Marrying Miss Hemingford Read online

  ‘Certainly I do. It has been a very tiring day and you are perhaps not quite up to the mark.’

  ‘There is nothing at all wrong with me, Anne, and I will not be treated like an invalid…’

  ‘But you fainted.’

  ‘It was the heat and lack of air in that tent.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘And that impudent young doctor was right: I was laced up too tight. Silly of me at my age.’

  ‘It is not your age that makes it silly, but the fact that you have the figure of someone half your age and do not need to.’

  ‘Oh Anne, you are the best medicine in the world. I do not need doctors when I have you.’

  ‘You don’t think you should see Lady Mancroft’s physician? She did recommend him most strongly.’

  ‘No. If I see anyone at all, it will be Dr Tremayne.’

  ‘But, Aunt,’ Anne protested. ‘He was rude and insensitive…’

  ‘He was also right. I do not want someone to pander to my whims and charge me a fortune for medicine whose only recommendation is that it tastes vile.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her aunt could be very capricious when she chose; she had looked down her nose at Dr Tremayne when she met him after church and she was certainly not at all pleased with him when he grumbled about her corset, and yet she was prepared to consult him again. ‘I thought you did not like him. You said you thought he must have some dark secret in his past, though why you should say it, I do not know. He seemed perfectly straightforward to me.’

  ‘He is certainly not afraid of speaking his mind.’

  ‘What is wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing at all, but it suggests a familiarity with society that only the best physicians would dare to assume—’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘He is impertinent to you and that commends him to you more than his knowledge of medicine. Aunt, how can you be so whimsical?’

  ‘I meant it probably signifies he is higher in station than he appears.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Anne tried to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘But would a man of any consequence go to sea as a ship’s surgeon?’

  ‘Probably not. Unless something happened to send him from home. Perhaps in disgrace.’

  This was something she had not considered. But try as she might, she could not imagine the doctor doing anything dishonourable or disreputable. Except, of course, for requiring his female patients to undress. She could imagine ladies of the haut monde being outraged by that. ‘Aunt Georgie, I do believe you are curious.’

  ‘Not at all. Why should a penniless doctor interest me, except in so far as he knows his business?’

  ‘No reason at all.’ She paused. ‘So, are you going to consult him again?’

  ‘Will it set your mind at rest if I do?’

  ‘Yes, I think it will.’

  ‘Then I shall ask him to call tomorrow.’

  Would he come? Anne wondered. After all, they had had cross words and her aunt had hardly been grateful for his help. He might prefer to stay at home and treat those who were more appreciative. And if he did come, would it be to deliver another homily about tight clothing? Should she absent herself or stay to defend her aunt? Not that she thought her aunt needed defending, she was quite capable of standing up for herself. But she did want to see him again, if only to ask him if it was true he had been given notice to quit and how she could help him.

  Justin was unprepared for a summons to attend Mrs Bartrum, nor was he inclined to go. The man on the couch needed immediate hospital treatment for a leg crushed by a lump of falling masonry from a villa he was renovating, the waiting room was full and he had a long list of home visits, including one to Tildy Smith. Head wounds were notoriously difficult and she still needed watching. He had no time for silly matrons who put vanity above health. On the other hand, if he went he might see Miss Hemingford again. It grieved him that they had quarrelled, not least because she might change her mind about helping him. Or so he told himself, though he was not altogether convincing.

  ‘I cannot go now,’ he told Mrs Armistead. ‘If it is urgent, the lady must seek help elsewhere.’

  She went off to relay the message and came back with the information that it was not a pressing matter and a call at his convenience would be appreciated.

  ‘Then tell the messenger I will go later this afternoon.’ He paused to look up from binding the man’s leg. ‘Janet, will you oblige me by pressing my best coat and laying out a clean shirt and cravat?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’ She nodded at his patient. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Get Joe Badger to take him to the infirmary in his wagon. There’s money in the tin to pay him.’ He had already made inroads into the money Miss Hemingford had given him, buying medicines, antiseptics and bandages for use in his consulting room, and bars of soap that he had distributed to his poorer patients, though whether they would use them was debatable.

  As soon as the patient had been sent off, Justin called in the next one, a skinny little boy with sores all over his face; he was followed by a woman in an advanced stage of pregnancy. And so the morning wore on. He did his work efficiently and conscientiously, not allowing his mind to wander. When the last one had gone he took off the apron he had tied round himself, washed his hands thoroughly and went through to the kitchen to eat the meal Mrs Armistead had cooked. By then his thoughts were whirling again.

  Why had he been summoned? When Mrs Bartrum was in his room, he had forgotten the protocol of dealing with a lady from the upper echelons of society and treated her as if she were one of his commonplace patients; she had been mortified and Miss Hemingford had been furious, as well they might be. So, who had suggested sending for him? Was Mrs Bartrum in need of medical attention or was it some ploy of Miss Hemingford’s? There was only one way to find out.

  He finished his meal and went up to his bedroom to change. His clothes were clean but shabby because he could not see the sense in dressing himself up in finery to administer to the poor and the money saved was better spent on something worthwhile. Once, he would not have felt like that, once he would have been ashamed to be seen in anything but the latest fashion, his hair curled, his cravat tied exactly so, his boots gleaming. He found himself thinking of what might have been, if only…

  He might have been at Sevenelms with a wife and children, he might have been a distinguished scholar researching into some important aspect of medicine, he might have been an eminent doctor teaching future doctors his theories on the way disease was spread, he might have been able to command huge fees and a great deal of respect. But it hadn’t happened and all because of Sophie’s perfidy. It was strange that he was no longer resentful of that; she had done him a favour, enabled him to see where his talents lay, taught him the meaning of true Christian charity. And he would not have met Miss Anne Hemingford. Did the fact that she had sprung so readily to his mind mean that he was beginning to forget his hurt and humiliation at the hands of another woman?

  Why Miss Hemingford should have impressed him so much he did not know, but she had. She had a beautiful face, glorious hair and a figure to match, but that was only the beginning. There was a depth in her amber eyes that betokened intelligence and compassion—more than that, a steely determination too. She could be top lofty and imperious one minute, and kneeling down in the dirt to comfort a child the next. She thought money could buy anything, even his gratitude… He laughed at himself. It certainly did that—he was too impecunious to turn his nose up at any donation, let alone a hundred guineas. He finished dressing and set off for his appointment.

  When he arrived, he was shown into the drawing room where Anne was sitting reading a library book. She put it down and rose to greet him. ‘Doctor Tremayne,’ she said, noticing that he had taken trouble with his appearance; his hair was tidy and his cravat spotless. She could almost believe he was a gentleman, an indigent one whose coat was three years out of fashion, but a gentleman for all that. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Mrs Bartrum
has not taken a turn for the worse, I trust?’

  ‘No, no, but you did suggest she should consult a doctor…’

  ‘Only to have my diagnosis confirmed.’ There was a faint smile about his lips. ‘I can hardly act as my own second opinion.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my aunt wishes to consult you.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘You must have made an impression on her, though I cannot think why when she was in a dead faint most of the time.’

  He looked as though he were about to laugh, but then he pulled himself together. ‘Miss Hemingford, are you bamming me?’

  ‘Indeed, I am not. I would not presume on so short an acquaintance.’

  He wondered if she would do so on a longer acquaintance and he allowed himself to imagine them teasing each other, laughing together, happy in each other’s company, but, suddenly remembering Sophie, he brought himself back to reality. ‘Then where is my patient?’

  ‘Expecting you, if you would be so good as to follow me.’ She conducted him to her aunt’s boudoir where Mrs Bartrum and Susan waited for him. Having ushered him into the room, Anne left them and returned downstairs to order tea to be served in the drawing room when the consultation came to an end.

  He came downstairs half an hour later. ‘How is she?’ she asked.

  ‘Right as ninepence,’ he said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. Mrs Bartrum was intelligent and perceptive and, once he had finished his examination of her to which she had not protested, she had asked some probing questions that he found difficult to turn aside without being rude. He had felt like a schoolboy caught out in a prank or a young suitor being roasted by a parent about his prospects. Where was his home? What had made him take up medicine? Where had he studied? Was he married? Did he hope to be? He was tempted to retort that he was not a green boy, that he had no pretensions towards her or her niece, but it was not in his nature to be impertinent; he was brusque when occasioned demanded, but not impertinent. He smiled. ‘We had a very frank discussion…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Miss Hemingford, you surely do not expect me to break my patient’s confidence, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not, I only wished to know if there is anything I should be aware of…’

  ‘If there is, your aunt will tell you.’

  The maid arrived with the tea and she invited him to take some refreshment, but he declined, rather tersely, Anne thought. ‘I am afraid I have no time, I have other patients to see,’ he told her. Then he picked up his hat and departed, leaving her feeling deflated, as if he had known she wanted to discuss his assistant, or lack of one, and his need for new premises, and was avoiding it. And his enigmatic replies to her questions worried her. She hurried up to her aunt’s room, where Mrs Bartrum was sitting at her table, playing patience. ‘Well, Aunt, what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing I did not know already.’ She put the eight of clubs on the nine of diamonds and continued dealing the pack. ‘He is a struggling physician with a conscience, not a comfortable state to be in, to be sure.’

  ‘I meant about you.’

  ‘Me? I am in the best of health.’

  ‘Oh, I am so glad to hear it. I was afraid…’

  ‘Goodness, child, you have no reason to be.’

  ‘You mean you asked him to call in order to quiz him?’

  ‘I did no such thing. It would have been ill mannered.’

  ‘So he did not mention losing his home?’

  ‘No, why should he? It is his business, not ours.’

  ‘But it must be very worrying if it is true.’

  ‘Anne, you are showing a great deal of concern for the man, I do hope there is no more to it than Christian charity…’

  ‘Of course not, what more could there be?’

  Her aunt gave her a sidelong look and collected up the cards. ‘I am glad to hear it. Now let us forget him and have our tea. And then we must make ourselves ready for this evening’s ball.’

  Anne’s head and heart had been so full of the doctor she had almost forgotten the ball. Somehow she could not summon up any enthusiasm for it, but her aunt was evidently looking forward to it and so they drank tea without mentioning Dr Tremayne again and afterwards went to their respective rooms to change into ball gowns.

  It was over a year since Anne had attended a ball and that had been with Harry and Jane, and suddenly she was looking forward to it. Amelia had spent hours sewing dozens of little silk violets on the lilac gauze, round the neckline, the little puffed sleeves and under the high waist, which was also threaded with green ribbon.

  ‘There!’ Amelia said as she finished her coiffure with more green ribbon threaded through her tresses. ‘You will be the belle of the ball. I am sure Major Mancroft and Captain Gosforth will be in raptures over you. Which one do you prefer?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘But if they offered…’

  ‘They will not offer for me, Amelia. I certainly hope they do not, for if they did, I should know it was only out of disappointment that my aunt had turned them down.’

  ‘And you do not mind?’

  ‘Of course not. I am not looking for a husband, and, if I were, it would not be either of those.’

  ‘Mrs Bartrum will be disappointed.’

  ‘So she may be, but she is also sensible of my feelings.’ She smiled at her friend. ‘If I marry, which is very unlikely seeing I have reached the grand old age of seven-and-twenty without an offer I could consider, the man must have more substance than those two gentlemen. He must be strong and handsome, intelligent and compassionate towards those less fortunate…’

  ‘Perhaps that is why you have not married. Your standards are too exacting and you frightened them all away.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘There was a time when I thought you were taken by Lord Montford’s son and there was Dr Harrison…’

  ‘Doctor Harrison?’ she repeated in surprise.

  ‘Yes, surely you remember? You caught a dreadful chill travelling to London from Sutton Park with Jane and Harry. It was about three years ago, as I recall, before they were married. Jane insisted you stay with her to be looked after and he was sent for. He came every day, more often than I thought was necessary, and you were often alone with him…’

  ‘Goodness, that was because I was scheming to throw Harry and Jane together and I needed his help.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘He had some very modern ideas about medicine, I recall. I believe he is a professor now at one of the teaching hospitals.’

  ‘Oh, and I thought you had rejected him because he was not a gentleman…’

  ‘I would not have cared a fig whether he were a gentleman or not if he had been right for me, Amelia.’ He had been young, handsome and caring, but the spark had not been there; the spark that was necessary to ignite the flame of mutual love was missing. How she had known it was missing, she did not know then, but she was beginning to recognise it now. Though what good it would do her, she had no idea. Aunt Bartrum had said she should not make a push to make herself noticed and those cold brown eyes had not softened towards her.

  But while they had been talking, it had come to her that Professor Harrison was the answer to her problem of finding an assistant for Dr Tremayne. If he did not know of a suitable candidate, he would tell her how to go about finding one. Tomorrow she would write to him and then she would endeavour to find out if there was any truth in the rumour that the doctor’s house was to be pulled down, because something must be done about it if it were.

  She rose and left the room, prepared to enjoy the ball and amuse herself watching her aunt’s two suitors falling over themselves to be favoured. It was as if she had two separate lives; the one inhabited by her aunt and her matchmaking and the other by Dr Tremayne and his crowded waiting room. It was uncomfortable and smacked of deceit and she wished wholeheartedly the two could be merged. But she did not see how that could be brought about. Her aunt did not look upon a ship’s surgeon and country doctor as her equal, even though she admitted Anne would
never find a husband as high in station as she thought she deserved. Aunt Bartrum was prepared to compromise, but not that far. In any case, Anne told herself ruefully, the man himself was impervious to her.

  Justin was far from impervious, but he had promised himself that no woman would ever again humiliate him as Sophie had done and he made a manful effort to thrust thoughts of both ladies from his mind. He told himself he had more important things to concern him than the fair sex. His comfortable existence, comfortable only in as much as it did not require him to think about anything but his patients, was being turned upside down. He had that morning met someone from his past, someone who could tell the world who he really was, and he had been given a month’s notice to quit his home, and where he would go and what would happen to his patients he had no idea. And threaded through all was the image of a beautiful woman.

  He had tried to keep her at arm’s length, to treat her coolly, to pretend he was only interested in the money she might donate, but it had not worked. She was pushing memories of Sophie from his mind, insinuating herself in her place and before long he would be trapped. Again. Just when he had reached some quiet in his life, he was faced with more turmoil. Damn her. Damn all women. He would not allow it to happen.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and a few moments later Mrs Armistead showed Walter Gosforth, dressed in pristine evening attire, into his cluttered drawing room. He rose to greet him. ‘I half expected you.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I could not see an old friend in such extraordinary circumstances and not try to discover what had caused the change, could I?’

  Justin poured them both a glass of cognac and resumed his seat, indicating the other chair to his guest. ‘Curious, were you?’

  ‘Yes, I admit it. Did you go home after you left the navy?’

  ‘Briefly. I found I could not stay. Everything had changed, I felt out of place, de trop, if you must know. The woman I had planned to marry had turned out not to be the one for me, after all…’