The Rector's Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  The light flared all around him and the pungent smell of sulphur floated up to his nose.

  ‘Pump those bellows, men,’ he shouted, the sound of his voice echoing in the chasm behind him. ‘And cover your mouths and noses.’

  Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Josiah grasped the fly wheel again and yanked it around. It turned a couple of times then stopped again.

  All around him men coughed and spluttered. The lamps flared again, and a dart of gas ignited and shot across the space, lighting the cavern with a hellish glow.

  ‘Turn those bloody lamps down,’ he bellowed at the men in charge of the oil cylinders at the far end of the works.

  Another streak of gas burst from the mud and darted in front of Josiah, missing his face by a hair’s-breadth. The heat sucked the air surrounding him and scorched his cheek. With noxious fumes clogging his nose, Josiah gasped for breath but the air burnt his mouth and throat as he drew it down.

  His eyes started to sting and his sight was clouded with tears as all the men nearest to the shield crumpled to the floor, grasping their throats, sputum frothing from their mouths.

  Resting his hands on his thighs, he dragged in another painful breath.

  ‘Get out!’ he croaked, waving frantically towards the shaft.

  The cloying cavernous space around Josiah tilted sideward and he staggered to keep his balance. Forcing his mind to work through the fog accumulating there, Josiah dropped to his knees to get below the gas floating at shoulder height.

  With the wet seeping through his trousers to his knees, Josiah started crawling through the mud towards the shaft fifty feet away but as he tried to fix his eyes on the ladder he saw nothing but a blur. The floor of the tunnel rose up to meet him and, without warning, he vomited. Desperate for air, he clawed under his collar, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp.

  Blackness clouded into Josiah’s vision and he shook his head to clear it, then wished he hadn’t as he retched again.

  An image of Charlotte in her green striped gown and her chestnut hair curling over her shoulder burst vividly in his mind.

  I’ve got to get up top.

  Almost blind now from the gas, Josiah forced his arms and legs to work but just as the cold air from the surface ruffled his hair there was a whoosh and a blast of caustic gas engulfed him.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  Her name stuck in his throat as it filled with toxic fumes and blackness took his mind.

  ***

  Charlotte closed the door to her bedroom quietly behind her and went to her walnut writing bureau. Opening out the small writing surface she set her inkwell and quill before removing a creamy sheet of paper from the narrow drawer. She picked up the quill and chewed at the end as she gazed out of the window.

  She could hardly believe that by this time tomorrow she and Josiah would be on their way to Scotland and then, three days later, would be husband and wife.

  Her gaze returned to her room. Not that it would be at all easy. Although she could cook and clean, she worried about having to keep a house all by herself – and on limited means. It didn’t matter; what she didn’t know she would learn as she was determined to make a warm, welcoming home for Josiah to come home to at the end of the day.

  Shifting in the chair her corset jabbed her under the rib.

  She’d had to loosen the laces a fraction this morning too. Charlotte tried to imagine Josiah’s face when she told him that he was to be a father. Shocked at first, no doubt, then as full of joy as she was.

  She had now missed two monthly flows and, for the past four mornings, the sight of her father tucking into his fried bacon and eggs at the breakfast table turned her stomach so when he left the room she’d dashed to her room and been sick in the night commode.

  Strangely, knowing she carried Josiah’s child made Charlotte cling to the hope that in time her father might remember his love for her and forgive her. True, it was a very slim hope but perhaps, as the scandal faded and Josiah prospered, he might welcome her back. It was for that reason that she thought to write to him trying to explain. She owned him that duty at least.

  Chewing the end of the quill she thought for a moment and then let her thoughts flow onto the paper.

  Dearest Papa,

  It is with great sorrow that I write to tell you that by the time you read this note I will be travelling north to become Mrs Josiah Martyn.

  Knowing that you would never consent to our marrying I have had to make the painful decision to marry where my heart lies. Although I know you will be understandably angry with me for creating such a scandal by my actions, I humbly ask that you try and understand that I love Josiah and can see no other happiness in life other than by his side.

  I apologise for all you must endure because of my decision and know that after today you, George and Edmund will sever all connections with me but I pray that in time you will find it in your heart to forgive me and welcome me back as your daughter and Josiah as your son-in-law.

  Your loving daughter,

  Charlotte

  She carefully folded it in half and slipped it under the leather blotting paper holder, ready to leave under her pillow in the morning.

  Of course her father wasn’t the only one she needed to apologise to. Nicolas would be humiliated by her actions but there was no other way and she had resolved to write to him at the first opportunity and beg his forgiveness for treating him so shabbily. A little smile crossed her lips. At least he and his mother would be of one mind about her this time.

  Standing up, Charlotte went to her cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. She ran her fingers over the blush-coloured silk negligee her mother had brought her the year before she died as part of her bottom drawer. It was meant to be worn by a new bride on her special first night and Charlotte’s mind drifted back to Josiah’s room almost nine weeks ago and her first taste of the pleasure to come.

  She moved it aside and checked the rest of the items she’d selected to take with her which were much more practical. Her stout tapestry bag would hold a fair bit but she had to be sensible. She didn’t know where they were going or how long she would have to make do with what she could carry out of the house. Finally she’d settled on two good day dresses and lawn chemises, three sets of drawers, her newest corset and her pale-blue kid-skin pumps. She’d also selected her new green and apricot print dress with the Honiton lace, which would serve as a wedding dress, and stuffed as many stockings as she could around the edges. She also thought to wear an extra petticoat, her longer coat with her paisley shawl underneath, and her stout shoes. Her hand mirror and brush would need to be squeezed in along with her mother’s letters and pouch of jewellery.

  There was a knock at the door. Charlotte called enter and Ellie came in.

  She bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, miss, but Sarah Martyn is downstairs and needs to speak to you urgently.’

  Slipping her father’s letter into the drawer, Charlotte closed it and followed Ellie down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Sarah, who was about halfway through her pregnancy now, turned around as Charlotte walked in but instead of the glowing smile she usually wore, Sarah’s face was pale and her expression pinched.

  Crossing the space between them, Charlotte took her hands. ‘Whatever is the matter, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh, miss. It’s Josiah,’ said Sarah, her eyes filled with unshed tears. ‘There’s been an accident.’

  ***

  Charlotte stood in the long echoing corridor with her eyes fixed on the large painted door that led into Abraham ward. Ezra and Sarah stood on either side of her, but she was barely aware of their presence. Although outwardly she might look calm, on the inside Charlotte was screaming. Only by clasping her hands tightly together could she stop from throwing herself on the door and sobbing.

  She could barely remember the four-mile journey to St Thomas’s Hospital. Sarah had fetched her coat and bonnet from the hall stand and mechanically she had put them on. Mrs Norris was out so she
told Ellie she was called away urgently and would be home for supper. As this happened from time to time, she hoped neither Mrs Norris nor her father would think anything of it.

  Sarah and Ezra had told her only the sketchiest of details of what had happened to Josiah as they sped through the streets. For all of the shrieking nightmares playing out in her mind she couldn’t help but see the dread in Ezra’s eyes. His palpable anxiety for his brother only added to her fears.

  Somewhere after Mill Pond Bridge they hailed a hansom which sped them along Tooley Street to the hospital.

  They paid the cab off in St Thomas’s Street and, in a dream, Charlotte let herself be led dumbly past the ornate fountain in the hospital forecourt, across the central square and past the chapel towards the main ward blocks. As she’d stumbled up the stairs, her mind still hadn’t quite managed to unscramble the emotions and fear colliding around inside.

  Josiah is alive, she told herself over and over again and clung onto that thought as she climbed the stone stairs to the top floor. But now, in the tiled corridor, with doctors marching back and forth and nurses gliding by, the reality of the situation hit her.

  Oh my God, Josiah!

  How badly injured was he? Would he recover or…

  She stepped forward, her heart hammering in her chest.

  ‘Miss Hatton,’ Ezra said, taking her elbow.

  Charlotte’s head snapped around. ‘I have to go to him.’

  ‘I know. Wait a little longer and ye shall.’

  Although Josiah’s accent wasn’t as strong as his brother’s, when he whispered his love for her, his voice always carried the gentle burr of his origins. Hearing it now in his brother’s voice helped to steady her nerve.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied and stepped over to the open window. The breeze from the window disturbed her hair and cooled her cheeks.

  The door opened behind her and she turned. A short nurse with a ruddy complexion bustled out, the sides of her coif flapping around her cheeks. She gave Ezra and Sarah a sharp look.

  ‘I told you earlier that visiting hour is not until four,’ she said, folding her arms across the bib of her apron.

  Charlotte stepped forward and the nurse’s gaze ran over her. Her expression changed from annoyed to obliging in a flash.

  ‘I understand that Mr Martyn has had an accident,’ Charlotte told her in a clipped voice. ‘My father is the rector of St Mary’s and Mr Martyn is one of his parishioners so I have come to offer what comfort I can to him and his family.’

  ‘Of course, miss,’ the nurse replied as she stood aside. Charlotte, Sarah and Ezra walked into the ward.

  The sharp smell of carbolic stung Charlotte’s nose as they entered. The room was about eighty-feet long and twenty wide and a large cast-iron stove dominated the central space. There was a long desk with a well-dressed young man sitting by the fire, scribbling notes into a large book. Down each side of the ward were tightly packed cots, all of which were occupied. Two nurses, dressed in the same dark uniform as the one who had just showed them in, were busy making beds on one side of the room while on the other side another nurse bandaged a man’s head. As they walked further into the room the fresh smell of the scrubbed floors gave way to the iron odour of blood, and the clawing stench of corrupted flesh.

  Charlotte’s eyes skimmed over the row of patients as she walked down the centre of the ward.

  ‘’e be there,’ Ezra said, indicating the bed by the desk.

  The floor beneath Charlotte’s feet rose to meet her for a moment before settling back. Heedless of those around her, Charlotte hurried to the bed.

  Josiah lay with his head slightly to one side and his eyes closed as if asleep, but his complexion was the colour of putty. More alarming, however, was the sound of congested phlegm that rattled through Josiah’s lungs with every breath he took. With his head on a flat pillow, a bleached sheet underneath him and another turned down neatly across his chest, he looked as if he were already prepared for the undertaker.

  Charlotte’s world shattered at her feet.

  How could it be that Josiah, who was so strong and so vital, who had held her in his arms only a few days ago, was now lying like a corpse in this narrow box-shaped bed.

  The young man who had been sitting at the desk came over.

  ‘Doctor Munroe,’ he said in a broad Scottish accent. ‘Are you a relative of Mr Martyn’s, too?’

  Blackness hovered over her but, somehow, Charlotte managed to force a composed smile.

  ‘No. I am just a friend,’ she replied. ‘Mr Martyn’s brother is married to our maid and they are members of my father’s congregation. How is he?’

  The doctor frowned. ‘Not good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But he will recover, she said, hearing the desperation in her voice.

  ‘He is young and strong, so there is some hope—’

  Some! Some!

  The floor shifted under Charlotte’s feet again. Without thinking, she put her hands on her stomach.

  ‘—but the next few days are critical.’ He gave her a frank look. ‘It’s not so much the contagion that’s almost always present in such a case but how much damage the gases he’s been inhaling for months have already done to his lungs. Mr Martyn’s recovery will hinge, I believe, on how quickly his lungs can repair themselves and his ability to fight disease.’

  Charlotte stood rooted to the spot for a moment, unable to think or speak as the doctor’s words settled in her mind. One of the nurses called him from the other side of the room, so he excused himself and left.

  Shaking the mind-numbing horror away, Charlotte sat on the edge of Josiah’s bed. She smoothed a lock of hair from his clammy forehead. He didn’t stir under her touch.

  Ezra covered his eyes with his hands and Sarah turned to comfort him.

  Charlotte lent forward.

  ‘I’ll come as often as I dare, my love,’ she whispered close to Josiah’s ear.

  Josiah’s chest rattled and he coughed.

  Sarah put her arm around her shoulders. ‘We had better go, miss.’

  Tears distorted Charlotte’s vision. One tear escaped and plopped onto Josiah’s hand but, again, there was no reaction.

  ‘Before the rector gets back,’ Sarah added.

  With her gaze still fixed on Josiah’s ashy features Charlotte marshalled her frayed wits together and nodded.

  Sarah helped her up.

  Charlotte stared down at the man she loved as he lay hovering on the brink of death.

  The doctor said Josiah was young and strong; if she wore her most generous gowns, she would be able to conceal her expanding waistline for a month or two longer but if not, she and Josiah’s baby would be cast out into the gutter.

  Chapter twenty-four

  Tucked behind the linen press on the landing Mrs Norris listened to the rector’s guttural snoring in the main bedroom at the front of the rectory while his daughter, in her room at the back, vomited into her china gazunder.

  It was the second Monday in October and just after six-thirty in the morning. It was also the fourth day in a row she’d secreted herself on the upstairs landing and listened to the mistress of the house heaving up her guts.

  The gagging stopped, there was a pause, and then Charlotte’s bedroom door opened. Pressing her shoulder blades into the wall, Mrs Norris held her breath.

  There was a pause, presumably as Charlotte looked to see if the coast was all clear, then the sound of her footsteps hurrying along the landing towards the stairs.

  Closing one eye, Mrs Norris peered around the corner of the enormous linen cupboard and glimpsed Charlotte, dressed in her russet and blue everyday gown with her hair pinned into a plaited bun, as she turned at the top of the stairs, carrying her covered gazunder.

  A thin smile spread across Mrs Norris’s lips. Waiting until she heard the door to the kitchen close on the floor below, she came out of her hiding place and crossed the landing to Charlotte’s bedroom.

  Opening the door a foot or s
o, she slipped in and closed it silently behind her.

  She went to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top drawer. It slid forward silently on its waxed runners. With her fingers outstretched, Mrs Norris slid her hand down inside the front of the drawer and sifted under Charlotte’s small clothes. Her hand grazed against the roll of letters with a ribbon around it. She had unfurled them on a previous search so pushed them aside. They were from Charlotte’s friends and of no interest. She continued to probe for a moment then slid the drawer back.

  She studied Charlotte’s bed with its brightly coloured patchwork counterpane. The maid set that straight and changed the sheet regularly, so anything concealed under the pillows would be easily found.

  She checked around the fireplace and then went to the writing bureau by the window.

  Whereas Charlotte’s bed had delicately turned upright spindles and the bow front of her tallboy had the elegance of a swan’s neck, her writing desk looked like a yokel in boots at an assembly ball.

  It was old and made of unfashionably black oak. The engraved flowers and leaves across the top and down the sides were crudely executed, showing it to be a county piece, probably made by some estate worker. She remembered hearing Sarah wittering on about it being a wedding present to Charlotte’s mother from her mother, which would make it nigh on half a century old.

  The glass inkwell twinkled in the light from the window and the trimmed quills stood ready in their pot. She counted at least half a dozen sheets of paper stacked on the blotting paper and thought she could slip two safely away without Charlotte noticing. That would be another sixpence to add to her nest egg.

  She flipped through the household accounts standing on the shelf above the leather writing area and, finding nothing, pulled out the drawer of the writing desk and rummaged amongst the old letters, leather correspondence files and uncut quills, but there was nothing of significance to be seen. She gave a frustrated grunt and was just about to close the drawer when she spotted an unsealed letter all but hidden under the other items and addressed to Charlotte’s father.