Читать книгу Marrying Miss Hemingford - Mary Nichols - Страница 7

1815

The funeral cortège was a long one; the old Earl of Bostock had been respected, if not greatly loved, in the Lincolnshire village from which he took his name. He had lived to a great age, over eighty, so it was said, and had outlived wife and sons, and the only family left to mourn were his grandson Harry, now the new Earl, Harry’s wife, Jane, and his twin sister, Anne. She, most of all, mourned the passing of her grandfather. In his latter years the Earl had become almost a recluse, irascible, opinionated and intolerant where everyone but his beloved granddaughter was concerned. She had been the apple of his eye, the joy of his old age and his constant companion. And now he was gone.

Anne watched from the window as the coffin, on its carriage drawn by black plumed horses, left Sutton Park, followed by other carriages containing male members of the family, some of whom were so distantly related she had never met them before. Behind them in the procession were many of her grandfather’s friends and close associates. The day was overcast, cooler than of late and threatening rain, though none as yet had fallen. It was a day in keeping with the sombre occasion.

Anne turned as her aunt came into the room. ‘I thought he would live for ever,’ she said, giving her a wan smile. ‘I cannot believe he has gone.’

‘We all have to go sooner or later.’ Although she was forty, Georgiana Bartrum still had the petite figure of a girl; her features were unlined and her hair was still raven black and topped by a lace-edged black cap. ‘Be thankful that he lived so long…’

‘I wish I could have gone to the funeral, seen him laid to rest.’

‘My dear Anne, you know ladies do not go to funerals.’

Anne sighed, doing her best not to weep; Grandfather would have considered it a weakness. ‘I don’t feel like a lady, I feel like a little girl, lost and bereft.’

‘I know, my dear, but that will pass in time.’ Her voice faltered and Anne went at once to put her arm round her.

‘Oh, Aunt Georgie, I am so sorry, I did not mean to make you sad too.’

Her aunt, her mother’s much younger sister, was herself in mourning for a beloved husband who had died suddenly eighteen months before, but, on hearing of the demise of the Earl, had come down from the Lake District for the funeral, determined to put her grief aside for the sake of her niece. ‘You must not wish the old Earl back,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a wisp of handkerchief. ‘He was a great age and could do nothing for himself at the end. He is with his wife and your dear mama and papa now and you must think of yourself.’

Her aunt had put her finger on the problem. Twenty-seven years old and unmarried, Anne could not contemplate her future with equanimity. Harry and Jane wanted her to make her home with them, but though she loved them dearly, she did not think it would serve. Ape leader, old maid, maiden aunt were words that leapt to her mind. Why had she turned down every offer of marriage made to her when she was still young enough to be thought marriageable? Not quite every offer—there had been one she would have accepted from a perfectly eligible young man with whom she had imagined herself in love. They had been dealing famously with each other and she had been expecting an offer.

And then her brother, serving as a very young Hussar lieutenant, became involved in the scandal over Mary Ann Clarke, the Duke of York’s one-time mistress, who had been using her influence with the Duke to sell promotions. It had been unpleasant at the time, but it had all blown over, although not before the gentleman in question had decided to beat a hasty retreat. Grandfather had said if he was so easily blown in the wind he was not worthy of her, which had been small comfort at the time.

That had been five years ago and since then she had been wary and refused every offer. Those who came after had not been ineligible, ugly or cruel, and yet she had rejected them all. She had made excuses not only to them but to herself: her grandfather was old and ill and could not manage without her; she looked after his household, wrote letters for him, read to him, ran errands and even fed him when he became too feeble to feed himself. She had also assumed the charitable duties on the estate and in the village that her mother would have done had she lived. And now it was too late; her grandfather was dead and she was well past marriageable age.

Now no one needed her. Jane was easily able to fulfil the task of the lady of the manor, though she pretended she would need Anne’s help. But Anne could not while away the remainder of her life, doing embroidery and being a companion to her sister-in-law, however much she loved her. She loved her little nephew too, and therein lay much of her unease. She longed for children of her own with a fierce passion that made her miserable, and seeing little William, toddling about on his unsteady two-year-old legs, giggling when she held out her arms to catch him, made her want to weep. She had to make a life for herself, a life that she would find fulfilling, so that her lack of children did not become an unhealthy obsession.

‘But what am I to do?’ she asked her aunt. ‘My usefulness is at an end…’

‘Nonsense! You have your whole life before you. We must find you a husband—’

‘Husband! At my age!’ Anne gave a cracked laugh. ‘Who would have me?’

‘We shall have to see, shall we not?’

‘Aunt Georgie, I do hope you are not scheming on my behalf, because I tell you now it will not work. I am not beautiful, I am too outspoken and independent and have had my own way far too long…’ Like her grandfather, she was passionate about things she cared for, could not tolerate fools, hated fops, could not abide idleness and had a fiery temper when roused.

‘None of which is an impediment that I can see.’

‘An impediment to what?’ Jane had entered the room, carrying a squirming William in her arms. The child was in a bright blue dress, which made a sharp contrast to the sombre gowns of the women. He held out his arms to Anne, who took him and sat down with him on her lap, rubbing her cheek against the silky softness of his hair.

‘Marriage,’ Anne said. ‘Aunt Bartrum thinks she can find me a husband.’

Jane stood and looked at her sister-in-law, while William nestled his head into Anne’s shoulder and began to suck his thumb. Anne was tall and graceful; she was not pretty so much as classically beautiful. Her rich brown hair and amber eyes were her greatest assets. Jane had often wondered why Anne had never married, why she had allowed the old Earl to impose on her so much. He had an army of servants to help him; she need not have made herself his dogsbody. Was she perhaps afraid of matrimony? ‘Do you want a husband? You always said you did not want to marry.’

‘It was Aunt Bartrum’s idea, not mine.’

‘I hope you do not think that you have to leave here, Anne,’ Jane said. ‘This has always been your home and it always will be. I should feel mortified if you thought otherwise. Whatever would we do without you?’

‘Manage very well, I think,’ Anne said, pretending to laugh. ‘But there is nothing for me to do here, nothing important, that is. No raison d’être.’

‘Fustian! You are you, my friend, my dear sister, my bulwark. There are any number of things for you to do. You are simply feeling a little low.’

‘And that is why I propose to take her away and provide a little diversion,’ Mrs Bartrum put in. ‘Anne needs to see that there is more to the world than Sutton Park and its environs. Why, she did not even go to London for the Season this year…’

‘Grandfather was too ill to be left,’ Anne put in.

‘That I grant you, but now you must take stock and I do not think you can do it here.’

Anne gave a shaky laugh, recognising the truth of this. ‘But there is a great difference between providing a little diversion and finding me a husband, don’t you think?’

‘One may lead to the other.’

‘But the Season is over,’ Jane said, taking William from Anne and handing him to his nurse, who had come to fetch him. ‘There will be no one in town now.’

‘And I am long past playing the field among the eligibles of the ton,’ Anne said, watching the nurse disappear with her burden, her heart aching to have her own child in her arms. Could she marry for the sake of having a child? Why hadn’t she asked herself that question years before when it might have been a possibility? ‘For goodness’ sake, I had my come-out ten years ago.’

‘I do not propose going to town,’ Mrs Bartrum said. ‘I had thought of going to Bath, but that is old fashioned and full of dowagers and bumbling old men and, though I am content to live quietly and remember the happiness I once had, that will not serve for you. We need to find some life. We’ll go to Brighton.’

‘Brighton?’

‘Yes, there are all manner of diversions there and good company. Now the war is ended, there are army officers and naval men and half the beau monde down from London…’

‘Rakes and demi-reps,’ Anne said. ‘Hanging on to the coat-tails of the Regent.’

Her aunt laughed. ‘But very diverting rakes and demi-reps.’ Seriously, she added, ‘They are not all like that. I know many who are honourable gentlemen and ladies who go to take the water and are perfectly respectable. We can avoid the disreputable. I intend to go and I need a companion…’

‘But I am in mourning, I cannot go out and about in society…’

‘Oh, yes, you can,’ Jane said, suddenly realising that was just what Anne needed to fetch her out of the dismals. ‘You know perfectly well it was Grandfather’s express wish that you would not put on mourning for him and how do you obey him?’ She looked at the heavy black silk gown Anne wore, with its jet buttons and black lace edging. ‘By resorting to black without a speck of colour and it certainly does not become you.’

Her grandfather had indeed instructed her not to go into mourning for him. ‘You have given up your youth for me,’ he had said the day before he died. It had been a great effort to speak, but he would not be silenced. ‘It was selfish of me to allow it, but when I hand in my accounts, I want you to feel carefree and happy. Cheer if you like.’ He had smiled at her protests. ‘I mean it. Do all the things you have missed. Will you do that?’ She had promised to obey him. And she would, but not today. Today she felt too sad and her black clothes were in keeping with her mood. ‘I know,’ she told her sister-in-law. ‘But I could not wear colour today.’

‘No, but you can tomorrow. I know you have a light mauve that would be entirely suitable. And there is that cream muslin and a grey jaconet which are not vivid at all. I shall ask Harry what he thinks.’

‘As if Harry had the first idea about ladies’ fashions! Why, he is guided by you even to what he wears himself, otherwise I declare he would wear a pink shirt with a bright orange waistcoat.’

The jest lightened the atmosphere a little and they settled down to take tea while they waited for the men to return, when a more sumptuous spread would be offered. Anne, sipping her tea, was thoughtful. Should she accept her aunt’s offer? It might give her time to reflect on what she should do: stay at Sutton Park being a maiden aunt to William and any other children who might arrive, until they grew up and left the nest and she became old and crotchety before her time, or venture into the world and see what it had to offer? She had still made no decision when the room was suddenly filled with men, all talking at once.

‘He had a good send-off,’ Harry said, joining his wife. ‘And the whole village turned out to see the coffin go by. They stood in silence with heads bowed. I was deeply moved.’

Servants appeared with trays of food and full glasses and nothing was said about Anne’s future until after the will had been read, the food eaten and the mourners had either departed for their own homes nearby or retired to the rooms allotted to them.

‘I am relieved that it went well and the old man is at peace,’ Harry said, folding his long legs into a winged chair by the hearth.

‘I could not rid myself of the feeling that he was in the room, watching and listening,’ Anne said. ‘And I cannot for the life of me think why he should leave me so much money. My needs are simple…’

‘Anne, my love, you have earned every groat of it,’ Harry said. ‘And I certainly do not begrudge it.’

‘I have no doubt it was meant in place of the dowry you would have had,’ Jane put in. ‘Now, you can please yourself how you spend it.’

‘Then I think I shall go to Brighton with Aunt Georgie.’

Harry demanded to know what she meant and, having had everything explained to him, said he thought it was a good idea. ‘We do not want to be rid of you, Sis,’ he said. ‘You know this is your home, but a change of scene will do you good. And Aunt Georgie too.’

Anne smiled. The spinster and the widow, what would Brighton make of them, she wondered.

It took three weeks to make all the arrangements, not only because a suitable house had to be found to rent, but also because Anne was, in some ways, reluctant to leave home and family, almost afraid of what was in store for her, which she recognised as foolishness. She was a mature woman, elegant, intelligent, able to hold her own in any company, and she was still young enough to enjoy herself. That was what Grandfather had said, when leaving her that bequest. ‘My granddaughter has made a great sacrifice to stay and see me comfortably to my end and nothing I give can recompense her for that,’ he had dictated to the family lawyer, who read it aloud to the company after the funeral. ‘I do not want her to grieve for me. I command her to be happy in any way she can and if this bequest can bring that about, then I hope she will make good use of it.’

She had cried then; only the second time she had shed tears since his death. The first had been when the doctor had pronounced life extinct and closed the old man’s eyes. She had been unable to hold back her grief and stood encircled in her brother’s arms, soaking his coat with her tears. The weeping was done now and she was going to do her best to obey his dying command. A few weeks in Brighton with her aunt and then she would think of her future.

They set off for London by post chaise, accompanied by Susan, Aunt Bartrum’s maid, and Anne’s middle-aged companion cum maid, Amelia Parker. They stayed at the Hemingford town house to do some shopping and completed their journey two days later, arriving in Brighton early on a Wednesday afternoon in late August.

The house they had taken was on the west side of the old town, in an area which had not so many years before been open fields, but since Brighton had become fashionable it was being developed at a frantic pace to keep up with the demands of the people who wanted to come and stay. Now there were elegant terraces of tall narrow buildings with biscuit-coloured façades and cast-iron balustrades. The one Mrs Bartrum had taken had a staircase that wound up from an entrance hall in decreasing squares to the upper rooms and which, viewed from the ground floor, reminded Anne of a dimly lit tower. But the rooms that led from it were light and airy with balconied windows at the front, which afforded a view of the sea, calm and sparkling on the afternoon they arrived.

‘First things first,’ Mrs Bartrum said when they had chosen their rooms and left the maids to unpack. ‘We will have some refreshments, give instructions to the servants about how we like them to go on and then we will go and announce our arrival.’

‘Announce it?’ Anne queried, laughing. ‘Are you going to send out the town crier?’

‘No, you foolish girl. We go to Baker’s library and sign the visitors’ book and while we are there we will read the names of those who have preceded us. After that, home for dinner and then we shall see what tomorrow brings.’

Baker’s library was on The Steine at the bottom of St James’s Street and they decided to walk. Putting a light shawl over her lilac silk gown, Anne slipped her arm through her aunt’s and they stepped out briskly along the sea front. Anne had never known such a dazzling light. It glittered on the sea, shone on the pastel stucco of the buildings, reflected in the windows and picked out the colours of other strollers’ clothes like an artist’s palette. And the air was so clear, they felt almost giddy with it.

‘Shall you bathe in the sea?’ Anne asked her aunt, noticing the row of huts on wheels that stood along the water’s edge and the women standing beside them holding armfuls of cotton garments for bathers to change into.

‘Why not?’ her aunt said. ‘There is no sense in coming to the seaside if you do not take a dip, is there?’

Anne smiled. Her aunt was game for anything. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘We’ll go one morning very early before anyone is about, then if we find we do not like it, we can come out and no one the wiser.’

‘What else have you in mind for us to do?’

‘That depends on the Master of Ceremonies. He will advise us what is going on and what is most suitable for us. That is why we sign the visitors’ book: it tells him we are here.’

Anne found herself laughing. ‘You mean he is a kind of matchmaker?’

‘Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Unless you want him to be, then of course he will make sure you are introduced to the right people.’

‘I positively forbid you to speak of me, Aunt. I will not be paraded like a seventeen-year-old newly escaped from the schoolroom.’

‘I would not dream of it, my dear. There is no need.’

Anne looked sideways at her. Her aunt was looking decidedly complacent and she wondered just what she was up to. She felt no alarm; let the dear lady have her fun, for that was all it was. A diversion, wasn’t that what she had said?

Even in the old part of town, there were new houses interspersed with old and Anne began to wonder what the original fishing village had been like fifty years before and what had become of its inhabitants. There must still be fishermen, because their nets were laid out to dry on a wide grassy bank next to the sea and one or two boats were pulled up at the water’s edge, but of their owners there was no sign. She supposed they set out very early in the morning and, once their catch had been landed and sold and the nets put out to dry, disappeared for a well-earned rest.

They picked their way over the nets and found the library where Mrs Bartrum spent some time perusing the visitors’ book and making notes, while Anne borrowed two books, then they set off to explore a little further. They wandered up Old Steine, looked at the house where Mrs Fitzherbert, the Regent’s mistress, lived and a little further on came to the Pavilion, his seaside home. It had begun as an ordinary villa and had been extended and glorified over the last twenty years until it looked like an Eastern palace, with white painted domes and colonnades, and it was still being altered and embellished. ‘At least, it gives work to the people of the town,’ Anne said, as they moved away.

They returned home by way of North Street and Western Road and sat down to a dinner of fillets of turbot, saddle of lamb and quince tart. Mrs Carter, their cook, was a find, but then the agent had only to mention the Earl’s name and the best was forthcoming, be it house, servants or horses. They had hardly finished their meal and settled in the drawing room with the tea tray when the Master of Ceremonies was announced.

Dressed very correctly in dark breeches and white stockings, long tail coat and starched muslin cravat, he came in, bowed and was offered tea, before anything was said of the purpose of his visit. Anne suppressed her curiosity and waited.

‘Now, madam,’ he said at last, producing a sheaf of papers from a bag he carried. ‘I have here a list of next week’s events. There is a ball at the Castle Inn Assembly Rooms on Monday and a concert on Tuesday. The Old Ship has a ball every Thursday, and there are several lectures and, of course, the usual games of whist in the afternoons. But I see you are in mourning, so perhaps…’

‘I am, sir,’ Mrs Bartrum said. ‘And shall be until the end of my days when I shall hope to join my dear husband in heaven, but that is nothing to the point. My duty is clear to me and that is to put aside my grief…’ she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief ‘…for the sake of my niece. She is my only consideration. We intend to join in with whatever activities you deem suitable. My niece, as no doubt you have realised, is unmarried.’

Anne thought she was long past blushing, but this statement sent the colour racing to her face and she gave her aunt a disapproving look, before she set him straight by saying. ‘But not, sir, in need of a husband.’

‘I understand,’ he said, looking at Anne and smiling knowingly, which made her squirm, though she held her tongue for the sake of her aunt.

He stayed long enough to go through other events on offer and ticked off those they decided to attend, then took his leave.

‘Aunt, I am very displeased,’ Anne said as soon as they were alone again. ‘I asked you not to make an issue of my being unmarried. Now he thinks you want him to find a match for me.’

‘I simply stated that you were single,’ her aunt said. ‘Besides, we can find our own company. I saw Lady Mancroft’s name is in the visitors’ book; she is an old friend of mine and knows simply everybody worth knowing.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Now I think I shall go to bed. The sea air has made me quite sleepy.’

Anne followed her a few minutes later and went to her own room, where Amelia helped her out of her dress and left her to finish her toilette alone. Once in her nightgown, she stood at the open window and looked out over the sea. The moon had tinged the horizon with gold, which played on the sea in a long jagged line, making it glitter like a jewelled necklace on dark velvet. She could hear the waves lapping on the shore, could smell the tang of salt and fish and seaweed. It was a very different world from Sutton Park, a magical world when anything could happen. She smiled as she turned away and climbed into bed. She was sure her aunt meant to find a match for her and though one-half of her resented it, the other half was tingling with anticipation, which was, she told herself severely, very foolish of her and could only lead to disappointment.

It was very early when she woke, and unable to stay in bed, she rose and dressed and went downstairs to find the maid preparing breakfast. ‘Mrs Bartrum instructed me to take breakfast to your rooms,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you down…’

She was obviously flustered and Anne smiled to put her at her ease. ‘Oh, do not mind me, I like to be up be-times. Take my aunt’s and Miss Parker’s up to her. I’ll have mine in the morning room, then I think I will take a stroll.’

She had long ago stopped worrying about having a chaperon everywhere she went and, half an hour later, she was walking along the sea front. There was a little more wind than there had been the day before, which tipped the waves with white foam, but in spite of this the bathing machines were doing good business.

They reminded Anne of gypsy caravans. They had four large wheels, which elevated them four or five feet from the ground, and were entered by a flight of steps at the back that had a kind of canvas hood. Once the bather was inside, she changed into the costume given to her by the attendant and the horse drew the whole contraption into the water where the vehicle was turned round, so that the bather could descend the steps straight into the sea, still under the shelter of the hood. Thus the proprieties were observed and none of the lady’s fine clothes were even dampened. Even at a distance Anne could hear the women’s shrieks as they immersed themselves. Further along the beach the same service was being offered to gentlemen bathers.

She carried on to The Steine, noticing that the fishermen’s nets and the boats had gone. There were sails on the horizon, but she could not tell what kind of boats they were, nor if they were coming in to land. Behind her the road was becoming busy; there were carriages and carts going about their business and pedlars setting up their stalls. What alerted her she could not afterwards say, but she turned suddenly to see a fast-moving curricle mount the walkway and clip a small child, sending her sprawling. Anne was running almost before the little one hit the cobbles. The curricle, driven by an army officer, went on without stopping.

The child could not have been more than five years old. She wore a flimsy cotton dress and very little else, no shoes, no coat. Anne fell on her knees beside her. She was unconscious and was bleeding from a wound to her head. Anne’s first fear that she might have been killed gave way to relief when she saw the slight chest moving. She looked around as if expecting help to materialise but though a crowd had gathered, no one seemed particularly helpful. ‘Does anyone know where she lives?’ she asked.

‘Take her to the poorhouse infirmary,’ said one. She could tell by his clothes that he was one of the gentry; he had a fashionable lady on his arm who shuddered in distaste and pulled him away. He went meekly, leaving Anne fuming.

‘There’s a doctor nearby,’ a young lad said, pointing towards an alley between tall narrow buildings. ‘You’ll know ’is place by the brass plate on the door.’

Anne scooped the child up in her arms and, supporting her head with one hand, hurried in the direction of the pointing finger. The little one, being half-starved, was light as a feather. ‘You will be fine,’ she murmured, hugging the child to her, though she was filthy and smelled of stale fish and her blood was seeping into Anne’s clothes. ‘The doctor will make you better and then I’ll take you home to your mama. Where do you live?’ She received no reply because the child was still deeply unconscious.

The alley was so narrow the sun could not penetrate it and there was hardly room for two people to walk side by side, but she was aware that the lad who had given her directions was pounding just in front of her. ‘Here it is, miss,’ he said, stopping beside a door on which was a painted notice announcing Dr J. Tremayne. Anne had her hands full and so he banged on the door for her with his fist.

It was opened by a plump woman in a huge white apron who immediately took in the situation. ‘Bring her in, bring her in,’ she said.

Anne followed with her burden as she was led along a corridor and into a room that was lined with benches and chairs, but no other furniture. In spite of the early hour, there were people waiting, old, young, crippled, deformed, all poorly clad, all grubby. She was about to sink into one of the chairs, when the woman said. ‘Better bring her straight through.’

She ushered Anne into an adjoining room, which was evidently the doctor’s surgery, for there was a bed, a desk with a lamp on it, two chairs and a large cupboard, most of it extremely shabby though perfectly clean. Of the doctor there was no sign.

‘Put her on the bed. I’ll fetch Dr Tremayne. He’s having his breakfast before he starts. They all come so early and he’d come straight from his bed if I didn’t insist he had something to eat and drink first.’

She disappeared and Anne gently laid the child on the couch. She was trying to staunch the bleeding with a towel she had taken from a hook on the wall, worrying that the little girl was so pale and lifeless, when she heard the door open and close behind her and turned to face the man who had entered.

She had expected a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a rumpled suit. What she saw was the most handsome man she had seen in a long time. He was older than she was by a year or two, tall and spare, with thick dark hair, much in need of a barber, and a tanned, almost rugged complexion. She might have been right about the crumpled suit, except that he wore no coat and was in his shirt sleeves. Nothing could have been further from the dandies who strolled in and out of London drawing rooms during the Season than this man. In spite of a slight limp he exuded masculine strength, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

He barely glanced at her as he went over to the child and began examining her with gently probing fingers. Anne wondered whether she was expected to go or stay, but her heart had gone out to the little scrap of humanity and she wished she could do something to help. She hesitated. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘Let us hope so.’ He still had his back to her and clicked his fingers at the plump woman who had followed him into the room. ‘Padding and a bandage, Mrs Armistead, if you please.’ These were put into his hand and he carefully bandaged the head wound and put some ointment on the grazed arm and leg, ignoring his audience. When she saw the child’s eyelids flutter, Anne breathed an audible sigh of relief.

‘You may sigh,’ he said sharply, proving he had been aware that she had stayed. ‘What were you thinking of to allow a child so small to run out alone? Have you no sense at all?’

Anne was taken aback until she realised that he had mistaken her for the child’s mother, which just showed how unobservant he was. The little girl was in dirty rags whereas she was wearing a fashionable walking dress of green taffeta, a three-quarter-length pelisse and a bonnet that had cost all of three guineas. The thought of that extravagance in the face of this poverty made her uncomfortable. She looked at Mrs Armistead, who lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

‘I am not the child’s mother,’ she said, and suddenly wished she was. She could dress her in warm clothes, give her good food, care for her as her mother evidently did not. ‘I never saw the child before today.’

‘Oh.’ Alerted by her cultured voice, he turned from his ministrations to look at her for the first time and she saw deep-set brown eyes that had fine lines running from the outer corners as if he were used to squinting in strong sunlight, but the eyes themselves were cold and empty and his expression severe. She smiled, trying to evince some response from him.

‘Madam.’ He bowed stiffly, hiding the fact that he had been taken by surprise. What he saw was not only a tall graceful woman of fashion, but also an oval face of classic proportions, narrow though determined chin, wide cheeks, broad brow, and lovely amber eyes full of tender concern. He held her look for several seconds, battling with his anger over the neglect of the child and his natural inclination to blame the woman who had brought her to him. She was obviously one of the fashionable set that had taken over Brighton, destroying the fishermen’s cottages to build their grand villas, relegating the poorer inhabitants to dismal tenements in the murky, malodorous back lanes. There was still a fishing trade in Brighton, but it was dwindling in the face of the onslaught of the rich who wanted service more than fish. On the other hand she had cared enough to soil her clothes and bring the child to him. ‘I beg your pardon for my error.’

‘I was walking along the promenade when I saw her knocked down by a furiously driven curricle,’ Anne explained. ‘The driver was apparently unconcerned, for he did not stop. I was advised to bring her here.’ This explanation was given in a breathless voice, quite unlike her usual self-assured manner, though why he should have such a profound effect on her, she did not know. It was not like her to feel the need to justify her actions.

‘It is as well you did.’ He straightened up and went to wash his hands in the bowl placed on a side table. ‘She might have bled to death.’

The child began to whimper and Anne fell on her knees beside the bed and took her bony little hands in her own. ‘Don’t cry, little one. You are safe now.’

‘Me ’ead hurts.’

‘I know, dear. The doctor has given you a lovely white turban to make it better. What do you think of that?’

‘Ma, where’s Ma? And Tom. Tom…’ She was becoming distressed and tried to rise.

Anne pressed her gently back on the pillow. ‘Lie still, little one. We’ll fetch them for you.’ She looked up at the doctor who was washing his hands in a tin bowl. ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘No, but undoubtedly someone will come looking for her.’ He knew he was being unfair, but he could not help contrasting the elegance of this woman with the poverty all around him. She was by no means plump, but she wasn’t half-starved as the child was. And she had never had to sit for hours in an uncomfortable waiting room to get treatment for an ailment that would soon be cured if the patient had wholesome food and clean surroundings.

Anne stood up to face him. His abrupt manner was annoying her. She took a firm grip on herself. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I am usually the first port of call in this district if anyone is injured or lost.’ He reached for a cloth to dry his hands. ‘Word gets around.’

‘Are you going to keep her here?’

‘I can’t. I have no beds for staying patients. I wish I had, I could fill them a hundred times a day. I shall have to send her to the infirmary unless someone comes quickly to claim her. You may have noticed I have a full waiting room.’

‘What can I do to help?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘I never turn down a donation, madam.’

‘There is that, of course,’ she said, irritated by his manner. ‘But I was thinking of help on a practical level. I could go and look for her mother, if you could give me some idea of where she might be found.’

This produced a chuckle. ‘I think that would be unwise.’

‘Why?’

‘If my guess is correct, it is a slum. Filthy, unsanitary and stinking. You would ruin your fine clothes and heave up your breakfast, neither of which this child has nor ever has had.’

‘Do you take me for a fool?’ she demanded, forbearing to point out that her coat was already ruined. ‘One look at that poor little mite is enough to tell me what kind of home she comes from. But that doesn’t make it any less of a home to her. And it is the child I am concerned with, not my own convenience.’ She stooped to stroke the little one’s tear-wet cheek and her brusque manner softened. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart, we’ll find your mama. Do you know where she is?’

‘On the beach. With the huts.’

‘She must be a dipper,’ Mrs Armistead said. ‘A bathing attendant.’

‘But surely she does not leave the child alone while she works?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Sometimes it can’t be helped.’

Anne, remembering the little girl had mentioned Tom, turned back to her. ‘Who is Tom?’

‘Me bruvver. He looks arter me.’

‘And where is he?’

‘Dunno.’

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.