The Rector's Daughter Read online

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his despondent expression exactly mirroring her own thoughts of a day with Mrs Palmer and Arthur.

  She forced a smile.

  ‘But I’m sure Miss Sophie has some fun and games planned, which I expect will be very jolly as I believe Miss Truman will be part of the company along with her parents,’ said Charlotte, trying not to imagine what sort of fun and games Emma Truman and Josiah might play.

  ‘So Happy Christmas again, Mr Martyn,’ she continued, struggling to hold her cheerful expression. ‘And I bid you good day.’

  ‘Good day, Miss Hatton,’ he replied flatly as he bowed.

  Charlotte, inclining her head in acknowledgment, then turned and swiftly walked away, feeling a sudden emptiness in her chest.

  ***

  Feeling the ache of Charlotte’s going, and thinking perhaps he’d just send his apologies to the Brunels, Josiah turned and found himself face to face with Mrs Palmer.

  Unlike Miss Hatton’s simple elegance, Mrs Palmer was swathed in furs with the most enormous hat, so embellished with feathers he wondered if there were any ostriches left in Africa with their tail feathers intact.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Martyn,’ she said, giving him a warm and friendly smile.

  ‘And to you,’ he replied, without returning the same.

  Although he couldn’t avoid her all together, given that she had taken to sitting in the incumbent’s family pews at the front while he sat with the poorer worshipers, their paths seldom crossed.

  Even at the end of the service, while Miss Hatton was taking the time to talk to the humbler members of her father’s congregation, Mrs Palmer chose to either fuss around the rector or gossip with the well-heeled members of the parish.

  ‘Lovely service, wasn’t it?’ she continued.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected at the Brunels’.’

  He started forward, but she caught his arm.

  ‘I fear, Mr Martyn,’ she said, her powdered face tilted up as she looked at him. ‘That the manner of our meeting means you have a poor opinion of me.’

  Josiah raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised, Mrs Palmer, you ’ave given a drunken Irishman’s opinion a moment’s thought.’

  A flush coloured her neck and her convivial expression wavered a little.

  ‘It’s true,’ she continued, ‘I was less than polite at our first meeting and I’ll concede I was, perhaps, a little hasty in drawing conclusions as to what had occurred, but it was only a mother’s fear for her only child that made me speak so.’ She stepped closer and gave him a doe-eyed look. ‘Surely you can’t hold that against me. After all, Christmas is supposed to be the time for peace on earth and goodwill, isn’t it?’

  Josiah studied her powdered face with its rouge cheeks and cochineal lips for a second, then spoke again.

  ‘It is so,’ he replied.

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Then we are friends.’

  The corners of Josiah’s mouth lifted a fraction. ‘Friends.’

  ‘Good,’ she laughed. ‘Then I shall wish you a very happy Christmas and let you speed your way to the Brunels’.’

  Letting go of his arm she gave him an overgenerous smile and swayed down the aisle towards the church door.

  Josiah watched her go in a rustle of silk and a flutter of feathers, and chewed his lip. He noted that for all her contrite looks she hadn’t actually apologised but then, truthfully, he hadn’t expected her to. After all, the likes of her didn’t apologies to the likes of him. But it wasn’t just her display of temper and the insults she’d thrown at him at their first meeting that made him avoid her but the hungry way her eyes ran over him.

  ***

  Mr Hatton drained his cup and set it on the saucer, balancing it in his hand, and looked across at Charlotte.

  ‘Could I trouble you for another cup, my dear?’ he said.

  Charlotte looked across at her father who was sprawled on the sofa. ‘Of course, Father.’

  Putting down her half-eaten sandwich, Charlotte rose to her feet.

  The clock on the mantelshelf had just struck five o’clock. Charlotte had closed the heavy plush curtains across the window an hour ago to keep out the damp winter afternoon. She’d replenished the fire at the same time and so now the room was comfortably warm.

  Mr Hatton thrust his cup and saucer at her, then turned to the woman sitting next to him. ‘What about you, my dear Mrs Palmer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Palmer, smiling up at him and holding out her cup towards Charlotte. Taking Mrs Palmer’s cup from her, Charlotte walked across the rectory parlour to the table in the window alcove that was laden with the plates of cold ham, cheese, sandwiches and pots of pickles, as well as cakes and dainties that she and Sarah had prepared.

  Setting the cups down, Charlotte picked up the teapot and refilled them before returning them to their respective owners and sitting down again.

  ‘Such a pity Captain Paget and his mother decided to spend Christmas with her brother in the country or they could have joined us for tea,’ said Mrs Palmer, grasping a lump of sugar with the tongs.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ said Charlotte, picking up her plate again.

  Actually, Mrs Paget had only announced she was intending to spend Christmas with her brother after Charlotte had invited Nicolas and his mother to tea. She’d even said as much to Nicolas. He’d promised her that even though his mother was off to the country he was not, and was happy to accept Charlotte’s invitation. However, two days ago he’d sent his apologies saying sadly he’d have to accompany his mother to her brother’s as she wasn’t well enough to travel alone. Although she should have been very, very cross with him, oddly she wasn’t.

  ‘Well, they both missed a wonderful tea, Miss Hatton.’ Mrs Palmer cast an adoring glance towards Charlotte’s father. ‘And your wonderful sermon, Mr Hatton.’

  He forced his features into a humble expression. ‘I do but bring the Lord’s word to the needy masses.’

  ‘And to so many,’ added Mrs Palmer, gazing adoringly at him.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Hatton. ‘The churchwardens counted three hundred for Communion, almost double last year’s number.’ He frowned. ‘Of course, it would be more gratifying if it could have been people of quality who filled the pews rather than grubby miners and jumped-up engineers.’

  An image of Josiah Martyn, as he strolled into church that morning, flashed across Charlotte’s mind.

  ‘Boom!’ yelled Arthur who was playing on the hearth rug with one of the wooden soldiers his mother had given him that morning.

  He was wearing new Christmas clothes too. In his case a blue skeleton suit with a wide frilly collar, and although this was the first time he’d worn it, he’d already torn one of the brass buttons off.

  As her son hit one red-coated guardsmen with another, sending it skidding across the carpet, Mrs Palmer gave her sole offspring an indulgent look.

  ‘Such a natural soldier,’ she said. ‘Just hope his new governess can deal with his instinctive leadership qualities better than the last one.’

  Arthur lobbed another trooper after the first, narrowly missing Charlotte’s late mother’s collection of porcelain figurines displayed on the occasional table.

  The rector’s eyebrows rose. ‘Miss Willis has gone, has she?’

  Mrs Palmer’s rouged lips pulled into a tight bud. ‘She was totally unsuitable and even had the temerity to call my darling boy “spoilt”.’

  ‘My dear lady,’ said Mr Hatton.

  Mrs Palmer put her hand on her chest and Mr Hatton’s eyes followed it.

  ‘It’s been so hard bringing up a child alone,’ she said in a trembling tone.

  Charlotte’s father shifted along the sofa towards her. ‘Arthur is a credit to your motherly sacrifice, Mrs Palmer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Smiling up at him, she removed her hand from her bosom and placed it over Mr Hatton’s chubby one.

  Wrinkling his nose in a boyish fashion, her fa
ther smiled back.

  Charlotte lowered her eyes and concentrated on eating what was left of her ham sandwich while Arthur smashed two of his soldiers together in front of the fire.

  Several moments passed, then Mr Hatton cleared his throat.

  ‘I must say, my dear, this is a lovely cup of tea.’

  Charlotte looked up and a sugary smile spread across father’s face.

  ‘Which could only be improved upon by having a slice of cake to go with it.’ He proffered his empty tea plate.

  Putting down her almost-finished sandwich, Charlotte stood up again and returned to the tea table.

  ‘And perhaps a couple of the tongue and mustard sandwiches, too, while you’re there,’ he added, as she applied the cake slice to the rich fruit cake he’d already mostly demolished.

  ‘I want more cake,’ shouted Arthur.

  ‘But, my lamb, you’ve already had two slices,’ said his mother. ‘And a large serving of blancmange on top of all those fish paste sandwiches.’

  Arthur’s lower lip jutted out. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my precious,’ said Mrs Palmer, giving her son a pleading look. ‘I just don’t want you to have an upset tummy like you did after your birthday tea last month.’

  ‘I want more cake!’ Arthur hurled his soldier at the fire.

  The toy smashed into the cast-iron surround and shattered. The head, complete with its black painted busby, skidded off towards the book case while the legs and red-jacketed body landed in the coal scuttle.

  There was a moment of utter silence as they all stared at the wrecked toy, then Arthur jumped up.

  ‘That’s your fault,’ he screamed at his mother, his face red with fury.

  Mrs Palmer rose to her feet. ‘Now, my sweet angel, I only—’

  ‘If you’d have let me have the cake,’ yelled Arthur, shoving her away as she tried to embrace him. ‘I wouldn’t have got angry.’

  ‘Now, now, Master Palmer,’ said Mr Hatton, in his best pulpit voice. ‘I don’t think you should be speaking to your mama in that manner—’

  ‘I want cake!’ screamed Arthur, without a glance at Charlotte’s father.

  ‘Perhaps, just a little bit,’ said Mrs Palmer, again trying to gather her son to her lean bosom.

  ‘No, I want a big piece—’

  He shrugged his mother off again and, kicking the footstool aside, he dashed to the table.

  ‘—like this.’

  Grabbing the generous slice Charlotte had just cut for her father, the boy crammed it into his mouth.

  ‘And you’ll have to get me another soldier,’ he continued, spraying crumbs and currants as he spoke, ‘to make up for the stupid one that broke and...’ He put his hand to his mouth and belched. ‘Mama... I...’

  ‘What is it, my little sugar plum?’ said Mrs Palmer anxiously.

  Arthur didn’t answer but the colour drained from his face as it took on an oddly green hue.

  He stood stock still for a second then opened his mouth and vomited onto the tea table, showing quite clearly it had been strawberry blancmange that had been served earlier.

  Mr Hatton’s eyes fixed on the carnage that had been his afternoon tea just a few short moments before, while Mrs Palmer’s eyes rolled up and she crumpled onto the sofa.

  ‘Call Sarah!’ barked Charlotte’s father as Arthur coughed and blew his nose.

  ‘I gave her the afternoon off,’ said Charlotte.

  He looked confused. ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘Because it’s Christmas, Father.’ Charlotte gave a heavy sigh. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll clear it up.’

  Leaving Mrs Palmer fussing over her brat of a boy and her father to fuss over the over-indulgent mother, Charlotte gathered all the crockery, cutlery and what was left of the food into the table cloth and carried it into the kitchen.

  Without pausing, she opened the back door and deposited the wreckage of the Christmas tea on the cobbles under the water pump. Going back into the house she grabbed her long serge workaday apron off the peg and tied it into place then, collecting the small washing tub as she passed, strode back out into the yard. Unwrapping the cloth Charlotte grabbed the pump handle and pushed down, sending a stream of cold water over the soiled crockery.

  It was dark now with a clear, twinkling canopy of stars above. Although the biting wind from the east had turned the puddles in the yard to ice and whipped tendrils of hair across her face, Charlotte took a deep breath, enjoying the solitude.

  From somewhere beyond the rectory garden wall the sound of male voices singing drifted across on the still air. She couldn’t hear the words clearly, which was just as well because the singers were probably customers from the Mayflower public house at the end of the St Mary’s Street, but it was a country tune which they sang with great cheer and jollity. They were probably also miners, too, away from their families and celebrating the birth of Christ as best they could.

  The image of Josiah Martyn sprang into her mind. The smile he’d given her that morning had sent her pulse racing and several very irreligious thoughts darting through her mind.

  Listening to the deep male voices in the frosty air she couldn’t help but wonder if he was gathered around the piano at the Brunels’ singing Christmas songs or playing charades or some other party game.

  Charlotte didn’t know how the tall engineer with the broad shoulders and heart-stopping smile was spending his Christmas. For all she knew he could have been called back to the tunnel for some emergency or another and might, at this very moment, be up to his ankles in Thames mud, but if he was he was certainly having a better time of it than she was.

  Chapter ten

  Standing with the Brunels’ roaring fire warming the back of his legs, Josiah suppressed a yawn and took a sip of his mulled wine, enjoying the faint cinnamon taste as it slid over his tongue.

  He glanced at the tall case clock by the parlour door. Almost eight, only another hour and he could say his goodnights and trudge the four miles back to his lodgings.

  Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself at the Brunels’ festive gathering, but having been up nearly twenty-four hours he was desperate to collapse into bed. It was for this reason that when the games started he had been the first to join in. After all, it’s difficult to nod off to sleep while you’re miming ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’ during a game of charades.

  ‘I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Mr Martyn.’

  Josiah turned to find Mrs Brunel standing beside him.

  Round and motherly and, like her husband, she barely reached what would be regarded as normal height, but what she lacked in inches she made up for with kindness of spirit.

  ‘Very much so,’ Josiah replied. ‘I can’t remember when I had such a fruit-filled figgy pudding.’

  She laughed, pleased at the compliment.

  ‘I have to say I felt quite homesick when I saw the holly all around. It reminded me of when I was a boy,’ he added.

  Mrs Brunel smiled. ‘I know it’s unfashionable to have greenery in the house, but I like to keep a traditional Christmas with mulled wine and a roaring fire.’

  ‘And good company,’ said Josiah.

  In addition to the family, the Brunels had invited various old friends plus their numerous offspring to celebrate the day. The Brunels’ two daughters, Sophie and her sister Mimmie, had each invited a friend so, along with himself, George and two other young men who had been introduced as Mrs Brunel’s godsons, and Mr Truman and Emma Truman, Mr and Mrs Brunel had over a dozen people sit down to dinner.

  A peal of laughter cut across the room.

  ‘And such lively company, too,’ said Mrs Brunel.

  Josiah turned to see Emma Truman, all lemon bows and bouncing ringlets, being swung around on the arm of a young man.

  The table had been cleared away, pushed back and the rug rolled up, Mimmie Brunel was playing the piano while Isambard and his other sister, Sophie, led the dancing. The older members of the party made themselves
comfortable on the sofas and chairs.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Josiah.

  ‘Miss Truman seemed keen for you to stand with her for the reel,’ said Mrs Brunel, watching him closely.

  ‘I think she suffered enough of my clumsy attempts in Babington Square,’ said Josiah, pushing the image of Charlotte Hutton accepting a winter posy from a child that morning, out of his mind.

  ‘You’re too modest, Mr Martyn,’ said Mrs Brunel. ‘Even to my old eyes you cut quite a dash on the floor.’

  Josiah smiled.

  To be truthful, Emma Truman couldn’t have made it clearer that she wanted him to dance with her if she grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him onto the floor. And it was more than a little ungallant of him not to assent to her wish.

  The last chord of the set sounded out and the dancers whirled to a breathless stop.

  ‘Another?’ asked Isambard’s sister, already thumbing through the sheet music.

  ‘No, what about a game,’ said someone.

  ‘Yes, yes, a game,’ shrieked several excited voices.

  ‘Pass the slipper!’ shouted someone.

  ‘Statues!’ called another.

  ‘Blind man’s bluff.’

  ‘Yes, Blind man’s bluff!’ Sophie grabbed her mother’s silk scarf that was draped over the back of the armchair. ‘I’ll go first.’

  As the half a dozen young men and women formed a circle around her, Isambard’s eldest sister tied the flimsy fabric around her eyes.

  Stretching out her arms she advanced on the crowd around her and quickly captured a young man.

  ‘Forfeit!’ shouted the players. ‘You have to pay a forfeit, Charles.’

  ‘Name it,’ said Charles, his arms outspread ready to accept his fate.

  Standing on tiptoes, Sophie ruffled his carefully curled hair and everyone, including the victim, laughed.

  ‘Your turn,’ said Sophie, already wrapping the blindfold around Charles’s eyes.

  She spun him around and then everyone stood back again.

  After a few near-misses at a couple of giggling girls, and almost knocking Mrs Brunel’s J jardinière flying, Charles moved within arm’s reach of Emma Truman and captured her.