Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols

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