The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Josiah fished in his pocket again and handed her another florin.

  ‘You can go home now.’

  Eliza stared at the coin in her palm and she bit her lower lip.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, looking up at him with shining eyes. ‘It’s right kind of you, that it is.’

  ‘I have a sister about your age,’ he said. ‘Come, I’ll see you safe home and then I’ll fetch Miss Hatton. She will know what to do.’

  He took off his coat and hung it on her frail shoulders and then, taking her arm, he guided her towards King’s Stairs. As they reached the corner to Elephant Lane, a coach rattled around the corner.

  ***

  Mr Hatton sat back with a satisfied expression on his face. He had cause to feel content because he had a very pleasant dinner at the Athenaeum club to look forward to. Added to which he’d had a letter from Edmund that morning informing him that Martha had been asked by the archbishop’s wife to be part of her Clergy Wives’ Instruction committee. He wasn’t at all surprised. Martha kept a meticulous house without the need for extravagance, and reported any slackness amongst the parishioners to her husband immediately, so she was clearly a godly example for others to follow.

  That’s one in the eye for that sanctimonious old stick, Bishop John of West Ham, who had tried to block him taking up the most lucrative appointment. Living on honey might have been all right for John the Baptist but his son had ancestry that stretched back to good Queen Bess’s days and had to have the income to reflect his status. How the man couldn’t understand that a gentleman has to live in such a way that maintained the God-given social order was beyond him. After all, the French tried that ‘equality’ nonsense and ended up with a peasant as emperor. While the bishop might be Edmund’s spiritual superior, being the son of a Yorkshire tea merchant, he certainly wasn’t his social.

  Repositioning the travelling rug over his knees, Mr Hatton settled back and smiled. If Edmund’s news wasn’t enough to put a smile on a man’s face, he’d got the note from Mrs Wexford telling him that the delightful Popsy Freebody had returned to her house in Long Acre and was readily available should he care to call.

  He always wrestled mightily with his conscience before each visit to the private gentleman’s establishment, but he as he was the first to admit, he was but frail flesh. He had been introduced to dear Mrs Wexford by his old friend and fellow clergyman, Augustus Makepeace, who assured him that a bishop or two were known to enjoy the pleasure within. With that sort of hallowed endorsement it would have been boorish not to at least pay a call from time to time. Of course, if he decided to marry Mrs Palmer he should really stop his visits but, recently, he had found himself flagging when he should have been rampant. Popsy, the sweet girl, understood his problem and usually managed to restore him, but you couldn’t expect a wife to know such arts let alone perform them. He might have to, for his health’s sake, continue to avail himself of Popsy’s skills even after marriage.

  His mind drifted off to the delights awaiting him amongst the pink cushions and tall mirrors at Mrs Wexford’s and he was just thinking about the trick Popsy did with an ostrich feather when the coach lurched forward, hurling him against the opposite side of the coach.

  Scrambling up he yanked the window down and thrust his head out.

  ‘Longman!’ he bellowed.

  The coach drew to an unsteady halt.

  ‘Sorry, sir, there’s a problem.’ He pointed his whip.

  Mr Hatton turned and looked.

  Standing on the side of the road and looking back at him was the jumped-up navvy, Josiah Martyn, who was clearly on his way to the cheap lodgings of that very same slut he’d driven from the rectory door at least a dozen time before, Eliza Peasman.

  The two men’s eyes locked for a moment then Mr Hatton rapped on the side of the carriage with his cane and the coach rolled on.

  ***

  Mrs Norris heaved herself out of the chair and stretched. Her eyes rested on Sarah sitting on the other side of the kitchen. The maid had a cloth over her lap. On the floor was a wicker trudge of cutlery which Sarah was polishing with a soft cloth before laying it in the box on the table. She looked up.

  ‘The rector won’t be back until late and I doubt Miss Hatton will want anything now so I’m going to bed,’ Mrs Norris told her. ‘But you’re to stay up until the master comes home, do you hear?’

  Sarah gave her a sharp look. ‘I was looking after this family before you ever came by,’ she replied. ‘And I don’t need you telling me how to do my job.’

  Mrs Norris glared at Sarah and had the same returned.

  Insolent chit! Mrs Norris thought, collecting her lamp from the dresser.

  In truth, the post at the rectory wasn’t too arduous. It could have been a nice little earner as well if Miss Hatton hadn’t scrutinised the merchant’s bills quite as closely. The rector’s daughter might look as soft as butter, but Mrs Norris was still smarting from the reprimand Miss Goody-Two-Shoes had given her for telling the rector about the slut Eliza, who’d been around begging again.

  ‘And make sure you lay the fires and fill the coal buckets before you go to bed,’ she shouted behind her as she opened the door to the main part of the house.

  Holding the lamp high to see her way, Mrs Norris mounted the stairs. Sarah had already been around and lit the lamps in the hall. When she got to the ground floor she stopped and tip-toed to the door of the small back room that served as both a breakfast room and Charlotte’s morning room. She stopped and cocked her ear to the door. Nothing. A smile spread across her face and she crossed to the parlour. Carefully she turned the handle and slid into the room, closing the door silently behind her.

  Setting the lamp down she quickly crossed to the sideboard and picked up the cut-glass decanter of brandy. Taking off the stopper she closed her lips around the rim and gulped down two large mouthfuls.

  Lovely! she thought, smacking her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  She took another swallow, enjoying the feel of the warm liquid as it seeped down her throat. Good French, too. The rector might be the most pernickety old fuss-pot she’d ever had to cook for, but he didn’t stint on his pleasure and if she helped herself to a sip or two, what did it matter? What he didn’t know wouldn’t harm him.

  She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her flat leather hip-flask then, holding it and the brandy at eye level, carefully poured the brandy from the rector’s decanter into her flask.

  Suddenly the front door bell tinkled. Mrs Norris looked up from her task.

  Who could be calling at this hour? she wondered, putting down the decanter and popping the cork back. As she slipped the flask back in her pocket she heard the front door open. Blowing out the lamp, she crossed to the door, opened it a crack and stuck her eyes to it.

  A smile spread across her face.

  Josiah Martyn. Fancy now!

  Standing in the rectory’s hall as bold as brass, talking to Sarah.

  ‘If you would wait in here, I’ll go and inform Miss Hatton,’ Sarah said, leading Josiah Martyn towards the parlour door.

  Mrs Norris’s heart crashed in her chest.

  Any moment now Sarah would find her swilling the rector’s brandy and she could very well imagine the look of glee on her face when she did.

  Frantically, she scanned the room, discounting the sideboard and sofa as she would clearly be visible behind both.

  The curtains!

  Without hesitation she dashed across the room and just managed to dart behind the heavy drapes as the door opened.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Hatton will be down immediately,’ Sarah said, lighting the two lamps at either end of the fireplace as Mrs Norris struggled to steady her breathing.

  Sarah left.

  Shutting one eye, Mrs Norris peered through the crack between the fabric.

  Putting his hands behind his back, Martyn glanced around the room for a moment then studied the portraits on either side of the fireplace in the warm
glow of the lamps.

  Several moments passed then the door flew open.

  Miss Hatton, dressed in her everyday print cotton and her hair loosely tied back around her shoulders, strode in.

  There was a hurried conversation regarding some local trollop and her snotty kid after which Miss Hatton opened the door and called for Sarah. The girl arrived and was dispatched on some errand or another, leaving Miss Hatton and Josiah Martyn alone.

  They stood an arm’s-width apart, staring at each other for a second or two then fell into each other’s arms.

  Through the slither of the drapes Mrs Norris only just stopped herself from tumbling out of her hiding place as the tall, strikingly handsome engineer with broad shoulders enveloped the rector’s unmarried daughter and kissed her in a way that would have had the saints covering their eyes in embarrassment.

  The door handle rattled and they sprang apart as Sarah walked back into the room carrying Miss Hatton’s physicking basket and woollen night coat. Martyn held the bag while Sarah helped Miss Hatton on with her coat after which Sarah extinguished the lamps and all three of them went out. The front door banged and the house fell silent again.

  Behind the heavy drapes in the dark recess of the window, Mrs Norris smiled. She’d seen that hungry look on many a young girl’s face and it always led them into trouble so why not the rectory’s holier-than-thou daughter? Perhaps before she hightailed it to Mrs Palmer’s to report what she’d seen she’d wait to see if there was anything juicier to report than a frantic kiss.

  ***

  By the time they reached King’s Alley the rainwater was spilling over the gutters and running in torrents towards the river. Picking their way carefully across the flooded street on the highest cobble stones, Charlotte holding Josiah’s steadying hand, they reached number 4. Shielding her as best he could from the rain, Josiah knocked on the door and it was opened almost immediately by a Dorcus Penfield, Eliza’s landlady. She was a regular at St Mary’s and her five strapping boys ran a couple of carts and made a decent living hauling small consignments from the docks. Having lost her sister to drink and prostitution some years before, she was always willing to help out a woman who’d fallen on hard times. It was for this reason Charlotte had asked her to take Eliza in as she knew that Dorcus would take the young girl and her new baby under her motherly wing.

  ‘Oh, Miss Hatton, thank the Lord you’ve come,’ said Dorcus, visibly relieved. ‘It’s Billy. He’s heaving and rattling fit to tear ’is little heart out with the croup and—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Charlotte, placing her hand on the older woman’s arm. ‘I’ll get Billy to the doctor if needs be.’

  Walking past the landlady, Charlotte, with Josiah a step behind, made her way down the dimly lit passage to the door at the end. Josiah opened it for her and she walked into the small back room. Although it was still sparsely furnished, there was a glowing fire in the small hearth, a truckle bed with blankets and a cot for Billie to sleep in.

  Billy, who was normally a bundle of wriggles and naughtiness, lay limply on his mother’s lap with his eyes half closed. Eliza, who was sitting in the only chair, turned her tear-stained face up to Charlotte.

  ‘Oh, Miss Hatton, thank you for coming. My poor baby’s fighting for every breath.’ She hugged Billy to her as his rattling gasps echoed around the room.

  Kneeling beside the young girl, Charlotte put the back of her hand on the child’s brow.

  ‘How long has he been like this, Eliza?’ she asked, feeling the skin hot and damp under her touch.

  ‘Since yesterday,’ she replied. ‘When I left Billy with young Dotty he was sitting in his crib playing with his rag doll. He was bit hot and coughing off and on, but nothing like he is now. Eliza’s face crumpled. ‘I swear to you, miss, he wasn’t as bad as this when I went out or I’d never have gone out, you know that don’t you, miss?’

  ‘I know, Eliza.’ Charlotte looked up at Josiah standing beside her. ‘Could you fetch a light?’

  Crossing to the hearth in two strides, he took the solitary candle from the mantelshelf, brought it back and held it above her.

  As the smell of tallow drifted to her nose, Charlotte looked into Billy’s waxy putty-coloured face and alarm gripped her.

  Despite her mounting fears she forced a reassuring smile. ‘Could you tip his head, Eliza, so I can look down his throat?’

  Tipping her son back Eliza held his mouth open and Charlotte peered in. She saw, almost filling the child’s small throat, his enlarged tonsils oozing with pus. Billy started coughing and Charlotte saw what she feared most: a huge bolus of phlegm that rose up then retracted as the spasm gripped. He flexed forward and a dry, barking cough racked his small body as his lips went blue and then white.

  Eliza sat him up and patted his back. ‘He’s had croup before but not as bad as this.’

  Charlotte took hold of Eliza’s free hand. ‘I am afraid it’s not croup, it’s whooping cough.’

  Eliza let out a long wail then hugged her son to her, rocking back and forwards.

  Putting a comforting arm around Eliza’s frail shoulders, she glanced up at Josiah and he gave her a bleak look. There wasn’t a family in the land who hadn’t lost a little one to the disease that filled tiny windpipes.

  ‘Could you fetch me some water from the kettle?’ she asked

  Josiah did as she asked and then hunkered down beside her and held out the cup.

  Opening her small leather bag of potions, Charlotte took out a pack of salicylic powder and tapped half into the cup of water. Josiah swilled it around until it dissolved and then handed to her.

  Carefully offering Billy only half a spoonful at a time, Charlotte dribbled the opaque liquid into the child’s mouth.

  ‘That should bring his fever down a little,’ she said, starting to raise herself.

  Eliza gave Charlotte a hopeful look. ‘Will he be all right now, miss?’

  ‘The willow powder should stop his temperature from rising any further for now,’ said Charlotte. ‘But we’ll have to wait and see.’

  Taking her bag of remedies, Charlotte went over to the hearth and Josiah followed.

  ‘Will the little chap be all right?’ he asked under his breath.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘He’s blue around the lips and that’s not a good sign so I think we should get him to St Thomas’s.’

  ‘Eliza could never afford that,’ Josiah replied.

  ‘I know, but if Billy is to have a fighting chance he needs to be admitted and sooner rather than later,’ she said.

  ‘But the casualty ward will only treat working men and then only if they have a florin,’ said Josiah.

  ‘My father sits on the charitable board of St Thomas’s and I could vouch for Billy and Eliza as members of the parish, we could have Billy admitted under St Mary’s patronage,’ she said, shoving aside the thought of her father’s fury when he found out. ‘Josiah, could you ask one of Mrs Penfield’s boys if they wouldn’t mind helping us get Eliza and Billy to the hospital.’

  ‘Of course.’ He left the room only to return a few moments later with Dorcus and Big Eddy, her eldest son, who had the stature of a bullock on its hind legs.

  ‘I have old Mercury still in the shafts, Miss H, and I’d be right ’appy to take the lad to Tommy’s,’ he said, making his way over to Eliza. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll have young Billy here through those hospital doors and on the mend before you knows it.’ He stroked Billy’s hot cheek. ‘Eddy’ll look after you, boy.’ His eyes shifted to the boy’s mother and a soft expression crossed his heavy features. ‘And your ma, too.’

  Eliza gave him a brave little smile and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Right,’ said Josiah, picking up Charlotte’s bag. ‘Let’s get this lad to hospital.’

  Chapter nineteen

  Resting on the mahogany desk of the casualty ward’s reception hatch, Charlotte wrote Eliza and Billy’s details into the St Thomas Hospital register with a firm, bo
ld hand, aware as she did so of Josiah’s presence beside her.

  Above them the suspended oil lamps heated the already oppressive atmosphere of the reception area while around them people dressed in little more than rags coughed and spluttered. It was true, as her father always pointed out when the subject of charitable wards arose, there was the odd inebriate hoping to have a few hours in the warm before they were turfed out, but the vast majority of those waiting to be seen were anxious mothers with infants burning with fever or hollowed-cheeked youngsters sitting listlessly on their mother’s laps. As always, Charlotte’s heart ached to minister to them all but had to take comfort in the fact that at least Billy was now being given the best of care.

  They’d arrived half an hour ago, wet and bedraggled after travelling the two miles to the hospital in the teeth of an easterly gale. Mercifully Billy’s temperature had held steady so although he was not better, he was no worse either.

  By luck, the superintendent of the ward that evening was someone Charlotte had come into contact with on previous occasions, so he called the doctor in charge immediately. Within twenty minutes of arriving, Billy and Eliza were taken through to the ward.

  All through the difficult evening she had had Josiah’s strong presence and now, as she completed the forms so that Billy’s care could be charged to St Mary’s parish, he stood behind her protecting her from being jostled by the poor souls still trying to be seen.

  ‘I’ll enquire tomorrow as to how Mrs Peasman’s son is. If there are any additional costs, please address them to me at St Mary’s vestry and I will ensure the parish relief board reimburses the hospital.’

  The clerk on the other side of the hatch, a fresh-faced young man with a frayed collar, nodded. ‘Very good, miss.’

  ‘And you will make sure Dr Beaumont is informed about Billy as soon as he comes on duty,’ Charlotte added. ‘Dr Beaumont is a friend of my father and I know he has a special interest in childhood ailments, so I’d be grateful if he would see Billy as soon as possible.’