‘Did she tell you that?’ he asked, giving the maid a look of pure innocence. She nodded. ‘Listen, girl. Just cos she wants it so don’t make it so.’
Milly’s shoulders relaxed and she pulled over a chair to sat opposite him.
‘So what are you doing here?’ Mrs Latimer asked again.
Fred sipped his tea. ‘The vicar wants me and Harry to guard the back of the house tonight.’
‘Whatever for?’
A grin spread across Fred’s face showing a set of remarkably white teeth. ‘It seems he’s been told of some desperate criminal who’s after his family painting. The thief arrived on the noon stage from London today and the vicar is set on seeing them off.’
‘Is the parish constable coming?’ Mrs Latimer asked as an odd uneasiness started in her mind.
Fred shrugged. ‘The vicar didn’t say nothing about telling the constable or the magistrate, for that matter, just said that we are to keep a sharp eye at the back while he keeps watch over the front.
‘Mr Hatton is staying up all night, too?’ she asked, as her disquiet grew.
‘So ’e says. Got his gun ready and all. I’d say as how this thief must be a nasty piece of work as the vicar looks right jumpy.’ Fred handed his empty cup to Milly. ‘Any chance of another?’
Milly gave him a simpering smile and tripped over to the teapot where it was keeping warm on the stove. She poured him another cup, handed it to him, then leant back on the table.
‘So are you going to the winter fair, Fred?’ Milly asked.
Mrs Latimer’s mind was so full of the various oddments of the day that she didn’t hear Fred’s reply.
Perhaps that’s why Mrs Hatton was less than herself today? But if the children were in danger she would have taken them to her sister’s in Harpenden as she did when there was an outbreak of measles amongst the local children.
Why didn’t Master Edmund mention the matter to the constable? And who told him about this thief anyhow? And why was he in the high street at lunchtime… She stopped. Could he have been waiting for the London coach to arrive? And if he was and saw the thief get off, why didn’t he have him arrested there and then rather than sit and wait for him?
Mrs Latimer drew her brows together as she moved all the pieces of the puzzle around in her mind without having any of them join together.
It made no sense at all. And on the same day as Miss Charlotte was bundled off. A cold sensation trickled down Mrs Latimer’s spine. What if it wasn’t a thief on the coach but someone else. What if…
‘Did Mr Hatton say what this thief might look like?’ she asked.
‘Big bugger with black hair who talks like a West Country foreigner,’ Fred replied.
Mrs Latimer grasped the arm of the chair and pulled herself up.
‘Where you off to, Cook?’ Milly asked.
‘I’ve just remembered something,’ she replied. Collecting the basket from the end of the table, she waddled over to the pantry door. ‘I said I’d take Mother Driscoll a bottle of my rose-hip cordial to perk her up.’
Milly jumped up from the stole. ‘I’ll take them for you.’ She shot a shy look at the man lounging in the chair. ‘I’m sure Fred will walk me down to Hollywell Hill.’
Fred shifted forward but Mrs Latimer raised her hand. ‘The man’s got a full night ahead of him so let him rest. It’s a fine night and I’m not so old that I have others doing for me. Besides, Mother Driscoll does like to chat. You pour Fred another cuppa and give him a slice of cake. I’ll only be an hour or so.’
***
Jumping down from the back-seat Josiah stretched to ease his aching back muscles. Although he’d said otherwise to Ezra earlier he was still weak, and two and a half hours perched on the top of a rolling coach in the freezing air had chilled him to the bone.
It was now just after ten on a frosty November morning and he was standing outside the Red Lion Inn at the junction with London Road and St Albans market square.
The Red Lion, with its bleached wattle cut through with blackened Elizabethan timbers, had been an old tavern a hundred years ago. It had served as the main hostelry for centuries and neither the newly refurbished George opposite or Peahen on the top of the Hollywell Hill challenged The Red Lion’s supremacy as the business meeting place in the town.
He could see the spire of the cathedral over the rooftop beyond the clock tower. Charlotte would be in one of the houses surrounding it, but he had to find out which before he went marching into the hallowed sanctum of the cathedral’s cloisters as he didn’t want Edmund Hatton to get wind of his arrival any sooner than he had to.
Of course, although he’d paid the post boy a good tip to give his letter to Charlotte, there was always the possibility, as Sarah had said, that it had been intercepted.
Trying not to dwell on the reception that was awaiting him when he marched up to her brother’s front door, Josiah turned to go into the inn but, as he ducked to enter the doorway, someone caught his arm.
He turned to see an old woman in the drab-coloured gown of a servant standing beside him. The top of her head would have been six inches short of his shoulder and her rounded frame and ample hands spoke of a lifetime of physical work.
Her sharp eyes darted over his face and something, it could have been relief, joy, anger or even all three, flashed through her eyes.
‘Are you Josiah Martyn?’ she asked.
‘Should I be?’ he replied, before taking a mouthful of ale.
A hint of a smile played over her pale lips.
‘Come with me,’ she said, trying to tug him towards the alleyway down the side of the tavern.
He stood his ground.
Josiah pressed his lips together.
The old woman looked innocent enough and Charlotte could very well have sent her, but if she had not...
Keeping close to the wall, Josiah made his way towards her in the light from the surrounding buildings. She looked relieved when she saw him emerge from the shadows.
‘I haven’t got much time,’ she said.
Setting aside his misgivings, Josiah followed her into the dank space between the buildings.
‘Has Charlotte sent you?’ he asked, as a waft of stale urine caught him in the back of the throat.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m Mrs Latimer, the archdeacon’s cook and—’
‘Is she all right?’ He raked his hands through his hair. ‘Dear God, don’t tell me—’
‘Yes, she’s well. As well as she could be thinking you’re dead, and…’ She gave him a hard look, ‘being in the worst kind of trouble a woman can find herself in.’
‘But she got my letter? She knows I’m coming for her?’ he asked.
The cook shook her head again.
‘She didn’t get any letter.’ She scowled. ‘But I’ve got an inkling someone did...’ She told him about the day’s events at the vicarage.
‘I must go after her,’ he said.
‘You must do so, and quick,’ the old woman agreed. ‘Because Miss Charlotte is in urgent need of you marrying her. But be careful. Mr Hatton has sent his man Scofield with her and he’s known to be a bit too quick with the crop if he catches young’uns scrumping. I’d wager a penny to a crown that he has been told to get Miss Charlotte to her brother in Northampton no matter what.’ A concerned expression screwed up her face and she placed a hand on his arm. A lump settled on Josiah’s chest at the image of Charlotte, who must be in her fourth month by now, being thrown around in a coach.
‘When’s the next coach to Northampton?’
‘Tomorrow, but her brother’s lying in wait for you at the vicarage with a loaded gun and a cock and bull story ready as to why he shot you, so you need to get gone from here. The Manchester Telegraph from London to Holyhead arrives at the Peahen at seven in the morning and will get you to Northampton in two days.’
‘Which way?’ asked Josiah.
‘Yon to St Peter’s church at top,’ she said, pointing northwards. ‘Then left onto Pete
r’s Lane then keep going and you’ll soon be on the Redbourne Road. Should take you no more than an hour.’
Ignoring his screaming shoulders and aching legs, Josiah repositioned his kit bag across his shoulder.
‘I’m obliged to you, Mrs Latimer.’ Stifling a yawn, Josiah ran his hands over his face and through his hair.
He went to turn but she caught his arm again. ‘When you get to Redbourne go to The George and ask for Molly. Tell her I sent you and she’ll get you fed and somewhere to put your head and…’ A sentimental expression lifted the old woman’s work-worn face. ‘Tell Miss Charlotte I hope to see her and her wee babe before too long.’
Josiah forced a weary smile. ‘I’d be most happy to oblige you, Mrs Latimer, but you need to keep praying I can get her to Gretna before her brother catches us.’
Chapter thirty
Charlotte lay with her hands on her stomach, staring up at the canopy and imagining the small life tucked safely inside her. She was over four months’ pregnant now and although she’d been able to hide her swelling stomach under petticoats and all-encompassing winter coats until now, in a week or two her secret would be clearly seen for all. She had arrived yesterday and was met by her brother who had dismissed the brutish Schofield and then settled her into Northampton’s main coaching inn, The Crown, which was situated opposite All Hallows church on the Drapery, close to the cattle and sheep market.
After paying the landlady for a maid to attend to Charlotte, he’d left muttering something about arrangements.
Although still scared and nervous about what was going to happen to her next, she was grateful that they had finally reached the end of their journey.
The weather had been brisk but clear when they’d left St Albans, but by the time they’d reached the first change of horses at The White Lamb in Redbourne, the rain had set in. When they’d finally trundled over the bridge into Bedford’s market square, just as St Paul’s clock struck nine, it had turned to snow. After a dreamless sleep in The Swan Inn, Charlotte had woken to a scene of white across the entire town.
She had been awake since first light and as the sun slowly lit her room, and with her hands cradling her swelling stomach, Charlotte remembered all the joy and excitement of Josiah’s kisses. Although it tore at her heart, she vowed to summon up his image each day to keep the memories fresh in her mind. Albeit they’d never said their vows before God, but they were truly one flesh and would be until they were reunited in the next world.
After picturing his mischievous smile, his square-fashioned hands and the way his shoulders strained the fabric of his clothes, Charlotte started speculating as to which of his distinct features their child would inherit. Would they have his abundant black hair or the firm jaw? Would they have his sharp intelligence and his stubborn nature? And would they have his expressive eyes and warm smile? But whatever the combination, Charlotte knew that she would see the echo of the man she loved each day in his growing child.
There was a faint knock on the door and she turned her head.
‘Come,’ she called.
The door opened a few inches and Mrs Colman, the landlord’s motherly wife who had bought supper to her room the night before, poked her head around the door.
‘I’ve got your breakfast, Miss Hatton,’ she said.
Charlotte forced a smile.
Mrs Colman came in carrying a tray laden with bowls and a plate. She closed the door behind her with her foot.
‘So did you sleep well, miss?’ Mrs Colman asked, depositing the tray on the solid country-built table by the fire.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Charlotte replied.
‘Well you certainly look perkier, miss,’ she continued. ‘You looked frozen to the bone when you got here.’
‘I was.’ Charlotte sat up.
‘Now, now, miss,’ said Mrs Colman, taking Charlotte’s knitted wrap from the end of the bed. ‘I don’t want you taking a chill, miss, so tuck this in tight while get this here fire going.’
Draping the shawl around Charlotte’s shoulders, the landlord’s wife went over to the grate and, within a few moments, the flames were lapping around the logs.
‘There, that should have it warm in no time.’ She glanced around the room. ‘And sorry we haven’t a grander room for you, miss, but—’
‘Please don’t apologise, Mrs Colman,’ said Charlotte. ‘The room’s fine.’
‘Well, at least it’s over the kitchen so you won’t get the noise from the tap room,’ said the landlord’s wife. ‘And with just the stables below your window you won’t have no drunks singing to keep you awake either.’ She caught sight of Charlotte’s pink silk dress draped across the window chair. ‘Oh, my, what a beautiful gown.’
‘It’s for my wedding,’ said Charlotte flatly.
A sentimental expression lit up Mary’s rounded face. ‘You’re to be a bride.’
Charlotte nodded.
Going over to it, Mrs Colman swept up the gown. ‘This ought to be hung to save it creasing.’
Carrying it over to the closet she pulled out a hanging pole and slipped it through the arms, then hooked the ends across the clothes pegs on the black upright beams.
‘So when is the happy event?’ Mrs Colman asked, brushing a couple of wrinkles from the full skirt.
‘As soon as my brother and future husband get here, I expect,’ Charlotte replied over the lump clogging her throat.
Clasping her hands together, the landlord’s wife looked heavenwards. ‘How romantic. To travel through the snow to marry your true love.’
An image of Josiah flashed through her mind and, before she could stop them, tears filled her eyes and Charlotte started weeping.
‘Oh, there, there, child,’ said Mrs Colman, bustling over to the bed. ‘Whatever be the matter?’
Sitting beside Charlotte, she put a motherly arm around her shoulders.
‘Now,’ she said, patting Charlotte’s hand. ‘Brides is supposed to be ’appy not melancholy, so why all this sobbing?’
Mastering her faltering breath, Charlotte looked up into Mrs Colman’s kindly grey eyes.
What could she say? That the man she loved whose child she was carrying was dead? Her family were marrying her off to a man she’d never met who they’d paid to wed her? If that weren’t enough to make her weep, in two months’ time she would have to travel to the other side of the world to have her baby alone in an army outpost in the tropics!
Somehow Charlotte managed to force a smile. ‘I suppose I’m a bit nervous.’
Mrs Colman’s rounded face creased into a fond smile.
‘Of course, my dear,’ she chuckled. ‘Tis quite natural for a bride to feel a bit trembly, like, but, mark my words, once you is proper wed a good husband will make those tears disappear.’
Somewhere in the distance a two-tone horn sounded.
Patting Charlotte’s hand again, Mrs Colman stood up.
‘That be the night mail coach to Edinburgh in sight of the town’s south gate so before I has hungry passengers hammering on my bar, I ought to get the morning victuals on the stove.’ Mrs Colman removed the napkin covering the tray to reveal the food beneath. ‘Now, as we can’t have you getting wed on an empty stomach you’d better tuck into your breakfast and I’ll send the maid up with a pitcher of hot water for your morning wash by and by.’
Giving Charlotte an indulgent smile, she hurried out of the room.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Charlotte eyed her breakfast of boiled ham and eggs with a mug of steaming malted milk alongside.
It looked delicious, but Charlotte had no appetite.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the wedding gown made for her wedding to Nicolas, which was hanging on the pole.
It had been delivered to the rectory after she’d left. Having paid for it her father had sent it on with the instruction that she could wear it, as befitted her rank, when she married this unknown husband. She regarded the exquisite dress coolly for a few seconds, then got up an
d walked to the table.
Picking up the napkin, she sat down and took up her cutlery.
If she and the baby were going to survive what lay ahead of them, she would need all her strength so, for the sake of Josiah’s memory, she tucked into her breakfast.
Chapter thirty-one
The shrill sound of the coach horn signalling their arrival snapped Josiah awake in an instant. He hadn’t realised he’d nodded off to sleep but it was hardly surprising as he had been sitting on the hard seat next to the coachman for nearly nine hours as it rattled through the middle of England.
The coach lurched to the side and he grasped the handrail beside him and looked over the heads of the galloping horses as they thundered over the bridge towards the south gate of Northampton’s old town.
After biding Mrs Latimer farewell, Josiah had crossed the road to the Peahen. He’d arrived just as the night mail to Manchester was making ready to depart. After parting with a sixpence for an outside seat, Josiah had clambered aboard. Other than a brief stop to change the horses at a roadside inn, a fifteen-minute break for the passengers to answer the call of nature and snatch a bit to eat at Harpenden, then a brief stop at Ampthill and Bedford to offload and collect mail, the coach had travelled through the night. Josiah had clung to his precarious perch beside the driver and helped when called upon to assist with the vehicle’s brake.
It was at The Swan Inn in Bedford that he’d got the news that a young woman fitting Charlotte’s description had stayed overnight the day before, so he was hopeful he would catch up with them at Northampton.
Now the rear brakeman blew the bugle again and the coachman braced his feet on the running board in front of him. He stood upright as he guided the team of four heavy horses around the cattle and people gathered in the marketplace. With some tossing of heads and flattening of ears, the lead pair of horses lined up and pulled the mail coach towards the entrance to the Royal Oak. Josiah, the driver and everyone else on the top ducked as the Manchester Telegraph rumbled over the cobbles and through the arch into the inn’s yard.
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