‘Perhaps he did,’ said Van Meyer. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that a number of the gems are less than perfect and that naturally affects their value.’
‘So how much?’ she asked.
‘Thirty pounds,’ said the jeweller.
‘And what about the pearl and sapphire earrings?’
‘The lot!’
‘But that’s nothing short of highway robbery!’ Frances replied. ‘Why, the necklace alone is worth at least forty, and the other two pieces at least half that.’
His flat grey eyes were expressionless as they studied her. ‘Thirty-five. And I can tell you straight, Mrs Palmer, you won’t get more from anyone else.’
His gaze slipped down to the base of her throat.
Instinctively, Frances placed her hand over her precious memento of her night in Vauxhall and her encounter with Arthur’s natural father.
‘I’ll tell you what, Mrs Palmer,’ Van Mayer said. ‘I’ll give you forty if you include the trinket under your hand.’
Frances gave him a disdainful look. ‘I’m afraid I just couldn’t possibly part with—’
‘Guineas,’ the jeweller cut in, dropping his magnifying eye piece in his waistcoat pocket. ‘And that’s my last offer.’
Fingering the stone with her fingers, she mentally ran through the outstanding bills sitting on her writing bureau.
‘Very well,’ said Frances. ‘But on one proviso.’
‘And that is?’
‘My current financial difficulties are only temporary and will be short-lived,’ Mrs Palmer replied. ‘I accept your offer only if you will undertake not to sell my pendant for three months, so I might buy it back.’
‘Very well,’ he said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I’ll send my man around tomorrow to collect the jewels and give you your money.’
Frances gave him a glacial look by way of response.
He bowed and left the room.
Her hand went back to her most-prized possession. In fact, she shouldn’t wonder if this alone was worth half of what she’d agreed but with Mr Hatton, despite hours of her flattering and adoring glances, having still not having declared himself, she had to have the money.
Twirling the jewel through her fingers, Frances leant back in the chair and smiled as she imagined herself walking down the aisle of St Mary’s as the new Mrs Hatton.
***
As the opening bars of the final hymn started, Frances picked up her well-worn hymn book and rose to her feet.
It was the second Sunday in September and she was glad she’d agreed to Arthur’s demand to stay at home with his governess as it had been a particularly long service. The reason for this was because along with the usual hour and a half Sunday Eucharist there had been an additional twenty-minute thanksgiving liturgy and prayers over the turnips, carrots and marrows lying on the altar and ten minutes thanking the Almighty for some problem or another, which had prevented work on the tunnel, being resolved.
Frances said a hearty Amen to that, not because she cared one jot about the blasted tunnel that blighted the whole area but because she could resume her campaign to get Josiah Martyn, with his strong hands and boundless energy, into her bed at last.
To be honest, she was both surprised and irritated that he was still blatantly ignoring her advances. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t made it plain enough.
Of course, she’d spotted another couple of rough types that might have suited her needs but, tempting though they were – especially that big blonde one – she had to be careful.
She was making good progress in her goal to become Mrs Hatton, but if the rector got the whiff of rumour about her nocturnal activities, he’d be off over the hills taking his money with him and then what would become of her precious darling Arthur? There was always Masters, of course, but he was getting old and twice in the last month he’d not managed to get himself erect no matter how she threatened him with dismissal.
So between Martyn’s stubborn resistance and Masters’ wilted dick, it had been a long, frustrating month.
Shoving aside her irritation, she glanced at Charlotte who was standing beside her in the pew.
Dressed in a cream lawn day dress and apricot-coloured jacket, she was already in full warble as she launched into the first verse along with the rest of the worshipers.
Stifling a yawn, Frances briefly looked over the words she was supposed to be singing and, finding it not to her taste, raised her eyes and let her gaze travel around the crowded church.
It passed briefly over the merchants and shopkeepers of Bermondsey, all trussed up in their Sunday finery in the first few pews, then onto the well-fed, well-heeled stockholder and patrons of the tunnel, including the Lord Mayor of London.
Mercifully, the organ blasted out the final chord and the congregation resumed their seats. Mr Hatton gave the final blessing and as the organist played something twiddly, those in the chantry processed out to the vestry.
Charlotte knelt in prayer and Frances followed suit. Not wanting to entangle herself in some tiresome conversation about parish matters, Frances remained kneeling.
She waited until Charlotte had left the pew and then, making a token sign of the cross, Frances stood up. She hooked her fringed bag over her arm, stepped out into the aisle. The church was packed, but through the crowds she noticed Emma Truman, who was all in pink and a vision in lace, ribbons and bows, standing beside her father.
Although it was a sunny day outside, by the look on Emma’s pretty face there was clearly a thunderous storm raging in her head as she was scowling. Mrs Palmer followed the direction of the young woman’s gaze and saw it was fixed on Josiah Martyn, who was talking to a stout gentleman. Wearing a dark-grey suit with a blood-red cravat at his throat, Frances could understand why he was the object of Emma’s attention.
Smoothing the creases from her velvet skirt, Frances headed over to her.
‘Good morning, Miss Truman,’ she said as she reached Emma. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’
Emma blinked and looked around.
‘Mrs Palmer,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I didn’t see you there. And good morning to you too.’
‘We don’t often see you or your father in St Mary’s,’ continued Frances.
‘Papa wanted to come to the service,’ said Emma, her eyes flickering briefly past Frances onto Josiah.
‘And like the dutiful daughter, you agreed to accompany him,’ said Frances.
‘Well it was that or be stuck with Mother and her friends who just talk about dogs and horses,’ Emma replied.
Placing her hand on Emma’s arm, Frances looked earnestly at the young woman. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Miss Truman, but you seem a little out of sorts.’
‘Out of sorts?’ said Emma. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Forgive me, my dear,’ said Frances, putting on her most sympathetic expression. ‘But I couldn’t help but notice the way you’ve been glaring at Mr Martyn, which made me wonder if he’d done something to upset you.’
‘I’m sure nothing Mr Martyn does or doesn’t do affects me in the slightest,’ snapped Emma, shaking her head and making her golden ringlets bounce.
‘I meant no offence, Miss Truman,’ said Frances, looking mortified. ‘I only took the liberty of asking because you seemed to be so very fond of him.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ said Frances. ‘In fact, I did wonder if there might be a wedding in the offing.’
Desolation flashed across Emma’s eyes and, for a second, Frances thought she would burst into tears but then a bright smile spread across her pretty china-doll face.
‘Oh, Mrs Palmer. Me and Mr Martyn!’ She let out a peal of laughter. ‘How amusing! He’s diverting enough, I grant you, but a man who makes his living with a shovel is hardly a catch.’
‘No, indeed,’ laughed Frances. ‘Not for a young lady of your prospects and breeding.’
Emma acknowledged the truth of this with a flutter of stu
bby eyelashes.
‘However, Mrs Palmer, you’re right about wedding bells,’ she added. ‘The lawyers are still drawing up the details but my engagement to the Honourable Sir Cuthbert of Upshire, second son of the Earl of Epping, will be official within a few weeks.’
‘Well, let me be the first to congratulate you on an excellent match,’ said Frances. Still, as she said it something caught her eye; Emma’s expression changed from complacent smugness to undiluted fury in an instant.
‘Although not for very long; it seems he has set his sights elsewhere,’ she said with a tight voice.
Frances turned, following Emma’s gaze to where Josiah and Charlotte were sitting together in the choir stalls, then back to the young woman beside her.
‘Well, I mustn’t tarry, Mrs Palmer,’ said Emma, fussing with the bow of her bonnet. ‘As Cook will have lunch ready. Good day.’
‘And you, Miss Truman. Congratulations again.’
Emma gave her a brittle smile then, with a tear glistening in her eyes, she swept off, lace fluttering, down the aisle towards the church door.
Frances watched her for a couple of seconds then turned her attention back to the couple sitting together at the front of the church.
Charlotte and Josiah seemed to be discussing a passage from the open Bible on her lap however, although they were a respectable distance apart and surrounded by people, their postures, heads inclined forwards, knees and hands just a few inches apart gave their tête-à-tête a much more intimate feel.
Charlotte, with her head down and finger running across the page, was reading something but, as she was speaking, Josiah was looking at her with the unmistakable look of adoration in his eyes.
A rarely experienced pang of jealousy gripped Frances’s heart but she chided herself for foolish sentiment and then a small smile lifted the corner of her lips.
***
‘It’s all right, man,’ said Josiah, thumping his shift foreman, Prescott, on the back. ‘You just wait until your head clears a bit.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Prescott wheezed, his laboured breath forming little puffs of steam in the frigid air. ‘I but need a moment and I’ll—’
The rib-tearing cough that had bought him to the surface gripped him again as he joined in the chorus of gasping and spluttering surrounding them at the shaft’s entrance.
It had been the same since Monday when they advanced the shield forward into a pocket of gas. For the past three days fit, experienced men would descend pink-faced and clear-eyed to the tunnel floor at the start of their shift, only to emerge two or three hours later blue in the mouth with tears streaming down their face.
It was the methane from the rotting sewage that was compressed in the layers of river mud they were tunnelling through that was the cause of the problem. Two problems if the truth were told. One when it was inhaled and another when a spark from a miner’s lamp ignited it.
‘Did the lads come up?’ Prescott asked.
‘Yes,’ said Josiah, indicating the other side of the wooden structure to where three of the boys who worked the bellows below were huddled under a blanket sipping ale. ‘I’ve told the overseers that until all the gas in this seam is released, to let the young’uns work on the upper level.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ gasped Prescott, wiping the mucus from his eyes on his sleeve.
Josiah slapped him on the back again and, straightening up, walked across the rotunda which capped the shaft to where George Armstrong was consulting with one of the site surveyors.
‘How many?’ asked George, as Josiah reached him.
‘Twelve,’ he replied.
His fellow engineer pursed his lips. ‘Almost a third of the shift.’ ‘Mainly those working at the shield,’ said Josiah. ‘And the worst of those in the top three cells.
‘Will they be fit to resume?’ George asked.
‘If you give the lads on the pumps a bit of time to clear the air down there I’d say the men will be recovered enough in an hour or so,’ Josiah replied.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said George. ‘We were supposed to be building eight feet a week and so far we’ve hardly built a quarter of that this month.’ His senior’s gaze shifted behind Josiah. ‘Damn and blast it!’
Josiah turned to see the Reverend Hatton, with Mrs Palmer on his arm, strolling through the gate.
‘Why on earth did he pick today of all days to call in?’ George asked, pulling down his jacket.
Josiah didn’t reply.
Having been in the office when Mr Brunel received the letter from the prime minister’s office saying he would be visiting, the rector had clearly chosen today to call by because Lord Liverpool had, too.
‘I suppose I’ll have to go and be polite although with men coughing their lungs up and a consignment of bricks arriving at anytime, I could do without sightseers today.’ George nudged him. ‘Tell you what, give me five minutes then come over and tell me you need me for something.’
‘All right,’ said Josiah. ‘I’ll check on the men again then wander over.’
George grinned and left the shed.
Josiah did as he said and, happy that most were recovering, told them to have an early dinner at the company chop shop and then resume their shift at midday. Satisfied there were none needing the company physician, Josiah then did as he promised; taking the stairs two at a time to join George who was talking to Mr Hatton. Mrs Palmer fixed her attention on Josiah. She was dressed in a gold and white striped dress with a large fringed shawl draped around her shoulders and a straw bonnet with a massive bow.
‘Ah, Martyn,’ said George, looking relieved to see him. ‘You’ve met Mr Hatton, I’m sure.’
‘Indeed,’ said Josiah, offering his hand.
Ignoring the gesture, Mr Hatton took out his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
Josiah dropped his hand and George gave him a sympathetic look.
‘Good morning, Mr Martyn,’ drawled Mrs Palmer, her gaze making his backbone prickle as it ran slowly over him.
She offered her hand.
Josiah reluctantly took it.
With her eyes wide-eyed and her cochinealed lips slightly parted, she tickled his palm and he let go.
‘Pray tell me, George,’ said the rector. ‘Why are those men lying idly around instead of being about their task?’
‘We hit a pocket of noxious gas which chokes when inhaled and burns on contact, so they had to come up top to recover,’ George replied.
‘Sounds like a ploy to avoid work.’ Mr Hatton pocketed his handkerchief. ‘I’m sure the shareholders will have something to say about paying men to take their leisure when they feel like it.’
‘They are not taking their leisure,’ snapped Josiah, struggling to master his temper. ‘They are clearing their lungs and bathing their eyes. I’d be happy to take you below, so you can feel the effects of the vapours for yourself, Mr Hatton.’
The rector glared at Josiah, who glared back.
George cleared his throat. ‘How is Charlotte?’
Mr Hatton held Josiah’s hot gaze for a second more, then turned to face the man addressing him.
‘She is well,’ the reverend replied. ‘And, as always, busy about parish work. She will be a great loss to me when she marries.’
‘Yes, it’s not long now,’ chipped in Mrs Palmer, her sharp gaze fixed on Josiah. ‘In fact, I am taking her to my dressmaker next week to see about having her wedding gown and trousseau made.’
She sent him another smouldering look which Josiah answered with a glacial one before turning his attention elsewhere.
Through the yard’s open gates he saw a liveried coach draw up and a footman jump down.
Mr Hatton noticed it too.
‘If I’m not mistaken that is the Liverpool family crest,’ he said, craning his neck to see.
‘I believe it is,’ said George.
Mr Hatton straightened his cravat and brushed down his lapels. ‘Well then, as God’s representative in the parish it is
my duty to greet them. Come, my dear.’ He stepped off, but Mrs Palmer clung to his arm.
‘What’s wrong, my dear?’ he asked, giving her a worried look.
‘It’s this heat,’ she replied, waving her hand in front of her face. ‘I fear the sun is too fierce for my constitution and I fear I will have to find some shade.’ She looked towards the site office on the other side of the yard. ‘Perhaps I could shelter in that hut.’
Mr Hatton’s eyes darted from the woman on his arm to the man stepping down from the coach and back to Mrs Palmer.
‘But, my dear, Lord Liverpool has just arrived,’ he said, with just a hint of exasperation in his tone.
‘I know,’ she replied, giving him a regretful look. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to miss the chance of meeting him, but I must get away from all this noise, so perhaps…’ Her eyes slid onto Josiah. ‘Mr Martyn wouldn’t mind escorting me to shade.’
Mr Hatton looked relieved. ‘Very well, and when you’ve recovered sufficiently, I hope to be able to introduce you to the prime minister.’
Mrs Palmer gave the rector an adoring smile then, as he marched off, she turned her attention to Josiah.
‘Your arm please, Mr Martyn.’
Although it was the last thing he wanted to do, Josiah forced a smile. ‘Certainly.’
He held it out and she grasped it.
‘You’re so strong,’ she said, feeling his biceps as they set off. ‘Any woman would feel safe in your protection.’
Fixing his eyes on the green door of the company’s site office, Josiah didn’t reply.
Within a moment or two they were at the hut and Josiah opened the door.
Much to his relief Mrs Palmer dropped his arm as they entered. Leaving her, he went behind the desk.
‘It’s cool enough in here,’ he said as he dragged the chair around to where she stood. ‘And I’m sure after a few moments sitting quietly you’ll be as right as rain.’
‘I’m sure I will, Mr Martyn. And, in fact,’ she stepped around the seat to stand in front of him. ‘I feel better already, so much so.’ She stepped closer. ‘While we are alone perhaps we can talk about something I’ve been after for some time. You!’
The Rector's Daughter Page 24
