Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols

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