The Rector's Daughter Read online

  Knutt & Sons, the butcher’s, was particularly busy and had whole pig carcases hanging upside down outside the shop. Mr Knutt rarely set foot in St Mary’s but his wife, Dolly, was a regular, and she waved to Charlotte as she passed. As Charlotte reached the end of the market, a dog dashed out and ran around her feet.

  ‘No, Buster, not today,’ Charlotte told him.

  She tried to pass, but the dog jumped in front of her and growled. The stump that had once been his tail wagged back and forth, begging her to play tug with him, as she had done many times before.

  ‘Down, boy,’ said Charlotte, as she didn’t have time to play tug with the scamp today.

  Buster barked and snatched at the frill around the bottom on her gown.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ shouted Charlotte as she tugged her skirt away.

  ***

  Josiah had just turned the corner on his way back to his lodgings when he heard a woman’s shout above the market’s noise.

  Turning, he saw Miss Hatton, with a basket hooked over her arm, confronting a snarling dog.

  Dashing forward, he was at her side in half a dozen strides.

  ‘Be off with yer,’ he yelled, stamping his foot in front of the dog’s snout.

  The dog started a low growl and barked again, jumping off its paws as it did. Miss Hatton moved away and the dog went to follow but Josiah grabbed it by its studded collar and pinned it to the floor. The animal tried to free itself but, finding it couldn’t, rolled on its back and flattened its ears in submission.

  Josiah let it go and it yelped off down the street, the stub of its tail firmly tucked between its legs. Then a man in threadbare corded trousers, a dirty shirt and greasy flat cap stumbled out of The Ship and staggered across the road.

  ‘Who the buggery do you think you are, messing with me dog?’ the man said, weaving across the space between them.

  ‘You be lucky I didn’t throw the beast in the river,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘You’re one of those feckin’ tunnellers,’ the man said, rolling his sleeves. ‘I’ll learn you not to kick me ol’ Buster, Gawd ’elp me,’ he growled, putting up his fists.

  Josiah had taken larger men to the floor so, undaunted, he squared his shoulder.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wheeler,’ Charlotte said, stepping out from behind Josiah. ‘How is your wife?’

  The docker’s expression changed from aggression to repentance in a tenth of a second and he whipped his cap off.

  ‘Much better thank you, miss,’ he replied, screwing his headgear between his shovel-like hands. ‘It was good of you to send round the cough syrup for our Elsie. She fair perked up after a dose or two and I’m… I’m sorry about ol’ Buster, you know how he’s a bit lively.’

  ‘Well, luckily I’m none the worse for meeting Buster, Mr Wheeler, thanks to Mr Martyn’s timely intervention but it could have been a child so perhaps you should keep a better eye on him,’ she said.

  ‘I will, miss.’ He replaced his cap and touched the brim. ‘Good day. And to you, sir.’

  He hurried off down the street almost as fast as his dog.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Charlotte said, giving Josiah a dazzling smile.

  ‘I’m glad I happened by,’ he said. ‘Where are you bound?’

  ‘King’s Step Alley.’

  ‘That’s a very rough area, isn’t it?’ he said, finding himself captivated by the shape of her mouth.

  ‘I know, but that’s where most of the parishioners live,’ she replied. ‘Where are you bound?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular,’ he replied. ‘So why don’t I keep you company?’

  ***

  Despite the teeth marks on her skirt, Charlotte couldn’t help but feel kindly towards Buster for affording her the pleasure of Josiah’s company.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in church recently, Mr Martyn, but I trust you are well,’ she asked, as he fell into step beside her.

  ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Although I’m pleased to be up top after three weeks of shovelling mud in the tunnel. Here, let me take that,’ he said, reaching over to take her basket from her. ‘And yourself, Miss Hatton?’

  ‘I’m in fine health, thank you,’ she replied, noting how effortlessly he held the heavy basket. ‘Although after a hot morning in the kitchen making jam I too am pleased to be out in the fresh air.’

  He smiled. ‘Sounds delicious.’

  His hair fell forward again, and he combed it back with his fingers. They were sinewy and with a fine line of hair tracking up from his wrist to his little finger.

  ‘I’ll see if I have a spare jar when it’s set,’ Charlotte replied, wondering what his dark bristles would feel like under her fingertips.

  ‘Have you heard from your family?’

  ‘Last week,’ he replied. ‘A letter from my pa, and I’m pleased to say that everyone is hale and hearty.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ she said, feeling light-hearted with him walking beside her. ‘Where you come from, I mean.’

  He laughed.

  ‘There’s not much to tell really. I was brought up in a small cottage at the top of the village with two rooms and a small plot of land out the back. The floors were beaten earth with a chimney and hearth at one end and a pen for the chickens at the other. Us little ’uns slept top and tail on truckle cots that were upended each morning. I’m the oldest of the boys, although I have a sister, Tillie, five years my senior who’s married to a farmer Bodmin way.’

  ‘Is your home near the sea?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘It’s but a short walk to the cliffs and then down to the beach. Have you ever seen the sea, Miss Hatton?’ He asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I visited Brighton with my brother and his wife two years ago. It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe the waves were so high, and what a noise they made when they rolled over the shingles.’

  A slow smile spread across Mr Martyn’s lips. ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but you ’ave never seen the sea until you’ve seen it crashing against the bottom of the cliffs at Porthleven. Some days it’s the deepest blue and another the darkest green, but if there’s a storm on the horizon it can become gun-metal grey.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. Do your parents still live there?’

  His eyes lost some of their sparkle.

  ‘My father does, my mother died seven years back while I was working in Dudley.’ He gave Charlotte a tight smile. ‘It was sudden. Very sudden. Da said she didn’t suffer at the end. I’m thankful for that, at least.’

  ‘That was a blessing,’ said Charlotte, blinking away tears. ‘My mother lingered for months in discomfort so great that at the end even laudanum could not hold her pain back.’

  ‘I’m also sorry for your loss,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile.

  Josiah stopped and so did Charlotte. They stood gazing at each other for a couple of heart beats then he cleared his throat.

  ‘I believe this is King’s Stairs Alley.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Charlotte.

  Pulling herself together, she turned into the dark alley and Josiah followed.

  ‘Which house?’ Josiah asked,

  ‘The last one at the end,’ she replied, oblivious to his desire to kiss her.

  Tearing his eyes from her upturned face, he looked down the alleyway.

  The houses in this street were so close that even a hand cart would have had trouble getting down and, without the benefit of paving stones, the passageway turned into a quagmire as soon as it rained. Josiah judged that the buildings were at least two hundred years old, if not older, and had been built when Rotherhithe was no more than a riverside hamlet. They were very like the cottage he had lived in until he was fourteen.

  Charlotte guided Josiah over the alleyway’s central gully that was clogged with the residents’ discarded night soil, and past the water pump halfway down as the aroma of stagnant water filtered up to their noses. It almost masked the stench from the rubbish, but not quite. Stopping in front of the last hou
se in the row, Charlotte knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a woman with a shawl wrapped around her head. She wore the look of perpetual poverty on her face.

  Her weary eyes brightened when she saw Charlotte.

  ‘Miss Hatton,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  ‘Thank you, Eliza,’ said Charlotte as she stepped over the threshold. ‘This is Mr Martyn and he has kindly escorted me here, so would you mind if he came in, too?’

  Eliza cast her deep-sunken eyes over him and shook her head.

  Taking off his hat and ducking his head to clear the lintel, Josiah followed Charlotte over the threshold.

  The smell of mould caught him in the back of the throat as he glanced around the bare interior. There was a table and a stool beside the tiny fire grate on which was balanced a rickety-looking kettle. A crate from the docks had been upended and acted as an improvised larder. It had been placed on top of stones to prevent the mice getting to the half loaf of bread and wedge of grey cheese inside. The bedding, such as it was, lay on the beaten earth floor.

  Now his eyes had adjusted to the light, Josiah could see that the girl whose home they were standing in was little more than the age of his sister Rachel; sixteen at most. She smiled at him and there was just a trace of the pretty child she must have been. Pity surged up in Josiah. He had seen too many young girls like Eliza, forced to set aside their scruples and set about earning a few shillings to put food into their children’s mouths.

  He put the basket on the table and Charlotte delved in.

  ‘I’ve brought you half a loaf,’ she said, setting it on a nearly clean plate. ‘A skirt of lamb, an onion, a swede and a cabbage, which if you can stew over the range should keep you and Billy going for a few days. There’s an apple for you and a pear to mash up for Billy.’ She placed the fruit next to the bread.

  Eliza’s eyes lit up as she stared at the groceries. ‘Thank you, miss.’

  Charlotte smiled, then went to stand beside a beaten-up hamper basket with ‘Cox & Son Fruit Merchants to the Gentry’ stamped in faded letters on the side.

  ‘How’s his colic been, Eliza?’ she asked, gazing down at the baby in his makeshift cradle.

  ‘Much better, miss,’ Eliza replied. ‘That gripe water you brought last week has really helped settle him. He slept right through these past three nights.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Charlotte. ‘How’s it going at Birtwistle’s?’

  ‘Good now I’ve got the hang of how Mrs B likes the shop cleaned,’ said Eliza. ‘She’s a bit of a stickler for wiping the counters but gave me the end of the block of cheddar and tuppence-worth of tea at the end of last week with my wages. And Billy seems happy enough upstairs with Mrs Penfield’s nipper, Ollie, while I’m out.’

  As if to prove the point Billy, who had been gazing happily up at Charlotte, started kicking his legs and waving his arms.

  ‘Do you mind if I give him a cuddle, Eliza?’ she asked.

  ‘Course not, miss,’ said Eliza. ‘But he’s due a new bum rag so he might be a bit damp.’

  Charlotte reached into the basket and lifted out the baby.

  ‘Hello, young man,’ she said, tucking him into her arm, heedless of her expensive clothing. ‘I hear you’ve been a good boy for your mother.’ She pulled a happy face at the baby who smiled back. ‘I think he’s put on weight.’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Penfield said yesterday,’ said Eliza, with a smile.

  ‘Your mother’s doing a very good job, Master Peasman,’ said Charlotte, chucking the infant under the chin.

  Billy giggled, and Eliza blushed to the roots of her hair at the compliment.

  The baby turned his head into Charlotte and started grizzling.

  ‘I’ll take him, miss, he’s hungry and needs changing,’ said Eliza.

  Charlotte handed the infant over. ‘We’ll leave you to it then, Eliza.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Eliza, sitting on the stool by the fireside. ‘And thank you, Miss Hatton, for speaking to Mr Birtwistle for me so I don’t have to…’ She trailed off.

  ‘You don’t have to thank me,’ said Charlotte, picking up the basket. ‘Mr Birtwistle asked me if I knew of a reliable girl to clean the shop and I thought of you, that’s all.’ She picked up the basket. ‘I will look out for you on Tuesday at the rectory. Good day, Eliza.’

  ‘Good day, miss,’ said Eliza. ‘Sir,’ she added, her eyes darting onto him briefly.

  Laying her son on the floor Eliza lifted the infant’s long frock out of the way and untied his soiled nappy. Free of constraint, Billy kicked his legs and waved his arms as his mother tucked a clean cloth under him.

  Gazing down at the joyful infant, Charlotte smiled fondly then raised her head and looked at Josiah.

  ‘Isn’t it strange to think, Mr Martyn,’ she said, her lovely eyes brightening the whole room. ‘That we were once as small as that little chap?’

  Joshua smiled and nodded dumbly because the sight of Charlotte cradling a baby in her arms had stolen his words.

  Chapter seven

  Josiah pressed through the crowd of people on the road towards the capital. He had finished work just after a particularly gruelling day at the tunnel face. For once it wasn’t the mechanics problem in the tunnel that had caused him to bite his lip anxiously, it was his chief engineer, George Armstrong.

  It was a full three weeks since he’d had the pleasure of accompanying Miss Hatton on her parish visit to Eliza Peasman and, although the last week in London had been bathed in warm sunlight, he had seen none of it as he’d spent almost every waking hour in the depths of the shaft in the cold and damp. This lack of sunlight and fresh air was taking its toll and many of the labourers were suffering from chest problems. George Armstrong was one of them.

  Notwithstanding his hacking cough, George had arrived an hour ago to take over for the evening shift, allowing Josiah to return to his lodgings to wash and change into his Sunday suit.

  The balmy breeze played on Josiah’s freshly shaved cheeks as he strode across Mill Pond Bridge into Jamaica Road before joining the traffic winding its way north along Tooley Street towards London Bridge and reaching the bottleneck at the crossing point some twenty minutes later.

  Although there were now two other bridges across the Thames in the capital, London Bridge, sited so near the docks, still carried the bulk of the goods unloaded at the docks on either side. Despite the London markets being closed at midday, carts crammed with all manner of goods were still travelling in both directions, nose to tail ready for the next day’s trading.

  With only a half a mile to his destination Josiah quickened his pace and, crossing over the river, made his way up towards Mr Truman’s house in Gracechurch Street.

  Mr Truman had become a regular visitor to the site and, over the past few months, Josiah had got to know him and his daughter, who more often than not accompanied her father. Although he got on well with the hale and hearty Mr Truman, he was nonetheless surprised to receive an invitation to take tea with the family. Arriving at the house, Josiah grasped the knocker and rapped on the door.

  After a few moments an elderly manservant opened it.

  ‘Mr Martyn, for Mr Truman,’ said Josiah, as he stood beneath the butler’s steely gaze.

  The butler stood back and Josiah stepped over the threshold.

  ‘If you would follow me, sir,’ the butler said, taking his hat.

  He marched off with Josiah a few steps behind, passing several large paintings as he progressed. The butler opened the door at the far end of the long hall.

  ‘Mr Marshal,’ he announced.

  ‘It’s Martyn,’ Josiah corrected.

  The butler looked him over and sniffed.

  Josiah walked in.

  The room he found himself in was crammed with every conceivable type of furniture, including an enormous pair of sofas with silken tassels at the corners. They stood on a brightly coloured Persian rug with gold fringing. The wal
ls were covered with a Chinese-style wallpaper with quaint rural scenes of men in conical hats fishing off rickety bridges. A gold framed mirror, almost as tall as Josiah, with an eight-pronged crystal candelabra on either side sat above the marble fireplace while a lacquered cabinet, that took up most of the far wall, was filled to bursting with porcelain pug dogs, shepherdesses, horses and cattle.

  Mr Truman was perched on the edge of one of the sofas and rose as Josiah walked in.

  ‘Thank you, Perry,’ he said, taking Josiah’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. ‘Please tell my wife and daughter that our guest has arrived and we’ll have tea in twenty minutes.’

  The butler bowed and left the room.

  ‘Come in, come in, Martyn, you are very welcome,’ he said, leading Josiah to the sofa he’d just vacated.

  ‘It is very good of you and Mrs Truman to invite me for tea,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. Now sit, sit,’ he indicated towards the other end and Josiah lowered himself onto the sofa.

  ‘Now, Son, before the womenfolk join us,’ he said, the furniture creaking under his weight as he reassumed his seat. ‘Tell me how my investments are going at the tunnel.’

  Josiah did just that, and emphasised that the shield was now moving at a rate of four feet a day and making light of the problems with the gas and water seepage.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Mr Truman, when he’d finished. ‘With my wife insisting that Emma needs an entirely new wardrobe for the coming season, I’m glad to hear us investors might see some profit soon.’

  The door opened and a woman with a face as round as an apple and just as red, dressed in a riot of green and orange walked in, followed by Miss Truman who was wearing a gown of mauve chiffon and lace which made it look as if she were emerging from swirling fog.

  Josiah rose to his feet.

  ‘Ah, my dear,’ said Mr Truman, straightening up. ‘May I present Mr Martyn, the young man I’ve been telling you about.’

  ‘Mr Martyn,’ she said, giving him a jolly smile.

  Josiah bowed. ‘Mrs Truman.’