The Rector's Daughter E-Book

Jean Fullerton

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Charlotte, daughter of Reverend Percival Hatton, has been content to follow the path laid out for her. Charlotte has an understanding with Captain Nicolas Paget - every inch the gentleman - who she expects someday to marry. But then she meets Josiah Martyn, and everything changes... A driven and ambitious Cornish mining engineer, and the complete opposite to Captain Nicholas, Josiah has come to London to help build the first tunnel under the river Thames. When unpredictable events occur at the inauguration of the project, Josiah and Charlotte are suddenly thrown into an unexpected intimacy. But not everyone is happy with Charlotte and Josiah growing closer. As friends turn to foes, will they be able to rewrite the stars and find their happy ever after, although all odds seem to be stacked against them...?

Leseprobe

Jean Fullerton is the author of fourteen historical novels and two novellas. She is a qualified District and Queen’s nurse who has spent most of her working life in the East End of London, first as a Sister in charge of a team, and then as a District Nurse tutor. She is also a qualified teacher and spent twelve years lecturing on community nursing studies at a London university. She now writes full time.

Find out more at www.jeanfullerton.com

Also by Jean Fullerton

No Cure for Love

A Glimpse of Happiness

Perhaps Tomorrow

Hold on to Hope

Call Nurse Millie

Christmas with Nurse Millie

All Change for Nurse Millie

Easter with Nurse Millie

Fetch Nurse Connie

Wedding Bells for Nurse Connie

Pocketful of Dreams

A Ration Book Christmas

A Ration Book Childhood

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Jean Fullerton, 2019

The moral right of Jean Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 961 5

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

Dedication

To Janet Gover, Rachel Summerson and Jenny Haddon, who have listened to me banging on about the ‘tunnel book’ for almost half a decade.

Chapter one

Drumming her fingers silently against the ruby-coloured twill of her skirt, Charlotte Hatton, daughter of Reverend Percival Hatton, rector of St Mary’s, Rotherhithe, stared through her parlour window at the great swathe of people making their way down Church Street toward Cow Yard.

In the reflection she saw Mrs Palmer reposition the curly ostrich feathers in her new hat for the fourth time in the overmantel mirror.

‘Mama,’ whined Mrs Palmer’s nine-year-old son Arthur, tugging at her sleeve. ‘I want to go now!’

Ignoring the boy, Mrs Palmer pulled the long hat pin out yet again and slid it back at a different angle.

Standing a little taller than Charlotte’s five feet three, Mrs Palmer must have been in her early forties with only a few wisps of grey running through her dark-brown hair. She was slender to the point of being thin so, unlike Charlotte, she didn’t have to fiddle with the fichu across her chest to keep her neckline respectable.

She had been one of their first visitors when Charlotte and her father had taken up the living just over a year ago, and now, much to her father’s delight, was an almost daily visitor to the rectory.

Arthur left his mother’s side. He pushed in front of Charlotte and pressed his nose against the pane, his breath forming a steaming patch on the chilly glass.

‘Doooo hurry, Mama,’ he said, twisting back to look at his mother. ‘If we don’t get there soon there won’t be any space.’

Going by the stream of people passing the window, Charlotte was afraid Arthur might be right. After all, it wasn’t every day you’re able to witness history. Today, 2nd March in the year of our Lord 1825, was the day Mr Brunel was breaking the soil for an engineering feat which had never been attempted before: tunnelling under London’s mighty river; the Thames.

Although it would take some three years to build, when it was complete carriages would travel between where they were in Rotherhithe to Wapping on the north bank. Unsurprisingly, many thought it folly and doomed to failure, but Charlotte sided with those who called the project the Wonder of the Age, and vowed to be one of the first to walk from one side of the river to the other through Mr Brunel’s subterranean tunnel.

‘There will not be any spaces,’ Mrs Palmer replied, as she adjusted the feather yet again.

Finally satisfied, she turned and smiled.

‘I think we are now ready,’ she said, picking up her parasol and holding her other hand out for Arthur.

The boy took it and they walked through to the hallway. Charlotte opened the front door just as St Mary’s tenor bells sounded. Stepping out into Church Street, she and her companions plunged into the sea of people togged up in their Sunday best. They pushed through the crowds, side-stepping the bare-footed children dodging between them.

Costermongers – their stalls laden with oysters and coffee – and pie vendors hoping to make a bob or two, lined their route to Cow Yard. Their numbers were probably matched by pickpockets with the same aim. In addition to the usual street traders a new breed of merchant mingled amongst them; the souvenir hawker selling cheap plaster statues and pins with images of what the entrance to the Thames Tunnel would look like when it was completed in three years.

Finding herself jostled by a press of people, Charlotte tried to quicken the pace.

‘There is no need to hurry, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Your father is one of the dignitaries invited to see Mr Brunel break the earth where the first shaft is to be dug, plus he is the rector in which this project is taking place, so we are assured of entry.’

‘I hope so,’ Charlotte replied, as a coach with smartly painted livery passed them, lurching unsteadily on the uneven cobbles. ‘Although I did read in The Times that the whole government is coming, including Lord Liverpool, to support Mr Brunel’s plans.’

‘To my mind, a well-brought-up young lady should rely on her father to inform her of such things, Miss Hatton,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Rather than read it herself a newspaper.’

Swinging on his mother’s arm, Arthur thumped into Charlotte, causing her to stumble.

‘Such an energetic spirit,’ said Mrs Palmer, smiling indulgently.

Charlotte didn’t comment.

They pressed on until they arrived at the wooden corral that surrounded the shaft site. The band was already tuning up.

‘We had better find our seat,’ said Charlotte as they squeezed through the entrance. ‘You know how Father hates tardiness,’ she added as her cape billowed out, caught by a sudden gust of wind.

Mrs Palmer patted her arm. ‘I’m sure he will be too busy rehearsing his speech to notice if we are a little late.’

Charlotte gave her a wan smile. ‘Let’s hope.’

Gathering her skirt up high to avoid the mud underfoot, Charlotte picked her way across the main yard where a huge iron circle lay on the dirt. Sliding behind the men and women admiring its craftsmanship, they headed for the reserved seating at the far side of the arena.

A man dressed in a navy suit with a Thames Company badge on his lapel, and carrying a clipboard, greeted them. After finding their names on the second page of his list, he unhooked the rope. Stepping up onto the platform they made their way along the front row to the end seats next to the brass band.

‘What a crowd,’ said Mrs Palmer, correcting the angle of the ostrich feather as they settled in their seats.

She was right. It looked as if the whole of London, dressed in their Sunday best, had come to see history in the making. Across the heads of the milling crowds Charlotte spotted her father, dressed in his formal clerical court garb of black breeches and gaiters. Even at this distance, she could see his florid face above his tight collar.

He was standing with two other smartly dressed gentlemen and a small man wearing an enormously tall top hat. The shorter man, who Charlotte judged to be not quite her height, was gesticulating furiously towards the ground and then up to the sky. The two men beside her father were listening to him without interruption and, surprisingly, so was her father.

‘I must say you look rather fetching in your new outfit, my dear,’ said Mrs Palmer, cutting across her thoughts.

‘Thank you, Mrs Palmer,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I copied it from an illustration entitled ‘Paris Mode’ in last month’s Lady magazine and made it myself.’

Mrs Palmer, fingering the double frogging on the edge of her jacket, gave a syrupy smile. ‘How very clever of you, and the unsophisticated style suits you perfectly.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘The design was described as perfect for the “fresh-faced younger lady”.’

A dark flush splashed up Mrs Palmer’s throat and her lips pulled a little tighter for a second, then she too smiled. ‘Is Captain Paget coming today?’

‘If Mrs Paget is well enough to be left,’ Charlotte replied.

Mrs Palmer’s expression formed itself into one of deep concern. ‘Poor Captain Paget, always at the mercy of his mother’s nerves.’

‘Indeed,’ said Charlotte.

‘I can’t see, Mama,’ wailed Arthur. ‘Why can’t we be on the platform like them?’ He jabbed his finger toward where Charlotte’s father stood amongst the dignitaries on the stage.

‘Because it’s reserved for important people,’ his mother replied. ‘I’m sorry, my lamb, but—’

‘But I want to!’ Arthur clenched his fist and screwed his face up. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not—’

‘Miss Hatton,’ cut in Mrs Palmer. ‘Perhaps you should get a little closer to the platform to ensure you can hear your father’s speech.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Perhaps I should.’

Hooking her reticule over her arm, she rose to her feet.

‘And would you be a dear and take Arthur with you?’

Charlotte forced a smile. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘I’ll meet you in the refreshment tent after the speeches.’

Arthur jumped down and Charlotte held out her hand.

‘Do as Miss Hatton says, Arthur,’ his mother called after them.

‘Of course,’ he shouted over his shoulder, treading on people’s feet as he side-stepped along the bench.

***

Josiah Martyn dragged his handkerchief from his trouser back pocket for the umpteenth time and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Not that the weather was warm, quite the contrary, it was a bit on the chilly side but as he’d spent the past half an hour manhandling a cast-iron beam from its straw and rough wood casing, it was hardly surprising he was sweating.

Still, he should make the most of working above ground because once the tunnel shaft started downwards, he’d be following it.

He’d spent half his life in the bowels of the earth, first as an apprentice engineer in a tin mine in his native Cornwall, then excavating coal seams in Yorkshire, Dudley, Northumberland, harvesting the black gold beneath.

After he’d finished in Barnsley, opening a new seam for Lord Radley, Josiah had promised himself a job in the sun on one of the new railways, but the chance to be the senior engineer on site under Mr Armstrong and Mr Brunel himself was too good to turn down. Although Josiah had spent all of his working life underground propping up shafts and blasting away rock to access precious minerals like coal, tin and copper, this time it was different. This time he’d be digging blind through Thames mud, shifting shale, and once they started tunnelling northward for Wapping, there would be a tidal river surging back and forth only a few feet above their heads, which is why the Thames Tunnel company was paying double the going rate for men, because you might not live long enough to enjoy the wages.

Shoving his handkerchief back where it came from, he scanned the area. Unlike the main area where the good and the great of the land were now gathering for the breaking ground ceremony, Josiah was in a section screened off from the public. Behind him was the site office and to his left was the on-site foundry where running repairs to the equipment and machinery could be carried out. Strewn all around were the various sections of the water pump that had been delivered the day before. So while his bosses were enjoying the jollities of the opening ceremony on the other side of the enclosed area, Josiah had been tasked with getting the pump ready for installation the following day.

Josiah raked his fingers through his unruly mop of black hair and turned his attention to the gang of Irish navvies on the far side of the cobbled area. With hands like shovels and backbones of iron they were the brute force building every road, canal and railway the length and breadth of England. Like him they were sweating hard but unlike him they had used their five-minute breather to wet their whistles from a stone ale jug.

‘All right, lads,’ he called, striding towards the crate they’d unloaded from the bullock cart the day before. ‘We’ve set the beam ready so let’s be having you sharp now to get this wheel in position.’

There was a grumble as the half a dozen men, dressed in clothing just a cut above rags, gathered themselves together and stood up.

‘Now,’ said Josiah, resting his foot on the boxwood crate encasing the ten-foot circumference wheel. ‘The easiest way of shifting this bugger is to upend it and roll it into place. So let’s get rid of the wood and straw and with a couple of heave-hos we’ll be done. O’Henry, if you please.’

The bull-like gang leader touched his forehead.

‘Right, me boys,’ he said, hawking and spitting between his booted feet. ‘Let’s be setting this grand contraption in motion, as Mr Martyn here is asking.’

Stepping back to give them room for the task, Josiah’s gaze drifted past the immediate area and into the main yard where women wearing extravagant bonnets and men in top hats were gathering. The corners of Josiah’s mouth lifted slightly. He might be in his shirt-sleeves and with fresh sweat staining his shirt now, but with God’s good grace and his own hard graft, one day it would be him puffing on fat cigars.

***

‘I can’t see,’ whined Arthur, craning his neck as he bobbed up and down.

‘There’re just too many people,’ said Charlotte, as the crowd pressed in around her.

Since leaving Mrs Palmer they had been twice around the yard trying to find a vantage point near enough to the stage.

‘What about over there,’ Arthur shouted, pointing at a neat stack of bricks on the far side of the enclosure. ‘If we stood on them, we would be able to see all the soldiers and the people on the platform and everything.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘They don’t look very safe.’

She tried to take his hand but Arthur danced away.

‘Don’t fuss. Mama’s always fussing,’ he said, screwing his face up.

‘But, Arthur—’

He dashed off, and after weaving his way through the milling crowd, disappeared under a rope with several rags tied to it.

Biting back the urge to scream, Charlotte followed him under the barrier and into an area full of large pieces of steel and iron. She rounded the corner just in time to see Arthur running through a puddle, splashing mud up his pinstriped trousers in the process.

Charlotte hurried towards him but as she reached halfway across the space, a grinding sound started behind her.

‘Whoo!’ a deep voice called.

She turned just in time to see a massive iron wheel, taller than a man, rolling towards her, followed by three or four men who were guiding it. The flat metal edge of the wheel was about a foot across, with deep diagonal groves in it. With every rumble over the cobbles it loomed ever closer and in a second or two it would crush her.

The leader of the men grasped the wheel and, splaying his legs wide, skidded a yard or two, being dragged along with it. Undeterred, he threw his weight to one side causing the wheel to lurch sideways. For one terrifying second the wheel looked as if it was going to roll right over Charlotte but then mercifully it veered to the right and rolled past her, catching the end of her cape briefly as it passed.

As the wheel ground to a halt, the man let it go and turned.

He was probably six foot or maybe just a little taller and aged somewhere in his mid to late twenties. His white shirt, loosened by his efforts to stop the wheel, billowed out from his brown corduroy trousers. A mustard-coloured waistcoat covered his shirt but it was unbuttoned, as was his collar. His shirtsleeves were rolled up revealing muscular forearms finely covered with dark hair. Leaving the wheel to his fellow workers, he crossed the space between them. Charlotte raised her head and found herself staring into his dark-brown, almost black eyes.

He flicked a curl of black hair off his forehead and glared at her. ‘What in the name of God, do thee think you’re doing?’

***

Josiah’s heart had all but stopped as he saw the young woman dash out from the side of the brick shed and into the path of the pump flywheel. Unbelievably, she was still in one piece.

She stared dumbly at him, her large eyes looking unnaturally dark in her ashen face and her hands clasped together in front of her. His gaze ran over her just to reassure himself she was whole.

‘You shouldn’t be here, in this part of the yard, miss,’ he said, his voice taking up a Cornish lilt, as it did under duress. ‘Didn’t you see the rope I put across to stop folks wandering where they ought not to wander?’

‘I did, but I was trying to catch Arthur,’ said the young woman, tears welling.

A small lad wearing a large cap with a tassel at its crown poked his head around the corner of the adjoining shed and eyed them nervously.

‘If that be your lad yonder,’ Josiah said, indicating the child with a nod. ‘Then you should have kept better hold of him.’

The young woman let out a relieved sigh. ‘I know and I’m so sorry for causing you such inconvenience. Please accept my sincere apologies.’

She gave him a self-conscious smile and Josiah smiled back.

‘Ah, well,’ he said, noting her pleasing proportions and auburn hair. ‘We’ll say no more about it, shall—’

‘What, may I ask, is going on here?’

Tearing his eyes from the woman in front of him, Josiah looked around to see a thin, tight-featured woman wearing an over-large hat and a gown laden with frills striding towards them.

Arthur shot out from his hiding place and dashed over to her.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he bawled, burying his face in the folds.

‘Of course not, my angel,’ she replied, hugging the boy to her.

‘I just wanted to see, so I—’

‘Arthur ran off,’ the young woman started to explain. ‘I tried to catch him, but—’

‘This enormous wheel,’ cut in Arthur. ‘It nearly squashed me and—’

‘Squashed!’ The over-dressed woman clutched the child to her.

‘Yes,’ he snivelled, his lower lip trembling with each word. ‘And I was so frightened, Mama.’

‘There there, my pet, do not fret, my love.’ She gathered him to her bosom then her eyes narrowed and she looked at the younger woman. ‘I thought you were supposed to be looking after him?’

‘As I about to explain, Mrs Palmer—’

The boy let out a piercing scream.

‘Arthur ran off,’ said the young woman, raising her voice above the racket, ‘and—’

‘He was nearly killed,’ interrupted Mrs Palmer.

‘It weren’t your lad who was in danger, madam, but this young lady,’ said Josiah. ‘And to my way of thinking, if he did what he’d been told, she wouldn’t have very nearly been crushed by a three hundred-weight cast-iron flywheel.’

The woman with the ridiculous hat turned her caustic gaze on him.

‘And who, pray, are you, to speak to me in such a manner?’

‘I’m the engineer who put the barrier up to stop children and idiots from wandering where they shouldn’t,’ Josiah replied.

A splash of colour stained her throat above the lace of her collar.

‘Engineer, huh!’ she sneered. ‘A jumped-up Irish oaf, don’t you mean? And a drunken one at that.’

Josiah balled his fists. ‘Irish! I’m Cornish. Cornish, madam. Can’t you—’

‘Josiah.’

His brother Ezra’s level voice cut through Josiah’s boiling temper. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together.

Mrs Palmer grabbed her son’s hand. ‘Well, whatever you are, you’re clearly not a gentleman. Come on, Arthur.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ the boy replied, looking adoringly up at her. ‘Can I have an aniseed twist and a balloon for being brave, Mama?’

‘Of course you can, my pet.’ Mrs Palmer gave Josiah a contemptuous look and, with Arthur trotting beside her, headed back to the main area.

As she reached the middle of the enclosure she turned and looked at the young woman still standing in front of Josiah.

‘I don’t think the rector will be very pleased when he hears about this, do you?’ she snapped before stepping out into the crowd.

The young woman set her bonnet straight and looked up at Josiah, the sun highlighting the gold flecks in her green eyes.

‘Thank you again for your swift action,’ she said in a soft voice.

‘I’m glad I was there, miss,’ Josiah replied. ‘But next time I’d advise you to keep a tight hold of your charge.’

***

‘I think Arthur’s a little feverish,’ said Mrs Palmer, putting her hand on her son’s forehead.

‘Do you think so?’ said Charlotte, looking at Arthur who was lying on the sofa in the rectory parlour sucking noisily on an enormous candy twist. ‘He looks well to me.’

‘Where is that blasted doctor?’ Mrs Palmer muttered as she knelt beside her son, stroking his forehead.

‘I’m sure Dr Forsyth will be here any moment,’ said Charlotte, casting her eye over the child at the centre of the afternoon’s drama.

Having spent years tending to sick and poorly children as part of her parish visiting, to Charlotte’s mind Arthur looked perfectly fine which is more than could be said for her.

With her head pounding and her heart racing, Charlotte had stumbled out of the restricted enclosure after Mrs Palmer. Vaguely aware of the ground-breaking ceremony taking place in the main area of the yard, Charlotte had pushed her way through the crowds and caught up with Mrs Palmer outside the main gate.

Although Charlotte yearned for the peace and quiet stillness of her own bedroom, in consideration of Mrs Palmer’s near-hysterical state Charlotte offered her and her son the hospitality of the rectory.

Ten minutes later they stumbled through the rectory door, much to the surprise of Mrs Norris, the rectory’s cook, who opened it.

The doorbell rang.

‘At last!’ shouted Mrs Palmer as she leapt to her feet. ‘I shall have something to say to Dr Forsyth for not attending sooner.’

The parlour door opened but, instead of the elderly doctor, Nicolas walked in.

At well over six feet tall with a slender build and an aquiline nose, Captain Nicolas Paget was every inch a gentleman. He’d served alongside Wellington during the Peninsular Wars from which he retired some ten years ago at just twenty-five years old.

Since then he’d resided with his mother in Deptford and done pretty much what gentlemen did, which was visit their clubs and tailor and generally be seen around town.

He’d clearly recently visited Weston’s in Bond Street as Charlotte hadn’t seen the shawl collar double-breasted navy jacket, gold waistcoat and buff and tan striped trousers that he was wearing before.

His pale-blue eyes darted around the room until they found her.

‘Miss Hatton, you are here,’ he said, striding across to her.

‘Yes, we returned early,’ said Charlotte, feeling better at his appearance.

‘So I was told when I got to the yard not half an hour ago, and was alarmed to hear you’d very nearly been injured,’ said Nicolas.

‘Were you?’ asked Charlotte, feeling warmed by his obvious concern.

‘Indeed, I was,’ he replied, his jaw taut as it rested on his high winged collar. ‘I imagined all manner of calamities. What happened?’

Charlotte told him.

‘And I would have been crushed beneath had it not been for a gentleman’s swift action,’ she concluded.

‘Gentleman?’ snapped Mrs Palmer. ‘How can you call him so with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up and collar open? No gentleman I know would be seen in such a state of undress.’

‘He was an engineer,’ said Charlotte. ‘And what matter that his jacket was off? He was clearly working on some of the machinery when we came upon him.’

Mrs Palmer gave her a scornful look. ‘In my opinion, Miss Hatton, the rogue whose neglect nearly cost me my son was no more than a drunken Irishman like all the rest. And…’ She shifted her attention to Nicolas. ‘I’m sure if you’d been there and witnessed this navvy and his familiar manner towards Miss Hatton, captain, you would have thrashed him rather than thank him.’

The doorbell rang again.

‘If that is not Doctor Fo—’

The door opened and, thankfully, Dr Forsyth, his bushy grey eyebrows knitted tight together, walked in.

‘I’m sorry I took so long, I’ve been at a difficult birth. Now…’ he said, looking at them over his half-rimmed spectacles. ‘Who is the patient?’

Leaving Doctor Forsyth to examine his patient, Charlotte and Nicolas stepped into the hallway, taking up a position facing each other on either side of the Persian floor runner.

Charlotte smiled shyly across at him and he smiled back.

They stood awkwardly facing each other for a moment, then he cleared his throat.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get to the rectory in time to accompany you and Mrs Palmer as I had hoped,’ he said. ‘But Mother, you know how she can be when—’

‘I quite understand,’ said Charlotte, giving him a tight smile.

‘It’s just when she has one of her turns it’s the Devil’s own job to make her rest,’ he continued. ‘And at her age health can be precarious.’

‘So you’ve said,’ Charlotte replied. ‘And as an only son you have to be mindful of her welfare.’

‘I do,’ said Nicolas. ‘However, I regret I had to today as I wasn’t able to keep you from harm as this Irish labourer has.’

‘He was not Irish, captain, but Cornish,’ said Charlotte, as the image of her rescuer flashed through her mind. ‘And an engineer not a labourer.’

Nicolas smiled and the fashionable Grecian curls across his forehead lifted slightly.

‘Well whoever he is you must tell me his name, so I might seek him out and thank him for his most timely intervention.’

‘I’m afraid it all happened so fast that I don’t know his name,’ said Charlotte.

‘Pity,’ said Nicolas. ‘But from what you say, Miss Hatton, I would think Master Palmer needs a firmer hand, especially when his actions endanger others who are held in great affection by another person.’ He gazed longingly at her.

A warm glow spread through Charlotte, dispelling some of her earlier annoyance at him for breaking his promise to escort them to Cow Yard.

She smiled warmly at him and was rewarded with another gaze of adoration.

He took a step forward and was just about to speak again when the door from the kitchen below opened.

Mrs Norris appeared, and Nicolas took a pace back.

‘I ought to take my leave of you, Miss Hatton,’ he said, taking his hat, gloves and walking stick from the hall table. ‘Please convey my best wishes to Mrs Palmer and I look forward to seeing you both in church on Sunday.’ He clicked his heels together and bowed.

Charlotte curtsied.

Flipping on his hat he shot her another brief smile and let himself out.

Charlotte turned her attention back to the woman standing in the door.

The rectory’s housekeeper, who was dressed in her serviceable brown serge dress, apron and mop cap, was in her mid to late thirties with wide hips and a narrow face.

‘Yes, Mrs Norris?’

‘I thought I heard the upstairs bell,’ the housekeeper replied.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte. ‘But you were mistaken. However, once Mrs Palmer and her son have departed could you have a peppermint infusion taken to my room as I have the starting of a headache.’

‘Very good, miss,’ said Mrs Norris.

Giving the smallest of bobs, she went back down the stairs and the door closed after her.

Charlotte turned and looked into the large, ornate gilt-framed mirror fixed over the long hall table.

Starting of a headache! She’d had a tight steel-like band of pain around her head since she’d returned to the house. However it wasn’t just the memory of the monstrous iron wheel careering towards her that had started her temples throbbing but the image of her rescuer, too.

She hadn’t thought she’d taken much notice of him but, in truth, she could recall with clarity the unruly nature of his black hair, his compelling dark eyes and broad shoulders without any trouble.

And although she’d told Nicolas she couldn’t recall his name and didn’t remember hearing it, she knew the tall Cornishman who had saved her life that afternoon was called Josiah.

Chapter two

Seeing Olive Jessup walk into church for Sunday Eucharist, Charlotte ticked her name off the list in the small journal she had resting on her knee.

Olive, whose husband was the first parishioner Charlotte’s father had buried after they arrived in Rotherhithe five years ago, lived in Neptune Rents, took in washing to support herself and her four young children. Olive had slipped on the wet cobbles and twisted her knee two weeks before and Charlotte had been taking food to the family, but as Olive now had only the smallest hint of a limp Charlotte thought it safe to cross her off her visiting list.

It was the role of the rector or vicar’s wife to keep an eye on who was and who wasn’t at church each week. Since her dearest mother’s sad departure from this life, Charlotte had taken on the task. It was supposed to ensure that only those parishioners who sat under the word of God regularly were granted poor relief by the parish council. Charlotte took a more relaxed approach to the church attendance criterion than her father liked.

Charlotte looked up, but as her eyes skimmed over the congregation, someone called her name.

‘Miss Hatton.’

She turned to find Nicolas standing behind her, his pale-blue eyes warmed as they rested on her face.

Today he was wearing a sharply cut brown jacket which showed a richly embroidered waistcoat with twinkling silver buttons beneath.

Charlotte smiled. ‘Good day, captain—’

‘Good day to you, Miss Hatton,’ Nicolas’s mother said, springing out from behind her son.

Mrs Paget might be the wrong side of seventy, with wrinkles etched in both cheeks and hair like grey cobweb, but her gaze was as sharp as a hatpin. Although she finished each and every conversation with, ‘if I’m spared’, to Charlotte’s mind, Mrs Paget had the constitution of an ox.

‘What a pleasure to see you, Mrs Paget,’ Charlotte said, forcing a smile. ‘How are you?’

The old woman’s elf-like face contorted into an agonising expression. ‘Never without pain.’

‘Mother’s knees have been troublesome this week,’ Nicolas said, straightening the ruffles around his cuffs. ‘The doctor has bled her twice but with no relief.’

Charlotte did her best to look concerned, if only for Nicolas’s sake.

‘You look well,’ he said, his pale-blue eyes still fixed on her.

Mrs Paget’s toothless mouth sucked in on itself.

‘Whatever are you talking about, Nicolas?’ she snapped, peering up at Charlotte over her half-rimmed spectacles. ‘Miss Hatton looks as pale as a sheet. Now, Nicolas, help me to my seat.’ Her hands clutched the end of her walking stick like two blue-veined bird’s claws.

‘A moment, Mama!’ Charles said, a flush creeping up from his starched winged collar. ‘Miss Hatton, I hoped I might call—’

Mrs Paget rapped her stick on the black and white tiles underfoot. ‘Now, if you please, Nicolas, unless you want my knees to give way under me.’

Nicolas’s face twitched with irritation.

‘It’s all right, captain, we can talk after the service,’ said Charlotte, sending him a warm smile.

He smiled back, then walked his mother to their seats. The first blast from the organ brought the congregation to their feet.

Taking up the refrain of the opening hymn, Charlotte gazed around the congregation and stopped mid-Alleluia. Standing at the back of her father’s church, with the light illuminating the strong angles of his freshly shaven chin and the straightness of his mouth, was the man whose image she hadn’t been able to dislodge from her mind ever since she’d first set eyes on him four days ago.

***

Josiah gazed up the spacious height of the church’s arched roof and then down to the ornate altar screen above which, in the east window, the Virgin stared over the worshipers below. St Mary’s was a far cry from the nonconformist chapel his family attended. A smile crossed his lips as he pictured his father dressed in his sober Sunday black with his Bible under his arm. He would have had to be trussed up and carried into such a place as this. His eyes travelled on and then he sat bolt upright. Across from him in the raised pews at the front of the church and dressed in her Sunday bonnet sat the young woman who he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since the ground-breaking ceremony four days ago.

The next hymn started, and those around him stood up. As she held the hymn book in front of her, a shaft of light from the high windows above caught her in a pool of light, which emphasised the richness of her chestnut hair.

As the congregation sang the chorus, Charlotte’s eyes drifted across the heads of the worshipers and fixed on him.

They stood in a timeless moment staring at each other across the expanse of the church. The organ blasted out the last note and broke the spell and she averted her gaze.

The assembly took their seats again and the service continued but Josiah heard nothing of the liturgy and even less of the sermon, because each time he glanced that way, her lovely eyes stole his attention from everything else.

Finally, the service finished and the congregation began to greet each other as they made their way out of the church.

The young woman rose from her seat and Josiah did the same. Pulling down the front of his waistcoat he stepped out of the pew and made his way towards her. As he got within arm’s reach of her, she turned and looked at him.

‘Good morning, miss,’ he said, noting in passing the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose on her otherwise flawless complexion. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—’

‘The man who saved me from being crushed,’ she replied, her eyes sparkling as they met his. ‘I think I’ll remember you until my dying day considering the circumstances under which we met.’

He bowed. ‘Mr Martyn, at your service.’

‘Miss Hatton,’ she replied, with a small curtsy. She cast a sideward look towards the woman who had berated him in the work yard as she sat in her pew. ‘And I’m sorry for the way Mrs Palmer spoke to you.’

‘Tis not you who should be apologising, Miss Hatton,’ he replied.

‘Even so,’ she continued. ‘I am sorry that your kindness was rewarded so.’ She laughed. ‘And to call you Irish when clearly you’re a Cornishman is…well…’

‘I am and proud of it,’ he replied, oddly pleased.

‘There you are, Martyn!’ a familiar voice called from behind him.

Josiah turned to see George Armstrong.

‘I’ve been looking for you. I wondered where devil you’d got to…’ His boss’s face lit up.

‘Charlotte!’

‘George!’ she called back, stretching out her hands. ‘My goodness. How are you?’

‘Well,’ he replied, taking them. ‘And you?’

‘Also well,’ she replied.

‘I heard your father had been appointed a rector somewhere in London, but I never dreamed it would be here.’

‘Yes, and here we are,’ said Charlotte.

‘And are you happily settled in Rotherhithe?’ he asked.

‘For the most part,’ she replied. ‘But what are you doing here?’

‘I’m Mr Brunel’s chief engineer and this fine fellow,’ George slapped Josiah on the shoulder, ‘is my senior assistant, Mr Martyn, who it seems you’ve already met.’

‘Our paths crossed,’ Charlotte replied, a smile hovering on her lips.

‘Well, let me tell you, Charlotte, my dear,’ continued George. ‘What Martyn doesn’t know about mining pumps and tunnelling isn’t worth knowing.’

Charlotte smiled and Josiah returned the same.

There was a cough and her attention left Josiah.

He turned to see a man dressed like a tailor’s dummy standing behind him. He was both half a head taller than Josiah and a good two stone lighter.

‘Oh, Captain Paget,’ said Charlotte, a slight flush colouring her cheeks. ‘This is Mr Martyn. The man you were so keen to meet.’

Paget studied Josiah down his sharp narrow nose. ‘How so?’

‘Because it was Mr Martyn who saved me from the iron wheel,’ said Charlotte.

The two men studied each other.

‘Well then, I’m grateful for your swift actions, Martyn,’ Captain Paget said, regarding him coolly for a moment before his attention shifted onto Charlotte. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from mud and machinery, Miss Hatton,’ he said. ‘But in order to keep Mother’s dyspepsia at bay we will need to sit down for luncheon at twelve.’

‘Of course.’ She turned to George. ‘You will have family dinner with us this week.’

George bowed. ‘I certainly will.’

She looked up at Josiah. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Martyn.’

She offered her hand and Josiah took her small gloved one in his large calloused one. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

She gave him a dazzling smile.

Paget offered her his arm, which she took.

‘Martyn,’ he said.

‘Captain,’ Josiah replied, in the same clipped tone.

They strolled back down the aisle.

‘You’ve never struck me as a churchgoer, George, so may I ask how you know the Huttons?’ Josiah asked.

‘Mr Hutton was at Charterhouse with my father, and he is in fact my godfather although I haven’t seen him in years,’ George replied. ‘I’d heard they’d moved to London. Bit of a shock to the old man, I should think, swapping the gentle pastures of Sopwell for the flesh pots of Rotherhithe.’

‘Do you know why he did?’

George winked. ‘I heard he argued once too often with the bishop but he’s got connections, a few strings were pulled and a living was acquired for him.’

‘Miss Hutton seems to have settled in well,’ said Josiah.

‘I’m not surprised,’ George replied. ‘Charlotte’s like her mother; she’s always been mindful to the needs of others, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the leading light on all the parish welfare boards.’ A wry smile lifted George’s lips. ‘To be honest, I hardly recognise her. It’s almost eight years since I last saw her and back then she was an awkward fifteen-year-old but, goodness, she’s grown.’ Something caught his attention. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Martyn, I’ve just spotted Mr Hutton and I’d like to give him my regards right away.’

‘Of course,’ Josiah replied. ‘I’ll see you at The Ship in an hour.’

His friend hurried off and Josiah looked round the church, hoping to spot Charlotte.

Under the pretext of avoiding a knot of people, Captain Paget slid his arm around her waist and guided her towards the church door.

Josiah’s mouth pulled into a hard line for a second, then he turned and strolled out of the church.

Chapter three

Charlotte stirred the copper full of bacon and swede that simmered on the low heat. It was Friday, midday, and just over two weeks since the ground-breaking ceremony in Cow Lane so life in Rotherhithe had returned to normal. Well, as normal as it was ever going to be with ox carts arriving at all hours carrying bricks, cement and ironwork, and with two thousand young men with money in their pockets lodged in every spare attic in the neighbourhood. Still, at least the tunnel workers filled the pews each Sunday and that pleased her father.

Satisfied that the heat had reached through the stew, Charlotte nodded to Sarah, the rectory’s general maid, who lifted the copper from the stove and carried it to the bleached butcher’s board by the back door.

Having been left in the workhouse as a small child, Sarah Mulligan didn’t know her actual age but Charlotte guessed it to be a year or two either side of her own. She had come into the Hattons’ service in Hertfordshire as a kitchen maid and was a hard-working girl whom Charlotte was very fond of.

Charlotte bowed her head in a quiet prayer, then Sarah scooped out the first portion of stew and poured it into an enamel jug before handing it back to Rosie Munday, a young woman of no more than twenty with three small children hanging on her skirts.

‘Thank you, Miss Hatton,’ she said, curtsying.

‘Has Mr Munday found work yet?’

Rosie shook her head and clutched the jug to her chest. ‘He had a day or two shifting cement at the yard and hopes for more now that the shaft is moving down. Have you seen it, miss?’

‘In passing,’ Charlotte said.

She had to walk down Cow Lane to get to any part of the parish so it was natural too that she should also have noticed Mr Martyn going about his business in the yard. He was the chief site engineer after all.

Putting aside the image of Josiah Martyn as she’d seen him two days before, striding across the tunnel yard jacketless and with his sleeves rolled up, Charlotte turned her attention back to the children clinging to their mother.

The oldest, a little girl with bright curls, stood looking up with wide-eyed wonder, while the boy beside her sniffed a track of snot back up into his right nostril at regular intervals. The smallest child holding her mother’s hand was probably just over two, and her small legs – like those of her older siblings – were already bowed with rickets. They were frail-looking and so quiet.

‘I’m glad to see that Ruth and Tommy are attending Sunday school regularly,’ Charlotte said, smiling at the children.

Despite her father’s opposition, she had insisted on being involved with St Mary’s charity school across the road from the church.

Rosie smiled at her only son.

‘Tommy has most of his letters now, haven’t you?’ she nudged the lad who, giving up the hopeless task of defying gravity, wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

‘Good. He’ll soon be joining Ruth in Miss Rutherford’s class,’ Charlotte said, running her hand over the little girl’s bouncing fringe.

A louse lost its grip on the child’s locks and fell on the slate floor so Sarah quickly stepped on it.

Rosie curtsied again and stepped aside as another woman took her place.

Eliza Peaman stood hollow-eyed as Charlotte’s gaze ran over her. She was no more than a child herself and was heavily pregnant. She, like Sarah, had been left in the workhouse as a foundling and gone into domestic service but hadn’t been as fortunate in her employers.

‘How are you, Eliza,’ she asked, giving the young woman a warm smile.

She put her hand on her stomach and Charlotte saw a fresh bruise across the back of it.

‘Well enough, miss.’ She held out her enamel jug. Sarah filled it as far up as she could and handed it back.

‘When is the baby due?’ asked Charlotte.

Eliza shrugged. ‘A week or two, miss, as far as I can tell.’

‘Is Mother Finney going to help you?’

‘Only if I have a sixpence for her.’

Charlotte reached out and took her hand. ‘Could you get me the rest of yesterday’s loaf, and wrap it in a cloth, please, Sarah.’

Sarah went to the pantry.

Relinquishing Eliza’s hand, Charlotte went over to the dresser that took up most of the wall to her right and opened the bottom drawer. She picked up a bundle and handed it to Eliza.

‘I normally wait until after the baby is born, but I want you to take them now,’ she said, handing her the small bundle of baby clothes.

Sarah returned with Mrs Norris, the rectory’s cook, a step or two behind her. She spotted Eliza and her mouth pulled into a tight bud of disapproval as she started preparing the rector’s lunch. Usually a household of this size would have a housekeeper as well as a cook, but as Charlotte’s father refused to pay what he called the exorbitant cost of servant wages in London, and as there was only her and her father, Mrs Norris acted as their cook while Charlotte oversaw the day-to-day running of the household and dealt with the bills.

Taking what was left of yesterday’s bread from Sarah, Charlotte wrapped it.

‘Come back on Monday for some more soup, if you can,’ Charlotte said, settling it on top of the clothes.

Eliza stared at the bundle in her arms and her lower lip started to tremble.

‘Thank you, miss,’ she said, dipping an awkward curtsy before she left.

‘I hope you know, Miss Hatton, that Eliza’s been seen entertaining gentleman again,’ Mrs Norris called across, as she cut a thick slice from the ham bone, ready for the rector’s lunch. ‘And she’ll have those baby clothes down to the Neptune Street Pawn before her broth’s cold.’

‘Then she’ll have Mother Finney’s sixpence, won’t she, Mrs Norris,’ Charlotte replied.

‘I’m only saying, miss,’ persisted the cook, arranging the meat on a plate. ‘Because you remember what happened last time she came to the rectory.’

Remember! How could she ever forget it? Her father had gone into a towering rage lecturing her for a full hour on encouraging immorality in the lower orders.

Charlotte held the cook’s critical eye for a second, then Mrs Norris lowered her gaze.

Clattering the crockery, she loaded a tray with the cold meat for Mr Hatton’s lunch then lifted it up as she left the room.

As the door to the upstairs banged shut, Charlotte turned back to Sarah.

‘Now,’ she said, giving her a smile. ‘Let’s feed the rest of those waiting.’

***

‘So you see, Mrs Palmer,’ said Ebenezer Epstein, her man of business. ‘Although we are keeping our heads above water at the moment, we only need a bad storm or a rise in Brunswick Dock’s landing fees and the Palmer’s Colonial Warehouse will slip into insolvency.’

It was just after eleven in the afternoon on a chilly Wednesday morning, a full four weeks since nearly losing her precious baby because of Charlotte’s neglect. However, instead of sipping chocolate in her morning room as she would usually do at this time of day, she was sitting in a somewhat grubby office on the north side of the capital’s river. It was situated in St Katharine’s Street by the old medieval church of the same name. Although not the best address this side of the city, the rat-warrant rookery that surrounded it meant that the police rarely patrolled.

With wispy grey hair that floated around his head rather than sitting on it, Ebenezer looked as ancient as the building they were sitting in. Wearing an unstructured threadbare jacket that was at least twenty years old, and an unfashionable periwig, the dour financial executer wasn’t much tidier himself but, despite his dishevelled appearance, Ebenezer Epstein understood money.

‘But I thought trade was picking up,’ said Mrs Palmer.

‘It is,’ Ebenezer replied. ‘But with ever-larger ships being built, more and more captains are anchoring in the deeper waters at Blackwall to offload their goods, plus of course it’s away from the watchful eyes in Custom House. Added to which, this damn Whig government took it upon themselves to start interfering in trade.’

‘You mean this ridiculous anti-slavery nonsense that radicals have been blathering on about on street corners and in pamphlets?’ said Mrs Palmer.

‘Just so,’ said Ebenezer.

‘As you know, your late husband’s main business was transporting such stock from the Gold Coast to America and the British West Indies, but since the Government passed the Abolition of Slavery Law, much of that very lucrative trade has been picked up by the Portuguese and French merchants. Of course, some of our cannier captains have found loopholes to sail through by coming to accommodation with their foreign counterparts. But now with Britain signing treaties with its slaving rivals such as Spain and the Netherlands, the writing is on the wall and your profits and assets with them, Mrs Palmer.’

‘But what will happen to my poor baby,’ she cried, as a cold hand clutched her heart. ‘His French governess costs me a small fortune and then there are his tailor’s bills—’

‘Tailor?’ said Ebenezer, looking surprised. ‘I thought your son was just turned ten.’

‘He is,’ Frances replied. ‘But a boy of his station and breeding must dress as his class dictates, even at his tender age. On top of which I already have his name down for Eton so advise me as to what I might do to ensure the business and dear Arthur’s future.’

‘In the short term, liquidate some of your assets to stabilise the accounts,’ he replied. ‘I’d say four hundred pounds should see you through until the end of the year. I’ll put a few feelers out for some…’ His lined face lifted in a sly smile. ‘Let’s say, daylight sensitive cargo which, although risky, yields premium profits, and lastly…’ He looked over his half-rimmed spectacles and raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘You are a handsome woman, Mrs Palmer, so I’d suggest you look to bag yourself a very rich and very indulgent husband, and soon.’

***

Silently mouthing the words ‘F is for Fox and G is for Goose’, Charlotte cast her gaze over the thirty or so children reciting the same as they stood behind their desks.

It was the last day in March and the week before Holy Week. As always on a Thursday morning she was standing in the infant class of St Mary’s Charity School. However today was a little bit different as the school had a special visitor; none other than Mr Marc Brunel, the famous French engineer, himself.

It was for that reason that she’d been at the school from the moment the children had arrived at eight o’clock to make sure all the girls had combed and plaited hair and the boys had washed behind their ears.

Their visitors had arrived almost an hour ago and after a guided tour of the two-roomed school and an inspection of the children’s work, they were standing on the raised platform at the front of the classroom in front of the teacher’s desk.

The diminutive engineer was dressed in a dark suit with a yellow cravat and was smiling benightedly through his round, metal-rimmed spectacles at the assembled children.

Miss Rutherford, the school’s long-serving teacher, was dressed in a high-collared dress of darkest blue, as befit her profession, was standing next to Mr Brunel while on the other side was Miss Sophie Brunel, who had accompanied her father. Charlotte was standing just to the right of them at the very end of the raised platform, in front of the blackboard.

‘K is for kangaroo,’ chanted the class of five and six-year olds, ‘and L is for lion.’

Micky Mills and Freddy Hanson, who were sitting at the back, clawed their fingers and pretended to roar.

Charlotte suppressed a smile and caught the eye of Miss Sophie Brunel, who was also doing her best not to laugh.

Like her father, Sophie, Mr Brunel’s oldest child, only just managed to stretch to the bottom range of normal height. She had dark hair, an apple-shaped face and a ready smile. She was wrapped against the spring chill in a red jacket with fur trim over a black and red chequered dress. The ensemble was topped off by a wide-brimmed bonnet with ruched satin trim.

‘Y is for yellow hammer,’ said the mixed junior class. ‘And Z is for zebra.’

‘Very good, children,’ said Miss Rutherford, her long face lifting into a relieved smile.

‘Yes indeed,’ Mr Brunel said. ‘Very good indeed.’

He started clapping enthusiastically and the rest of those on the stage joined in.

Charlotte smiled, letting her gaze run over the youngest members of her father’s congregation; hoping to show them how well they had done.

‘Well, Mr Brunel,’ said Miss Rutherford, turning towards him. ‘I hope you and your daughter have enjoyed your time with us at St Mary’s.’

‘I’m sure I can speak for my daughter also and say we ’ave ’ad a splendid time, mademoiselle,’ he replied with a distinct French lilt.

‘Thank you, Mr Brunel,’ said the schoolteacher, a flush colouring her sallow cheeks. ‘I think this calls for three cheers for Mr Brunel. Hip-hip!’

Two dozen children hollered a rousing hoorah, then did it twice more.

Charlotte stepped off the dais and said, ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Brunel, Miss Brunel, we have some refreshments prepared.’

Five minutes later they were in Miss Rutherford’s office sipping lemonade.

‘I know how busy you must be, Mr Brunel,’ said Charlotte. ‘So I must thank you again for taking the time to visit our little school.’

‘Say nothing of it,’ he replied. ‘I have always had a great interest in education and made sure all my children learnt not only their alphabet by the time they were five but could add three three-figure numbers together and subtract doubles, didn’t I, ma cherie?’ he said to his daughter, standing beside him.

‘He certainly did.’ She slipped her arm through her father’s. ‘Papa was a veritable ogre when it came to calculus.’

Father and daughter exchanged a fond look, then Mr Brunel returned his attention to Charlotte.

‘I only wish I could have spent longer,’ he said. ‘But even as I have been enjoying your lovely company, I know I ’ave shareholders waiting for me in Cow Yard.’

He finished his drink and placed the glass back on the tray that was sitting on Miss Rutherford’s blotter.

Miss Rutherford walked over and said, ‘Thank you again for visiting us, Mr Brunel, and would you do me the honour of signing our visitors’ book before you depart?’

‘Lead the way, Mademoiselle Rutherford,’ he replied and followed the schoolteacher to the cabinet under the window, leaving Sophie with Charlotte.

‘I hope you too enjoyed your visit, Miss Brunel,’ said Charlotte.

‘I did,’ said Sophie. ‘If only to see my father smile, as he is fair worn out with worries about the tunnel.’

‘Well I’m glad we helped him forget about his problems, if only for an hour or so,’ said Charlotte.

‘Miss Hatton, I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward for a very new acquaintance, but would you like to come to tea sometime?’ asked Miss Brunel.

‘I don’t think you are too forward at all, Miss Brunel, and I’d love to come,’ said Charlotte.

‘Splendid,’ said Miss Brunel. ‘And shall we be totally shocking and dispense with this silly leaving cards back and forth and just say you’ll have tea with me next Thursday?’

‘We shall,’ laughed Charlotte. ‘After all, it is 1825, is it not?’

‘Good,’ said Miss Brunel, as her father headed back towards them. ‘I look forward to talking about dress fabric and young men instead of steam pumps and bricks, which is all my father and brother Isambard talk about.’

The two girls laughed.

‘I’m sorry, ma cherie,’ said Sophie’s father as he re-joined them. ‘But I will ’ave to drag you away as I am expected back at Cow Lane.’

‘That’s fine, Papa,’ said Sophie, taking her father’s arm again. ‘Miss Hatton and I can continue our conversation next week when she comes for tea.’

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Now, I bid you and St Mary’s school farewell as I should be getting back before Mr Anderson, who I left ’olding the castle, sends Mr Martyn to find me.

At the sound of his name a little thrill ran through Charlotte as the memory of Josiah’s dark eyes softening when he looked at her materialised in her mind.

‘I believe he started in a school very like this,’ continued Mr Brunel, casting his eyes around again. ‘Per’aps in the future one of St Mary’s pupils will follow in ’is footsteps.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Indeed.’

‘Good day to you, Miss Hatton,’ he said, tapping his hat in place and leading his daughter towards the door, with Miss Rutherford in attendance.

Telling her oddly fluttering heart to be still, Charlotte gathered the glasses together and, putting them on the tray with the empty jug, she picked it up and carried it through to the small kitchen overlooking the boys’ playground at the back of the school.

Charlotte put the dirty glassware in the deep butler sink for Mrs Wicks, the school cleaner to attend to, then rested her hands on the edge of the sink and gazed out of the window.

A little group of boys were playing tag and they yelled and laughed as they dashed past the window and Charlotte thought of Josiah again. But this time, rather than the man, Charlotte tried to imagine the boy Josiah had been.

The image of a ragged boy bent over his slate working out long division and the angle of a triangle stayed for a little while, but then the image of Josiah dressed in his Sunday best returned.

Charlotte tried to push it away and had just about managed it when there was a knock on the door. She turned, and only just stopped herself gasping.

Dressed in rough workman’s clothes with the first three buttons of his shirt unfastened and his cravat loosely tied, Josiah Martyn filled the doorway.

He gave her that sideways smile of his and Charlotte’s heart, that had only just returned to a regular beat, did a little leap then galloped off.

‘Good morning, Miss Hatton,’ he said, his deep voice rolling over her. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m looking for Mr Brunel.’

‘You’re not disturbing me at all, Mr Martyn,’ she lied. ‘But I’m afraid Mr Brunel left for Cow Lane about five minutes ago.’

‘Thank goodness,’ said Mr Martyn. ‘Poor George. He’s been keeping a pack of shareholders who are insisting that they speak to Mr Brunel at bay for the past half hour.’

‘Oh, well, Mr Brunel should be back in Cow Lane by now,’ said Charlotte.

Mr Martyn ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. ‘He will at that, God help him.’

‘Are they very demanding?’ Charlotte asked.

He gave her that twisted smile again.

‘Let’s just say I know how the Egyptians felt when they were told to make brick without straw,’ he replied.

Charlotte laughed and wondered in passing why Nicolas’s smile didn’t seem to make her heart pitter-patter in the way Mr Martyn’s seemed to.

He glanced around.

‘You know,’ he said, as Charlotte admired his strong profile. ‘This takes me right back to my school days.’

‘What, in the village?’ asked Charlotte.

‘No, at Truro Grammar,’ Josiah replied.

‘But how did…?’ She looked down.

‘The son of an illiterate miner end up a pupil of Cornwall’s foremost school?’

‘Forgive me, Mr Martyn,’ said Charlotte. ‘It was impolite of me to ask.’