The Rector's Daughter Page 19

  Striding through the discarded vegetables on the roadway and passing market traders tidying away their barrows, Josiah reached the front door of number seventeen and pushed it open.

  The stench of boiled cabbage drifted under the warped door from the room at the front of the house where Sam Tumford, his wife and five children lived. A baby cried fitfully behind the door to the scullery that was home to a young widow with two ragged children. Josiah started up the stairs, his broad shoulders almost scraping the walls on either side at he did.

  The floorboards squeaked under his boots as he crossed the first-floor landing to the even narrower stairs to the loft. Through the cracked pane of the rear window he caught sight of the latrine that served the ten houses in the street. The door swung from its hinges as usual and the brown slurry congealed around the doorway told Josiah that yet again the night soil man had failed to call.

  He trudged up the last narrow flight to the eaves and pushed open the door. Spotting his brother standing by the window, Josiah strode in.

  ‘Put the tea in the pot, I could—’

  He stopped as he saw Charlotte sitting on the only chair. Beside her stood their maid Sarah.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hatton,’ he said. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘And to you, Mr Martyn,’ she replied, her eyes soft as they rested on him. ‘I’m afraid I have come to talk to you and your brother about a rather delicate matter.’ She looked at Ezra. ‘I understand from Sarah that you have been walking out for some months.’

  ‘That we have.’ Ezra cleared his throat. ‘I know that the rector don’t like his staff to have followers, Miss Hatton. But I am mighty fond of Sarah.’

  ‘I glad to hear that because she is with child,’ Charlotte replied.

  Ezra crossed the room to the young woman. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She gave him a heart-wrenching smile. ‘I meant to, but—’

  Ezra took her hand. ‘We always intended to wed but it seems it’s to be a bit sooner than we planned. I’m sorry, miss, to have put you to this trouble.’

  ‘Well it’s a very common failing, so I’m pleased by your readiness to face up to your responsibilities.’

  Sarah bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you, miss.’

  ‘My father has agreed to read the banns immediately and you can be married in four weeks,’ Charlotte continued. ‘He will also allow Sarah to come each day to do her work until she gets too near her time.’ She rose to her feet and looked at Ezra. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Martyn, and I am glad that we have resolved the matter so satisfactorily.’

  ‘So am I,’ Josiah replied, stepping closer to her and struggling against taking her in his arms. Sarah’s voice cut between them.

  ‘May I speak to Ezra for a moment, miss?’

  ‘Of course,’ Charlotte replied, breaking from Josiah’s gaze and retying her bonnet ribbons.

  As Ezra and Sarah moved to the far end of the room, Josiah took Charlotte to the window. She stared out on the squalid backyards and Josiah studied her profile in the mottled light of the grimy glass.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Charlotte’s brows drew together. ‘For what?’

  He glanced at Ezra and Sarah. ‘For the situation.’

  ‘You’re not to blame, Josiah,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Did you know about Sarah?’

  He shook his head. ‘But I should have guessed when he stopped throwing money over the bar in the Mayflower and signed up to matriculation class at the Methodist Church.’

  An image of the rector glaring down from the pulpit flashed through Josiah’s mind.

  ‘I imagine your father was furious?’

  Charlotte gave him a bleak look and nodded. ‘So much so that I feared he might have apoplexy. He started shouting about wantonness and deceit. I thought he’d found out about us.’

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he said, his fingers squeezing her waist.

  ‘I was so afraid, Josiah,’ she said. ‘If he were to find out—’

  ‘He won’t,’ he replied, praying it so. ‘Look, sweetheart, now the Stockton to Darlington railway is carrying fare-paying passengers the share price has rocketed so I’ve told my broker to sell a quarter of my holding and deposit it in the bank ready for our flight northwards. I’ve also investigated the coach routes north, so we have a good head start before we’re discovered.’

  Charlotte gazed over to where Ezra and Sarah stood holding hands with their heads all but touching. ‘I wish our future was as straightforward.’

  Turning to shield her from Ezra and Sarah, Josiah took her hand. ‘So do I, my love.’

  Charlotte sighed and gave him a brave smile. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, but we must be so careful,’ she added. ‘Father will be watching you and Ezra like a hawk. And,’ she bit her bottom lip, ‘I’ve seen Mrs Palmer watching you, too, and if she gets the smallest hint there is anything between us she’ll make trouble. I know it.’

  ‘But you’ll meet me after you finish your visit to the school on Tuesday, as always?’ Josiah asked in an urgent whisper.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied in the same hushed tone. ‘I’ll be counting the minutes until then.’

  ‘As will I.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I love you so very much.’

  Her lovely brown eyes looked up at him making his chest swell with happiness.

  ‘And I you,’ she replied, giving him a dazzling smile.

  She squeezed his hand, then took it back.

  ‘We have to make our way back, Sarah,’ she said, stepping away from Josiah.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Sarah replied, giving her intended a shy smile.

  Ezra opened the door. Charlotte, with Sarah following her, walked towards it.

  ‘I’m obliged to you, Miss Hatton,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘For making the arrangements and I’m sorry you’ve been put out by the turn of events.’

  She smiled then shifted her attention back to Josiah. ‘Good day to you, Mr Martyn. I look forward to seeing you in church as always.’

  ‘Miss Hatton,’ he replied.

  She gave him an aching look and stared down the rickety stairs. Ezra shut the door, then turned to him.

  ‘Well, perhaps we should take one of those cottages in—’

  ‘For the love of God, Ezra,’ Josiah cut in, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were carrying on with one of the rector’s servants? Whatever were you thinking of?’

  Ezra gave a wry smile. ‘Much the same as any man with a sweet girl on his lap. But what matter is it to you, anyway?’

  Josiah raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Because we’re engaged.’

  Ezra looked incredulous. ‘Engaged to the rector’s daughter? Since when?’

  ‘Just after the flood in the tunnel,’ Josiah replied. ‘Of course, I knew I loved her months before that but there seemed no hope.’

  ‘I should say,’ said Ezra. ‘So what made you bold?’

  ‘Death,’ said Josiah. ‘When I went under that water for the third time all I could think of was Charlotte and I swore if I lived I would tell her exactly how I felt.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Yes, the following Sunday after church and when I did, miracle of miracles, she told me she felt the same. We became engaged.’

  ‘Why, you sly bugger, you,’ laughed Ezra. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because if the rector gets wind of our plans he’ll probably send Charlotte away,’ Josiah replied. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to get some doctor to certify she was mad and have her locked up in a lunatic asylum.’

  ‘Well if that’s the way of it then me getting Sarah in the family way don’t make much mind anyways,’ said Ezra.

  Josiah gave his brother an exasperated look. ‘And how do you figure that?’

  ‘Well, if he’d rather have people think his daughter’s not right in the head than see her married to a son of a m
iner then nothing no one says or does is going to make a blind bit of difference. And chin up, Jos boy,’ Ezra said, skimming his fist past Josiah’s jaw. ‘It could be worse.’

  Josiah gave him a baleful look. ‘How on earth could it bloody well be worse?’

  ‘Instead of me getting the rector’s maid in the family way you could have been guilty of the same with his daughter.’

  Chapter seventeen

  Nicolas pressed his lips firmly together as Harman, their ancient butler, hobbled across the breakfast room, his rheumy eyes glued to the tray he carried. On the other side of the table sat Mother, her steely gaze fixed on him. She had found no fault thus far with either the servants or him but it wasn’t yet eight-thirty so there was plenty of time.

  Harman had been making the same laborious journey from the sideboard to the table each morning for as long as Nicolas could remember. In the same way Cook always sent up the same quantity of scrambled egg in the same tureen, with the same number of slices of toast cut into triangles. In fact, this morning could have been any breakfast, on any day in the last thirty years.

  The same was true of the room they sat in. The wallpaper had once been fashionable pink stripes but the hue could barely be distinguished from the cream between them, and the pattern on the china dogs had faded sections from three decades of facing the light from the window.

  Portraits of dead relatives stared down on the monotonous activities of the living as they had always done.

  Harman drew closer and the lid of the pot rattled as he shuffled across the last few yards to the table and deposited the teapot to the right of Mother. The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour and a splutter of tea escaped from the spout, damping the white napkin.

  Mother gave the butler, who could match her year for year, a withering look but the septuagenarian didn’t respond as, having received the same hard stare for over forty years, the old man was impervious to their sting.

  The butler managed to turn himself around and started the return trip to the sideboard for the porridge.

  Nicolas poured their tea and then picked up the milk jug and held it poised.

  Mother gave him an irritated look. ‘Get on with it, Nicolas.’

  ‘I was just waiting for you to tell me “just a splash and no more” he replied.

  She gave him an acid look but Nicolas didn’t recoil from it as he usual did because, quite frankly, he’d had enough.

  Charlotte had not been in her usual place at church last Sunday. Nicolas had been bitterly disappointed, especially when he noticed Josiah Martyn missing too.

  For one insane moment Nicolas imagined that Charlotte’s and Martyn’s absence was connected. Thankfully, a quick enquiry after Charlotte’s actual whereabouts revealed that a slight chill had kept her from attending church.

  As a gentleman, he should accept Charlotte’s assertion of not having any feeling for the tiresome oaf, but somehow he couldn’t. Of course, she couldn’t very well avoid this Martyn fellow all together but every time he saw them talking together his blood boiled so hot his head spun.

  Of course Rev Hatton would no sooner sanction a union between his daughter and the upstart than fly to the moon but this ridiculous tunnel attracted noble visitors and he couldn’t see Mr Hatton objecting if the son of an earl played court to Charlotte. So Nicolas knew he now had to secure Charlotte before anyone else did.

  Nicolas’s gaze returned to his mother and he cleared his throat. ‘I have been thinking, Mother.’

  ‘That’s a novelty for you, isn’t it, Nicolas?’ she replied, gathering up a spoonful of porridge. ‘Anything I might be remotely interested in?’

  ‘My happiness,’ he squeaked.

  She gave him a mocking look. Nicolas felt himself shrivel inside but he pressed his lips together firmly.

  ‘Yes, my happiness…’

  Mother raised the spoon to her mouth.

  ‘With Miss Hatton.’

  His mother’s eyes snapped on him.

  Ignoring his churning stomach, Nicolas continued. ‘You know I have harboured tender feelings towards her for some time and I would like… I am resolved to speak to her father without delay.’

  The wrinkles around his mother’s eyes tightened. ‘Are you indeed?’

  ‘I am. I have delayed too long already.’

  Her thin lips peeled back to reveal her few remaining yellow teeth. ‘I would be very displeased if you talked to the rector, Nicolas, very displeased indeed.’

  Nicolas forced himself to hold her watery gaze. ‘Then you will have to be displeased, because I intend to marry Charlotte.’

  ‘Charlotte, is it now?’ his mother sneered.

  ‘I intend to see Mr Hatton tomorrow.’

  Mother’s spoon clattered into the bowl, splattering porridge over the table.

  ‘I’m an old woman,’ she whispered. ‘You won’t have to suffer me for much longer.’

  He steeled himself.

  ‘My mind is made up,’ he said, firmly.

  ‘Son,’ she continued and stretched a gnarled hand across the table, grabbing his. ‘All I ask is that you wait until I’m gone before bringing another woman into my home.’ Her grip tightened. ‘The home your father, God rest his soul, made for us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Nicolas withdrew his hand. ‘I will be calling on the rector tomorrow and hope to be able to announce my engagement to Charlotte very soon after.’

  Mother’s expression transformed itself from ferocious to frail in the blink of an eye.

  ‘I can’t believe after all I’ve done—’ She clasped her hand to her chest. ‘Nicolas,’ she croaked.

  Here it comes. ‘It’s my heart.’

  She clawed at her lace ruffle. ‘It’s my heart.’

  Nicolas’s lips lifted at one corner. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘I’m going,’ she gurgled.

  We’ll have the staggering about any moment now. He thought.

  His mother rose unsteadily to her feet and then fell back into the chair, her curled, yellowed fingernails raking across the tablecloth.

  She shut her eyes for a moment then they snapped open and she looked straight at him, her bright-blue eyes full of surprise. Then she crashed face-first into the porridge.

  Nicolas stared at her soft white curls lying in the bowl. Her head was tilted to one side giving the patterned china the appearance of a small hat. The tea cup had upturned on the saucer and its contents were already mixing with the oats and sugar on the table cloth while the chubby salt pot spun around amongst the displaced china as if trying to find a place to rest.

  Nicolas sat motionless, studying the top of his mother’s head, waiting for her to look up. Honestly, he’d expected a performance but she’d never reacted like this before. ‘Come on, Mother, this is silly, there’s no need to behave like this.’ Sighing, he reached across the table and took her wrist.

  Nothing.

  ‘Mother!’ he cried as he grasped her shoulder and shook her. Mrs Paget’s head flopped back and Nicolas found himself staring into his mother’s bright-blue, unseeing eyes.

  ***

  Mr Hatton thumped his chest in an attempt to shift the pork and pickles he’d had for lunch. A sharp pain jabbed at him just below his breastbone and he belched.

  Reaching forward he dragged the open Bible on his desk towards him. Picking up the quill, he chewed the end.

  There was a knock on the door. He threw the pen across the desk and called ‘come’. Sarah slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. He gave her an exasperated look.

  ‘I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed,’ he barked.

  ‘Captain Paget’s outside and is asking to see you on an urgent matter,’ she replied.

  Mr Hatton muttered a very non-clerical oath under his breath. ‘Tell him I’m at prayer.’

  ‘I thought, perhaps, sir,’ she said hesitantly, ‘as the poor man lost his mother yesterday you wouldn’t mind being disturbed.’

  Mr Hatton mustered a
sympathetic expression.

  ‘Of course. Show him in,’ he said, thinking he could reuse one of last year’s sermons for Sunday and no one would notice.

  Sarah opened the door and Nicolas entered. Mr Hatton stood up and walked around his desk to offer his hand.

  ‘I’m not disturbing you, I hope,’ Nicolas said, giving Mr Hatton’s a limp hand shake.

  ‘Not at all. I was about to start my sermon but under the circumstances…’ He indicated the two chairs either side of the empty fire grate.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind.’

  Coughing, Mr Hatton flung back his coattail and sat down.

  ‘I hope you’re not unwell,’ Nicolas said.

  ‘A spring chill,’ said the rector.

  ‘Well, I’d advise you to take care,’ said Nicolas. ‘They can take a hold in the blink of an eye. Mother used to suffer….’ He bit his lower lip and Mr Hatton detected moisture in the other man’s eyes.

  For goodness sake, the woman was nearly ninety. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ he said perfunctorily.

  ‘And it is of that I wish to speak,’ Nicolas replied. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. ‘Sir. You have known for some time that I have had a great affection for your daughter. Much to my regret, my duty as a son has prevented me seeking you out before now.’

  Mama’s boy!

  ‘No parent could have asked more,’ Mr Hatton responded.

  ‘Now Mother is at rest I can allow myself to think of my own happiness.’ Nicolas grasped his lapels and adopted, what to Mr Hatton’s mind was, a somewhat theatrical stance. ‘Sir, I ask...nay, I beg that you grant me your daughter’s hand in marriage.’

  ‘Captain Paget, I have no objection to you in principle, but—’

  ‘Sir, I would like to point out that I am a man of some means,’ Nicolas interrupted. ‘My yearly income from her estate will be somewhere in the region of two thousand a year.’

  Two thousand!

  Mr Hatton looked grave. ‘That may be but—’

  ‘That doesn’t include the dividend of some seven hundred pounds from Mother’s investments in the Indies,’ Nicolas added.