Marrying Miss Hemingford (2 page)

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 Man
croft'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?'