The Rector's Daughter Page 3

  Josiah turned to see George Armstrong.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you. I wondered where devil you’d got to…’ His boss’s face lit up.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  ‘George!’ she called back, stretching out her hands. ‘My goodness. How are you?’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, taking them. ‘And you?’

  ‘Also well,’ she replied.

  ‘I heard your father had been appointed a rector somewhere in London, but I never dreamed it would be here.’

  ‘Yes, and here we are,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘And are you happily settled in Rotherhithe?’ he asked.

  ‘For the most part,’ she replied. ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Mr Brunel’s chief engineer and this fine fellow,’ George slapped Josiah on the shoulder, ‘is my senior assistant, Mr Martyn, who it seems you’ve already met.’

  ‘Our paths crossed,’ Charlotte replied, a smile hovering on her lips.

  ‘Well, let me tell you, Charlotte, my dear,’ continued George. ‘What Martyn doesn’t know about mining pumps and tunnelling isn’t worth knowing.’

  Charlotte smiled and Josiah returned the same.

  There was a cough and her attention left Josiah.

  He turned to see a man dressed like a tailor’s dummy standing behind him. He was both half a head taller than Josiah and a good two stone lighter.

  ‘Oh, Captain Paget,’ said Charlotte, a slight flush colouring her cheeks. ‘This is Mr Martyn. The man you were so keen to meet.’

  Paget studied Josiah down his sharp narrow nose. ‘How so?’

  ‘Because it was Mr Martyn who saved me from the iron wheel,’ said Charlotte.

  The two men studied each other.

  ‘Well then, I’m grateful for your swift actions, Martyn,’ Captain Paget said, regarding him coolly for a moment before his attention shifted onto Charlotte. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from mud and machinery, Miss Hatton,’ he said. ‘But in order to keep Mother’s dyspepsia at bay we will need to sit down for luncheon at twelve.’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned to George. ‘You will have family dinner with us this week.’

  George bowed. ‘I certainly will.’

  She looked up at Josiah. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Martyn.’

  She offered her hand and Josiah took her small gloved one in his large calloused one. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  She gave him a dazzling smile.

  Paget offered her his arm, which she took.

  ‘Martyn,’ he said.

  ‘Captain,’ Josiah replied, in the same clipped tone.

  They strolled back down the aisle.

  ‘You’ve never struck me as a churchgoer, George, so may I ask how you know the Huttons?’ Josiah asked.

  ‘Mr Hutton was at Charterhouse with my father, and he is in fact my godfather although I haven’t seen him in years,’ George replied. ‘I’d heard they’d moved to London. Bit of a shock to the old man, I should think, swapping the gentle pastures of Sopwell for the flesh pots of Rotherhithe.’

  ‘Do you know why he did?’

  George winked. ‘I heard he argued once too often with the bishop but he’s got connections, a few strings were pulled and a living was acquired for him.’

  ‘Miss Hutton seems to have settled in well,’ said Josiah.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ George replied. ‘Charlotte’s like her mother; she’s always been mindful to the needs of others, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the leading light on all the parish welfare boards.’ A wry smile lifted George’s lips. ‘To be honest, I hardly recognise her. It’s almost eight years since I last saw her and back then she was an awkward fifteen-year-old but, goodness, she’s grown.’ Something caught his attention. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Martyn, I’ve just spotted Mr Hutton and I’d like to give him my regards right away.’

  ‘Of course,’ Josiah replied. ‘I’ll see you at The Ship in an hour.’

  His friend hurried off and Josiah looked round the church, hoping to spot Charlotte.

  Under the pretext of avoiding a knot of people, Captain Paget slid his arm around her waist and guided her towards the church door.

  Josiah’s mouth pulled into a hard line for a second, then he turned and strolled out of the church.

  Chapter three

  Charlotte stirred the copper full of bacon and swede that simmered on the low heat. It was Friday, midday, and just over two weeks since the ground-breaking ceremony in Cow Lane so life in Rotherhithe had returned to normal. Well, as normal as it was ever going to be with ox carts arriving at all hours carrying bricks, cement and ironwork, and with two thousand young men with money in their pockets lodged in every spare attic in the neighbourhood. Still, at least the tunnel workers filled the pews each Sunday and that pleased her father.

  Satisfied that the heat had reached through the stew, Charlotte nodded to Sarah, the rectory’s general maid, who lifted the copper from the stove and carried it to the bleached butcher’s board by the back door.

  Having been left in the workhouse as a small child, Sarah Mulligan didn’t know her actual age but Charlotte guessed it to be a year or two either side of her own. She had come into the Hattons’ service in Hertfordshire as a kitchen maid and was a hard-working girl whom Charlotte was very fond of.

  Charlotte bowed her head in a quiet prayer, then Sarah scooped out the first portion of stew and poured it into an enamel jug before handing it back to Rosie Munday, a young woman of no more than twenty with three small children hanging on her skirts.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hatton,’ she said, curtsying.

  ‘Has Mr Munday found work yet?’

  Rosie shook her head and clutched the jug to her chest. ‘He had a day or two shifting cement at the yard and hopes for more now that the shaft is moving down. Have you seen it, miss?’

  ‘In passing,’ Charlotte said.

  She had to walk down Cow Lane to get to any part of the parish so it was natural too that she should also have noticed Mr Martyn going about his business in the yard. He was the chief site engineer after all.

  Putting aside the image of Josiah Martyn as she’d seen him two days before, striding across the tunnel yard jacketless and with his sleeves rolled up, Charlotte turned her attention back to the children clinging to their mother.

  The oldest, a little girl with bright curls, stood looking up with wide-eyed wonder, while the boy beside her sniffed a track of snot back up into his right nostril at regular intervals. The smallest child holding her mother’s hand was probably just over two, and her small legs – like those of her older siblings – were already bowed with rickets. They were frail-looking and so quiet.

  ‘I’m glad to see that Ruth and Tommy are attending Sunday school regularly,’ Charlotte said, smiling at the children.

  Despite her father’s opposition, she had insisted on being involved with St Mary’s charity school across the road from the church.

  Rosie smiled at her only son.

  ‘Tommy has most of his letters now, haven’t you?’ she nudged the lad who, giving up the hopeless task of defying gravity, wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Good. He’ll soon be joining Ruth in Miss Rutherford’s class,’ Charlotte said, running her hand over the little girl’s bouncing fringe.

  A louse lost its grip on the child’s locks and fell on the slate floor so Sarah quickly stepped on it.

  Rosie curtsied again and stepped aside as another woman took her place.

  Eliza Peaman stood hollow-eyed as Charlotte’s gaze ran over her. She was no more than a child herself and was heavily pregnant. She, like Sarah, had been left in the workhouse as a foundling and gone into domestic service but hadn’t been as fortunate in her employers.

  ‘How are you, Eliza,’ she asked, giving the young woman a warm smile.

  She put her hand on her stomach and Charlotte saw a fresh bruise across the back of it.

  ‘Well enough
, miss.’ She held out her enamel jug. Sarah filled it as far up as she could and handed it back.

  ‘When is the baby due?’ asked Charlotte.

  Eliza shrugged. ‘A week or two, miss, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Is Mother Finney going to help you?’

  ‘Only if I have a sixpence for her.’

  Charlotte reached out and took her hand. ‘Could you get me the rest of yesterday’s loaf, and wrap it in a cloth, please, Sarah.’

  Sarah went to the pantry.

  Relinquishing Eliza’s hand, Charlotte went over to the dresser that took up most of the wall to her right and opened the bottom drawer. She picked up a bundle and handed it to Eliza.

  ‘I normally wait until after the baby is born, but I want you to take them now,’ she said, handing her the small bundle of baby clothes.

  Sarah returned with Mrs Norris, the rectory’s cook, a step or two behind her. She spotted Eliza and her mouth pulled into a tight bud of disapproval as she started preparing the rector’s lunch. Usually a household of this size would have a housekeeper as well as a cook, but as Charlotte’s father refused to pay what he called the exorbitant cost of servant wages in London, and as there was only her and her father, Mrs Norris acted as their cook while Charlotte oversaw the day-to-day running of the household and dealt with the bills.

  Taking what was left of yesterday’s bread from Sarah, Charlotte wrapped it.

  ‘Come back on Monday for some more soup, if you can,’ Charlotte said, settling it on top of the clothes.

  Eliza stared at the bundle in her arms and her lower lip started to tremble.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ she said, dipping an awkward curtsy before she left.

  ‘I hope you know, Miss Hatton, that Eliza’s been seen entertaining gentleman again,’ Mrs Norris called across, as she cut a thick slice from the ham bone, ready for the rector’s lunch. ‘And she’ll have those baby clothes down to the Neptune Street Pawn before her broth’s cold.’

  ‘Then she’ll have Mother Finney’s sixpence, won’t she, Mrs Norris,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘I’m only saying, miss,’ persisted the cook, arranging the meat on a plate. ‘Because you remember what happened last time she came to the rectory.’

  Remember! How could she ever forget it? Her father had gone into a towering rage lecturing her for a full hour on encouraging immorality in the lower orders.

  Charlotte held the cook’s critical eye for a second, then Mrs Norris lowered her gaze.

  Clattering the crockery, she loaded a tray with the cold meat for Mr Hatton’s lunch then lifted it up as she left the room.

  As the door to the upstairs banged shut, Charlotte turned back to Sarah.

  ‘Now,’ she said, giving her a smile. ‘Let’s feed the rest of those waiting.’

  ***

  ‘So you see, Mrs Palmer,’ said Ebenezer Epstein, her man of business. ‘Although we are keeping our heads above water at the moment, we only need a bad storm or a rise in Brunswick Dock’s landing fees and the Palmer’s Colonial Warehouse will slip into insolvency.’

  It was just after eleven in the afternoon on a chilly Wednesday morning, a full four weeks since nearly losing her precious baby because of Charlotte’s neglect. However, instead of sipping chocolate in her morning room as she would usually do at this time of day, she was sitting in a somewhat grubby office on the north side of the capital’s river. It was situated in St Katharine’s Street by the old medieval church of the same name. Although not the best address this side of the city, the rat-warrant rookery that surrounded it meant that the police rarely patrolled.

  With wispy grey hair that floated around his head rather than sitting on it, Ebenezer looked as ancient as the building they were sitting in. Wearing an unstructured threadbare jacket that was at least twenty years old, and an unfashionable periwig, the dour financial executer wasn’t much tidier himself but, despite his dishevelled appearance, Ebenezer Epstein understood money.

  ‘But I thought trade was picking up,’ said Mrs Palmer.

  ‘It is,’ Ebenezer replied. ‘But with ever-larger ships being built, more and more captains are anchoring in the deeper waters at Blackwall to offload their goods, plus of course it’s away from the watchful eyes in Custom House. Added to which, this damn Whig government took it upon themselves to start interfering in trade.’

  ‘You mean this ridiculous anti-slavery nonsense that radicals have been blathering on about on street corners and in pamphlets?’ said Mrs Palmer.

  ‘Just so,’ said Ebenezer.

  ‘As you know, your late husband’s main business was transporting such stock from the Gold Coast to America and the British West Indies, but since the Government passed the Abolition of Slavery Law, much of that very lucrative trade has been picked up by the Portuguese and French merchants. Of course, some of our cannier captains have found loopholes to sail through by coming to accommodation with their foreign counterparts. But now with Britain signing treaties with its slaving rivals such as Spain and the Netherlands, the writing is on the wall and your profits and assets with them, Mrs Palmer.’

  ‘But what will happen to my poor baby,’ she cried, as a cold hand clutched her heart. ‘His French governess costs me a small fortune and then there are his tailor’s bills—’

  ‘Tailor?’ said Ebenezer, looking surprised. ‘I thought your son was just turned ten.’

  ‘He is,’ Frances replied. ‘But a boy of his station and breeding must dress as his class dictates, even at his tender age. On top of which I already have his name down for Eton so advise me as to what I might do to ensure the business and dear Arthur’s future.’

  ‘In the short term, liquidate some of your assets to stabilise the accounts,’ he replied. ‘I’d say four hundred pounds should see you through until the end of the year. I’ll put a few feelers out for some…’ His lined face lifted in a sly smile. ‘Let’s say, daylight sensitive cargo which, although risky, yields premium profits, and lastly…’ He looked over his half-rimmed spectacles and raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘You are a handsome woman, Mrs Palmer, so I’d suggest you look to bag yourself a very rich and very indulgent husband, and soon.’

  ***

  Silently mouthing the words ‘F is for Fox and G is for Goose’, Charlotte cast her gaze over the thirty or so children reciting the same as they stood behind their desks.

  It was the last day in March and the week before Holy Week. As always on a Thursday morning she was standing in the infant class of St Mary’s Charity School. However today was a little bit different as the school had a special visitor; none other than Mr Marc Brunel, the famous French engineer, himself.

  It was for that reason that she’d been at the school from the moment the children had arrived at eight o’clock to make sure all the girls had combed and plaited hair and the boys had washed behind their ears.

  Their visitors had arrived almost an hour ago and after a guided tour of the two-roomed school and an inspection of the children’s work, they were standing on the raised platform at the front of the classroom in front of the teacher’s desk.

  The diminutive engineer was dressed in a dark suit with a yellow cravat and was smiling benightedly through his round, metal-rimmed spectacles at the assembled children.

  Miss Rutherford, the school’s long-serving teacher, was dressed in a high-collared dress of darkest blue, as befit her profession, was standing next to Mr Brunel while on the other side was Miss Sophie Brunel, who had accompanied her father. Charlotte was standing just to the right of them at the very end of the raised platform, in front of the blackboard.

  ‘K is for kangaroo,’ chanted the class of five and six-year olds, ‘and L is for lion.’

  Micky Mills and Freddy Hanson, who were sitting at the back, clawed their fingers and pretended to roar.

  Charlotte suppressed a smile and caught the eye of Miss Sophie Brunel, who was also doing her best not to laugh.

  Like her father, Sophie, Mr Brunel’s oldest child, only just m
anaged to stretch to the bottom range of normal height. She had dark hair, an apple-shaped face and a ready smile. She was wrapped against the spring chill in a red jacket with fur trim over a black and red chequered dress. The ensemble was topped off by a wide-brimmed bonnet with rushed satin trim.

  ‘Y is for yellow hammer,’ said the mixed junior class. ‘And Z is for zebra.’

  ‘Very good, children,’ said Miss Rutherford, her long face lifting into a relieved smile.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Mr Brunel said. ‘Very good indeed.’

  He started clapping enthusiastically and the rest of those on the stage joined in.

  Charlotte smiled, letting her gaze run over the youngest members of her father’s congregation; hoping to show them how well they had done.

  ‘Well, Mr Brunel,’ said Miss Rutherford, turning towards him. ‘I hope you and your daughter have enjoyed your time with us at St Mary’s.’

  ‘I’m sure I can speak for my daughter also and say we ’ave ’ad a splendid time, mademoiselle,’ he replied with a distinct French lilt.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brunel,’ said the schoolteacher, a flush colouring her sallow cheeks. ‘I think this calls for three cheers for Mr Brunel. Hip-hip!’

  Two dozen children hollered a rousing hoorah, then did it twice more.

  Charlotte stepped off the dais and said, ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Brunel, Miss Brunel, we have some refreshments prepared.’

  Five minutes later they were in Miss Rutherford’s office sipping lemonade.

  ‘I know how busy you must be, Mr Brunel,’ said Charlotte. ‘So I must thank you again for taking the time to visit our little school.’

  ‘Say nothing of it,’ he replied. ‘I have always had a great interest in education and made sure all my children learnt not only their alphabet by the time they were five but could add three three-figure numbers together and subtract doubles, didn’t I, ma cherie?’ he said to his daughter, standing beside him.

  ‘He certainly did.’ She slipped her arm through her father’s. ‘Papa was a veritable ogre when it came to calculus.’

  Father and daughter exchanged a fond look, then Mr Brunel returned his attention to Charlotte.