by Mary Nichols
Chapter Three
The first of the carriages drew up at the door as Anne went down to the drawing room and there was no time for Mrs Bartrum to question her niece about where she had been, for which Anne was thankful. She knew her aunt would be horrified to know she had been visiting a man— not even a gentleman—and been entertained alone in his room. If she knew Anne had given him money and promised more, she would have apoplexy, so it had to remain a secret. It was a pity, because Anne longed to tell someone about it and ask advice about hiring a doctor’s assistant.
What, for instance, did an assistant do? Did he treat the sick himself or only do the menial tasks such as dosing someone for the ague or binding a cut finger? Any competent person could do that, surely? And how much were they paid? Would her bankers have something to say when she asked for a regular amount to be paid from her account every month? Would they insist on knowing why and investigating the recipient? Questions like that bred more questions, but she had to put them aside to stand beside her aunt and receive their guests.
Lord and Lady Mancroft arrived with the Major, magnificent in his regimental dress uniform, then the widowed Mrs Barry with Annabelle and Jeanette, whom she hoped someone would take off her hands before much longer. Lieutenants Cawston and Harcourt arrived on foot, followed by Sir Gerald Sylvester, who came in a cab. Sir Gerald, fifty if he was a day and thin as a bean pole, was got up in a dark blue evening suit, a blue shirt whose collar points grazed his cheeks and supported a pink starched cravat with an enormous bow. His waistcoat was heavily embroidered in rose and silver thread and his breeches were so tight fitting, Anne wondered if he would be able to sit, much less eat. Captain Gosforth arrived last, in a black evening suit, white shirt and brocade waistcoat, and hurried over to bow and make his apologies to his hostesses, which meant he was standing beside them when supper was announced.
‘May I?’ he asked, offering his arm to Mrs Bartrum.
Graciously she laid her fingers on his sleeve, leaving Anne to be escorted by Major Mancroft, who was quickly at her side. His parents followed and everyone else paired up to go into the dining room, the Barry girls with the two lieutenants and Mrs Barry with Sir Gerald. They all knew each other; indeed, it was Anne and her aunt who were the strangers to the company, but Anne did not mind that; it gave her the opportunity to observe their guests. None of them, she realised, was likely to be acquainted with a young physician looking for a first post. Such a being would be beneath their notice.
‘I took your advice,’ she said to Captain Gosforth as the soup was served by the two footmen her aunt had employed for the evening. ‘I took a dip in the sea this morning.’
‘And how did you find it?’
‘Very refreshing. I shall certainly go again.’
‘And did you see the commotion on the beach?’ Lieutenant Cawston asked.
‘No. Was there a commotion?’
‘I was strolling along the sea front when I saw a crowd round a big white tent, so I wandered over to see the cause of it.’ He paused, realising he had the attention of everyone. ‘One of the fishermen had caught a large sea creature in his net and was preparing to make an exhibition of it, hence the tent. There was a notice on a board inviting the public to view the merman at tuppence a time.’
‘Merman! There is no such thing!’ Lord Mancroft scoffed. ‘Nor mermaids either.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Walter Gosforth said. ‘When I was sailing in the south seas, there were stories of strange sea creatures who were said to have the head and upper body of a human and the tail of a fish. They were supposed to lure sailors on to the rocks with their singing…’
‘Oh, do you think the Brighton fishermen have really caught one?’ Jeanette Barry asked, wide-eyed.
‘Of course not,’ her mother said. ‘It is no doubt something they’ve constructed for gullible people to gape at.’
‘I do not think they have constructed it,’ Anne said. ‘I heard about it yesterday from the child of the fisherman that caught it. She said it was a monster.’
They all turned to look at her and she began to wish she had not spoken. ‘You remember, Aunt, I told you about the little girl who was hurt.’
‘Do tell us the tale,’ Annabelle said. ‘How did you come to be in conversation with a fisherman’s daughter?’
Anne was obliged to tell the same story as she had related it to her aunt, which was not very exciting when all was said and done, certainly not to her listeners, who had no interest in the doctor to whom she had taken the little girl. ‘We are indebted to the child’s mother for the fish we are eating,’ she said. ‘She wanted to thank me and that was all she had to give.’
‘So there really is some kind of strange creature on the beach,’ Mrs Barry said.
‘Yes, but it was not described to me as a mermaid or a merman, simply as a monster…’
‘Probably a whale,’ Major Mancroft said.
‘But surely there are no whales off our coast and, if there were, would it not be too big for the fisherman’s nets?’ Anne asked. ‘They would never be able to haul it aboard their vessel.’
‘Only one thing for it,’ Captain Gosforth said. ‘We shall have to pay our tuppence to have our curiosity satisfied.’
‘It’s a trick,’ Lady Mancroft said, wrinkling her long nose in distaste. ‘A few hundred gullible people at tuppence each would line the pockets of those chawbacons very nicely, don’t you think?’
‘They are very poor,’ Anne said mildly. ‘Who can blame them for wanting to supplement their income?’
‘Why not make an outing of it?’ the Captain suggested. ‘I shall be delighted to pay for everyone here to see it.’
‘Then could we not take a picnic with us?’ Annabelle suggested. ‘We could find a quiet situation on the cliffs and the gentlemen could light a fire. It would be such fun.’
Everyone agreed enthusiastically. Mrs Bartrum, who was still wondering how to use up all the fish she had been given, offered to bring shrimps and herrings to be cooked over the fire, and that led Lady Mancroft to donate slices of cold roast beef and a side of ham and Mrs Barry to offer to bring orange jelly and her special biscuits, the recipe for which was a closely guarded family secret. ‘And I will bring wine,’ Major Mancroft offered. ‘The mess has a particularly fine selection.’ He paused. ‘In case the Regent should arrive unexpectedly, you understand.’
‘I will put my chaise at your disposal to convey the servants and hampers ahead of us,’ Lord Mancroft added. ‘Then, if any of the ladies feels disinclined to walk back, they may ride.’
And so it was settled, and all because of Mr Smith and his monster catch. Anne had taken no part in making the arrangements, she was happy to agree to whatever they decided; her thoughts were elsewhere. Talking of the fisherman and little Tildy had reminded her of Dr Tremayne, working away in his consulting rooms, dishevelled, hard up, caring and proud. Oh, she knew he was proud all right. In spite of his shabby room, his untidy clothes, his lack of proper equipment and medicines, he was a man who stood upright and looked you in the eye, even when admitting that he begged. He did not beg on his own behalf, but for those poor souls who had no one else to help them. He said he had been a ship’s surgeon, but why had he gone to sea in the first place? Treating seamen wounded by war was very different from mending the heads of little girls and giving an old man medicine for a chronic cough. She had to see him again and learn more.
The rest of the meal passed in small talk: the doings of the Regent, hardly seen in public since he was so badly received at the victory celebrations earlier in the year: the peace talks going on in Vienna where the allies were carving Europe up between them; the fate of Napoleon, now banished to the remote island of St Helena, and the fear of riots and insurrection as the soldiers returned home to find there was no work for them. Anne wanted to hear more about that, but her aunt quickly suggested it was time for the ladies to withdraw and instead she found herself talking about the latest fashions over the teacups
in the withdrawing room.
When the gentlemen joined them, the older members of the company sat down to whist while the younger ones were prevailed upon to sing or play. Walter Gosforth stood beside the piano to turn the page of music as Anne played her piece. ‘Splendid, Miss Hemingford,’ he said, when she finished and everyone applauded. ‘I heard you had a prodigious talent and now I know it to be true.’
Anne laughed. ‘No one but my aunt could have told you that, and I do believe she is biased.’
‘She is a very vivacious lady. I did not like to ask, but how long has she been a widow?’
Anne looked at him sharply and smiled. ‘Nearly two years, Captain. It was a very happy marriage…’
‘Oh, I do not doubt it,’ he murmured. ‘Someone more agreeable than Mrs Bartrum would be difficult to find.’
‘I could not agree more,’ she said, hiding a smile. ‘She also has a very pleasant singing voice. Shall I prevail upon her to sing for us?’
‘Oh, please do. I will be delighted to accompany her on the pianoforte.’
The whist game was drawing to a close. Lady Mancroft was gratified to have won and her rather haughty expression had softened. Anne approached the table and was in time to hear her aunt telling Major Mancroft that her niece had been laid very low by the old Earl’s death, but she would soon be in spirits again. ‘She is a considerable heiress,’ she said. ‘And very independent in mind and spirit, which cannot be altogether good for her. I think she needs someone to guide her, someone as strong as she is—’ Seeing Anne, she stopped in mid-sentence.
‘Aunt, we should be pleased if you would sing for us,’ Anne said. stifling a desire to laugh at her aunt’s less than subtle hints. ‘Captain Gosforth has said he will accompany you.’
‘In that case, of course I shall oblige. Major, do you take a turn about the room with Miss Hemingford.’
‘Delighted,’ he said, rising and bowing to Anne.
‘You know, Major,’ she murmured as her aunt went to consult Walter Gosforth about the music and they moved slowly round the room, ‘I do not need someone to guide me, my aunt is mistaken in that.’
‘I did not think you did, Miss Hemingford. But it does no harm for your aunt to think so, does it? She is a delightful lady and truly devoted to you.’
He was a kind man, she realised. ‘I know. I would not dream of contradicting her.’
Mrs Bartrum sang one solo and one duet with the Captain, which had the effect of sending Major Mancroft to her side, offering to play a duet with her. She declined and suggested he should ask Anne.
It was all very amusing. Anne could see that the Major and the Captain were vying with each other to be noticed by her aunt and yet the lady herself seemed unaware of it. Not for a minute did Anne think either of them were rivals for her own hand, which meant she was saved the business of having to discourage them. By the time the party broke up with everyone promising to meet on The Steine after attending morning service next day, she was feeling exhausted. It had been a long, long day.
The front pews of the parish church of St Nicholas were full of the beau monde, dressed in their finery, intending to see and be seen. At the back, also in their Sunday best, were the working people of Brighton: fisherfolk, bootmakers, chandlers, harness makers, candlemakers, hatters, seamstresses, all the people who worked in the background to cater for the visitors who flocked there every summer as soon as the London Season was over. Sitting alone, neither with the elite nor the artisans, was Dr Tremayne. He was wearing a plum-coloured frockcoat, grey pantaloons, a clean white shirt and a white muslin cravat starched within an inch of its life. He held a tall beaver hat on his knees. Everything about him was neat and clean; he had even made an attempt to control his dark curls.
Anne and her aunt arrived late and most of the pews were full. Anne touched Aunt Bartrum’s hand and indicated the vacant seat beside the doctor. He was kneeling to pray, but rose and moved along to make room for them and it was then she noticed that, though his boots were polished to a mirror shine, the heels were down and the soles worn paper thin. Poor man! But she knew she must not pity him, must betray no sympathy except for his work. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she whispered, settling herself beside him. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Hemingford.’ He had wondered if he might see her in church and here she was, sitting so close to him he could almost hear her breathing, could certainly smell the faint perfume she used—attar of roses he thought it was—could reach out and touch her gloved hand if he were rash enough to try it. Her face was half hidden behind the brim of her bonnet, but he could, when he ventured to take a sidelong glance, see the delicate bloom on her cheeks.
He had been thinking of her a great deal since she left his house and was exasperated with himself for doing so. Every word of their conversation had repeated itself in his head, every movement she made remembered with startling clarity, like the way she had tilted her head and smiled when laying that bag of money on his table. He had not looked at it until after she had gone and had then been taken aback by the amount. Had she been condescending, looking down her autocratic nose at him, being generous because she could afford it and it made her feel good and virtuous? How he hated that idea. He had admitted to begging on behalf of his patients, but that did not mean he had no pride. He was stiff with it.
‘And Tildy? Have you seen her again?’ Her voice was no more than a murmur, unheard by anyone else.
‘Yes, I have been keeping an eye on her. She continues to improve.’
‘I am glad.’
They could say no more, because the parson began his slow walk up the aisle to begin the service, but Anne was acutely aware of the man beside her. They sat a foot apart, but the space between them seemed to vibrate, joining them by invisible ties that moved as they breathed, making them act in unison. They knelt to pray, stood to sing, listened, or pretended to listen, to the sermon, which seemed to go on and on. For once Anne did not mind.
She was wondering again how she could find the man an assistant. Why were they so hard to find? Was it simply that they disliked working among the lower orders where the chances of advancement were non-existent? She would need to find someone as committed as Dr Tremayne himself—where was such a one to be found? If the Doctor had been right, they were disinclined to accept low wages to help the poor, but surely that was what doctoring was all about? A woman would have more sympathy.
There were nurses and people like Mrs Armistead and handywomen who attended births and deaths, some of whom were filthy and too fond of the bottle, some of whom were clean and efficient, but there were no lady doctors. She wondered why not. She supposed women were considered too sensitive to pain, too revolted by blood and disfigurement, too ready to weep, to be able to work calmly. And in the eyes of men who were their superiors in every way, they did not have the brains to understand about anatomy and physiology. In Anne’s opinion that was nonsense.
Women endured the pain of childbirth and could understand it in others, often watched their little ones die, were as stoical in adversity as men and they made good nurses when their kinfolk fell ill, so why not? And there were women who were quite clever enough to do the studying needed. She smiled secretly to herself; Dr Tremayne had called her clever. She sighed; allowing women to become doctors was something not to be thought of. The sound of shuffling and coughing broke in on her reverie and she realised, with a start of surprise, the service was over and Lord and Lady Mancroft were leaving the church, watched by those in the back pews who would make no move until their so-called betters had gone.
Mrs Bartrum rose and set off after them, leaving Anne to follow. She emerged into the sunlight almost side by side with Dr Tremayne. At the church door, the rector stood watching everyone leave, his rheumy eye noting absences that would be pointed out to the miscreants later in the week. He bowed to Lord and Lady Mancroft, who deigned to smile before passing on to chat to others in the churchyard. ‘Dr Tremayne,’ he said, cat
ching sight of Justin. ‘I am glad to see you once again among my flock. It does not set a good example when you absent yourself from church.’
‘I cannot come when I am needed elsewhere,’ Justin said, tight-lipped.
‘Six days shalt thou labour—’ the parson began, but he was not allowed to finish.
‘People fall ill every day of the week, Reverend.’
‘Quite.’ He paused, looking at Anne, who had stopped when Justin stopped. ‘Are you not going to introduce me?’ he asked, still addressing the doctor though his eye was taking in every detail of Anne’s dress and demeanour. ‘It behoves me to know the names of all my flock.’
Justin had been aware that Anne was standing nearby, how could he not? But the idea that the parson thought she had attended church with him disconcerted him. ‘Reverend, you are mistaken…’
‘I am Miss Hemingford,’ Anne said quickly. ‘My aunt, Mrs Bartrum, has taken a house in Brighton for the summer.’ She nodded towards her aunt, now in animated conversation with Lady Mancroft, the curling black feather on her bonnet wagging in time with her jaw.
‘Oh, I see my error. I beg your pardon, Miss Hemingford.’
‘There has been no error, Reverend,’ she said, slipping her hand beneath Justin’s elbow. ‘We are friends of Dr Tremayne. Please excuse us.’ And with that, she put enough pressure on Justin’s arm to make him walk forward.
‘Why did you do that?’ he protested, obeying the tug of her hand because he was too much the gentleman to embarrass her in front of the parson.
‘Who does he think he is, preaching to you?’ she demanded in a whisper. ‘Looking down at you like that. Why, you have more good in your little finger than he has in his whole body.’
‘The Reverend and I fight a verbal duel whenever we meet,’ he said, half-pleased, half-miffed at her championing of him. ‘I am not a kitten who needs a mother cat to defend it.’
She released his arm and laughed. ‘I did not think you did, but I enjoyed adding my contribution.’