‘Forfeit! Forfeit!’ everyone laughed.
Like a panto villain Charles formed his hands into two claws and loomed over Emma for a long moment before tickling her around the waist.
Emma shrieked and became a froth of giggling lace and ribbon as she fended off her playful attacker. Everyone laughed again until finally Charles let her go.
‘Your turn,’ said one of the other girls.
Standing in the circle waiting to have the blindfold tied in place, Emma glanced across at Josiah.
Her fellow participants spun her around.
‘Not so fast,’ she said, stopping after just a couple of turns. ‘And this scarf is pressing on my nose.’
She adjusted it and then, tipping her head back, she slightly stretched out her arms. She stepped forwards and headed across the floor. One of the young lads skirted past her fingertips and she darted forwards again and brushed against Isambard who snaked out of her grasp. She edged forward again until she reached the rug Josiah was standing on. One of the girls tapped her on her shoulder but Emma wasn’t deterred. With her arms outstretched she headed towards Josiah. Her hands brushed against the tapestry fire screen just to the left of him and then she turned and pounced on him, throwing her arms around him.
She whipped off her blindfold and feigned surprise.
‘Mr Martyn,’ she said, breathlessly as she gazed up at him.
He smiled. ‘The very same.’
‘I caught you,’ she said, still hugging onto him.
‘You did, and I wasn’t even playing,’ he replied.
‘Forfeit, forfeit,’ chanted the merry makers around them. ‘Make him pay a forfeit.’
A mischievous smile spread across Emma’s lips. Turning from him she snatched a twig of mistletoe from the mantelshelf and held it above her head.
‘A kiss.’
Everyone laughed and hooted and clapped.
‘She caught you there, Martyn,’ roared Isambard.
‘Pay up, man!’ laughed George.
Emma wiggled the sprig of mistletoe.
Standing on tiptoe she presented her cheek to him.
He leant forward to pay his dues but as he did Emma wobbled backwards.
Josiah’s arm shot out around her waist to steady her.
Placing her hand on his chest, Emma tilted her face up to him. ‘Yes, Mr Martyn. Pay up!’
Josiah smiled again.
‘Certainly, Miss Truman.’ No man could really complain about having a young woman in his arms asking to be kissed, but as he pressed his lips onto Emma’s cheek he couldn’t help but wish that this particular young woman had brown eyes and chestnut hair instead of being the blue-eyed blonde that was clinging onto him.
***
Frances clutched tightly onto the emerald pendant around her neck as Dr Forsyth, her portly, grey-haired physician for the past decade, held her son’s wrist and studied his gold Hunter resting in his other hand.
It was just before lunchtime on Boxing Day and she and the elderly doctor were standing on either side of her son’s bed. Arthur lay propped up by half a dozen pillows under the plush chenille cover with his hobby horse lying next to him.
His room was at the top of the house opposite his governess’s in case he wanted her at any time. It contained not one but two brightly painted boxes which, although packed to the brim with all manner of novelties, didn’t have enough capacity for all of Arthur’s toys. In addition, there was a stylised fort for his large collection of lead soldiers.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dr Forsyth let go of Arthur’s hand and it dropped onto the counterpane.
‘Please tell me, doctor, that my precious little pigeon is well,’ said Frances, her hands tightly clasped in front of her.
‘He most certainly is,’ Dr Forsyth replied, snapping his watch shut and stowing it back in his waistcoat pocket.
‘Are you sure?’ Her gaze darted over the boy laying in the bed. ‘He looks a little feverish to me.’
‘I’m absolutely sure Master Palmer is as fit as a fiddle,’ the doctor assured her as he studied her over his half-rimmed spectacles. ‘As far as I can tell his humours are in perfect balance.’
‘But he was so violently sick yesterday, surely the cause must be something more sinister than an extra piece of cake,’ insisted Frances.
‘My dear lady,’ the doctor replied, with just a hint of condescension in his tone. ‘After listening to the list of what he ate over the course of the day, I’m not surprised a slice of cake caused such a reaction.’
‘But he hardly ate a thing at breakfast,’ said Frances. ‘I managed to feed him a lightly boiled egg and a few pieces of toast and, although I coaxed him, Arthur wouldn’t have the smallest morsel of kipper.’
‘Children’s stomachs are not as robust as ours, Mrs Palmer, and are prone to going into spasm if too much sugar is consumed,’ explained the doctor. ‘I would advise you to avoid such substances for a few days to prevent a recurrence.’
‘I still think he looks a little feverish.’ Frances put her hand on her son’s forehead before Arthur knocked it away.
‘And his disposition still seems unsettled,’ added Frances.
Dr Forsyth raised an eyebrow. ‘Probably because he’s been cooped up in bed all day.’
‘I thought it best until I was absolutely certain my special little man was well,’ said Frances, smiling indulgently at her offspring who scowled back.
‘And in my professional opinion, he is,’ Dr Forsyth replied. ‘And would benefit from a run around in the garden.’
Arthur sat up straight.
‘Can I, Mama?’ he asked, his eyes bright as they looked at her.
‘Perhaps later,’ Frances replied.
‘It could help the lad get rid of that extra weight,’ the doctor continued, looking meaningfully at the mound of Arthur’s stomach visible under the coverlets.
Frances gave the aged medical man a tight smile. ‘My son has a robust figure like his father.’
A lock of fair hair had fallen across her son’s forehead. She tried to stroke it back in place, but Arthur smacked her hand away again.
‘Such an independent soul.’
‘If there’s nothing more.’ Dr Forsyth picked up his bag.
‘Of course,’ said Frances. ‘But you will call again tomorrow, just to be sure.’
‘If you insist,’ said the doctor. ‘But I’m sure by then your son will be back to his usual excit— vigorous self.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’ Gliding over to the bell pull, Frances tugged on it. ‘And please send your bill at your convenience.’
‘Ah, yes, the bill.’ Doctor Forsyth ran a chubby index finger around his winged collar. ‘If you could attend to the outstanding one from last month at the same time, I’d be grateful, Mrs Palmer.’
Frances looked perplexed. ‘Last month, doctor?’
‘Indeed,’ he replied, a faint colour spreading upwards from his cravat. ‘Three visits, a purgative when Arthur ingested berries and a salve for his hand when he grabbed a bun from the hotplate.’
Sticking out her lower lip Frances gave him a repentant look.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in her most poor-widowed-mother tone. ‘It must have slipped my mind but I will attend to it immediately.’
He looked relieved. ‘Much appreciated.’
The door opened and Masters stepped in.
‘Please show Doctor Forsyth out and then tell Madame Hilary to prepare Master Palmer’s lunch,’ said Frances.
Dr Forsyth inclined his head and left.
Frances went back to her son’s bedside.
‘Can I play in the garden, Mama?’ Arthur asked as she sat on his bed.
‘Perhaps, if you eat all your luncheon and I judge the wind not strong enough to take your breath,’ Frances replied. ‘Now lie back, shut your eyes and rest until it’s prepared.’
Arthur’s lower lip jutted out defiantly, but he did as he was told and Frances took his hand.
Li
stening to her son’s soft breathing, Frances’s eyes drifted up and onto the wall opposite.
The room was papered with blue and white chinoiserie wallpaper depicting jolly Oriental fishermen dangling bamboo poles from arched bridges. She’d ordered it specially from the Bond Street bazaar. It had cost a pretty penny, but, given her son’s regal ancestry, she didn’t care as only the very best would do for Arthur.
Of course, she couldn’t be absolutely sure as to his parentage because it had been a wild season the summer of ’14 and with old Palmer confined to his bed with dropsy she’d taken full advantage of her freedom. She’d met some exhilarating young bucks determined to enjoy themselves having freshly returned from defeating Napoleon at Waterloo. She’d wined and dined with the cream of London society at the various salons and fashionable Mayfair gatherings, but it was an encounter in Vauxhall Gardens one night during which she was convinced her precious darling boy had been conceived.
Her thumb ran over the pendant hanging around her neck again.
Given that the unnamed duke was the commander-in-chief of the British Army it went a long way in explaining Arthur’s enthusiasm for all things military.
With the succession for the throne hanging on a six-year-old girl, she dared not name her royal lover who she was convinced had fathered her darling boy for fear the court would whisk him away to be raised as his blood demanded. After all, if the Duke of Kent’s singular female offspring, Princess Alexandrina Victoria, should succumb to some childhood illness, Arthur needed to be ready to fulfil his destiny. It was her duty to ensure he was ready, but to do that she needed money. Lots of it. Therefore, for Arthur and her rapidly depleting funds, it was essential that she secure Mr Hutton in marriage as soon as possible. And woe betide Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Charlotte if she stood in her way.
***
Pushing back the curtain of her carriage window a little, Frances peered across at the rectory front door.
‘What on earth is keeping the blasted girl?’ she muttered.
It was Wednesday, three days after Christmas Day, and although it was the middle of the afternoon, the puddles in the street were still frozen solid. Thankfully, swathed in furs with the coals under her seat warming the inside of her carriage, she was quite comfortable. She was parked on the riverside of St Mary’s, obscured from view by the railing shrubs and trees, and had been for some ten minutes or so.
Finally, the rectory door opened and Charlotte, wrapped up against the cold in her tartan coat, stepped out. As always when she was visiting the flee-ridden hovels of the poor, she had a basket over her arm. Tucking her collar up around her ears, she walked down the handful of steps and up Church Street towards the school. Frances waited until she turned the corner and was out of sight then she reached up and banged on the side of the carriage. It swayed as Masters got down, then the door opened and he unfurled the steps.
Frances climbed out.
‘Wait by the timber yard,’ she said, shoving her hands in the fur muff.
Her manservant touched his hat and climbed back up to the driver’s perch.
‘And mind, I will not be amused if I find you in the Three Stars when I get there,’ she added as he took up the reins.
He touched his tricorn again and urged the horses on.
Frances waited until the carriage too had disappeared from view and then quickly crossed the churchyard to the rectory.
Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps and pulled on the bell.
After a moment or two the door was opened by the rectory’s cook. Like many of her profession, the rectory’s senior servant was stout and dour. She was dressed as befitted her station in a brown serge dress and tight-fitting indoor cap with frills around the edge. As she was upstairs she’d taken her apron off, however at odds with her respectful demeanour and dress, the hint of indolence in her frank gaze told a different story.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Frances, smiling warmly. ‘I wonder if the rector is at home?’
‘He’s not,’ said Mrs Norris, flatly. ‘He’s at his club and won’t be back until late.’
She already knew that, of course, but Frances looked disappointed.
What about Miss Hatton?’ asked Frances.
‘She’s out too,’ Mrs Norris replied. ‘Off on her parish visits.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve missed both dear friends.’
‘So it would seem,’ replied the cheerless housekeeper.
Frances bit her lip. ‘It is Mrs Norris, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Look, Mrs Norris,’ said Frances. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy but the thing is, one of the horses cast a shoe so I’ve had to walk here and now I’m freezing cold and have a stone in my boot so would you mind if I came in for a moment?’
Mrs Norris hesitated for a second, then stepped back.
‘Thank you,’ said Frances.
She entered and caught a distinct whiff of brandy as she brushed past the housekeeper.
‘Go into the parlour, Mrs Palmer,’ said Mrs Norris, closing the door. ‘I’ll get you a button hook.’
Frances did and by the time she’d made herself comfortable, Mrs Norris reappeared.
‘Thank you, and so quickly too,’ said Frances, taking it from her. ‘I’m sure my footman would have still been searching high and low for it. It’s such a pleasure to visit such a well-ordered house. Miss Hatton must be grateful.’
Mrs Norris didn’t speak but her scornful expression gave her reply.
Sifting through the petticoats beneath, Frances lifted her skirt.
‘Mr Hutton and his daughter Charlotte are very dear to me,’ continued Frances, leaning sideways to hook the first button.
‘I have seen your fondness for Mr Hatton.’ Mrs Norris smiled. ‘And, of course, his dear daughter.’
‘Ah, yes, dear Charlotte,’ Frances sighed. ‘It must be hard for her to take, being the lady of the rectory at such a young age.’
With her hand clasped respectfully, Mrs Norris held her gaze. ‘I’m sure it must be a strain and it is my hope that Mr Hatton will marry again.’
‘And if he does, along with the great joy of becoming the rector’s helpmate in his ministry they will also be blessed to have you as their cook and, who knows,’ Frances smiled. ‘You might even be promoted to housekeeper as I’m sure you are more than capable of managing the day-to-day running of the household and overseeing the expenses.’
‘I would count it my good fortune to work for such a mistress,’ said Mrs Norris.
Frances removed her boot and shook it out.
‘Mr Hatton is so devoted to his duties and flock that until that blessed day I will remain very concerned for his wellbeing, so if you see or hear anything which could help me bring cheer to their lives, I would be pleased to know of it.’ She shoved her foot back in.
Mrs Norris smiled. ‘You have a kind heart.’
Frances looked down and hooked the first button. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t want them to know I was looking out for them, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ said the cook.
‘Well,’ said Frances, hooking the last fastening and standing up to shake out her skirts. ‘The stone has gone so I’ll do the same and leave you to your tasks. But, before I go, I believe you have an elderly relative you support.’
‘I do,’ said Mrs Norris.
‘Well then, to thank you for your assistance to me and the rector, perhaps you’d let me contribute to their upkeep. Opening the bag hanging at her wrist, Frances pulled out a sixpence and offered it to Mrs Norris.
The cook took it and her eyes flickered onto the silver coin in her outstretched hand, then back to Frances face. ‘Their rent’s a shilling.’
Stifling her annoyance, Frances withdrew another sixpence and placed it beside the first.
‘A week!’
Holding onto her boiling fury Frances glared at Mrs Norris for a long moment then, resisting the urge to slap the impertinent trollop, spoke again
.
‘Very well,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll tell Masters to make the arrangements.’
A smug smile slid across Mrs Norris’s face. ‘As I said. You have a kind heart.’
Chapter eleven
Huddled in front of the fire in his study, Mr Hatton was supposed to be writing his sermon for Palm Sunday in three days’ time, but after his meal of a dozen oysters and some spiced wine he had dozed off. It was of no consequence. He could find last year’s sermon on the text and use it again. It was the passage from St Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians: whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. To his way of thinking, the men idling outside the gin shops and ale houses of the area couldn’t hear his thoughts on that passage too often.
When he’d seen the iron-grey sky earlier that morning, he had considered postponing his weekly visit to the tunnel. Although it would be Ash Wednesday in two weeks’ time, there was still a biting wind running up the Thames and, in the shadows, ice remained on puddles from dawn to dusk. There had even been a flurry of snow yesterday, so he didn’t want to risk a chill. He gazed through the window at the ragged collection of locals slip-sliding about as they went about their business on frosty cobbles. The fields of his previous parish, just outside St Albans, would be all crisp and white on such a day. Cows in the water meadows by Sopwell stream would be munching at the stiff grass and snow drops would be poking up between the gravestones of the churchyard surrounding the medieval church of St Julian’s.
Oh, how he missed the grand rectory its obliging servants and ample stables. He missed the yokels too, yokels who were swift to tug a forelock to their betters unlike the scum he was forced to minister to now. St Julian’s was the sort of living a man of his breeding and background should be in, not this festering dung heap in Rotherhithe.
He sighed, but after a moment or two’s contemplation out of the study window, wishing yet again, as he frequently did, that he were still the vicar of Sopwell, he’d decided to go to the tunnel yard. George Armstrong had looked very jaundiced on his last visit and was coughing so much he could hardly speak two words in a row without reaching for his handkerchief. Although the biting wind might go straight to his chest, it was his Christian duty to enquire after his godson’s health and, besides, he had heard a whisper that the Duke of Wellington was to visit that morning.
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