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Marrying Miss Hemingford
Mary Nichols


She'll be no old maid!Independently wealthy, Miss Anne Hemingford acts upon her generous grandfather's final wish that she should go out into Society and make a proper life for herself. Accompanying her aunt to Brighton for the summer, Anne is frustrated by the lack of purpose in those around her. The exception is Dr. Justin Tremayne.He is a man Anne can truly admire for his commitment to helping the poor. Apparently Justin is unsuitable marriage material, but at twenty-seven, she is prepared to ignore Society and go with her heart. Her hopes are sadly dashed by the arrival of Mrs. Sophie Tremayne, Justin's sister-in-law. There is some mystery surrounding her–and it intimately involves the man Anne has come to love….









“Dr. Tremayne, thank you for coming.”


Anne could almost believe he was a gentleman. One whose coat was three years out of fashion, but a gentleman for all that.

“My aunt wishes to consult you.” Anne smiled. “You must have made an impression on her, though I cannot think why when she was in a dead faint most of the time.”

He looked as though he were about to laugh, but then he pulled himself together. “Miss Hemingford, are you bamming me?”

“Indeed, I am not. I would not presume on so short an acquaintance.”

He wondered if she would do so on a longer acquaintance, and he allowed himself to imagine them teasing each other, laughing together, happy in each other’s company. But, suddenly remembering Sophie, he brought himself back to reality.




MARY NICHOLS


Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren. Marrying Miss Hemingford features characters you will have already met in The Hemingford Scandal.




Marrying Miss Hemingford

Mary Nichols







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Cover (#u538bee10-2f71-5981-a157-a73ac31d0c77)

About the Author (#ua22e23c9-bd63-590c-b97e-756090c824b9)

Title Page (#u0a8bec75-4b49-53f3-8ad4-2b16a38fc5fb)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u49926106-f7e8-5f87-8ebd-2c7a1a840b9a)


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.




Chapter Two (#u49926106-f7e8-5f87-8ebd-2c7a1a840b9a)


‘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.

‘No, naturally not. I did not mean—’

‘I think you are being gammoned, Walter,’ the Major put in. ‘But taking a dip is not only a cure, Miss Hemingford, it is very invigorating.’

‘Then we shall certainly attempt it,’ Mrs Bartrum said. She turned to speak to Lady Mancroft. ‘I am having an informal supper party tomorrow evening, just a small affair with a hand or two of whist afterwards. It is short notice, I know, but perhaps you and Lord Mancroft might care to come? And you, Major Mancroft and Captain Gosforth.’

‘Who’s your cook?’ boomed Lord Mancroft. He was a very big man, not only in height but in breadth, and had a vast belly.

If Mrs Bartrum was taken aback by the question, she did not show it. ‘Her name is Mrs Carter, my lord. She came highly recommended and so far I cannot fault her…’

‘Mrs Carter, eh. Then you may expect us. I would give up supper with the Regent for one of her dinners. How did you manage to acquire her?’

‘Our agent hired her.’

‘We have a French chef,’ Lady Mancroft explained. ‘And he will brook no interference, otherwise we might have tried to add her to our staff…’

‘I’ll wager Mrs Carter would not have gone,’ Anne whispered to her aunt behind her fan.

Mrs Bartrum, prompted by Lady Mancroft, included Mrs Barry and her two daughters, Annabelle and Jeanette, Sir Gerald Sylvester, an acquaintance of Lord Mancroft, and Lieutenants Cawston and Harcourt, both officers of the 10th Hussars.

‘That’s settled then,’ Mrs Bartrum said, and, after bidding goodbye to the company, she and Anne took their leave.

‘We shall have to live up to Mrs Carter’s reputation now,’ Anne said as they strolled home. ‘Will the fish be enough?’

‘In quantity there is no doubt of it, but we cannot feed them on fish and nothing else. We will have to have a roast or two and a chicken dish, boiled ham and several sweets.’

‘You did say it was to be informal.’

‘So it shall be. Small, select and exquisitely cooked. I will not have Mrs Carter compared unfavourably with a French chef. And they do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

Anne stopped in mid-stride and turned to face her aunt. ‘Which man?’

‘Oh, there are several possibles. Did you not find Major Mancroft very handsome?’

‘He was not ill looking, but…’

‘Oh, I know he is only the son of a baron, for all the superior airs Lord Mancroft assumes, but you have left it a little late to catch a true aristocrat…’

‘Too late, my dear aunt. I told you I did not want you to find me a husband.’

‘I am not. But if one should appear, we should not look a gift horse in the mouth.’

Anne laughed. ‘But Major Mancroft is not a horse.’

‘No, but you know what I mean. I am simply pointing out the possibilities. And there is Captain Gosforth. He was a naval captain, you know. Widowed…’

‘How do you know?’

‘I made it my business to find out. His wife died some years ago while he was away at sea. They had no children. He was invalided out at the beginning of the war and is now a gentleman farmer…’

‘You mean one who does not get his hands dirty or his boots muddy except on the hunting field.’

‘Of course he would not. Anne, how provoking you are. You know I would never think of inviting a yokel to supper. He is related to Lord Downland, I think, though I am not sure of the exact relationship, but he is perfectly acceptable.’

‘Maybe he has his sights elsewhere.’

‘With you in the room, no single man has any business looking elsewhere.’

Anne burst out laughing and hugged her aunt’s arm as they continued their walk. ‘Oh, Aunt Georgie, you are as good as any medicine.’ And suddenly she was remembering Dr Tremayne again. Was he single? Surely a man as dedicated and busy as he was would need a wife to help him? She had at first thought Mrs Armistead was his wife until he had addressed her by name and in a voice that one would use to a servant, so she supposed she was his housekeeper or perhaps a nurse to help with his patients, but one who also made sure he had regular meals.

One thing was certain, he was not afraid to dirty his hands, nor his clothes come to that, and he had spent five minutes in the same room with her before he had even deigned to notice her. He had a hard outer crust, but that was assumed, she was sure of it, because when he was dealing with Tildy, his whole expression had changed and his eyes had softened and become full of concern. Like her, he loved children. She smiled; it was a good thing her aunt did not know what was occupying her thoughts at that moment.

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I was thinking of Lord Mancroft’s praise of Mrs Carter,’ she fibbed. ‘She must be famous in Brighton.’

‘Judging by the size of his lordship’s waist, I would say he was an expert in culinary appreciation, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh, no doubt of it,’ Anne laughed, then added, ‘Shall we take a dip tomorrow? Mrs Smith, the mother of that little girl, is a bathing attendant and she said she would look out for us.’

‘You seem to have found out a lot about her in a short time, Anne.’ There was a note of censure in her voice and Anne found herself on the defensive.

‘Not at all. I know very little. The child told us her mother worked on the beach, so I went in search of her. The husband is a fisherman and there is also a boy called Tom. I imagine it was he who brought the fish to us. Tom was supposed to be looking after Tildy while his mother worked, but he went off to help his father.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘He had apparently caught a monster.’

‘A monster? What kind of monster?’

‘I have no idea. I assumed it was a larger-than-usual fish.’

‘Well, it is of no moment,’ her aunt said. ‘You did what you could to help them and that should be an end of it.’

‘I would dearly like to know who that officer was driving the curricle. How anyone can run down a child and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened I do not know. It was wicked. He might have killed her.’

‘Anne, I know you have a tender heart and I would not have you any other way, but you cannot fight everyone’s battles for them. Put it from your mind. You are here to enjoy yourself.’



Anne did try to put it from her mind, but whatever she was doing, the memory of that tiny child lying unconscious in the road kept intruding, and when she wasn’t thinking of Tildy, she was thinking of Dr Tremayne and, try as she might, she could not banish him. Perhaps if she were to see him again, she might realise that he was not an Adonis, nor clever, just a very ordinary man, not even a gentleman, a physician who worked among the poor because he was not good enough to minister to the rich and earn the substantial fees they were prepared to pay. But that did not mean she could not sympathise with his work. And she had promised a donation. Instead of sending it through a third party as she had intended, she would take it herself when she could get away from her aunt without arousing suspicion. She had a feeling that Aunt Bartrum would not approve.

The remainder of the day was spent in making plans for the supper party. Her aunt drew her into every decision, from the bill of fare and the wine, to the table decorations and the clothes they should wear. Mrs Bartrum would be dressed in unrelieved black, but the gown she chose was of silk, elegantly cut with a low décolletage and deep satin ruching round the hem and it fitted her slight form to perfection. Widow or not, she was still a very attractive woman. But Anne’s choice was another matter. ‘Let me see what you have brought with you,’ her aunt said.

She was sitting on Anne’s bed, while Amelia pulled gowns out of the cupboard and her trunk, which had not yet been fully unpacked. Anne had never been one for finery; living at Sutton Park with her grandfather, she rarely needed to dress up and only when she went to London for the Season, did she bother about her wardrobe. She had not done so this year, so it had not been replenished, except for the two ball gowns her aunt had insisted on buying when they were passing through London. ‘There are at least two balls every week in Brighton,’ she had told her. ‘And you never know, if the Prince is in residence, he might invite us to the Pavilion.’

‘I do not think I should like to go.’

‘Me neither, but an invitation is a royal command and we would have no choice.’

‘In that case we will avoid anyone with any connection to the royal gentleman.’

But it was not ball gowns that interested her now, but something to wear for their supper party when she hoped Anne would make a lasting impression on the single gentlemen present. ‘Black, grey, mauve, dark blue,’ her aunt intoned as the gowns were brought out for her approval. ‘Have you nothing with any colour in it?’

‘Grandfather has been gone less than a month, Aunt, and I cannot, in all conscience, wear bright colours. Besides, they do not become me…’

‘Well, this dove-grey crepe will have to do. You can dress it up with lace and silk flowers. We will go out this afternoon and see what the shops have to offer.’

Anne, who had been used to being independent and doing things her own way, felt as though she were losing control of her life. If she were not careful, her aunt would have her married off to the first eligible man who showed an interest. The difficulty was that Aunt Bartrum was such a dear, so well meaning and unselfish, she would be bound to be offended if her niece appeared awkward. There was nothing for it but to go along with her until something happened that meant she would have to stand her ground, then she would have to be firm.



They rose early the next morning and set off for the beach accompanied by Susan and Amelia to help them undress and to look after their clothes while they were in the sea. Mrs Bartrum was complaining good humouredly about having to rise before half the town had even been to bed, but Anne, who loved the time just after dawn when the birds were singing and few people were about, simply laughed and said she would be able to catch up on her sleep that afternoon before their guests began to arrive.

The tide was out when they reached the beach and they picked their way carefully over the newly washed shingle to the bathing machines, some of which were already in the water, and others were drawn up in a line, each with its attendant. Anne, seeing Mrs Smith, made her way over to her. ‘How is Tildy?’ she asked her.

‘She is on the mend, ma’am, thank you for asking. She had a real bad headache for a time, but it passed and the wound is healing. I’m right thankful you came along when you did.’

‘I did nothing, Mrs Smith. It was Dr Tremayne who did most.’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. The man’s a saint, he never turns anyone away and he hardly ever takes money for what he does. I don’t know what us poor folks would do without him.’

‘Then you must be very thankful for him and hope he continues for a long time to come.’ She was aware of her aunt standing beside her, drinking in the conversation, and knew she would be in for a quizzing later.

‘We pray for that, ma’am, but he has to rely on what people give him to carry on. I believe he is finding it ’ard.’

‘We shall have to see what can be done to help,’ Anne said, smiling at the woman. ‘And talking about giving, I want to thank you for that box of fish. But there was no need to send so much.’

‘Course there was. Tildy is worth more ’n a box of fish to me. Besides, you pai—’

She was not allowed to finish before Anne stopped her. ‘Mrs Smith, my aunt and I would like to take a dip in the sea, would you tell us what we have to do?’

The woman called the next of her colleagues in the line to look after Mrs Bartrum while she served Anne. They were each given a brown cotton gown and climbed into the huts with their maids to help them undress. Anne put on the shapeless garment and tied it with a cord round the waist and set a mob cap over her hair, before calling out that she was ready. The horse set off at a steady plod pulling the hut over the wet shingle and into the sea. ‘How deep do you wish to go?’ Mrs Smith asked.

‘Deep enough to immerse myself totally, if you please.’

When the hut came to a stop, facing the English Channel, the door was opened and Anne realised that all but the top two steps had disappeared into the water. Gingerly she stepped down, feeling with her toes and hanging on to Mrs Smith, who led her down. The water was icy cold and made her gasp. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘It always feels cold when you first go in. You will not notice it after a minute or two,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘Best thing is to get in quickly.’

It was what she had done as a child when bathing in the river at Sutton Park with Harry and Jane, but she could not remember it being as cold as this. She jumped off the last few steps, letting out a single shriek as the cold water hit her almost bare flesh, felt her dress balloon around her, then settle about her body. The more genteel ladies simply stayed under the cover of the hood, but that was not enough for Anne; she struck out towards her aunt’s machine. ‘It’s lovely,’ she called. ‘Come on in.’

Aunt Bartrum was a little timid and did not venture far from the safety of the bathing machine where she was hid den, but Anne set out for deeper water, where a few hardy heads bobbed above the surface. As a child she had done everything her brother had done, climbing trees, riding, shooting, swimming; Grandfather had often said she was as much of a boy as Harry was. He had warned her, and so had Amelia in later years, that men did not like women who excelled in physical outdoor pursuits, but she did not see why she should curb her pleasures simply to attract a man. If she took a husband, he would have to love her for what she was. The thought that she might even consider marriage took her by surprise. Was her aunt already wearing her down? She would be silly to allow that, it could only lead to disappointment.

‘Miss Hemingford?’

Startled, she looked up to see the disembodied head of Dr Tremayne not six feet away, his wet hair springing into tight curls all over his head. Treading water, he lifted a bare arm in greeting, making her wonder what he was wearing; the water was not clear enough to see, for which she was grateful. Even thinking about it made her heart beat at an alarming rate. ‘Dr Tremayne, fancy seeing you here.’

‘I am here most mornings. I find it refreshing before the rigours of the day.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘At least, I begin the day clean.’

‘And cleanliness is next to Godliness, so I am told,’ she said, treading water beside him.

‘I do not know about that, but what I do know is that dirt spreads contagion and disease and it behoves me to set a good example.’

She was aware that this was not the sort of conversation a well-bred young lady should be having with a man, certainly not in their present state of undress, but she could not bring herself to turn away from him. He fascinated her. ‘Oh, I am sure you do.’

‘You are a long way from the beach, Miss Hemingford,’ he said, looking back towards the bathing huts. ‘Should you have come so far? The tide can be very strong…’

‘I am a good swimmer, Dr Tremayne. Have no fear, you will not be obliged to rescue me.’ She laughed, but he did not respond and she wondered if he ever smiled. ‘I—I can keep going for hours.’

‘You do say.’ His tone was amused, almost disbelieving.

‘I do and, to prove it, I will race you to that rock.’ Before he could respond, she was off, cleaving powerfully through the water.

He kept up with her stroke for stroke, and it was not until they reached the rock that she realised she could not clamber out because what had been a shapeless garment when she put it on, would have a very definite shape now, clinging to every curve of her body: breasts, hips, legs.

‘I must return to my aunt,’ she called out to him, making for the shore. ‘She will be wondering what has become of me.’

‘And I must return to my patients. Good day to you, Miss Hemingford.’

He swam away from her towards a cove below the cliffs and she could see he was wearing breeches, but nothing else. Even in the cool water, she felt herself going hot. She turned and swam back to where Mrs Bartrum floundered in three feet of water. Her aunt was not alone.

Major Mancroft was beside her, wearing a loose-fitting jacket and trousers of the same rough cotton as her dress, which was a relief, for she had heard that the men often swam naked. ‘Miss Hemingford, good morning,’ he called as she approached. ‘I have been endeavouring to persuade your aunt into deeper water.’

‘No, no,’ the lady said, thoroughly embarrassed. ‘I am perfectly at ease here.’

‘Madam, you will become cold if you do not move around a little,’ he said, moving closer. ‘Pray, let me assist you. Take my hand. There is nothing to worry about. We are unobserved from the shore and no one thinks anything of it when ladies and gentleman meet in the water. It has a calming influence, you know.’

Anne laughed. ‘Is that another of its cures?’

Her aunt was shivering. ‘I think I have been in the water long enough for a first encounter,’ she said, turning back to the bathing machine where Susan waited at the top of the steps with a large towel. ‘I will dress and wait for you on the promenade. Do not hurry, if you are enjoying yourselves.’ And with that she disappeared under the hood.

‘I, too, have had enough for my first dip,’ Anne told the Major, making for the machine she had been using, glad of the shelter of the canvas hiding her as she climbed the steps and hurried inside.

The horse was put back into the shafts and the little vehicle was pulled up on to dry land, and half an hour later she stepped down, fully dressed again and feeling thoroughly refreshed. She would come again if the weather remained calm.

When she regained the promenade, she discovered Major Mancroft, once more in uniform, had arrived before her and was sitting on a bench talking to her aunt. ‘Ah, Miss Hemingford, I thought I would wait and escort you home. I am not on duty today.’ He rose and offered both arms and the ladies took one each and strolled along the sea front, talking easily as they went, with Amelia and Susan falling in behind them.

‘Did you see service in the Peninsula, Major?’ Mrs Bartrum asked.

‘Alas, no. I am on the staff, which is why I am in Brighton at the moment. In case his Highness needs me.’

‘Is he in residence?’

‘He is expected, I believe.’

‘And does Lady Mancroft come to Brighton every year?’

‘Almost ever year. My father finds sea water very efficacious for his gout, you know. He drinks it with milk every day.’ And when Anne pulled a face, added, ‘I believe there are other ingredients, even more unappetising.’

‘I think I will confine myself to bathing in it,’ she said.

‘I agree wholeheartedly. Perhaps we shall meet in the water again before long.’

‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, thinking of Dr Tremayne.

He declined an invitation to come in for refreshment when they arrived, saying his mother was expecting him, but he looked forward to having supper with them that evening, and with that he bowed and departed.

‘He really is most agreeable,’ her aunt said, as they divested themselves of their outer garments and went to the morning room for a light nuncheon. ‘But I was mortified when he approached me in the water. I am quite sure that it is not the thing, for all he says people think nothing of it. No doubt he thinks he has stolen a march on his friend Gosforth. If they see themselves as rivals, it could make our stay very interesting.’

‘Rivals, Aunt?’ Anne teased. ‘You mean for your hand?’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Anne. How can you say such a thing? I am a widow and shall remain one to the end of my days. It was your hand I was thinking of.’

‘You promised not to matchmake.’

‘Nor will I. There is no need, the gentlemen will come flocking.’

‘If you are right, they will be torn between my fortune and your sweet nature.’

‘Then we shall have some fun, shan’t we?’ Her aunt, mischievous as always, laughed.



After they had eaten, Mrs Bartrum declared that bathing in the sea had made her tired and she wanted to be at her very best for the supper party, so she proposed to lie on her bed for an hour or two and suggested Anne do the same. But Anne was full of energy; besides, she had a secret mission she wanted to accomplish. She waited until her aunt’s bedroom door had closed and Amelia had settled down in the parlour to stitch the lace and flowers on her evening gown, then left the house to visit the bank where Harry had arranged she could draw on funds as she needed them. She drew a hundred guineas in cash and, weighed down by the clinking coins, set off for Doctor Tremayne’s house.

The waiting room was as crowded as ever and she wondered if she was wrong to interrupt him at his work, but when Mrs Armistead told him she was there, he instructed the woman to conduct her to his private room at the back of the house and he would be with her as soon as he could.

Mrs Armistead led her to a small drawing room, bade her be seated and asked if she would like refreshments, but Anne declined. ‘I can see you are very busy,’ she said. ‘I shall be quite content to wait until the doctor can see me.’

‘Do you wish to consult him? There is no need for you to come here; he would visit you at home.’

‘Oh, I am not ill, Mrs Armistead, I never felt better. But you may recall I promised a donation. And to tell the truth, I am fascinated by the doctor’s work and should like to know more.’

‘I am sure he will be happy to accommodate you.’ It was said a little stiffly and Anne realised she had sounded pompous, as if she meant to inspect the place before handing over money; that was not what she intended at all. But before she could put matters right, the woman had excused herself and disappeared.

Anne looked round the room. It was very small and ill furnished with two stuffed chairs whose arms were worn, a table that had once been highly polished but was now stained and dull, some dining chairs and a bookcase. She rose to inspect the titles of the books it contained. The doctor’s taste in reading was broad to say the least. There were medical tomes, philosophical works, books on flora and fauna, tales of the sea, books of poetry and the novels of Sir Walter Scott and even two of Jane Austen’s. She was leafing through a treatise on the efficacy of sea water when the door opened behind her and Justin Tremayne entered.

The books and the room itself faded from her vision as she turned to face him. He had retrieved his coat and put it on, but otherwise he looked just as he had on their first meeting. He was every bit as handsome, his brown eyes just as cold, his jaw just as firm, but his swim seemed to have done him little good; he looked so thin and tired, she had an unexpected urge to mother him, to make him sit down and rest and provide him with nourishing food. His opening words soon disabused her of the idea he was an overgrown child.

‘Madam, I understand you wish to inspect my premises. The two rooms in which I work and the kitchen you have already seen on your earlier visit, and now you have had time to look round the drawing room. There is nothing else but my bedroom. Do you wish to see that? I have to tell you the bed is probably unmade and my garments strewn about—’ He stopped abruptly when he noticed the look of astonishment on her face.

‘Dr Tremayne, you quite mistake the matter. I have no wish to inspect your premises, much less intrude on your domestic arrangements. My interest is purely in the work you do. I admire it greatly and would like to do something to help.’

He bowed, unsmiling. ‘My apologies, ma’am.’

‘Oh, please, do not call me ma’am, it makes me sound so old.’ It was said with a friendly smile that quite unnerved him. He had taken her for an interfering do-gooder who wanted to take over his charitable work and run it for her own gratification, but perhaps he had been wrong.

‘Miss Hemingford, I beg your pardon. Please be seated.’ He picked up a little brass bell and rang it vigorously. ‘I will ask Mrs Armistead to bring us some tea.’

‘Only if you were planning to stop for some yourself. I have no wish to take you from your work.’

‘He needs to take a rest, Miss Hemingford.’ Mrs Armistead had come quickly in answer to the bell and had heard her last remark. ‘I have great trouble making him stop to eat at all.’

‘Tea, please, Janet,’ he said wearily. ‘And some of those little biscuits you made yesterday.’

‘You look tired,’ Anne said, as Mrs Armistead left them. She seated herself in one of the stuffed chairs, knowing he would not sit himself unless she did. ‘Could you not take on some help?’

‘If I could find someone who would work for nothing, I would gladly do so,’ he said, collapsing in a heap in the other chair. ‘But as no one is prepared to do that, I struggle on alone.’

‘Why do you do it?’

‘Now there’s a question!’ His expression was lightened with a genuine smile. ‘I suppose because the work is there, crying out to be done, and someone ought to do it. Brighton is full of wealthy people, aristocrats many of them, able to pay handsomely for medical treatment for whatever ailments their imaginations conjure up, so it attracts the ambitious physician out to make his mark in the world, but they are not the only ones to fall ill. The poor are suffering too. Their ailments, unlike those of the rich, are often the result of too little food and not over-indulgence—’ He stopped, realising he was almost certainly talking to one of the wealthy upper class he was denigrating. ‘I beg your pardon, you do not want to hear this.’

‘Indeed I do.’ He had a mellifluous speaking voice that she could have listened to for hours, whatever he had to say. She ignored the other voice, the one in her head, which told her she should not be holding a conversation with a man, not even a gentleman, alone in his rooms. She was independent enough and old enough to do as she pleased. And though Aunt Bartrum would not approve, Aunt Bartrum need never know.

Mrs Armistead brought in the tea tray and withdrew, saying she had some cleaning up to do in the waiting room, if they were to be ready for the second onslaught in the evening. When she had gone, Anne offered to pour the tea and he nodded agreement.

‘How did you come into this work, Dr Tremayne?’ she asked as she handed him a cup of tea and sat down again with one for herself.

‘Believe it or not, I was a naval surgeon until two years ago when I sustained a wound that forced me to leave the service. I needed something to make me feel wanted and useful and set up practice here in Brighton.’

So that was the reason for the limp, though it did not seem to incapacitate him unduly. ‘Why Brighton?’

He shrugged, unwilling to explain he had simply been wandering up and down the south coast, wanting to be near the sea, but unsure where to settle. He could not go home to Devon; home was where his brother was. And Sophie. He did not want to see them and he was equally sure they did not want to see him.

‘I was visiting the town and saw the need,’ he told Anne. ‘A child, very like little Tildy, had been attacked by a dog on the beach and was badly mauled. Luckily it wasn’t rabid. I did what I could for her and took her to hospital. Her injured face haunted me and when I discovered she had been sent out begging by her parents, I was incensed. I stormed off to visit them, but as soon as I met them, I realised they were not entirely to blame. They were both in the last stages of famine. The father had consumption and could not work and the mother had recently been delivered of another baby, which had not survived, and she had the fever. There were two other children, both younger than the one I had treated. Two older ones were working in service, but they earned little more than their keep and were unable to send home more than coppers. That little girl was the breadwinner for the family.’

‘And so you began a one-man crusade?’

‘You could say that. I did what I could for them and that led to others seeking my help and so I started this practice and, before I had time to blink, I was overwhelmed with patients.’ His smile was no more than a twitch of his lips, as if smiling was something he did not practise very often, but it was an attempt at one and she felt encouraged.

‘Mrs Smith told me you never turned anyone away.’

‘How can I, Miss Hemingford? I am a healer.’

‘And do you rely totally on donations?’

‘I have a naval pension and a small private income, but it is not enough. I beg, Miss Hemingford, that is what I do. I write letters to wealthy people, I write to the newspapers, I ask charitable organisations for donations and, on the few occasions I am called to treat someone who can well afford my services, I charge them an exorbitant fee. So far we have survived, but…’ He shrugged expressively.

She put her teacup on the tray and opened her reticule to withdraw the bag of money she had brought with her. ‘I thought you would prefer cash to a bill,’ she said, laying it on the table.

‘Thank you,’ he said, making no move to pick it up and see how much it contained. It was acceptable, whatever the amount. ‘You are very kind.’

‘I wish I could do more. In fact, I intend to do more.’

‘Miss Hemingford,’ he said, looking perplexed, ‘why?’

‘For the same reason you have given me for what you do, because the need is there…’

‘I wish others felt as you do. Most people think that if they pay their poor rates, they have done all that can be expected of them.’

‘I am not most people, Dr Tremayne.’

‘No.’ She was most definitely not ‘most people’; she had the face of an angel, the figure of a goddess, soft expressive eyes and a pink complexion, which was something rarely seen among the people he usually dealt with, who were raddled with illness and gaunt with hunger. He had no idea how old she was, but she was certainly no silly schoolgirl, but a self-possessed mature woman, as unlike Sophie as it was possible to be. Sophie, beautiful, spoiled, faithless Sophie, whom he had once loved. He pulled himself together; it was all in the past and he had since learned to live simply and concentrate on the problems each day brought.

So why did the woman who faced him now make him want to rush out and buy himself a new suit of clothes and a dozen cravats, so that he could meet her on equal terms? What a ninny he was! He had no money to buy suits, hardly had enough to buy a handkerchief. And in any case it was better spent on medicines and bandages. ‘I am grateful for any help,’ he said.

‘I suppose taking on a pupil would not serve?’

‘It would be better than nothing, but so far none has turned up. Those whose fathers can pay fees, do not like the long hours, the unhealthy environment in which most of my poor patients live and they are afraid of catching something…’ He paused. ‘Are you not afraid of that yourself, Miss Hemingford?’

‘I enjoy the rudest of health.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I should hate to think of anyone as lovely as you are, falling victim to any of the common diseases to be found in my waiting room.’

‘Dr Tremayne!’ She blushed crimson at the compliment.

‘I beg your pardon. I am afraid I am too outspoken at times. You may blame living on board a man o’ war and then among people who tend to say what is in their minds without troubling about convention.’

She smiled. ‘You are forgiven.’

‘I meant what I said.’

‘In other words, you wish me anywhere but here.’

‘Yes. No. Oh, dear, you are confusing me. Clever women always confuse me.’

She threw back her head and gave a joyous laugh. ‘First I am lovely and now I am clever. You will quite turn my head, Dr Tremayne. I implore you to change the subject before I become too big for my boots.’

He looked down at her neat buttoned boots and realised they had cost more than he spent on housekeeping in a month. What did he think he was at, flirting with a lady of her calibre? Oh, he might have been able to hold his own a few years back, when he was still living at home, recognised for the gentleman he was, and even later when promotion was still a possibility, but not now. His poverty was all too apparent and she was only playing with him. He could imagine her going back to her fine friends and saying, ‘I had the most extraordinary encounter with a strange pleb this afternoon…’

‘I mean to try and find you an assistant,’ she said, when he had been silent so long she wondered if he would ever speak again.

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

She laughed. ‘Pay him.’

‘But you cannot do that. It would be a long-term commitment…’

‘And do you think I am incapable of making such a commitment?’

‘Not at all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘But I do not think pin money will suffice, unless—’ He had been going to say unless she was extremely wealthy, but stopped himself in time; the state of her purse was no concern of his. ‘Surely you have family and advisers looking after your money who have to approve the way you dispose of it?’

‘None,’ she said. ‘I am a free agent and I have more than I shall ever be able to spend.’

So she was wealthy. He was not sure if he was glad or sorry for that. Apart from her name, he knew nothing else about her. Who was she? Where had she come from? How could a single woman as young as she was control her own money? Surely she was not one of those demi-reps who pranced about Brighton on the arms of their aristocratic lovers, glad to have risen above the lives they were born to? Was it conscience money she was offering? He did not want to believe that. For the first time in years, he found himself admiring a woman, but stopped himself before his foolishness let him down again. She was beautiful, but Sophie had been beautiful too and what had that signified except a cold, calculating heart.

‘I think you should go away and think about this very carefully before you do something you might regret,’ he said.

‘Oh, I intend to. I shall make the most stringent enquiries, have no fear. You will not be burdened by a cabbage-head or an idler.’

‘I was not referring to the assistant, Miss Hemingford.’

She rose to go. ‘Oh, I know that, Dr Tremayne.’ She laughed as she offered him her hand. ‘But my mind is made up and those who know me best will tell you I am not easily diverted from my purpose.’

He could well believe that, he decided, as he took her hand and raised it to his lips before going to the door and opening it for her. He walked beside her down the corridor and passed the open door of the waiting room, already filling up with new patients. ‘You will be hearing from me again,’ she said. And without waiting for more protestations she stepped out into the street.

As soon as she turned the corner, she stopped and leaned against a wall to stop her knees buckling under her. Had she really had that extraordinary conversation? Had she really promised to find him an assistant and pay his wages? How, in heaven’s name, was she going to do that? She must be mad. She knew nothing about doctors or their assistants or where they could be hired. And, as for making stringent enquiries, she had no idea what questions to ask to verify an applicant’s suitability. And inside her, in the place where her conscience resided, she knew it had all begun as a ploy to keep talking to him, to enjoy his company, to look at that gaunt but handsome face and to wonder what it would be like shining with health. She had been imagining him among the people she associated with, fashionably dressed, his hair trimmed, his cravat starched, dancing with her at a ball, riding with her on the Downs, accepted by her friends as a gentleman. She was mad. Such a thing was not possible.



But that did not stop her from thinking about him and his plight. All the way home, she turned the problem of the assistant over in her mind. She had not come to a solution when she entered the house, nor when she arrived in her room to find Amelia in a taking because she had been gone so long and it was time to dress for supper. ‘Susan went to dress Mrs Bartrum an hour ago,’ she said. ‘And now there is no time to arrange your hair in the style we decided.’

Anne smiled and allowed herself to be dressed and have her hair coiled up on her head and fixed with two jewelled combs; she was hardly aware of Amelia’s grumbling. Her mind was in an untidy room in a back street, drinking tea and making outrageous promises to a man who seemed to have mesmerised her.




Chapter Three (#u49926106-f7e8-5f87-8ebd-2c7a1a840b9a)


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.’




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