Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols

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