The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘I only wish I could have spent longer,’ he said. ‘But even as I have been enjoying your lovely company, I know I ’ave shareholders waiting for me in Cow Yard.’

  He finished his drink and placed the glass back on the tray that was sitting on Miss Rutherford’s blotter.

  Miss Rutherford walked over and said, ‘Thank you again for visiting us, Mr Brunel, and would you do me the honour of signing our visitors’ book before you depart?’

  ‘Lead the way, Mademoiselle Rutherford,’ he replied and followed the schoolteacher to the cabinet under the window, leaving Sophie with Charlotte.

  ‘I hope you too enjoyed your visit, Miss Brunel,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I did,’ said Sophie. ‘If only to see my father smile, as he is fair worn out with worries about the tunnel.’

  ‘Well I’m glad we helped him forget about his problems, if only for an hour or so,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Miss Hatton, I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward for a very new acquaintance, but would you like to come to tea sometime?’ asked Miss Brunel.

  ‘I don’t think you are too forward at all, Miss Brunel, and I’d love to come,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Miss Brunel. ‘And shall we be totally shocking and dispense with this silly leaving cards back and forth and just say you’ll have tea with me next Thursday?’

  ‘We shall,’ laughed Charlotte. ‘After all, it is 1825, is it not?’

  ‘Good,’ said Miss Brunel, as her father headed back towards them. ‘I look forward to talking about dress fabric and young men instead of steam pumps and bricks, which is all my father and brother Isambard talk about.’

  The two girls laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma cherie,’ said Sophie’s father as he re-joined them. ‘But I will ’ave to drag you away as I am expected back at Cow Lane.’

  ‘That’s fine, Papa,’ said Sophie, taking her father’s arm again. ‘Miss Hatton and I can continue our conversation next week when she comes for tea.’

  ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Now, I bid you and St Mary’s school farewell as I should be getting back before Mr Anderson, who I left ’olding the castle, sends Mr Martyn to find me.

  At the sound of his name a little thrill ran through Charlotte as the memory of Josiah’s dark eyes softening when he looked at her materialised in her mind.

  ‘I believe he started in a school very like this,’ continued Mr Brunel, casting his eyes around again. ‘Per’aps in the future one of St Mary’s pupils will follow in ’is footsteps.’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Hatton,’ he said, tapping his hat in place and leading his daughter towards the door, with Miss Rutherford in attendance.

  Telling her oddly fluttering heart to be still, Charlotte gathered the glasses together and, putting them on the tray with the empty jug, she picked it up and carried it through to the small kitchen overlooking the boys’ playground at the back of the school.

  Charlotte put the dirty glassware in the deep butler sink for Mrs Wicks, the school cleaner to attend to, then rested her hands on the edge of the sink and gazed out of the window.

  A little group of boys were playing tag and they yelled and laughed as they dashed past the window and Charlotte thought of Josiah again. But this time, rather than the man, Charlotte tried to imagine the boy Josiah had been.

  The image of a ragged boy bent over his slate working out long division and the angle of a triangle stayed for a little while, but then the image of Josiah dressed in his Sunday best returned.

  Charlotte tried to push it away and had just about managed it when there was a knock on the door. She turned, and only just stopped herself gasping.

  Dressed in rough workman’s clothes with the first three buttons of his shirt unfastened and his cravat loosely tied, Josiah Martyn filled the doorway.

  He gave her that sideways smile of his and Charlotte’s heart, that had only just returned to a regular beat, did a little leap then galloped off.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatton,’ he said, his deep voice rolling over her. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m looking for Mr Brunel.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me at all, Mr Martyn,’ she lied. ‘But I’m afraid Mr Brunel left for Cow Lane about five minutes ago.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Mr Martyn. ‘Poor George. He’s been keeping a pack of shareholders who are insisting that they speak to Mr Brunel at bay for the past half hour.’

  ‘Oh, well, Mr Brunel should be back in Cow Lane by now,’ said Charlotte.

  Mr Martyn ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. ‘He will at that, God help him.’

  ‘Are they very demanding?’ Charlotte asked.

  He gave her that twisted smile again.

  ‘Let’s just say I know how the Egyptians felt when they were told to make brick without straw,’ he replied.

  Charlotte laughed and wondered in passing why Nicolas’s smile didn’t seem to make her heart pitter-patter in the way Mr Martyn’s seemed to.

  He glanced around.

  ‘You know,’ he said, as Charlotte admired his strong profile. ‘This takes me right back to my school days.’

  ‘What, in the village?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘No, at Truro Grammar,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘But how did…?’ She looked down.

  ‘The son of an illiterate miner end up a pupil of Cornwall’s foremost school?’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Martyn,’ said Charlotte. ‘It was impolite of me to ask.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t mind you asking, Miss Hatton. In fact, it’s a story that’s worth telling. We lived in Trevelyan, just outside Truro. My father works in the tin mines like his father and generations of Martyns before. I went down too, when I was eight, and would probably be there still had Sir Selwood, the mine owner, not visited with his ten-year-old son one day when I was on shift. The boy slipped off a ladder as they were climbing down and disappeared down a crack in the rock. We could barely see him and none of the men could get to him so I volunteered to climb down and try to fetch him up.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Charlotte, feeling a little panicky at the thought.

  ‘It were a tight fit, I can tell you,’ he continued. ‘But after scraping the skin of both knees and elbows on the way down, I managed to slip a rope around the poor little lad and they pulled him out. Pulled me out after him and Sir Selwood asked me to name my reward at the top of the pit in front of everyone.’ A wry smile lifted the corner of his mouth. ‘I expect he thought I’d be asking for money or some such, but I said I wanted me and my brother to go to Truro School.’

  ‘And he agreed?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘Couldn’t really lose face by doing otherwise with his child restored to him and everyone standing by,’ Josiah replied. ‘I already had my letters and could add up, subtract, multiply and divide up to five figures in my head, but I knew it would be no use to me unless I could master geometry and calculus. Anyhow, he agreed, and me and Ezra started the following term. He’s a year my junior and is here with me at the tunnel. You may have seen him next to me in church most Sundays.’

  ‘I think I might have,’ said Charlotte, remembering the man she’d often seen sitting next to Josiah in the pew.

  ‘Well, he and I have travelled together the length and breadth of the country to dig holes in the ground,’ he said. ‘So, when I was offered a job at the tunnel it was natural he came too. We have lodgings in Stringers Row. It’s a bit close to the leather works when they’re stirring up the soak tanks, but just a stroll from Cow Yard.’

  ‘Well you’ve certainly come a long way since you squeezed yourself down that mine shaft, Mr Martyn,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I reckon I have,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve a way to go yet before I’m finished.’

  He smiled and a ripple of pleasure ran through Charlotte.

  They stood for a moment gazing at each other, then Mr Martyn spoke again.

  ‘And talking
of the man himself,’ he said, retrieving his cloth cap from his back pocket. ‘I ought to get back to the yard to make sure ’e’s not been pinned against the wall by irate shareholders. So I’ll wish you a good day, Miss Hatton.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Martyn,’ she said. ‘And I look forward to seeing you in church on Sunday.’

  ‘Pump and tunnel permitting,’ he said.

  Charlotte laughed, ‘Pump and tunnel permitting.’

  Setting his cap at a jaunty angle he turned to leave, but as he reached the door he turned and his eyes locked with Charlotte’s.

  ‘You be doing a grand job here, Miss Hatton,’ he said, his eyes dark as he gazed across the classroom at her. ’A grand job.’

  Chapter four

  Putting her hand out to steady herself, Frances Palmer gripped the coach door handle as the vehicle lurched sideways and came to a halt.

  The door opened, so Frances gathered her skirts and stepped down.

  The early April sunlight warmed her face as the church bells rang out with gusto to celebrate the holiest day in the church year; Easter Sunday.

  Raising her head, she contemplated the throng of worshipers – all dressed in their Sunday best, with a flurry of new bonnets for those able to afford them – just for a second, then called her son.

  ‘Arthur!’

  He scrambled out and stood beside her.

  Lifting her cinnamon silk skirt to avoid the rotting garbage in the gutter with one hand, and holding Arthur tight with the other, Frances swept up the stone steps and into St Mary’s church.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, her gaze rested on Charlotte who sat in the incumbent’s family pew.

  ‘We will sit with Miss Hatton,’ she said to Masters, who was carrying a large cushion. He touched his forelock and strode off down the aisle.

  Frances guided her son away from the paupers wedged into the benches at the back of the church, towards the Hattons’ pew.

  She and Arthur had no right to sit there, of course, but...

  ‘Good morning, my dear, may I join you for a moment until the press of people has abated?’ she asked, stepping into the box.

  ‘Of course,’ Charlotte replied, as Frances settled herself into her seat.

  Arthur slumped beside her.

  The organist started to play softly. Charlotte opened her small notebook with the mother-of-pearl cover and started to write the names of the parishioners who were not in the church.

  Mrs Palmer regarded Charlotte as she sat with her head bowed over her list. She considered her comely enough, in a sort of earthy way, and the cream muslin dress, embroidered with small sprigs of lavender, she was wearing with a short plum-coloured jacket looked well enough, even if the sleek lines of the design were interrupted by Charlotte’s unfashionable curves.

  Mrs Palmer smoothed her fingers over the warm silk of her own gown. Her waist was the same circumference as it was twenty-five years ago when she was nineteen. Of course, having only carried Arthur helped.

  The old crone who owned the fish stall in King Street limped painfully down the aisle and stopped in front of them.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatton,’ she said and curtsied, a brief expression of pain flitting across her weathered face.

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kelly. How are your family? Grandchildren?’

  As the old woman burbled on about her wretched children and their snotty offspring, Frances studied the old woman coolly.

  Finally, the old woman scraped a curtsy again, then hobbled back down the aisle.

  Charlotte looked back at her book and frowned.

  ‘There’re quite a few missing. I suspect Bella Stacy has been brought to bed with the baby. I hope her Joe has been in work this week. They already have four mouths to feed.’ A sad expression settled on Charlotte’s face. ‘Nell Cumberton isn’t here either. Since her husband died, I am afraid that if she falls behind on the rent, they will have no choice but to seek parish assistance at the workhouse.’

  Out of the corner of her eye Frances saw the rector making his way towards them, his vestments billowing behind him.

  Dull to the point of numbness and with a figure like a whipping top, George Hatton would not be many women’s notion of an ideal husband. He certainly was not Frances’s, but in her present financial situation needs must when their future was at stake.

  ‘How much is the rent?’ she asked as Mr Hatton reached them.

  ‘Sixpence a week,’ Charlotte replied.

  Frances opened her purse and pulled out a half-sovereign. She handed the coin to Charlotte. ‘This should pay the rent for a week or two,’ she said, smiling up at the rector.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Palmer,’ Charlotte’s father said with his jowls rolling upwards as he smiled at her. ‘Whose rent?’

  ‘Poor Nell Cumberton. Her man is without work,’ said Frances Palmer, fashioning her face into a sympathetic expression.

  Her father’s mouth pulled into a tight bud. ‘There is too much idleness in the parish, Mrs Palmer.’

  ‘As always, Mr Hatton, you are right,’ said Frances with a heavy sigh. ‘But when I look at my darling boy I can’t bear to think of those poor children suffering.’

  ‘You have a generous heart, Mrs Palmer,’ Mr Hatton said, giving her a condescending smile. ‘But beware that your soft heart doesn’t lead you to be too generous to the lower classes. After all, God has ordered their estate and we should not interfere with His plan.’

  Mrs Palmer bowed her head meekly. ‘As always, I will heed your guidance, rector.’

  Charlotte’s father inclined his head graciously. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, I must prepare for the service.’

  ‘And I must return to my seat.’ Frances rose to her feet. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the second pew on the right. ‘Someone seems to be sitting in our usual place.’

  ‘Then you must sit with Charlotte in the incumbent’s family pew,’ said Mr Hatton. ‘There’s plenty of room. In fact, Mrs Palmer, I would like to extend the invitation for you to sit in the incumbent’s family pew each and every time you feel the need.’

  Frances opened her eyes wide. ‘How generous of you, but only if my presence doesn’t encroach on Miss Hatton’s spiritual peace.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said the rector. ‘Now, I really must go or I’ll have the bishop after me for neglecting my duties.’

  Frances laughed lightly. ‘And that would never do.’

  He gave her a boyish look and then strode off towards the vestry. Tucking her skirts under her, Frances sat down again.

  Putting her book in her reticule, Charlotte then set it on the pew beside her and sank onto the tapestry kneeler, her hands clasped in front of her in prayer.

  Frances did the same but instead of closing her eyes tight as the young girl beside her had, she squinted through them across the congregation who were now in their places and were waiting for the service to begin.

  Frances noticed many of St Mary’s regular parishioners giving her querying looks as she sat in the comfortable pew reserved for the incumbent family, but Frances reckoned they might as well get used to it because this would be her permanent place when she became Mrs Hatton.

  The organ started, and Frances sat back and prepared herself for the hour of mind-numbing dullness that Mr Hatton’s services always were, but as her gaze ran across the heads of the congregation, her heart suddenly did a little skip.

  Sitting towards the back was a young man with dark hair and eyes, and the sort of face – square jawed and straight nosed – that any woman with blood pounding through her veins would want to kiss all over.

  He was standing holding a hymn book in his hand as he sang. By his dress and his seat amongst the common people he was obviously one of the miners working in Cow Lane. That was evident too by the breadth of his chest and the set of his shoulders.

  Although her social inferior, there was something about a man with calloused hands and work-hardened muscles that often made her set aside their st
ations for a wild hour or so of grubby but spine-tingling coupling.

  As if he knew she was studying him, the young man turned his head and looked straight at her.

  As their eyes met, a jolt of desire coursed through Frances, the likes of which she’d not felt for many years.

  Arching her neck, she sent him a look that would need no interpretation. He answered it with a hard stare and his very kissable mouth pulled into two hard lines and he looked away.

  Frances smiled. So you want to play the shy maid do you, handsome? Well, for you, my sweet boy, I’m happy to do the chasing.

  ***

  Passing through the church doors, Josiah emerged into the warm sunlight of a bright Easter morning. Around him the congregation, released from the dark confines of the church, were greeting each other and chatting.

  In the far corner he spotted Miss Hatton talking to a small group of children in front of one of the large family memorials at the side of the church.

  She was, as always, dressed in a simple walking dress with a modest bonnet of the same colour, and the sight of her stirred his soul.

  As she waved the youngsters goodbye Josiah pulled down the front of his jacket and strolled over.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatton,’ he said as he stopped just behind her.

  She turned and smiled up at him, setting his pulse racing.

  ‘And to you, Mr Martyn,’ she replied, her eyes sparkling bright as they held his. ‘And He is risen.’

  ‘He is risen indeed,’ Josiah replied with the traditional greeting of the day.

  ‘Have you much planned for this afternoon?’ she asked.

  ‘Just lunch at the Mayflower with my brother, and then we might get a wherry upriver and take a stroll around,’ he replied, as the thought of pressing his lips onto hers popped into his head. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Just lunch at the rectory,’ she replied. ‘And then a quiet afternoon sewing or—’

  ‘Oh, there you are, Miss Hatton!’

  Josiah turned to see Mrs Palmer, her expensive satin and lace fluttering around her as she hurried towards them.

  He’d seen her studying him in church, and even if he hadn’t already heard whisperings about her predilection for young men to ease her needs, the look she’d given him left no doubt as to what was on her mind. It was equally clear that she didn’t recognise him.