‘And of course, Martyn, you’ve already met my daughter,’ said Mr Truman.
Josiah bowed again.
‘Mr Martyn,’ she replied, the ringlets at either side of her face bobbing as she bounced to a stop beside her mother.
Mrs Truman’s attention shifted from Josiah to her husband. ‘Have you ordered tea, Trubby?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ Mr Truman replied. ‘It should be here presently.’
‘Splendid,’ said Mrs Truman. ‘Then we shall get to know each other while we wait.’
Her husband sat down again and indicated for Josiah to do the same.
‘Mr Martyn, won’t you come and join me on the other sofa,’ Miss Truman asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
‘Mr Martyn is fine where he is, Emma,’ her mother said before Josiah could answer. ‘So you can keep me company here.’
She patted the cushion next to her.
Emma’s lower lip jutted out, but she flounced across and sat next to her mother in a cloud of lavender gossamer and thwarted wishes.
Clasping her hands on her lap, Mrs Truman smiled across at Josiah. ‘So lovely to meet you at last, Mr Martyn.’
‘And you, Mrs Truman,’ Josiah replied, returning her warm smile. ‘And thank you for your kind invitation.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Truman replied.
‘It were our Emma’s idea, Martyn,’ added her husband. ‘And she’s been bobbing up and back from the window for the past half an hour watching for you.’
The dimple in Emma’s cheek puckered again. ‘Father!’ She sent Josiah a long look from under her lashes. ‘Whatever will Mr Martyn think of me?’
‘I’m sure he thinks very well of you, my dear,’ her father replied.
‘Although such eagerness is hardly acceptable behaviour for a well brought-up young lady, is it, Emma?’ said her mother, giving her bubbly daughter a censorious look.
Emma pouted. ‘Mama, you sound just like Madame Hilliard.’
‘I’m sure I do,’ her mother replied. ‘But after your papa spent a pretty penny sending you to the École de Paris pour Mademoiselles, I expected perhaps a little more restraint.’
‘Now, now, my dear,’ said Mr Truman. ‘Our Emma was just excited at some company her own age for once, rather than my crusty business acquaintances and your straitlaced dowagers.’
‘Dowagers with unmarried and titled offspring,’ she replied, looking pointedly at her husband.
The door opened and a maid carrying a tray loaded with crockery entered the room. She set it on the low table between them and left.
‘My husband tells me you come from somewhere in the west, Mr Martyn,’ said Mrs Truman as she set out the cups and saucers.
‘Cornwall,’ Josiah replied.
As she poured the tea and handed it around, Josiah gave Mrs Truman a rundown of his home county, village and family.
‘And is your father still working down the mine?’ she asked, offering him a plate of minute cakes.
‘No, he’s up top working the pump,’ Josiah replied, taking one. ‘But my two younger brothers are. I’m hoping to be able to bring all my family to London soon, to join me. I’m certain to be offered the post of chief engineer or site manager on one of the capital’s large building projects after my work on the tunnel.’
‘Your father must be very proud of you, Mr Martyn,’ said Mrs Truman.
A wry smile lifted the corner of Josiah’s mouth.
‘He is and is forever boasting of his son “who be a top gaffer up London,”’ he said, emphasising his accent.
‘Never mind London, Mr Martyn, I’m sure you will be the tops in England too, one day,’ said Emma breathlessly, as she sent him a look of adoration. ‘Don’t you agree, Papa?’
‘I certainly do,’ Mr Truman agreed, the pink and gold bone china cup sitting awkwardly in the palm of his hairy hand.
Mrs Truman finished her tea and placed her cup back in the saucer, then turned to her daughter.
‘Emma, my dearest,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you entertain Mr Martyn with that lovely piece you’ve just learnt?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Giving Josiah a dazzling smile, Emma Truman rose and, gliding across the patterned carpet, she settled herself at the piano, arranged her skirts gracefully around herself and started to play.
Josiah, along with Emma’s parents, listened for a few moments then, as the tinkling sound of Emma’s second melody drifted over, Mrs Truman turned to Josiah again.
‘More tea, Mr Martyn?’
Josiah handed over his cup. ‘Thank you.’
‘Beautiful,’ said Mr Truman, gazing lovingly across at his daughter.
‘Indeed,’ said Josiah, politely.
‘And naturally, as your father wanted you to move up in the world, Mr Martyn, me and Mr T want the very best for our dearest daughter, too,’ said Truman’s wife.
‘Miss Truman is a delightful young lady,’ said Josiah. ‘And a credit to both you and Mr Truman.’
‘Emma has an exuberant and vivacious temperament,’ she continued. ‘And we have high hopes for her. Of course, like all young women of her tender years, our precious darling is wont to imagine all sorts of fanciful notions about life, love and matrimony. However, as an heiress to a sizable fortune, I have my heart set on Emma marrying into one of England’s noble families and, Mr Martyn,’ she fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘I hope you understand that.’
An image of Charlotte Hatton’s dark hair scooped back into a simple bun flashed across Josiah’s mind and he gave her a relaxed smile. ‘Mrs Truman, I completely understand.’
***
‘So we are agreed,’ said Charlotte, sweeping her gaze over the half a dozen women gathered around the table. ‘I should write to Mrs Fry for further guidance about setting up our own home nursing service.’
‘Indeed,’ said Betty Stubbs, a motherly woman in her mid-forties, whose husband owned the chandlery on Queen’s Street. ‘Then we can have a proper idea as to what it involves.’
The bonnets of the well-to-do matrons sat around the solid oak table nodded in agreement.
It was the third Thursday of the month and Charlotte was chairing the monthly meeting of St Mary’s Parish Women’s Welfare Committee.As always, they were in St Mary’s vestry, sitting around the oval table. On one side of them, hanging on pegs, were the choir and verger’s robes while on the other, in an ancient dark wood press, were the church candles and the parish registers which were giving the room an odd odour of beeswax and decaying paper.
‘Although if you ask me,’ said Rosaline Nunn, the fishmonger’s wife, with bright blonde ringlets on either side of her face. ‘I don’t see why we need to nurse people at home when they could easily be cared for in the workhouse infirmary. After all, isn’t that what we pay our parish rates for?’
‘We do,’ agreed Miss Henrietta Atwood, a stout spinster whose late father had been St Mary’s churchwarden for as long as anyone could remember. ‘As my dear Papa used to say, it’s only the fear of the workhouse that keeps the lower orders in their place.’
‘However,’ said Charlotte. ‘It seems unfair to me that most of those seeking parish relief are women with young children who are either recently widowed or have been deserted.’
‘Men!’ said Miss Atwood, pulling her lips into a tight bud of disapproval.
‘My suggestion,’ continued Charlotte, ‘is that by offering a little practical assistance to such women until they get back on their feet, it will save them seeking parish relief as they do now.’
‘But if the poor know they won’t have to go to the workhouse, won’t it encourage idleness?’ asked Mrs Gardener, the solicitor’s wife.
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Charlotte. ‘No more than the Good Samaritan when he cared for the injured traveller until he was well enough to resume his journey.’
‘That seems to make sense,’ said Dolly Knutts, the butcher’s wife. ‘Plus, I hate to think of little ones taken from their mothers and put in th
e children’s ward.’
‘So do I, Mrs Knutts, so do I,’ said Charlotte. ‘And on the subject of children there seems to me to be far too many infants in this parish who do not reach their first birthday. Having read a few treaties on the effects of poverty on infants and children, I’m convinced many more would survive if we could but help their mothers in those first few months.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Hatton, I think that would be a waste of our time and resources,’ said Mrs Sinclair, the apothecary’s wife, looking down her short squat nose at the assembled women. ‘I have observed that, unlike gently raised women, the lower orders deliver without breaking their stride, much as a feral cat does.’
There were a couple of mutters of agreement.
‘That may be so in some cases,’ Charlotte replied, holding tight to her rising temper and regarding the other woman coolly. ‘But an equal number end up in the graveyard with their newborns beside them in the coffin.’
‘And,’ chipped in Dolly Knutts. ‘Doesn’t the Holy Bible instructed us to care for widows and orphans?’
‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Betty Stubbs. ‘In chapter one of St James’s Epistle, I believe.’
The three women glared across the table at each other for a long moment, then Mrs Sinclair turned to Charlotte and smiled sweetly.
‘As you say, Miss Hatton, perhaps we should investigate all our options before making our final decision, so please write again to Mrs Fry if you think her wisdom in this matter will add to our endeavours.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte, matching the other woman’s syrupy expression as she drew a line through the last item on her list. ‘Now, if there is nothing else that requires our attention...’
Mrs Potter, whose family owned the eating house in Elephant Street, put her hand up.
‘Yes, Mrs Potter,’ said Charlotte, as enthusiastically as she could, given they’d been talking for the past two hours already.
‘The tunnel workers,’ Mrs Potter, blinking her pale eyelashes rapidly.
Unbidden, an image of Josiah smiling down at her as they talked in church the Sunday before materialised in Charlotte’s mind.
‘What about the tunnel workers?’ she asked, hoping only she could hear the tightness in her voice.
‘Well, they are a disgrace,’ said Mrs Potter.
‘They certainly are,’ agreed Mrs Nunn. ‘The way they swagger about taking up all the pavement.’
‘And leering at respectable women and…and,’ Miss Atwood glanced furtively over her shoulder at the church’s banners, ‘making lewd suggestions.’
Mrs Gardener looked surprised. ‘One of the tunnel workers made a lewd suggestion to you?’
‘He did,’ said Miss Atwood, clutching her hands to her slender bosom. ‘And most shocking it was too.’
Dolly Knutts leant forward. ‘What did he say?’
‘I don’t think we need to know all the details,’ said Charlotte.
‘I didn’t catch the actual words,’ continued Miss Atwood. ‘But his lustful expression made his meaning perfectly clear. And he was drunk! Very drunk.’
‘That’s a large part of the problem,’ said Mrs Potter. ‘When they’re not working they are jammed into public houses drinking themselves senseless.’
‘Someone ought to speak to that French chap who’s in charge at Cow Lane and tell him to make his men behave,’ said Mrs Gardener.
‘I don’t think Mr Brunel can do much to order what his men get up to in their leisure time,’ said Charlotte.
‘As my dear father, who was teetotal all his life, used to say,’ said Miss Atwood. ‘“The common man is a fornicator by nature and a drunk by trade.”’
‘I hope you’re not accusing the publicans of the area of causing the problem, Miss Atwood,’ said Mrs Turnbull, the landlady of The Anchor.
‘Well, you sell them the drink, Tilda Turnbull,’ chipped in Mrs Gardener.
‘In the same way you sell them pies, Maggie Gardener,’ said Mrs Turnbull, glaring across at her sister in Christ. ‘The publican trade is as respectable as any other around this table and, what’s more, I’ll have you know that Mr Turnbull is an honourable warden of the Licence Vintners Guild, one of the oldest guilds in the City and—’
‘Ladies, please,’ Charlotte cut in as the publican drew breath. ‘If we might return to the subject.’
‘Which is that the ladies of St Mary’s Parish Welfare Committee would like representation to be made to Mr Brunel regarding the behaviour of his men towards the respectable women of the parish going about their lawful business, is that not right, ladies?’ said Mrs Sinclair.
‘We do indeed,’ said Mrs Gardener.
‘Someone must say something,’ agreed Miss Turnbull. ‘Someone who has an official position in the parish and can speak for all of us.’
All eyes turned on Charlotte.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll go along to Cow Yard and seek a meeting with Mr Brunel so as to tell him the committee’s concerns.’
‘Thank you, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Sinclair. ‘I’m sure, given you and his daughter are acquaintances, he will listen more readily to you.’
Charlotte gave a wan smile. ‘I’ll do what I can. Now, is there anything else?’
Lace and feathers fluttered as the ladies of the parish shook their heads.
‘Then I shall adjourn the meeting,’ Charlotte said before adding, ‘and thank you all for attending.’
There was the scrape of chairs as the committee stood up, but as she was shuffling her papers together, Mrs Knutts sidled over.
‘Thank you for speaking up in favour of the home nursing service,’ said Charlotte, as she tucked her notes in a leather wallet.
‘You don’t have to thank me, Miss Hatton,’ said the motherly butcher’s wife. ‘I cry buckets I do every time I hear of a young ’un being taken in that ’orrible place and you can put me, Betty and Tilda down for a bit of home nursing.’
‘Mrs Turnbull?’
‘Don’t be fooled by her tough outside,’ said Dolly. ‘Tilda might be able to lay a drunk flat with her fist but she’s as soft as butter in the sun as far as kiddies are concerned.’
‘Thank you, Dolly.’ Charlotte picked up her file and turned to leave.
‘Oh, and those miners in Cow Lane are a rough bunch so I’d be happy to come with you, Miss Hatton, when you call on Mr Brunel,’ said Dolly.
An image of Josiah with his cravat unravelled, shirt unbuttoned and his sleeves turned up danced in Charlotte’s mind. ‘Thanks very kind of you, Dolly,’ she said, as a flutter of anticipation ran through her. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
***
Leaning over the wide bench, Josiah studied the plan spread before him under the full glare of the lamp above for a moment then retrieved the pencil from behind his right ear. Holding it aloft, he anchored the metal ruler with his other hand and then drew along the edge.
It was late afternoon and he’d been on shift since nine but, for once, he hadn’t spent it deep beneath the ground, but in the pleasant spring sunlight in the working area at the top of the shaft.
It had been surrounded and capped the month before to protect the work below from the elements, and the area provided a much-needed workspace. Although there was a works office, he and Armstrong had set up a draftsman’s bench so they could consult the mining plans without having to trudge through mud to the other side of the yard.
Scanning his eyes over his work again Josiah was just about to pick up the protractor to check the next set of angles when he heard the distinct sound of a someone lightly walking up the wooden steps to the shed.
Suppressing his annoyance at the prospect of his work being disturbed, Josiah turned to see who it was. However, as his eyes alighted on his unexpected visitor, his irritation evaporated in an instant.
‘Miss Hatton,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
She was wearing a pale-green walking dress with a matching jacket which perfectly highlighted her dark hai
r and eyes, and a narrow-brimmed bonnet.
‘It is,’ she laughed, her eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun.
‘I’m here to see Mr Brunel.’
‘Does he know you’re coming?’ asked Josiah.
‘I sent word before lunch and he sent back to say he’d be free around four,’ she replied. ‘Is he around?’
‘He went over to see one of the building suppliers a while back and I haven’t seen him return,’ said Josiah. ‘But if he’s expecting you at four I expect he’ll be back at any moment and you’re welcome to wait here until he is.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘But only if I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, feeling the opposite as the prospect of talking to her loomed. ‘It’s my pleasure to entertain you until he returns.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked, giving him a sideward look. ‘Because by the expression on your face when you turned I imagined you must have been expecting your worst foe.’
He laughed. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, rolling down his sleeves and grabbing his jacket from the chair. ‘I thought you were another sightseer.’
‘Yes, you do seem to get rather a lot,’ she replied. ‘Every time I walk past the gates there are well-dressed groups of people milling about, and carriages waiting in the road. I wonder how Mr Brunel has time to show them around.’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Josiah, straightening his lapels. ‘None of us have, not with the work falling behind schedule, but he has to because every shilling they pay to visit pays for another bale-load of brick.’
‘Yes, I’d heard you’ve had some setbacks,’ Charlotte said. ‘Captain Paget said that the whole tunnel was flooded.’
Josiah raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration on his part,’ he said, remembering the way the preening stuffed-shirt hovered around Charlotte. ‘But we did have a few problems a month back because the pump packed up again, so we’ve spent a month bailing out the bottom of the shaft.’
‘I didn’t think you were digging under the Thames yet,’ said Charlotte.
‘We’re not,’ Josiah replied, briefly wondering how her mouth would feel under his. ‘This is the leakage from the underground spring we keep finding. In fact, that’s what I’m working on now.’ He indicated the plan. ‘I was just working out where to sink a well, so we can pump the water out and stop it seeping into the working area.’
The Rector's Daughter Page 7
