The Rector's Daughter Page 5

  Josiah squared his shoulders and turned to face her.

  ‘I’ve been searching everywhere for you,’ she said, her gaze alighting on Charlotte, the net around her hat fluttering around the brim as she stopped in front of them.

  ‘I’ve been chatting to a few children from the school,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘And to this charming young man.’ She laughed. ‘Captain Paget will be beside himself with jealousy, Miss Hatton, if he catches you.’ Her gaze ran over him again. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  A delightful flush coloured Miss Hatton’s cheeks.

  ‘Er…perhaps it wasn’t the best way of meeting him, but surely you remember Mr Martyn,’ she said, looking uncomfortably from Mrs Palmer to him and back again.

  Mrs Palmer laughed again. ‘I really think you must be mistaken, Miss Hatton, because I’m certain I’d remember this young man if I’d met him before.’

  Miss Hatton looked appealingly at him and, to save her further embarrassment, Josiah spoke.

  ‘Well, you must have forgotten, Mrs Palmer,’ he said, giving her a tight smile. ‘We did meet about a month past. When you called me “a jumped-up Irish oaf”.’

  Mrs Palmer’s jaw dropped.

  ‘That was you?’ she said. ‘The man in the yard?’

  ‘It was,’ he replied, as the whole ghastly scene of the day of the ground-breaking ceremony flashed through his mind again. Including this woman’s stinging words. ‘Yes, that was me, Josiah Martyn. Cornish mining engineer and Mr Armstrong’s right-hand man, who you accused of being drunk, the man who saved Miss Hatton from being crushed beneath a three-hundred-weight iron wheel because of your son’s disobedience.’

  Her gaze travelled slowly over him.

  ‘But you look different,’ she said, as she flicked her hands towards him. ‘Your clothes are, are—’

  ‘More like a gentleman’s?’ cut in Josiah, giving her a scolding glare.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, this may come as a shock to you, madam, but even peasants like me don’t make a habit of arriving at church dressed in our work clothes.’ As the urge to give full vent to his simmering fury rose up, Josiah’s mouth pulled into a tight line and he turned away. ‘Miss Hatton, I wish you a happy Easter and look forward to seeing you again soon.’

  Giving Mrs Palmer another scathing look, he turned and strode away.

  Chapter five

  Josiah stepped off the scaffolding and onto the cross planks that straddled the thick brick column. Feeling the vibration of the steam engine below through the soles of his shoes, he peered down the thirty-five feet to the bottom of the shaft. Below him, wading about in the cool interior and with mud up to their knees, were two dozen or so men. Stripped to the waist and with rags of cloth tied around their head to keep the sweat from their eyes, they shovelled dirt into a central mound.

  Josiah watched their efforts for a moment or two then glanced across to check the windlass with the bucket attached to it to bring the excavated soil to the surface. Finding it sound he let out a soft whistle of satisfaction.

  He and the Scalding Witch, his name for the hissing water pump, were now intimately acquainted. Not a day went by without him having to take a spanner and adjust some valve or other. Still, he drew some consolation in that at least his problem didn’t write complaining letters to the Company Board whereas Mr Brunel’s problems did.

  Not an hour passed without Mr Brunel being dragged away from his office to entertain some belted earl who had come to sightsee, or some cigar-puffing shareholder demanding to know when they would see a return on their money, and Josiah wondered daily at the diminutive engineer’s patience.

  The tower shifted under his feet and a grinding noise echoed out from the shaft below. The men at the base stopped digging and looked up nervously for a second then started scaling the side ladders. Josiah set his feet firmly apart to keep his balance and cast his eyes around the rim of the column.

  It was ever the same. How many times had he held his breath in a subterranean mining shaft waiting for a rumble deep underground to subside and not know if the next would crush him?

  The breeze stirred his hair and he felt the chill of it on his bare forearms. He gazed towards the river that was shimmering in the mid-April sunlight.

  The spire of St Mary’s church caught his attention and, unbidden, an image of Miss Hatton as she had looked three weeks ago on Easter Sunday, in her lace-trimmed bonnet, floated into his head.

  ‘Martyn!’ he heard Armstrong shout from way below him.

  Josiah grabbed hold of the ladder.

  ‘Coming.’ He jumped down the rungs and, within a moment, the ground was firm beneath his hobnail boots.

  Joining George, who was waiting for him, the two men walked slowly around the base, their eyes trained on where the brickwork disappeared into the soil. Around them men stood leaning on their shovels with only the noise of the water pump sucking slurry from the drainage well sounding in the yard.

  After two turns around the tower, George took out a stub of a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and lit it.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, drawing on his smoke.

  ‘She’s shifted off line. Six or seven inches, I’d say,’ Josiah replied, already signalling to a gang of men to come over. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll set the men to pack one side with sand and stabilise the other side with rocks. We can nudge the bugger back.’ Untying his neckerchief, Josiah wiped his forehead.

  ‘Damn!’ said his boss, chewing on his cigar. ‘What do they think we are, the tower menagerie? Besides, Brunel isn’t here today so I don’t know why they’ve turned up.’

  Josiah looked across the yard as yet another coach drew up at the front gates. He grinned. ‘You go and greet our guests. I’ll deal with the tower.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’ George started coughing and his face went red.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Josiah, noticing the yellow tinge to his boss’s pallor.

  George punched his chest. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good,’ Josiah replied, indicating the young woman enveloped in pink who was alighting from the stepping board. ‘She might take your mind off bricks and mortar for an hour or two.’

  Pulling down the front of his jacket and with a wry expression, George strolled across the busy yard to greet the visitors.

  ‘Tanner!’ Josiah bellowed at the foreman. ‘Get those men back inside and dig out those boulders on the drain side and round up some others to pack sand on t’other.’

  ***

  Emma Truman stood carefully on the plank of wood as her father shook hands with a tall wan-looking gentleman who seemed to be in charge of the chaos. She was already bored. It was only because Papa had promised her a new ballgown and hat that she’d agreed to visit this ghastly tunnel. She just hoped he wouldn’t get into a long-winded discussion about props and engines.

  She smiled politely, as she had been taught to do at the École de Paris pour Mademoiselles, and at the appropriate moment offered Mr Armstrong her hand.

  ‘Miss Truman, as Mr Brunel is away at present, it is my pleasure to show you and your father around the works,’ he said, bowing in a very courteous manner.

  She gave him the smile that set the dimple in her cheek off to best effect and took her father’s arm.

  Skirting around the perimeter of the enclosure, Mr Armstrong led them over to the main workshop where Emma’s father signed the visitors’ book in a bold stroke. Taking up the pen and refreshing the ink, Emma stepped forward to add her own name.

  ‘As you can see, Miss Truman, you are among some very illustrious visitors,’ Mr Armstrong told her, pointing to the signatures of the Duke of Wellington and several other people whose names were vaguely familiar.

  He led them over to the work shed and while her father and Mr Armstrong talked about bricks, pumps and cement, Emma listed the gowns she would need for her visit to Brighton in her head.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mr Armstr
ong marshalled them back into the yard. Emma gazed around and spotted a tall young man directing labourers to one side of the huge tower.

  Although he was dressed in rough trousers, a loose-fitting shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a waistcoat like every other man in the enclosure, there was something in his stance and the movement of his body that engaged her attention.

  ‘What is that man doing?’ Emma asked above the noise of the pump.

  ‘Martyn!’ Mr Armstrong called, waving the man over.

  Josiah looked around and his eyes briefly ran over Emma, sending a small thrill through her.

  He gave another instruction to the labourer beside him and came towards them.

  ‘Can I introduce Mr Truman, one of our major investors, and his daughter.’ Mr Martyn inclined his head. ‘And Miss Truman would very much like to know what you’re up to.’

  Emma lowered her lashes slowly and smiled at him. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, Mr Martyn,’ she said a little breathlessly.

  Josiah smiled. ‘Of course not, Miss Truman. It would be my pleasure. There be a bit of subsidence here…’

  He had a strong country accent but as he talked about mud and bricks, Emma stood gazing attentively up at him, she even managed to ask the odd question or two.

  She was just about to ask him if he lodged nearby when her father’s voice cut in. ‘Tell me, Mr Martyn. Are you confident that the tower will sink just as Mr Brunel’s plans indicate?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Mr Martyn smiled and the pleasant little feeling ran through Emma again. ‘At least building it up and allowing it to sink means, for once, not lying on our backs with a candle in our hats.’

  The three men laughed and as Mr Martyn was still looking her way, Emma gave him another dimpled smile.

  Her father flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘You’re not from this part of the country, are you, lad?’

  ‘No, I’m from Cornwall and I undertook my apprenticeship in Wheal Dorothy,’ Mr Martyn replied. ‘Then I worked my way up to chief engineer at Brierly mine but I’ve spent the last five years in Dudley helping to carve out coal.’

  Mr Truman puffed out his chest. ‘I’m very fond of the Dudley area.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful part of the country,’ Josiah replied, his eyes flickering on Emma for a moment. She bit her lower lip lightly and smiled at him.

  ‘Never been there myself,’ Mr Truman said, taking out his gold Hunter watch and flipping the case open. ‘But I’m fond of the coal mines I have there that yield me a steady profit.’

  ‘Me too,’ Mr Martyn, replied. ‘But I’m now buying railway stock.’

  Surprise flashed across her father’s face and Emma suppressed a smile.

  Josiah turned to her. ‘I hope I’ve explained everything to your satisfaction, Miss Truman.’

  ‘It has been fascinating, Mr Martyn,’ Emma replied, breathlessly.

  He glanced behind him to where the labourers were stamping down the earth around the base of the tower. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you and your charming daughter, Mr Truman, but as you see there is still a little way to go before the tower is back on true.’

  Mr Truman held out his hand. Josiah took it. ‘Of course, lad, you have duties to—’

  A loud grinding noise blotted out her father’s words as the steam engine alongside the tower sent up a plume of steam then juddered to a halt.

  ‘Damn, damn.’ Josiah turned back and caught sight of Emma. ‘Your pardon, miss.’ He bowed slightly to Mr Truman. ‘I have to go, if I don’t get that pump going in a few moments we’ll be up to our hips in water.’

  Josiah sped off, shouting and gesticulating as he went.

  ‘He seems to know his trade,’ Mr Truman said, as they watched Martyn scale the ladder on the side of the tower.

  Mr Armstrong grinned. ‘Let me tell you, Mr Truman. If they’d had Martyn in Italy, that leaning tower of theirs would be straight by now. He is my finest engineer.’

  Watching Josiah standing astride the top of the tower with his sleeves rolled up and his dark hair lifted by the breeze, Emma had to agree.

  ***

  Ezra sauntered though Cow Lane’s main gates and turned into Church Street. He jingled his week’s wages in his pocket knowing it was more money than his old da would have earned in a month. The early May afternoon air was a little on the chilly side for the time of year but after a full shift removing poling boards and scraping out stinking mud, he was happy enough to feel the cool breeze fluttering through his clothes.

  His brother had been the engineer in charge of shift and his day had been spent dashing up and down the ladder supervising the lowering of supplies, and signing for deliveries.

  Josiah had still been poring over plans in the office when Ezra had climbed back to the surface half an hour ago, and he doubted he would see his brother until well past midnight. Thankfully, tomorrow was Sunday and they could both sleep in until eight before they attended church.

  A smile creased Ezra’s face as he thought about his brother’s weekly struggle with his suit and necktie. Although he denied it, Ezra knew that Josiah’s concern over his appearance was due to a certain young lady.

  He had pointed out to his big brother, on a couple of occasions, that although he might be an engineer with a growing reputation, falling for the rector’s daughter was a road to heartache as she was gentry and far above their station in life, but it had fallen on deaf, love-struck ears.

  He turned into King’s Street. It was Saturday, payday, and because of this the street was packed.

  In the centre the open market was an hour from closing. It was busy with women desperate to finish their shopping before the stalls were packed up. Bored children were dragging behind their mothers.

  He gave a milk cow, tethered to an up-ended canon, a wide berth and made his way slowly down Prince Street. Sidestepping a pile of dog dirt, which sent the bluebottles buzzing, he caught sight of some of his fellow labourers making their way to their favourite watering holes. With a few hours to kill, Ezra thought he might join them.

  Picking up his step he pressed through the crowd then tripped over something. Finding his footing again he glanced down just as a large potato rolled to a stop against his boot.

  ‘Oh, now that’s done it,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Ezra glanced up and saw a young woman standing beside him with a huge basket over her arm. She was dressed in a dark-navy dress with a short unadorned jacket over it and her blonde hair was secured at the back under her straw bonnet.

  ‘I only just put it down,’ she said, bending backwards to balance the weight.

  ‘’Tis no harm done.’ He studied her a little more closely. ‘I reckon I’ve seen you in church.’

  She gave him a shy look from under her lashes. ‘I’ve seen you, too.’

  Ezra gave a small bow. ‘Ezra Martyn, at your service.’

  ‘Sarah Hunter,’ she said, bobbing a brief curtsy. ‘You’re one of those working on the tunnel, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he told her, pulling back his shoulders.

  ‘You’re ever so brave going down there,’ she said as a tendril of blonde hair escaped its confinement and curled against her cheek. ‘You wouldn’t get me doing it, even if you made me Queen of England,’ she said, laughing and adjusting the basket against her. ‘Not with all that water over my ’ead.’

  ‘Well, it is dangerous, you know, the heavy machinery,’ he said, as Sarah’s eyes grew ever wider. ‘And there’s always the threat of a flood and all. Not to tell of the gas lights that could blow in the wink.’

  She looked suitably impressed.

  They smiled at each other and then he took hold of the handles of her basket. ‘Let me help you home with that.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m keeping you from something.’

  Ezra glanced toward the end of the street where several of his drinking companions were already loitering outside the Jolly Caulkers.

  Ezra griped the wicker handle firml
y and took the basket from her. ‘I’m just taking the air, he told Sarah. ‘Now, where are we bound?’

  ‘The rectory,’ she said, as he fell into step alongside her. ‘I’m the head maid in charge.’

  Chapter six

  Sarah wrapped the last apple in brown paper and tucked it into the side of the basket as Charlotte tied her bonnet under her chin then buttoned up her pelisse and wove her fingers into her glove.

  ‘You should wait for Mr Hatton to get back and then Longman could escort you, miss,’ Sarah said, handing her the basket.

  ‘My father has gone to see the archdeacon, so I have no idea what time he will return, besides which I am only going to visit Eliza Peasman. It’s no more than ten minutes’ walk.’

  ‘I know, but it’s at the rough end of King’s Step Alley,’ Sarah replied.

  Charlotte adjusted the basket. ‘And it’s the middle of the day.’

  Leaving Sarah in the kitchen, Charlotte walked through the house to the front door and then out into Church Street.

  Although it was now the first day of June, even the summer sun couldn’t penetrate the thick layer of grey cloud that had hung over London all week. The breeze was chill on Charlotte’s face as she turned her back on the rectory and walked down towards the waterfront.

  It had been raining earlier so she carefully picked her way between the puddles as she neared the line of children from the charity school across from the church, and they smiled at her as she passed.

  Following the sweep of the street past the burial ground to her left and the top of Elephant Street to her right, Charlotte carried on into the main market.

  Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the stalls and shops in Paradise Street were still doing a brisk trade as carts travelling to London from the Surrey countryside sold off surplus stock as they passed.

  The thoroughfare was wide by the standards of the neighbourhood but still three men with their arms outstretched and fingers touching could reach across. On either side of the street were low-windowed shops selling every manner of goods.