Marrying Miss Hemingford (6 page)

‘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 some
thing 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.