back pocket for the umpteenth time and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Not that the weather was warm, quite the contrary, it was a bit on the chilly side but as he’d spent the past half an hour manhandling a cast-iron beam from its straw and rough wood casing, it was hardly surprising he was sweating.

  Still, he should make the most of working above ground because once the tunnel shaft started downwards, he’d be following it.

  He’d spent half his life in the bowels of the earth, first as an apprentice engineer in a tin mine in his native Cornwall, then excavating coal seams in Yorkshire, Dudley, Northumberland, harvesting the black gold beneath.

  After he’d finished in Barnsley, opening a new seam for Lord Radley, Josiah had promised himself a job in the sun on one of the new railways, but the chance to be the senior engineer on site under Mr Armstrong and Mr Brunel himself was too good to turn down. Although Josiah had spent all of his working life underground propping up shafts and blasting away rock to access precious minerals like coal, tin and copper, this time it was different. This time he’d be digging blind through Thames mud, shifting shale, and once they started tunnelling northward for Wapping, there would be a tidal river surging back and forth only a few feet above their heads, which is why the Thames Tunnel company was paying double the going rate for men, because you might not live long enough to enjoy the wages.

  Shoving his handkerchief back where it came from, he scanned the area. Unlike the main area where the good and the great of the land were now gathering for the breaking ground ceremony, Josiah was in a section screened off from the public. Behind him was the site office and to his left was the on-site foundry where running repairs to the equipment and machinery could be carried out. Strewn all around were the various sections of the water pump that had been delivered the day before. So while his bosses were enjoying the jollities of the opening ceremony on the other side of the enclosed area, Josiah had been tasked with getting the pump ready for installation the following day.

  Josiah raked his fingers through his unruly mop of black hair and turned his attention to the gang of Irish navvies on the far side of the cobbled area. With hands like shovels and backbones of iron they were the brute force building every road, canal and railway the length and breadth of England. Like him they were sweating hard but unlike him they had used their five-minute breather to wet their whistles from a stone ale jug.

  ‘All right, lads,’ he called, striding towards the crate they’d unloaded from the bullock cart the day before. ‘We’ve set the beam ready so let’s be having you sharp now to get this wheel in position.’

  There was a grumble as the half a dozen men, dressed in clothing just a cut above rags, gathered themselves together and stood up.

  ‘Now,’ said Josiah, resting his foot on the boxwood crate encasing the ten-foot circumference wheel. ‘The easiest way of shifting this bugger is to upend it and roll it into place. So let’s get rid of the wood and straw and with a couple of heave-hos we’ll be done. O’Henry, if you please.’

  The bull-like gang leader touched his forehead.

  ‘Right, me boys,’ he said, hawking and spitting between his booted feet. ‘Let’s be setting this grand contraption in motion, as Mr Martyn here is asking.’

  Stepping back to give them room for the task, Josiah’s gaze drifted past the immediate area and into the main yard where women wearing extravagant bonnets and men in top hats were gathering. The corners of Josiah’s mouth lifted slightly. He might be in his shirt-sleeves and with fresh sweat staining his shirt now, but with God’s good grace and his own hard graft, one day it would be him puffing on fat cigars.

  ***

  ‘I can’t see,’ whined Arthur, craning his neck as he bobbed up and down.

  ‘There’re just too many people,’ said Charlotte, as the crowd pressed in around her.

  Since leaving Mrs Palmer they had been twice around the yard trying to find a vantage point near enough to the stage.

  ‘What about over there,’ Arthur shouted, pointing at a neat stack of bricks on the far side of the enclosure. ‘If we stood on them, we would be able to see all the soldiers and the people on the platform and everything.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘They don’t look very safe.’

  She tried to take his hand but Arthur danced away.

  ‘Don’t fuss. Mama’s always fussing,’ he said, screwing his face up.

  ‘But, Arthur—’

  He dashed off, and after weaving his way through the milling crowd, disappeared under a rope with several rags tied to it.

  Biting back the urge to scream, Charlotte followed him under the barrier and into an area full of large pieces of steel and iron. She rounded the corner just in time to see Arthur running through a puddle, splashing mud up his pinstriped trousers in the process.

  Charlotte hurried towards him but as she reached halfway across the space, a grinding sound started behind her.

  ‘Whoo!’ a deep voice called.

  She turned just in time to see a massive iron wheel, taller than a man, rolling towards her, followed by three or four men who were guiding it. The flat metal edge of the wheel was about a foot across
, with deep diagonal groves in it. With every rumble over the cobbles it loomed ever closer and in a second or two it would crush her.

  The leader of the men grasped the wheel and, splaying his legs wide, skidded a yard or two, being dragged along with it. Undeterred, he threw his weight to one side causing the wheel to lurch sideways. For one terrifying second the wheel looked as if it was going to roll right over Charlotte but then mercifully it veered to the right and rolled past her, catching the end of her cape briefly as it passed.

  As the wheel ground to a halt, the man let it go and turned.

  He was probably six foot or maybe just a little taller and aged somewhere in his mid to late twenties. His white shirt, loosened by his efforts to stop the wheel, billowed out from his brown corduroy trousers. A mustard-coloured waistcoat covered his shirt but it was unbuttoned, as was his collar. His shirtsleeves were rolled up revealing muscular forearms finely covered with dark hair. Leaving the wheel to his fellow workers, he crossed the space between them. Charlotte raised her head and found herself staring into his dark-brown, almost black eyes.

  He flicked a curl of black hair off his forehead and glared at her. ‘What in the name of God, do thee think you’re doing?’

  ***

  Josiah’s heart had all but stopped as he saw the young woman dash out from the side of the brick shed and into the path of the pump flywheel. Unbelievably, she was still in one piece.

  She stared dumbly at him, her large eyes looking unnaturally dark in her ashen face and her hands clasped together in front of her. His gaze ran over her just to reassure himself she was whole.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, in this part of the yard, miss,’ he said, his voice taking up a Cornish lilt, as it did under duress. ‘Didn’t you see the rope I put across to stop folks wandering where they ought not to wander?’

  ‘I did, but I was trying to catch Arthur,’ said the young woman, tears welling.

  A small lad wearing a large cap with a tassel at its crown poked his head around the corner of the adjoining shed and eyed them nervously.