Marrying Miss Hemingford

by Nadia Nichols

  Through the open door she could see someone inside; whoever it was seemed to be surrounded by flames. She put her arm up to shield her face, but the heat drove her back. Other people were arriving behind her, she could hear shouts of command, saw men cranking the handle of the well. God in heaven! They could never get enough water that way. And then someone burst out of the house, a body in his arms.

  ‘Justin!’ Her voice was a terrified shriek as she saw his blackened face and scorched clothes.

  He looked up, still stumbling on with his bundle. ‘Get back, woman! For God’s sake, get back!’

  She retreated, sinking to the ground as others, stronger than her, made a water chain, handing buckets from one to the other. It was a futile exercise, but it was something to do. The flames roared and the windows cracked with a succession of loud explosions. She looked up at it and then back to Justin, who had laid his burden on the ground. ‘Get me some water,’ he said in a voice so cracked and hoarse it was barely audible. ‘Hurry.’

  She went to the well, grabbed a pail of water from one of the fire-fighters and ran back with it to Justin. He was bending over the still figure of Mrs Smith. ‘Oh, no! Oh, Justin…’

  He grabbed his cravat from his neck, but it was so black he could not use it. Anne lifted the hem of her gown and grabbed her underskirt, pulling at the ties to release it. She stepped out of it quickly and handed it to him. He tore it up and dipped one of the pieces in the water and squeezed it over Mrs Smith’s lips. Her clothes, though scorched, had saved her body, but her hands, which she had used to shield her face, looked raw. He tore up more cloth, wetted it and laid it across her hands and arms. She moaned.

  ‘Thank God!’ Anne said.

  ‘Tildy,’ the woman gasped, trying to sit up. ‘Tildy…’

  ‘Tildy?’ Justin repeated. ‘Tildy was with you?’

  ‘Yes. She was playing upstairs. I ’eard ’er talking to her little friend.’

  He looked up at the inferno, wondering if he could get back in and try to find the child, but he knew it was not possible. Strong as he was, used as he was to the carnage of war, this was too much and he felt his eyes fill with tears. The little girl had embodied all his hopes for the future of the poor children of Brighton, poor children everywhere, and now she was gone. And so was his dream. He could hear it crashing about his ears. He looked bleakly across at Anne. The tears were coursing unchecked down her face. Mrs Smith saw them too, and understood. She struggled to rise, saw the burning house and fell back in a deep swoon.

  He reached out and touched Anne’s hand. ‘Look after her.’ Then he ran back towards the house and, seizing one of the buckets, tipped it over himself before trying to reenter the building. Heat drove him back. ‘Leave it,’ he told the men. They were at least two dozen, drawn by the sight of the flames to come and help. ‘Leave it to burn itself out. I don’t want anyone else to die.’

  ‘Someone died?’ one of the men asked.

  He nodded. ‘Tildy. A little girl.’

  ‘There’s a curse on this house, right enough,’ another said. ‘Two little girls…’

  Justin could hardly bear to talk about it. ‘Thank you for your help. I will stay until it is safe.’

  He suddenly noticed Mrs Bartrum sitting in her carriage, her face a white mask of terror. He went over to her. ‘Madam, are you all right?’

  She turned slowly from gazing at the flames to look at him. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, a little blackened, that’s all, but Mrs Smith is in need of urgent medical attention. Will you take her in your carriage to my rooms, where you will find Professor Harrison? He will know what to do.’

  ‘Of course I will Oh, how dreadful it all is. How very dreadful.’

  But he did not hear her last words; he had hurried to where Anne sat over Mrs Smith, shielding her with her body from the sight and heat of the furnace. ‘Mrs Bartrum is going to take Mrs Smith to be looked after. I am afraid there will not be room in the carriage for you, but I will see you safely home later.’

  She nodded. Her voice seemed to have dried up in her throat, so that speaking was almost impossible. She could think of nothing but Tildy and the young mother’s grief, which she, in some measure, shared. She had taken the little girl to her heart and she would never see her again, never hear her tinkling laugh, nor hear her say, ‘Hallo, lady.’ She looked down at the woman, lying on the ground and a huge sob escaped her. She could not weep, not in front of the woman who had lost so much more than she had. She choked her tears back and tried to find a wobbly smile as she dipped the cloth back into the water, squeezed it out and mopped the woman’s face.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are safe. You are going to be taken Dr Tremayne’s in my aunt’s carriage.’

  ‘Tildy?’

  She looked up at Justin, then back again. ‘We will find her.’

  The fire-fighters had all left. Justin called Mrs Bartrum’s coachman over to help him carry the woman to the carriage, followed by Anne whom, after reassuring her aunt she was not even the slightest bit hurt, Mrs Bartrum reluctantly agreed to leave behind.

  ‘How are we going to tell her?’ Anne asked, as the carriage rumbled out of sight.

  ‘I do not know.’ He was looking at the building, now a smoking shell. ‘I looked all over the house. I thought Mrs Smith was alone. I should have guessed, done more.’ His voice was cracked.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I came up to see how everything was going and found the place already alight. I cannot for the life of me understand how it happened. Mrs Smith had not lit a fire, there was no naked flame that I know of. It is a mystery. I rushed in and went from room to room, trying to find the seat of the fire. Then I heard Mrs Smith screaming in one of the bedrooms and fetched her out.’ The account was spoken flatly, but she could easily imagine the scene.

  ‘Tildy must have been playing somewhere, perhaps she wasn’t in the house at all. She might be hiding in the garden or the sheds, too frightened to come out.’

  It was a long shot, but they set about systematically searching the grounds, but without any luck. The fire was almost out and Justin was tempted to go inside to try to find the child’s body. It was something he dreaded doing, something he did not want Anne to witness.

  ‘Could she have gone down to the cove?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Possible. I suppose.’ He did not want to give up hope, though he had never had much to start with. ‘Let’s see.’

  They went down the steep path, not speaking, their hearts too full for words. The tide was coming in and there was only a thin strip of beach still dry. It seemed to be another turn of fate, that the child might have come down here, escaped the fire and been drowned. Anne began to run along the shore line, leaving Justin to go in the opposite direction. And then she saw her, sitting on a rock about six feet from the ground. ‘Justin!’ she shrieked. ‘Over here.’

  She clambered up, scraping her hands and knees. ‘Oh, Tildy, Tildy, we have been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘Hallo, lady. Have you come to take me home?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was sobbing with relief as she gathered the child to her

  Justin was climbing up behind her. ‘How on earth did she get up here?’

  ‘I didn’t climb up,’ the child said. ‘I came that way.’ She pointed behind her and for the first time, Anne saw that she was sitting at the entrance to a cave.

  ‘It must go back to the house,’ Justin said, bending over the child. ‘No time to explore it now, we have to get out of here before the tide cuts us off.’ He clambered back down the steep slope and once he was standing at the bottom, held up his arms. ‘Let her down gently. I’ll catch her.’

  They were soon all three on the beach. Justin picked up the child and splashed his way back through the rising water to the cliff path, with Anne close behind him. Once safely at the top, he put Tildy down and dropped on to the grass beside her. Anne, coming fast behind, sprawled beside them.

  ‘Th
ank God you would not give up,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘If you had not insisted…’

  She knew what he meant. The poor child could have been there on the ledge all night, might even have tried to jump down and been drowned. ‘She is safe, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘It was a big fire,’ Tildy said, gazing up at the ruin. She did not seem surprised.

  ‘Yes, a very big fire,’ he said. ‘But what happened to you? Were you in the house when it started?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I heard the flames and I tried to get out, but I couldn’t. It was so hot and smoky and I didn’t like it.’

  ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘The girl showed me. She did this…’ She stopped to make a beckoning motion with her hand and arm. ‘So I went after her. She went through a door and down a tunnel. It was dark and wet, but I knew she was helping me so I didn’t mind. It came out by the sea. But I couldn’t get down.’

  ‘Was it the same little girl you saw before?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Course it was.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I dunno. I reckon she went back. I didn’t see her no more.’ She looked round. ‘Where’s Ma?’

  ‘She is at Dr Tremayne’s, waiting for you. Do you think you can walk that far?’

  ‘Course I can. I walked here, didn’ I?’

  Justin and Anne smiled at each other; they had been touched by magic that afternoon, divine intervention. Taking a hand each, they led the child away from the ruin and back to the real world.

  Chapter Ten

  Tildy’s dramatic rescue was the talk of the town—not only that she was saved but the manner of it. There was much speculation about the little girl who was supposed to have led her to safety and the story of little Susan gathered fresh credence. Anne was ambivalent, but both Dr Tremayne and Mrs Smith maintained that the little girl was the product of Tildy’s imagination and that Tildy had somehow found the tunnel by accident and escaped down it. Whichever it was, Mrs Smith was overjoyed to have her daughter back safe and sound.

  Her hands were badly burned and her hair scorched, but if it had not been for the doctor she would have died and she could not find words enough to thank him. He did not want thanks, he wanted answers and, as soon as she was well enough, he questioned her closely.

  ‘I did not light a fire,’ she told him. ‘I only did that if I needed hot water and that day I had decided to clean the upstairs windows.’

  He had gone to visit her at her home where she was convalescing to find Anne already there, shrouded in an apron, administering beef tea to the invalid, in spite of her protests that a lady like her should not be doing such a thing. ‘And there was nothing inflammable about?’

  ‘No, I do not think so.’

  ‘Paint,’ Anne said suddenly. ‘I was told it would be delivered that day. That would burn well, would it not?’

  ‘Yes, and so would wood shavings. The men had been to repair the stairs…’

  ‘I swept it all up,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘And the paint was in the front hall, ready to be taken up by the workmen when they arrived.’

  ‘Where did you put the shavings?’

  ‘In a heap beside the fireplace in the kitchen. I thought it would be good for kindling. But there was no fire, I swear it.’

  ‘Did you see anyone? Apart from the delivery men?’

  ‘I do not think so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking grim. ‘But someone had a naked flame. Houses do not usually combust on their own.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t do it.’ Mrs Smith was becoming agitated.

  ‘We know it wasn’t you,’ he said, bending to touch her hand. ‘Why, if it had not been for you, the house would not have been ready…’

  ‘Now it’s gone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is too soon to say. But I shall think of something. What is more important is that you should get well, let those hands heal. No housework or working with the bathing machines. If you need help…’

  ‘No, thank you. I have my husband and Tom and good friends nearby. And Tildy does her best…’

  ‘Where is she?’ Anne asked.

  ‘In the yard, I think. I sent her to fetch water.’

  Anne left them and went in search of the little girl. She was struggling to carry a pail which, in spite of being only half-full, was more than she could manage. The water was slopping everywhere. Anne took it from her. ‘Tildy, come and say goodbye to the doctor. We are leaving now.’

  She ran into the house ahead of Anne and scrambled on to her mother’s bed, being very careful not to knock her bandaged hands. ‘Ma will soon be better, won’t she?’ she asked Justin.

  ‘Yes, very soon,’ he answered, smiling. ‘I am sure you are a great help to her.’

  ‘Yes, but I wish she had come down the tunnel with the girl and me, then she wouldn’t be burnt, would she?’

  ‘No.’ He paused, wondering whether it might upset her to question her, but she seemed none the worse for her adventure, and was bright as a button. ‘Tildy, did you see anyone near the house before the fire started?’

  ‘There was a cart—’

  ‘The men delivering the paint,’ Mrs Smith put in.

  ‘To be sure. Any others, Tildy?’

  ‘Two men came up the path from the sea. I saw them from a window upstairs.’

  ‘Did you see them again?’

  ‘I heard Ma calling me, but there was smoke and flames and I was frightened. Then the little girl took me down the tunnel…’ She paused before adding, ‘They got in a boat…’

  ‘You saw them while you were waiting for us to find you?’

  ‘Yes. They were running. I shouted, but they didn’t hear me. I wanted to go home…’

  ‘Of course you did. Do not think any more about it. You are safe and so is your mother.’ He patted her head. ‘Now we must go, but I want you to promise to come for me if you need me. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He extracted a guinea from the pocket of his tailcoat and laid it on the table beside the bed, smiling at Mrs Smith. ‘Your wages.’

  ‘But I can’t take all that.’

  ‘I shall be offended if you do not. You were injured working for me and for that you must be recompensed.’

  ‘Take it,’ Anne whispered, bending over her as Justin made for the door. ‘I’ll see he does not lose by it.’ She hugged Tildy and followed Justin from the house.

  ‘You think it was arson, don’t you?’ she said as they walked. It was only two days since the fire, but their relationship had subtly changed. It was as if the raging furnace in their hearts had burned itself out, just as the house had done. No longer were they consumed by heat one minute and coolly distant the next. Passion and resentment had given way to a calm acceptance of their destiny, whatever that might turn out to be. Without needing to speak of it, they had both realised that life was too short, too ephemeral, to waste it in quarrelling. They were left with the knowledge of each other as people who cared. Whether the caring was for the sick, the poor, or each other, was of no consequence, it was simply part of the whole.

  Another result of the fire and its aftermath was that Aunt Bartrum had ceased to rail against Anne’s hoydenish ways. She had been terrified by the conflagration and knew how easily she could have lost her beloved niece, and that gave her pause for thought. Anne was Anne and there was no sense in trying to change her. Her friends, like her, must learn to accept that. And so Anne did her visiting and came and went to the doctor’s house, without a word said against it. Even today, clad in a serviceable gingham dress the colour of a summer sky, a dark blue pelisse and a plain bonnet, she was walking beside him without the benefit of a chaperon.

  ‘I fear so. What Tildy said seems to confirm it.’

  ‘But who were the two men? Have you any idea?’

  ‘No, but their identity is not important. They would have been paid to d
o their mischief by someone else.’

  ‘But who would want to prevent you opening your hospital? Who wants you to fail so badly they are willing to risk lives to bring it about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She risked a glance at him. He was looking grimly determined and she could not help feeling that he did know, even if he did not intend to tell her. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing I can do, is there? Without proof…’

  ‘I meant about the hospital.’

  ‘There is no hospital. Perhaps it was never meant to be.’

  ‘How can you say so? It is needed. The house can be rebuilt.’

  He gave a cracked laugh. ‘What with? We have spent nearly all the money the good people of Brighton donated. There is nothing left.’

  ‘Justin Tremayne, I am surprised at you. The people gave their money for a hospital and some of them could ill afford it. Are you saying they might as well have set fire to it themselves? Shame on you.’

  He turned in surprise at her vehemence. ‘What would you have me do? Start all over again?’

  ‘Why not? I had not taken you for a quitter, not even when Mrs Tremayne said you were.’

  He stopped in his tracks to turn towards her. ‘When did she say that?’

  ‘The night of Lady Mancroft’s rout. She said you had wild fancies to do things, which did not last. She implied being a doctor was one and you would give up the idea of a hospital at the first hurdle…’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I do not want to, but what I believe is unimportant. It is what the people believe, people like Mrs Smith. She gave what to her would have been a fortune and you owe it to her to carry on.’

  He laughed suddenly. ‘You know, George Harrison said, “Once Miss Anne Hemingford goes on the march, there is no stopping her.” I begin to believe him.’