Marrying Miss Hemingford

by Mary Nichols

Anne fumed against the boy, but kept her anger from her voice. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Tildy Smith.’

  Anne patted her hand, stood up and addressed the doctor. ‘I am going down to the bathing machines to find her mother. Can you keep her here until I come back? I don’t want the poor little mite to go to the infirmary if it can be helped.’

  ‘Mrs Armistead will take her to the kitchen. There’s a couch in there, but if her mother does not come for her in an hour, or two at the most, I shall have to send her to the infirmary. If my patients learn that I am making a hospital of my home, they’ll expect the same service and I have to draw the line somewhere.’

  He sounded so weary Anne immediately forgot her annoyance and smiled. ‘I’ll have the mother back before that; if I cannot find her, then I will take the child myself.’

  ‘You?’ The contempt in his voice made her hackles rise.

  ‘Why not? I found her and brought her here. I feel responsible.’

  ‘How can that be? You did not run her down, did you?’

  ‘Indeed I did not! And if I ever find the man who was driving that curricle, I shall tell him exactly what I think of him. He could have killed her.’

  ‘But he did not. And thanks to you, she will be none the worse in a week or two.’ He was beginning to revise his opinion of her; she truly cared and she might be good for a generous donation; that fetching bonnet must have cost a pretty penny. Better not antagonise her. ‘My name is Tremayne, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed it on the plate by the door,’ she said, wondering what the initial stood for. ‘I am Anne Hemingford.’

  ‘How d’ you do, Lady…?’ His pause was a question.

  She smiled, offering her hand. ‘Miss Hemingford.’ She could have said the Honourable Miss Anne Hemingford, but decided against it. He already thought she was too big for her neat kid boots.

  He shook her hand and watched her as she strode purposefully from the room, wondering if he would ever see her again. Women of quality, as she so obviously was, often sympathised with his aims, professed themselves interested in his work and even came to look round, but when they saw the patients he attracted—the poor, the lame, those misshapen by hard work and an inadequate diet, filthy because sanitation in their tenements was unheard of—they soon lost interest. He didn’t care; he was grateful if they made a donation that might allow him to pay the rent for a week or two longer and buy a few more medicines, before they disappeared off the scene. Was Miss Hemingford any different?

  Her look of tender concern had been genuine enough, but it had been mixed with a steely determination that made him smile. Perhaps that was the clue to why she had not married; she was too dictatorial. But did she have any idea of what she was at? If she came back herself instead of simply sending Tildy’s mother, then he would know she was sincere. For the first time he became aware of his stained shirt and untidy hair. He never seemed to have time to visit the barber and though he changed his shirt every day, it was soon grubby again. He promised himself to make time to have his hair cut.

  Anne hurried through the waiting room, more crowded than ever, and out into the narrow lane, breathing deeply. It was not only the strange smells: a mixture of blood, sweat, putrefaction and harsh soap, which had been overpowering, but the whole atmosphere of the place and the demeanour of the man who ran it. He had had a powerful effect on her. Not since she was a seventeen-year-old had any man made her shake like she was shaking now, with embarrassment that he might have detected it, with anger that he could be so cool towards her and with the feeling that she was being pitched into something over which she had no control. And that had not happened in a very long time. She had always been in control of herself, her life, even of her grandfather and he was an earl, so why should a tiny little girl and a strange man take that away?

  If she had met him in someone’s upper-class drawing room, dressed in pantaloons and morning coat with pristine starched cravat and his hair carefully coiffured, she would have taken him for a gentleman. He was educated and self-assured, but at the same time he seemed oblivious of his good looks and certainly unconcerned about his clothes. His cravat was unstarched and was nothing but a simple knot and his shirt was spotted with blood. It was evident his work was the most important thing in his life. Was he married, she wondered, and how could a wife compete with such dedication?

  Back on the sea front, it took only a few minutes to find some steps down to the beach, where she picked her way over the shingle to where the bathing huts were lined up. Many of the contraptions were already in the water, but Anne approached the first one on the sands. ‘I am looking for Mrs Smith,’ she told the attendant.

  ‘We take it in turns, ma’am,’ she was told. ‘’Tis fairer that way. If you want to take a dip…’

  ‘No, you misunderstand. I am looking for Mrs Smith, the mother of little Tildy. Her daughter has been involved in an accident…’

  ‘Oh, tha’s different.’ She looked over the water to one where one of the women stood waiting to help her customer back into the hut. ‘Martha, this ’ere lady says your Tildy’s met with an accident.’ Her voice easily carried and the woman hurried out, holding her arms above the surf as she waded back to dry land.

  ‘What’s ’appened to ’er, what’s ’appened to my Tildy?’ she demanded breathlessly. ‘Where is she?’

  Almost before Anne had finished explaining what had happened, Mrs Smith had asked her colleague to see to her customer and was off up the beach to the promenade with Anne at her heels. She burst breathlessly into the waiting room where Mrs Armistead was conducting the next patient into the surgery. ‘Where’s my little girl? Where’s Tildy?’

  Mrs Armistead pointed along the corridor and the distraught woman rushed off to the back region of the house, still followed by Anne.

  Tildy was lying on the couch playing with a rag doll. A little colour had returned, but the white bandage made her head look enormous. Mrs Smith rushed over and fell to her knees beside her. ‘Tildy, Tildy, what ’ave you bin up to now?’ She leaned back to look at the little girl. ‘I’ll whip that Tom within an inch of ’is life, so I will.’

  ‘Weren’t ’is fault, Ma. Pa fetched ’im.’

  ‘Why? Your pa knows Tom ’as to mind you. And even if he left you, you should ’ave stayed at ’ome.’

  ‘I know, but ’e said they’d caught a monster and I wanted to see it.’ Catching sight of Anne, she smiled. ‘’Allo, lady. Ma, tha’s the lady what picked me up.’

  Mrs Smith turned to Anne, who realised she had misjudged the woman; she evidently cared very deeply about her child. She was, Anne realised, young, younger than Anne herself, and thin as a reed. Once she had been beautiful, but the hard life she led, out on the beach, prey to wind and salt spray, had darkened and coarsened her complexion. But her eyes were a brilliant blue. ‘I thank you, ma’am, with all me ’eart.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Do you think you can manage? I mean, you do not think Tildy should go to hospital?’

  ‘No, I don’t. People who go in there, come out with more trouble than they went in with, if they come out at all. I’ll look after her.’

  ‘But don’t you have to go to work?’

  ‘Tildy is more important. We shall just ’ave to ’ope her pa finds the shoals until she’s well enough.’

  ‘He’s a fisherman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anne fished in her reticule and found a guinea and some small change. ‘Will this help?’

  ‘Only if you want to buy fish with it. I don’t tek charity.’

  ‘No, of course not. Very well, sell me fish; lobsters and crabs and anything else that’s going. And if there’s change, I’ll take a dip in the sea and so will my aunt.’

  ‘I should give you the fish for your help, not sell it,’ the woman said doubtfully.

  Tildy had been listening to this and could not keep quiet a moment longer. ‘She could buy the monster.’

  Anne laughed. ‘I don’t think I
should know how to cook a monster.’

  She turned as Dr Tremayne came into the room, rather like a whirlwind, all blow and hurry, his hair in more disarray than ever, but it made no difference, Anne’s heart began to jump in her throat and it was all she could do to maintain an outward show of composure.

  ‘You found her, then?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes.’ She held his glance, searching his face. His brown eyes told of something she could not quite fathom; it might have been weariness, but it was more than that— sadness or bitterness perhaps. Was it because of the horrors of what he had seen as a doctor, frustration for the ills of the poor people he treated, which one man alone could not cure, or something in his past? Whatever it was made her feel uncomfortable, as if she were responsible. ‘I must go, my aunt will be wondering what has become of me, I only meant to be out an hour or so.’ She paused. ‘I shall arrange to make a donation as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He did not know what else to say. He had misjudged her, but what did it matter if he had? He was merely a physician struggling against the odds in the poorest part of the community and she was a woman of means, that was obvious. Once he might have been her equal, not any more.

  ‘Where shall the fish be sent?’ Mrs Smith asked.

  Anne gave her the address, wondering what cook would say when she was presented with a week’s supply of fish all at once. She could not remember if her aunt was fond of fish, though they had both enjoyed the turbot the night before. She turned to Tildy. ‘Goodbye, Tildy. Be a good girl now, and when you are better, perhaps your mama will bring you to see me.’ She kissed the child’s forehead, smiled at Mrs Smith, who tried to thank her, then held out her hand to the doctor. ‘Goodbye, Dr Tremayne. I shall tell my friends of your good work. It deserves to be recognised.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She retreated hastily before she could let herself down by telling him she hoped they would meet again, which would have been far too bold. She hurried from the house and made her way home as briskly as she could.

  Justin Tremayne watched until the door had closed on her, then turned to Mrs Smith. ‘Look after that child, madam. She needs rest and…’ He stopped. What was the good of telling her she also needed good food? ‘Send for me if you have the slightest cause for concern. Head wounds can be funny things. She was lucky Miss Hemingford brought her here so quickly.’

  ‘I know, sir, I know.’ She opened her palm to show the coins Anne had given her. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You spend that on a good dinner.’

  She thanked him and picked up the little girl. He put his finger out to touch the child under the chin and for a moment his eyes softened. ‘Take care.’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Mrs Armistead said, as soon as they had gone. ‘You can’t live on air, you know.’

  ‘Neither can they. And Miss Hemingford has promised a donation, so we can carry on a little longer.’

  He only hoped she had meant it. After all, she had promised to return with Tildy’s mother and she had done that and perhaps that meant she was the exception to the rule and was a young lady who kept her word. If and when the donation arrived, he would write and thank her for it, which was only courtesy, after all, and then perhaps… He shook himself and went back to his surgery to call in the next patient.

  Chapter Two

  ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ Mrs Bartrum asked. She and Anne and the cook were looking in dismay at a box full of mackerel, herring, whitebait, crab and lobster that had been dumped on the kitchen table.

  ‘I never ordered it,’ Mrs Carter said, in an aggrieved voice. ‘Why would I ask for that amount unless you were going to hold a supper party and you didn’t say anything to me about any such thing, ma’am.’

  ‘No, Mrs Carter, I had no plans for one.’

  ‘The boy who brought it insisted he had come to the right address and he wouldn’t take it away again.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he would,’ Anne said, trying to stifle her amusement. ‘It is a gift to me.’

  ‘A gift? Whatever for?’ her aunt demanded. ‘Who do you know in Brighton to give you a gift, and such an extraordinary one as this?’

  Anne, who had slipped into the house the day before and changed her bloodstained clothes before joining her aunt, had not seen fit to tell her about the previous day’s encounter. She didn’t know why she had said nothing; it was not in her nature to keep secrets, but her meeting with Dr Tremayne had been so disturbing she wanted to keep it to herself, at least until she had analysed why he had made her heart beat so fast. If she had been young and silly, she might have said she had fallen in love with him on the spot, but she was not young and silly and so it must surely have another cause.

  Her aunt was looking at her, expecting an answer, and so she was obliged to explain that she had helped the child of a local fisherman and this was his way of saying thank you. ‘She was hurt in an accident with a curricle. I took her to a doctor and went in search of her mother,’ she said.

  ‘I can see the child would need help,’ her aunt said. ‘But were there no gentlemen about who could have done so? It is unseemly for you to be associating with common fishermen.’

  ‘I never met the fisherman, Aunt, only his wife. She is a hardworking woman who wanted to reward me…’

  ‘Surely you can do a good turn without being rewarded?’

  ‘Of course I can, but it would have hurt her pride to refuse. I didn’t realise she would actually send it, nor so much. I thought she would probably forget the minute I had left.’

  ‘So now we have a box of fish that we cannot possibly eat before it goes bad.’

  ‘If we knew anyone to invite, we could give a supper party,’ Anne said.

  ‘You are right,’ her aunt said suddenly. ‘I think it is time we began our social calls. Mrs Carter, take some of the fish for yourself and give some to the other servants and find a tasty recipe to use the rest. It gives us very little time, but a supper party it will have to be. Come, Anne, change your dress. We will call on Lady Mancroft first.’

  Her ladyship had taken a house in St James’s Place, not far from the homes of the elite who occupied the houses in the vicinity of the Pavilion. She was ‘at home’, which meant her elegant drawing room was filled with friends and those newly arrived in the town, like Mrs Bartrum and Anne. She was a tall, heavily built woman, wearing a diaphanous high-waisted gown in a pea-green colour over a slip of darker green and a matching satin turban with three tall feathers fastened to it with a jewelled pin.

  ‘Georgiana!’ she cried when she saw Mrs Bartrum. ‘So you are back in society.’ Being so tall, she had to bend to kiss Aunt Bartrum’s cheek and then stood back to appraise her. ‘You are looking well. I declare widow’s weeds become you, which they don’t everyone, to be sure. What brings you to Brighton?’

  Mrs Bartrum looked suitably doleful at the mention of her mourning, but quickly recovered. ‘I have brought my niece for a visit. She has not been here before and needed a little diversion.’ She took Anne’s hand and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Hemingford.’

  Lady Mancroft lifted her quizzing glass to peer at Anne. ‘Granddaughter of the late Earl of Bostock, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Not in mourning?’ There was a hint of reproof in her voice.

  ‘Grandfather expressly forbade it. It was his dying wish.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean the poor girl is not grieving,’ Mrs Bartrum put in quickly ‘She looked after him dutifully and I believe she deserves a little respite.’

  ‘Then we shall have to do our best to amuse you both. Now, let me introduce you to everyone.’

  She led them round the company, naming everyone and explaining who they were in relation to the aristocrats of the day—the cousin of a duke, the daughter of a marquis, a baronet, a banker with no claim to fame except his enormous wealth, Sir Somebody-or-Other, Lady This and Miss That—so that in the end
Anne’s head was reeling. She supposed she would remember them all given time.

  ‘And here is my son, Charles,’ her ladyship said, pulling on the sleeve of a Hussar major who was in animated conversation with another gentleman. ‘Charles, come and say how d’you do to Mrs Bartrum. You remember we met her when we went up to the Lakes on a walking tour.’

  He turned and bowed. He was a tall man of about seven and thirty, with a shock of blond curls and pale blue eyes. ‘Your obedient, ma’am. It was several years ago, but I do remember how gracious and hospitable you were.’

  Mrs Bartrum acknowledged this flummery with a smile. ‘This is Miss Hemingford,’ she said, drawing Anne forward. ‘Bostock’s sister.’

  Her aunt’s mention of her relationship to the Earl of Bostock brought home to Anne very forcefully that Harry was now the Earl and her grandfather was no more. It saddened her, but she managed a warm smile. ‘Good afternoon, Major.’

  He executed a flourishing leg. It was, Anne noted, a well-shaped leg clad in the blue pantaloons of the 10th Hussars, the Prince of Wales’s own regiment. She was reminded of the curricle that had knocked over Tildy Smith; the driver of that had been wearing the same uniform, but she realised almost at once that Major Mancroft was not the man. ‘Your obedient, Miss Hemingford,’ he said. ‘May I present my good friend, Captain Gosforth?’

  The man he had been conversing with gave Anne a low bow. He was dressed in a brown frockcoat and biscuit-coloured trousers, held down by a strap under his shoe. He had a rugged complexion, gingery hair and hazel eyes, full of good humour. After the usual civilities had been exchanged with Mrs Bartrum, he asked, ‘Have you taken to the water yet, ladies?’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Bartrum answered him. ‘But we are planning to do so.’

  ‘Nothing like it for effecting a cure,’ he said.

  ‘A cure for what?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Oh, almost anything. Gout, the ague, stomach disorders, consumption, flux…’

  ‘I do not have any of those things, Captain.’ It was said with a smile and a twinkle in the eye.