The noble duke hadn’t appeared, but the rector’s visit had not been in vain. He had spent an hour or two sitting by the brazier sipping hot coffee in Mr Brunel’s office talking to Prince Sven Gustoff of Sweden. He’d found the prince’s English surprisingly good for a foreigner, but his conversation limited. There was only so much to be said about the timber trade.
Reaching across the clutter of papers on his desk, he picked up the letter that had arrived earlier that day. Judging by the regimented and rounded handwriting on the envelope, it was from his son Edmund. Slipping the tip of his penknife under the wax seal, he unfurled the six-page letter. Half way down the fourth page he leapt from his chair and headed for the door.
***
Charlotte was just about to refill Mrs Palmer’s cup when her father burst into the parlour.
‘I have a letter from Edmund!’ he said, flourishing it at them.
Charlotte sighed. Her brother’s letters arrived spasmodically and were often lengthy and rather dull. For the most part all she had to suffer was her father reading passages of it over dinner for a couple of days. The fact that he had dashed in to see them with her oldest brother’s epistle still in his hand did not bode well.
‘I hope the children are well?’ Charlotte said.
‘I presume so, he doesn’t say,’ he replied, throwing out his coattails and sitting on the chair opposite.
‘This is your oldest son, Mr Hatton?’ Mrs Palmer asked as she took a fresh cup of tea from Charlotte.
Mr Hatton nodded rigorously. ‘The very same. You met him last year when he was in London.’
‘And a pleasure it was,’ Mrs Palmer replied.
A pleasure Charlotte didn’t share.
Edmund had arrived last year in his usual manner complaining about the coach from St Albans, his fellow passengers, and the dirt on London streets. He’d retired to bed after half a bottle of brandy and snored so loudly all night that she’d heard the rumble in her room across the hallway. He’d risen at ten the following morning, refreshed and ready to turn his critical eyes on the rectory and on her.
‘He is very young to be an archdeacon.’
Mr Hutton smiled piously. ‘Edmund has inherited my deep spiritual nature.’
‘You must be very proud of him,’ Mrs Palmer said, placing her cup on the table.
‘I am. Did I mention that my daughter-in-law is the only daughter of Sir Mungo Payne of Tiptree Court and an heiress in her own right?’
A vision of her thin sister-in-law, Martha, sprang into Charlotte’s mind. Martha had been just on the wrong side of twenty-five when Edmund had arrived as curate to the church on the Payne’s estate. A combination of a downy top lip, a disposition sharper than vinegar, and an elder brother, had almost doomed Martha Payne to perpetual spinsterhood. That was until Napoleon rallied a charge at Waterloo and Roderick Payne had had the life kicked out of him by a wounded horse, leaving Martha to inherit the Payne family fortune, a fact that also resulted in her finding a husband in the shape of Edmund.
‘An advantageous match, to be sure. How many children do they have?’ Mrs Palmer asked as Charlotte handed her another cup of tea.
‘Four. My son’s wife cannot be faulted on her duty in that regard.’
That was true. Every other year, as regular as clockwork, Martha presented Edmund with a solemn-faced, square-set infant to join the others in the nursery at the top of the house.
‘Indeed not.’
‘Of course, my other son, Major Laurence Hatton, is stationed at Northampton with the 58th Rutland Foot. He is—’
‘What does Edmund’s letter say, Father?’ Charlotte asked, before her father could launch into his speech about his other son’s perfections.
‘The usual news from the cathedral, you know, but why I dash to join you is that Edmund writes at some length about the Thames tunnel. It seems that he has been reading about its progress in The Times and now wants to see it for himself.’
Charlotte groaned inwardly.
Her father tapped the paper. ‘He writes that he and Martha will be visiting us for a full month and will be arriving in three weeks, on the 4th April.’ He beamed. ‘Such splendid news.’
‘Splendid,’ Charlotte echoed, realizing that for once she would be sad to see the end of Lent.
‘Of course, you must have a dinner party to introduce them to people,’ Mrs Palmer said, sitting forward on her chair.
‘Indeed we shall, Mrs Palmer!’ Charlotte’s father exclaimed. ‘I shall invite Mr and Mrs Paget, Mr Armstrong and, of course, Mr Truman and his wife.’
‘And daughter, I hope,’ Mrs Palmer added.
‘Of course,’ the rector agreed.
Obviously, in the excitement of Edmund’s visit, Mr Hatton had forgotten that he’d called the industrialist a jumped-up blacksmith only the day before.
‘Have you met Miss Truman, Father?’ Charlotte asked, in what she hoped was a light tone.
‘Yes, I have. Truman bought her with him last week,’ her father replied. ‘Pleasant enough girl, if a little boisterous. She came to Cow Lane yard with her father before Christmas then, despite being warned of the ice, the little chit slipped and would have taken a tumble if that Martyn fellow hadn’t caught her.’
‘It was fortunate he was there,’ said Mrs Palmer smiled sweetly.
‘Wasn’t it?’ said Charlotte.
‘Of course, I’ll have to ask George Armstrong and Mr Brunel and his family,’ her father said, draining the last mouthful of tea from his cup.
‘And why not invite the gallant Mr Martyn who saved Miss Truman from the mud?’ Mrs Palmer added.
Charlotte’s heart thumped in her chest.
Her father’s lips pulled tightly together. ‘A jumped-up labourer, I think not.’
‘But Mr Martyn is Mr Armstrong’s right-hand man,’ said Mrs Palmer.
‘Maybe,’ said Mr Hatton. ‘But you only have to see him stripped to the waist and covered in mud to know he is no gentleman.’
An image of Josiah Martyn as her father described him drifted into Charlotte’s mind and lingered there.
‘But he will do for Miss Truman,’ continued Mrs Palmer. ‘And I am sure, when he is cleaned up and dressed, he can make up the numbers at table and keep Miss Truman company.’ She smiled at Charlotte. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Hatton?’
‘Indeed,’ Charlotte lied.
Mrs Palmer placed her hand on Mr Hatton’s arm.
‘You see, we women know about these things. Miss Hatton has Captain Paget, Mr Brunel junior has his family to converse with, his older sister can talk to Mr Armstrong, and Mr and Mrs Truman have each other, so Miss Truman can have Mr Martyn.’
Her father shifted forward in the chair and, leaning towards her, placed his plump hand over Mrs Palmer’s.
‘What would I… I mean we…do without you?’ he said, squeezing her hand.
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Mrs Palmer replied.
The two gazed into each other eyes for a moment then, remembering where he was, her father removed his hand from under Mrs Palmer’s.
Folding Edmund’s letter, he tucked it into his breast pocket. ‘So that’s settled then, Charlotte.’ He beamed across at her. ‘We shall have a grand party for my son and his wife.’
***
As the congregation around him stared to rise, Josiah – who was tucked into the end of a pew halfway down on the left-hand side – picked up his hat and did the same.
To be honest, it was the most enjoyable service he’d attended at St Mary’s since he’d arrived. Firstly because, clearly with his last roast before the start of Lent in the forefront of his mind, Mr Hatton delivered a ten-minute sermon rather than his usual half an hour one, and there were only four hymns instead of the usual six.
But the real reason why the service was most enjoyable was because, from where he was sitting, he had an unobstructed view of Charlotte Hatton.
The pew emptied so Josiah stepped out into the central aisle and watched her gathering h
er books.
He’d already been in his seat when she walked in, and the sight of her near took his breath away. She was wearing a sky-blue promenade dress which hugged her womanly curves in the most pleasing way. As always, other than self-coloured piping on the seams, and lace around the collar and cuffs, it was unadorned. But it didn’t need to be embellished, because whether she dressed in a cloak of ermine or a homespun cloth, she would always be the perfection of beautiful. And he loved her.
Actually, he realised now that he’d lost his heart to her a good few months before but only today, when she gave him a shy smile as she spotted him across the church when she took her seat, did the knowledge of it burst upon him.
People started moving out of the row and Josiah followed. Noting that Mrs Paget, who was deep in conversation with the woman behind her, had blocked her son’s exit from their pew, Josiah left his and hastened down the aisle.
As if she knew he was heading towards her, Charlotte said farewell to the elderly couple she’d been talking to and turned to face him.
Her lovely eyes opened wide as he approached, making his heart ache and his pulse race.
Wishing he could just sweep her into his arms and press his mouth onto hers, he stopped in front of her.
‘Good morning, Miss Hatton.’
‘And to you, Mr Martyn,’ she replied, gazing up at him.
Wondering again how one woman could be so utterly beautiful, he smiled.
She smiled back, and they stood looking at each other for several heartbeats, then she spoke again.
‘Have you any plans?’
‘Plans?’
‘For today?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, me and George are going to have dinner at Greenwich then catch a ferry and visit the Tower of London.’
‘That sounds exciting.’ From beneath her bonnet a lock of hair escaped. It curled against her cheek and Josiah envied its boldness. ‘Are you not taking your brother?’
‘No,’ he replied, dragging his mind back from its wandering. He smiled. ‘Actually, although he hasn’t said as much, I suspect Ezra’s got himself a lady love.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘Because I’ve caught him several times looking into the middle distance with a lovesick expression on his face,’ Josiah replied.
Charlotte gave a throaty laugh which caught Josiah deep below his belt.
‘Well, good luck to him, I say,’ she replied, giving him an amused look.
Josiah’s smile widened in response.
‘Now,’ she said, as he studied her sweeping eyelashes. ‘I’m very glad to have seen you this morning, Mr Martyn, because although there will be a formal invitation arriving in due course, I want to let you know that you are invited to dinner at the rectory on Saturday 1st April.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Josiah, thrilled with the thought of being able to spend a whole evening in her company.
‘Not at all,’ said Charlotte. ‘My brother Edmund is visiting with his family and it’s a bit of an unofficial celebration.’
A cold hand gripped Josiah heart.
He stole a glance at Captain Page, who, although glaring across at them, was thankfully penned in by his mother.
‘Celebration?’ he asked, hearing the tightness in his voice.
‘Yes, it’s not yet official,’ she replied. ‘But we have it on good authority that Edmund is about to be named as the next Bishop of Tamworth.’
Josiah let out a long breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
‘A worthy reason for a lively dinner with family and friends,’ said Josiah, as relief flooded over him.
‘And lively it will be, too,’ said Charlotte. ‘As Miss Truman and her parents are amongst the guests.’
‘How delightful,’ said Josiah, feeling the exact opposite.
‘Anyway, I thought I’d give you an early warning and I look forward to seeing you then.’
‘Before, I hope,’ said Josiah, ‘as the dinner is a full six weeks away.’
‘Yes, of course, silly me,’ she laughed.
‘So I’ll see you next Sunday,’ said Josiah, already counting the minutes.
‘If not before,’ said Charlotte. ‘As we do seem to have developed a habit of running into each other when I’m about parish business.’
‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’ he replied, thinking of the times he’d spent loitering about when he knew she might happen by.
Charlotte’s eyes flitted past him onto something before returning to his face. ‘I’m sorry, I must ask Mrs Roberts how her eldest boy is, so I really will have to wish you good day, Mr Martyn.’
‘Good day, Miss Hatton,’ he said, inclining his head.
She gave him another pulse-racing-inducing smile and then hurried off towards a cluster of women standing by the font.
With his heart aching, Josiah’s gaze followed her, noting the sway of her hips and her ready artless smile.
And it was hopeless, of course. What else could it be, with her a rector’s daughter and him a miner’s son? The modern age might be dawning when all men would be judged by their worth not their family, but it wouldn’t come quick enough for Miss Hatton, Charlotte, to ever be his wife.
***
Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Nicolas sighed as his mother launched into her blow-by-blow account of her rheumatic, dental and bowel ailments and what the doctor had advised for each.
The Eucharist had finished some twenty minutes ago and having exited their pew just after the organist struck his last note and the choir processed out to the vestry, they were standing in the aisle. Mother, as always after church, was talking to one of her old cronies whose family pew was directly behind theirs.
Usually he would have made his excuses and sought more congenial company, but he didn’t for one very good reason; from his position he had a clear view of Charlotte, who was standing by the chancery steps.
His intended was looking particularly fetching today. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one to think so, because he was as much admiring Charlotte as keeping an eye on the man talking to her, Josiah Martyn.
Unbelievably, with his mother expounding the efficacy of apricots for promoting a daily motion, Nicolas was just about to seek her out when that jumped-up nobody swaggered down the centre of the church and engaged her in conversation.
The man just did not know his place.
Oh yes, he might be the top engineer of this Frenchman‘s ludicrous tunnel, but he’d been born in a hovel at the arse end of England where they still believed in pixies, and probably still left offerings to the trees during the full moon.
Charlotte laughed at something the blaggard said, and Nicolas’s heart clenched.
His gaze shifted back to Martyn again.
Granted, the country bumpkin looked fine enough in his mulberry suit with a sporty cravat at his throat, but he’d wager the navvy had bought it at some clothing warehouse and it probably cost less than Nicolas’s gloves.
With a gentle nature and compassionate heart all wrapped up in a delectable body, Nicolas regarded Charlotte as the perfect woman. Well almost, because if his dear love had one tiny little fault it was for allowing her social inferiors to be too familiar.
Of course, as a rector’s daughter she had her duties towards the lower classes but, as his wife, he would guide her towards a more seemly way to behave.
Charlotte laughed again and Martyn joined in, his deep voice rumbling through the church.
Nicolas’s mouth pulled into a disapproving bud. For goodness sake. Did the man have no sense of propriety? They were in God’s house!
Mercifully for Nicolas’s equilibrium, Martyn bowed and, after giving him a brief smile, Charlotte glided off to speak to a group of grubby-looking children.
Martyn’s eye followed her with a look of undisguised desire written all over his clod-hopper face.
Checking his Athena curls were in place on his brow, and swinging his ebony walking cane as he
went, Nicolas strolled across.
‘Good day to you, Martyn,’ he said, mustering up a hale and hearty expression.
The blaggard turned. ‘And to you, Paget.’
Nicolas’s congenial expression slipped a little. Damn nerve of the man to address him so!
‘How’s the digging going?’ said Nicolas.
‘Much better now the rain has eased up a little,’ Josiah replied. ‘You wouldn’t want be at the bottom of a sixty-foot hole with rainwater flooding in.’
‘I should think not,’ said Nicolas. ‘I was knocked over by a wave when I visited Brighton last year and know the terror.’
A hint of amusement hovered around the navvy’s lips, but he didn’t comment.
Feeling anger bubbling in his chest, Nicolas forced a laugh. ‘I would have thought after all these months and digging so far down, you would have reached the subterranean sea by now?’
Josiah looked puzzled. ‘The what?’
‘The sea beneath the earth, of course,’ Nicolas sneered. ‘Surely as a mining engineer you’ve heard of it.’
‘I have. In the same way I’ve heard of unicorns and a lost city of gold; as a myth,’ Josiah replied.
‘But didn’t one of those Greek philosopher chaps write around it?’ asked Nicolas, gripping the silver handle of his cane tightly.
‘Yes, two thousand years ago,’ Josiah replied, not bothering to disguise his mockery. ‘Thankfully we’ve learnt a great deal since then.’
‘Oh well,’ said Nicolas, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. ‘A gentleman has no need of such things.’
The supressed smile returned to the bounder’s face, but again he refrained from commenting.
Charlotte’s laughter cut between them. Josiah turned to look across at her as she chatted to a young woman with a newborn in her arms.
‘Miss Hatton is such a shining example of Christian compassion, don’t you think, Martyn?’ said Nicolas.
‘She is,’ Josiah replied, without looking around. ‘And with such a fondness for children.’
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