Making her way past her brother and sister-in-law’s bedroom and the guest room, Charlotte reached the top of the long, curved staircase. Above, in the nursery, she could hear the sound of children’s voices as Miss Penfold, the governess, drummed the alphabet into the younger Hattons.
Sliding her hand along the smooth sweep of the handrail, Charlotte eyed the dour portraits on the wall as she descended. Most of them were rather unattractive and long-dead members of Martha’s family in outdated clothes, but there was a large full-length portrait of her brother in his full clerical garb clutching a Bible to his chest, a look of undisguised self-importance spread across his face.
Charlotte stood on the last step and contemplated it for a moment, then continued down to the forbidding, bare hallway with its grey-green plastered walls and graceless occasional furniture. The day room doors were shut, and Martha would have locked them to keep the servants from snooping where they should not while she was out.
Pushing open the small door at the far end of the hallway Charlotte entered the kitchen. The vicarage was over two hundred years old and at the far end of the room the cast-iron range sat in what had been the open inglenook. An appetising smell of chicken pervaded the air as a pot full of poultry bones simmered on the back of the hob, sending little wisps of steam upwards into the chimney.
Mrs Latimer sat in the rocking chair by the open back door and, as Charlotte entered, she looked around.
‘Miss Charlotte,’ she said, rocking herself forward in preparation to stand.
‘Don’t get up, Latty,’ Charlotte said, crossing the floor.
The old woman didn’t argue and flopped back in the chair. ‘If you go into the larder there’s a jug full of freshly pressed apple juice.’
Charlotte fetched the jug and poured herself a tall glass full, then sat on the stool opposite the cook.
‘Where is everyone?’ Charlotte asked, glancing around the empty kitchen.
‘As they weren’t needed, the mistress gave the house staff the afternoon off.’
Charlotte finely arched eyebrows rose. ‘Oh.’
‘She said they could make up the time on Sunday,’ Mrs Latimer told her flatly.
‘But what about their afternoon trips to their families?’
Mrs Latimer shrugged. Obviously the sermon her brother preached last Sunday about the sanctity of family life didn’t include the serving classes.
Charlotte sipped her apple juice, enjoying the sharpness of it as it rolled over her tongue.
Mrs Latimer rocked forward and patted Charlotte’s hand. ‘Now, tell me about your young man.’
A lump lodged itself behind Charlotte’s breastbone. ‘Nicolas is thirty-six and his mother recently died. She was very elderly and he cared for her so that’s why we held off marrying until now. He lives in Deptford Road.’
She gave a what she hoped was a cheerful smile. Mrs Latimer tilted her head to one side.
‘Now tell me about the man you love,’ the cook said. ‘Not the one your brother is putting around that you’re marrying.’
Charlotte stared at her as tears obscured her vision, then threw herself into the old woman’s arms and told her all about Josiah. The cook held Charlotte close while she sobbed on her shoulder. Mrs Latimer didn’t raise an eyebrow when she heard about the baby nor the planned elopement.
‘But, Miss Charlotte. If this young man is all you say he is, why hasn’t he followed you here?’
‘Because he…because Josiah is dead,’ she said, the words falling like the soil on a coffin lid. ‘The last time I saw him I told him about the baby but I doubt if he heard me; he was more dead than alive. The doctors were kind and did the best they could, but I imagine he’s probably passed into the afterlife by now.’
‘Oh, my poor, poor child,’ Mrs Latimer said softly and wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It’s against all that is right and proper that you should have such sorrow heaped on your shoulders at such a young age. I know the Almighty’s ways aren’t for us to question but I can’t help but wonder what he is thinking of sometimes.’ She squeezed Charlotte’s hand. ‘But what of your father’s plans for you?’
Charlotte put her hand to her forehead in anticipation of the headache that was bound to follow her tears.
‘I don’t know, Latty. I just don’t know. Nicolas has given my father his word that he won’t breathe a word of the matter and I expect, after a few more months, he’ll say the wedding’s been called off because I’m unwell and staying with relatives. I know there are places where women like me are sent to have their babies quietly and that the children are given to poor families to raise in return for a small allowance. Sometimes the child comes back after a few years as a waif that the daughter of the house has taken a fondness to. The squire of Redbourne’s daughter took in one such boy but you only had to look at the lad to see he was her own flesh and blood.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I doubt there’s a wealthy family in the land that hasn’t got a bastard farmed out somewhere.’
Mrs Latimer shook her head. ‘I doubt you could do that at the rectory.’
‘I know, but if I promise to live quietly, and not trouble the family, I’m hoping Father will allow me a small allowance. Just enough to keep myself and the baby on it.’ Glancing down she ran her hands over the solid bulge under her skirts. ‘His child is all I have left of him, and...’ Her gaze returned to the old woman. ‘I tell you, Latty, if it weren’t for the baby, I’d walk down to the watermill and throw myself under the blades right now.’
A shocked expression crossed the old woman’s face. ‘Tush! Tush! What would your mother say if she heard you say such a wicked thing, Miss Charlotte?’
Charlotte gave a sad smile. ‘What would she say if she knew I was pregnant with no hope of a wedding?’
Mrs Latimer folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Well…she’d have a few words to give you, but she loved you and would do her best for you. We can only pray your father will do the same.’
Chapter twenty-eight
Martha Hatton ran her finger over the surface of the hall dresser and studied it closely. Mary, the downstairs maid, held her lower lip in her front teeth.
‘Adequate,’ Martha said, rubbing her thumb and finger together. ‘I expect to see the same on the dining room surfaces in an hour.’
Mary, a jolly country girl with apple cheeks and corn-coloured hair, bobbed a curtsy and scooted towards the door at the far end of the corridor. The sound of several small feet clattered down the stairs, breaking the quiet of the hall. Martha’s eldest son, Edmund junior, aged eleven and a miniature version of his father in a cropped jacket and long pants, led the party from the nursery. Miss Penfold followed behind holding Ernest and Henry, both in their second-best suits, by the hand. Behind her the nursery maid, Sarah or was it Susan?, held firmly onto three-year-old John, dressed in his short frock. In her arms was baby Charles, who chewed on his knuckles. Following in the rear were Martha’s two daughters, Caroline almost a young woman at twelve and Margaret, just short of her tenth birthday.
Martha had been shocked when her first child was a girl and had worried all through her second pregnancy that she was destined to be a woman who could only replicate herself rather than be the mother of men but then the boys followed and five was a fair number for any. The king would be pleased to have such a family.
Miss Penfold spotted her and brought the children over. They lined up next to their governess.
‘Good morning, Mama,’ they said in unison.
Martha inclined her head.
John reached up to her but the nursery maid pulled him back. ‘Not now, Master John,’ she told him as he stuck his thumb in his mouth. ‘Kiss Mama at tea-time.’
A twinge of longing stole into Martha’s breast but she stifled it.
Children needed discipline, she told herself severely.
‘You might try a little mustard on his thumb,’ Martha said to the young girl holding her son.
‘Very good, madam.’
&n
bsp; ‘We are off on a nature ramble, Mama,’ her daughter Caroline told her, straightening the strap from the wicker collection basket on her shoulder.
‘Well don’t get too muddy. We have the Right Reverend Hoxton-Willis, the canon from the cathedral, calling on your father this afternoon. And I do not want you to look like labourers’ children when you greet him.’
‘No, Mama,’ they replied.
Miss Penfold opened the front door and the children left. They walked down the vicarage steps two by two.
Martha stood at the door and watched them.
She had the urge to gather her skirt and dash down the gravel drive of the vicarage and hug them to her. She even took a step before taking a firm grip of her churning emotions. It would not do.
The hollow emptiness inside that had suddenly started after her encounter with Charlotte returned. A tear pinched at the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them away.
For goodness sake, Martha. Get a grip on yourself.
Of course Edmund had agreed that his sister was completely oblivious to the purity her station in life demanded. But far from settling her temper, Martha found herself studying her husband as he worked his way through the pile of mutton and potatoes on his plate.
She tried for several moments to recall what colour his eyes were and then her mind wandered on to imagine if she would have wanted to be Mrs Edmund Hatton quite so much if he’d been a shoemaker or wheelwright. Then, almost too shocking to remember, the following night she’d had a most shameful dream about Lieutenant Philip Thomason-Smyth, who had almost swept her off her feet and into indiscretion during her first season. She’d lain awake for an age, hot and flustered, before she had finally drifted back to sleep.
It was all Charlotte’s fault. Her and her ridiculous question about love, Martha thought.
Since she arrived she’s done nothing but upset my equilibrium. And set thoughts in my head that no Christian woman should have. If I hadn’t been so utterly shocked by such a nonsensical question I would have said, ‘Charlotte. What of duty? Answer me that if you can.’ That would have shown her.
It would not do! The sooner Edmund heard back from his brother Laurence, whose regiment was stationed in Northampton and Charlotte was dispatched to join him, the better for all of them.
She was just about to close the door when a post boy on a sweaty-looking horse galloped past and pulled his pony to a halt by the vicarage’s side entrance. Jumping from his horse the young man opened the side gate and slipped through.
Marth frowned.
That’s odd, the boy from The Red Lion had already delivered the letter that had arrived that morning on the overnight coach from London and the Lightning Bolt from Manchester with the northern post wasn’t due until three.
Wondering why the rider hadn’t come straight to the front door, Martha hurried after him.
He was just about to knock on the servants’ door when Martha rounded the corner of the house.
‘Hey you, boy!’ she called as she strode between the lavender boarders of the herb garden. ‘‘Why are you skulking around the back of the house instead of coming to the front door?’
He looked startled. ‘Er, I’m...I’m looking for the cook—’
‘What do you want with her?’
‘I have a letter,’ he replied, looking decidedly sheepish.
Martha looked astonished. ‘For Mrs Latimer?’
Biting his lip, the young man looked nervously around. ‘No, but—’
‘Well then, who?’ demanded Martha.
He didn’t reply.
‘Answer me!’ Martha snapped.
‘A Miss Hatton,’ he replied. ‘But I have instructions to—’
‘Give it to me,’ she snapped.
‘But I have instructions only to deliver it to Miss Hatton,’ the post boy replied, gripping the top of his satchel.
Martha held out her hand.
‘Now!’ she said, giving him the look that sent servants rushing to empty their bladders. ‘Unless you want me to call the parish constable and have you kept in the town’s lock-up for a few nights.’
The young man regarded her uncertainly for a moment, then with a sigh and fishing around in his mailbag he pulled out a large letter with a red seal fixed on it and placed it in her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said as her fingers closed around it. ‘Now you can knock on the door and get the butler to give you your sixpence.’
Giving her a belligerent look instead of a tug of his forelock, the post boy sloped off to collect his horse that was breakfasting on her herbaceous boarders.
Martha stared down at the letter.
The hand that had written the address took up most of the available space. It wasn’t executed in the copperplate slant as taught by governesses and school masters, but it was correctly spelt and punctuated. But what set Martha’s heart crashing in her chest was Charlotte’s name written boldly across the top.
Shoving it in her pocket, Martha retraced her steps and re-entered the house just as the clock in Edmund’s study struck eleven.
Peters, their butler, appeared from the below stairs door carrying her husband’s mid-morning coffee and the morning’s post.
‘Later,’ said Martha, waving him away. The butler bowed and returned downstairs.
Martha opened the door to her husband’s study.
‘Thank you, Peters,’ said Edmund, without taking his eyes from his studies.
‘It’s me, Edmund,’ Martha said.
He looked up at her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ snapped Martha. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong.’
Taking the letter from her pocket, she thrust it at him.
‘Especially as there’s been a letter just delivered from London by post—’
‘From London!’
Yes,’ said Martha. ‘I thought at first it might be from Lambeth Palace confirming your appointment, but it’s addressed to your sister.’
‘Is it indeed?’ He snapped the seal and ran his eyes over the page. ‘Damn! Damn!’
He jumped up, sending his chair crashing to the floor.
‘Edmund!’ Martha said as her husband dashed past her.
He tore open the door. ‘Peters!’
Peters appeared.
‘Tell Ryman to get himself and the old chariot ready for an early start tomorrow.’
‘Can I tell him where he is bound, sir?’ Peters asked.
‘No. Just to make ready for a long and fast journey.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The butler left.
‘What—’
‘Read.’
He thrust Charlotte’s letter into her hand, then went and stared out of the window.
As Martha scanned down, Josiah’s words, strong, defiant, jumped up from the page.
‘I thought your father wrote that he was dead,’ she said, feeling strangely pleased that this troublesome Josiah Martyn hadn’t been cut down in his prime.
Edmund spun around. ‘Well it seems as if he’s been resurrected. But, more importantly, he is arriving on tomorrow’s coach.’
‘Is he?’ Martha said, looking at the letter again.
‘For goodness sake, Wife. The last paragraph!’
Martha read the letter again.
Charlotte, my dearest love,
I know that for the past few weeks you have believed me dead but, by God’s good grace, I am not. I am not because I heard your sweet voice telling me about our baby.
Since Ezra told me of all that had happened to you I have not had a moment’s peace knowing what danger you and our child is in.
I love you, Charlotte, and, as God is my witness, I will not rest until we are married. I will be arriving on the London coach on Friday 3rd November and if I have to tear down your brother’s house we will be on the post chase from St Albans heading to York and on to Carlisle.
My dearest Charlotte, I cannot wait until you are my wife, in law as you are and always w
ill be in my heart.
My love as always and for ever
Josiah
‘But she can’t,’ said Martha, looking up from the page. ‘If it ever got out that your pregnant sister eloped with a son of a miner from our house in the cathedral cloisters, then—
‘My next appointment won’t be as Bishop of Colchester but as chaplain to the garrison in Bombay,’ added Edmund.
‘Bombay!’ Martha grabbed for the mahogany whatnot beside her to hold herself steady. ‘But the children!’
‘Which is why we must send Charlotte to Laurence tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘Thankfully I received a letter in this morning’s post from him. It seems my little brother’s been out on army manoeuvres, but my letter telling him of our sister’s fall from virtue finally caught up with him three days ago. He’s made all the necessary arrangements but instead of me taking Charlotte to Northampton in a week, she’ll have to go tomorrow. I’ll send him a note warning him to expect her in three days.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. Thanks to your swift action, all will soon be well and we can return to our quiet, calm way of being.’ He resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘Now, my dear, I must write to Laurence of the change so I’d thank you to pour me a coffee and then leave me to my work.’
Pulling a clean sheet of paper from his stationary holder, he picked up his quill.
With Josiah’s words of love to Charlotte running around in her mind Martha stared at her husband.
‘Edmund?’
He looked up. ‘Yes, Martha.’
‘Will you always love me?’ Martha blurted out before she could stop herself.
‘Are you breeding?’ he asked, giving her a puzzled look.
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why in blue blazes are you asking me such a foolish question?’
‘Will you?’ Martha asked, with just a hint of a tremor in her voice.
Edmund’s exasperated expression changed slowly to a condescending one. He stood up and came around to where she was standing.
‘All this business with Charlotte has unsettled you. It’s understandable.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘It’s scientific fact that, given their delicate sensibilities, women can have their humours unsettled by close contact with the base elements of society. It gives me no pleasure to say it, but my sister has given herself over to the most brutish element of our fallen nature. Lust.’ he gave her a brief kiss on the forehead. ‘Thankfully not an emotion a godly woman like yourself, Martha, has ever experienced.’ He smiled, indulgently. ‘Now, my dear, if I’m to have my letter to Laurence on the night mail coach I must get it signed and sealed by midday.’
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