Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols

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.’

      ‘I should give you the fish for your help, not sell it,’ the woman said doubtfully.

      Tildy had been listening to this and could not keep quiet a moment longer. ‘She could buy the monster.’

      Anne laughed. ‘I don’t think I should know how to cook a monster.’

      She turned as Dr Tremayne came into the room, rather like a whirlwind, all blow and hurry, his hair in more disarray than ever, but it made no difference, Anne’s heart began to jump in her throat and it was all she could do to maintain an outward show of composure.

      ‘You found her, then?’ he queried.

      ‘Yes.’ She held his glance, searching his face. His brown eyes told of something she could not quite fathom; it might have been weariness, but it was more than that— sadness or bitterness perhaps. Was it because of the horrors of what he had seen as a doctor, frustration for the ills of the poor people he treated, which one man alone could not cure, or something in his past? Whatever it was made her feel uncomfortable, as if she were responsible. ‘I must go, my aunt will be wondering what has become of me, I only meant to be out an hour or so.’ She paused. ‘I shall arrange to make a donation as soon as I can.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He did not know what else to say. He had misjudged her, but what did it matter if he had? He was merely a physician struggling against the odds in the poorest part of the community and she was a woman of means, that was obvious. Once he might have been her equal, not any more.

      ‘Where shall the fish be sent?’ Mrs Smith asked.

      Anne gave her the address, wondering what cook would say when she was presented with a week’s supply of fish all at once. She could not remember if her aunt was fond of fish, though they had both enjoyed the turbot the night before. She turned to Tildy. ‘Goodbye, Tildy. Be a good girl now, and when you are better, perhaps your mama will bring you to see me.’ She kissed the child’s forehead, smiled at Mrs Smith, who tried to thank her, then held out her hand to the doctor. ‘Goodbye, Dr Tremayne. I shall tell my friends of your good work. It deserves to be recognised.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      She retreated hastily before she could let herself down by telling him she hoped they would meet again, which would have been far too bold. She hurried from the house and made her way home as briskly as she could.

      Justin Tremayne watched until the door had closed on her, then turned to Mrs Smith. ‘Look after that child, madam. She needs rest and…’ He stopped. What was the good of telling her she also needed good food? ‘Send for me if you have the slightest cause for concern. Head wounds can be funny things. She was lucky Miss Hemingford brought her here so quickly.’

      ‘I know, sir, I know.’ She opened her palm to show the coins Anne had given her. ‘How much do I owe you?’

      ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You spend that on a good dinner.’

      She thanked him and picked up the little girl. He put his finger out to touch the child under the chin and for a moment his eyes softened. ‘Take care.’

      ‘You’re a fool,’ Mrs Armistead said, as soon as they had gone. ‘You can’t live on air, you know.’

      ‘Neither can they. And Miss Hemingford has promised a donation, so we can carry on a little longer.’

      He only hoped she had meant it. After all, she had promised to return with Tildy’s mother and she had done that and perhaps that meant she was the exception to the rule and was a young lady who kept her word. If and when the donation arrived, he would write and thank her for it, which was only courtesy, after all, and then perhaps… He shook himself and went back to his surgery to call in