Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols

am I supposed to do with it?’ Mrs Bartrum asked. She and Anne and the cook were looking in dismay at a box full of mackerel, herring, whitebait, crab and lobster that had been dumped on the kitchen table.

      ‘I never ordered it,’ Mrs Carter said, in an aggrieved voice. ‘Why would I ask for that amount unless you were going to hold a supper party and you didn’t say anything to me about any such thing, ma’am.’

      ‘No, Mrs Carter, I had no plans for one.’

      ‘The boy who brought it insisted he had come to the right address and he wouldn’t take it away again.’

      ‘No, I don’t suppose he would,’ Anne said, trying to stifle her amusement. ‘It is a gift to me.’

      ‘A gift? Whatever for?’ her aunt demanded. ‘Who do you know in Brighton to give you a gift, and such an extraordinary one as this?’

      Anne, who had slipped into the house the day before and changed her bloodstained clothes before joining her aunt, had not seen fit to tell her about the previous day’s encounter. She didn’t know why she had said nothing; it was not in her nature to keep secrets, but her meeting with Dr Tremayne had been so disturbing she wanted to keep it to herself, at least until she had analysed why he had made her heart beat so fast. If she had been young and silly, she might have said she had fallen in love with him on the spot, but she was not young and silly and so it must surely have another cause.

      Her aunt was looking at her, expecting an answer, and so she was obliged to explain that she had helped the child of a local fisherman and this was his way of saying thank you. ‘She was hurt in an accident with a curricle. I took her to a doctor and went in search of her mother,’ she said.

      ‘I can see the child would need help,’ her aunt said. ‘But were there no gentlemen about who could have done so? It is unseemly for you to be associating with common fishermen.’

      ‘I never met the fisherman, Aunt, only his wife. She is a hardworking woman who wanted to reward me…’

      ‘Surely you can do a good turn without being rewarded?’

      ‘Of course I can, but it would have hurt her pride to refuse. I didn’t realise she would actually send it, nor so much. I thought she would probably forget the minute I had left.’

      ‘So now we have a box of fish that we cannot possibly eat before it goes bad.’

      ‘If we knew anyone to invite, we could give a supper party,’ Anne said.

      ‘You are right,’ her aunt said suddenly. ‘I think it is time we began our social calls. Mrs Carter, take some of the fish for yourself and give some to the other servants and find a tasty recipe to use the rest. It gives us very little time, but a supper party it will have to be. Come, Anne, change your dress. We will call on Lady Mancroft first.’

      Her ladyship had taken a house in St James’s Place, not far from the homes of the elite who occupied the houses in the vicinity of the Pavilion. She was ‘at home’, which meant her elegant drawing room was filled with friends and those newly arrived in the town, like Mrs Bartrum and Anne. She was a tall, heavily built woman, wearing a diaphanous high-waisted gown in a pea-green colour over a slip of darker green and a matching satin turban with three tall feathers fastened to it with a jewelled pin.

      ‘Georgiana!’ she cried when she saw Mrs Bartrum. ‘So you are back in society.’ Being so tall, she had to bend to kiss Aunt Bartrum’s cheek and then stood back to appraise her. ‘You are looking well. I declare widow’s weeds become you, which they don’t everyone, to be sure. What brings you to Brighton?’

      Mrs Bartrum looked suitably doleful at the mention of her mourning, but quickly recovered. ‘I have brought my niece for a visit. She has not been here before and needed a little diversion.’ She took Anne’s hand and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Hemingford.’

      Lady Mancroft lifted her quizzing glass to peer at Anne. ‘Granddaughter of the late Earl of Bostock, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      ‘Not in mourning?’ There was a hint of reproof in her voice.

      ‘Grandfather expressly forbade it. It was his dying wish.’

      ‘But that doesn’t mean the poor girl is not grieving,’ Mrs Bartrum put in quickly ‘She looked after him dutifully and I believe she deserves a little respite.’

      ‘Then we shall have to do our best to amuse you both. Now, let me introduce you to everyone.’

      She led them round the company, naming everyone and explaining who they were in relation to the aristocrats of the day—the cousin of a duke, the daughter of a marquis, a baronet, a banker with no claim to fame except his enormous wealth, Sir Somebody-or-Other, Lady This and Miss That—so that in the end Anne’s head was reeling. She supposed she would remember them all given time.

      ‘And here is my son, Charles,’ her ladyship said, pulling on the sleeve of a Hussar major who was in animated conversation with another gentleman. ‘Charles, come and say how d’you do to Mrs Bartrum. You remember we met her when we went up to the Lakes on a walking tour.’

      He turned and bowed. He was a tall man of about seven and thirty, with a shock of blond curls and pale blue eyes. ‘Your obedient, ma’am. It was several years ago, but I do remember how gracious and hospitable you were.’

      Mrs Bartrum acknowledged this flummery with a smile. ‘This is Miss Hemingford,’ she said, drawing Anne forward. ‘Bostock’s sister.’

      Her aunt’s mention of her relationship to the Earl of Bostock brought home to Anne very forcefully that Harry was now the Earl and her grandfather was no more. It saddened her, but she managed a warm smile. ‘Good afternoon, Major.’

      He executed a flourishing leg. It was, Anne noted, a well-shaped leg clad in the blue pantaloons of the 10th Hussars, the Prince of Wales’s own regiment. She was reminded of the curricle that had knocked over Tildy Smith; the driver of that had been wearing the same uniform, but she realised almost at once that Major Mancroft was not the man. ‘Your obedient, Miss Hemingford,’ he said. ‘May I present my good friend, Captain Gosforth?’

      The man he had been conversing with gave Anne a low bow. He was dressed in a brown frockcoat and biscuit-coloured trousers, held down by a strap under his shoe. He had a rugged complexion, gingery hair and hazel eyes, full of good humour. After the usual civilities had been exchanged with Mrs Bartrum, he asked, ‘Have you taken to the water yet, ladies?’

      ‘No,’ Mrs Bartrum answered him. ‘But we are planning to do so.’

      ‘Nothing like it for effecting a cure,’ he said.

      ‘A cure for what?’ Anne asked.

      ‘Oh, almost anything. Gout, the ague, stomach disorders, consumption, flux…’

      ‘I do not have any of those things, Captain.’ It was said with a smile and a twinkle in the eye.

      ‘No, naturally not. I did not mean—’

      ‘I think you are being gammoned, Walter,’ the Major put in. ‘But taking a dip is not only a cure, Miss Hemingford, it is very invigorating.’

      ‘Then we shall certainly attempt it,’ Mrs Bartrum said. She turned to speak to Lady Mancroft. ‘I am having an informal supper party tomorrow evening, just a small affair with a hand or two of whist afterwards. It is short notice, I know, but perhaps you and Lord Mancroft might care to come? And you, Major Mancroft and Captain Gosforth.’

      ‘Who’s your cook?’ boomed Lord Mancroft. He was a very big man, not only in height but in breadth, and had a vast belly.

      If Mrs Bartrum was taken aback by the question, she did not show it. ‘Her name is Mrs Carter, my lord. She came highly recommended and so far I cannot fault her…’

      ‘Mrs Carter, eh. Then you may expect us. I would give up supper with the Regent for one of her dinners. How did you