Marrying Miss Hemingford (3 page)

‘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.'