Mary Nichols - Marrying Miss Hemingford

‘I wish I could do more. In fact, I intend to do more.’

‘Miss Hemingford,’ he said, looking perplexed, ‘why?’

‘For the same reason you have given me for what you do, because the need is there…’

‘I wish others felt as you do. Most people think that if they pay their poor rates, they have done all that can be expected of them.’

‘I am not most people, Dr Tremayne.’

‘No.’ She was most definitely not ‘most people’; she had the face of an angel, the figure of a goddess, soft expressive eyes and a pink complexion, which was something rarely seen among the people he usually dealt with, who were raddled with illness and gaunt with hunger. He had no idea how old she was, but she was certainly no silly schoolgirl, but a self-possessed mature woman, as unlike Sophie as it was possible to be. Sophie, beautiful, spoiled, faithless Sophie, whom he had once loved. He pulled himself together; it was all in the past and he had since learned to live simply and concentrate on the problems each day brought.

So why did the woman who faced him now make him want to rush out and buy himself a new suit of clothes and a dozen cravats, so that he could meet her on equal terms? What a ninny he was! He had no money to buy suits, hardly had enough to buy a handkerchief. And in any case it was better spent on medicines and bandages. ‘I am grateful for any help,’ he said.

‘I suppose taking on a pupil would not serve?’

‘It would be better than nothing, but so far none has turned up. Those whose fathers can pay fees, do not like the long hours, the unhealthy environment in which most of my poor patients live and they are afraid of catching something…’ He paused. ‘Are you not afraid of that yourself, Miss Hemingford?’

‘I enjoy the rudest of health.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I should hate to think of anyone as lovely as you are, falling victim to any of the common diseases to be found in my waiting room.’

‘Dr Tremayne!’ She blushed crimson at the compliment.

‘I beg your pardon. I am afraid I am too outspoken at times. You may blame living on board a man o’ war and then among people who tend to say what is in their minds without troubling about convention.’

She smiled. ‘You are forgiven.’

‘I meant what I said.’

‘In other words, you wish me anywhere but here.’

‘Yes. No. Oh, dear, you are confusing me. Clever women always confuse me.’

She threw back her head and gave a joyous laugh. ‘First I am lovely and now I am clever. You will quite turn my head, Dr Tremayne. I implore you to change the subject before I become too big for my boots.’

He looked down at her neat buttoned boots and realised they had cost more than he spent on housekeeping in a month. What did he think he was at, flirting with a lady of her calibre? Oh, he might have been able to hold his own a few years back, when he was still living at home, recognised for the gentleman he was, and even later when promotion was still a possibility, but not now. His poverty was all too apparent and she was only playing with him. He could imagine her going back to her fine friends and saying, ‘I had the most extraordinary encounter with a strange pleb this afternoon…’

‘I mean to try and find you an assistant,’ she said, when he had been silent so long she wondered if he would ever speak again.

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

She laughed. ‘Pay him.’

‘But you cannot do that. It would be a long-term commitment…’

‘And do you think I am incapable of making such a commitment?’

‘Not at all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘But I do not think pin money will suffice, unless—’ He had been going to say unless she was extremely wealthy, but stopped himself in time; the state of her purse was no concern of his. ‘Surely you have family and advisers looking after your money who have to approve the way you dispose of it?’

‘None,’ she said. ‘I am a free agent and I have more than I shall ever be able to spend.’

So she was wealthy. He was not sure if he was glad or sorry for that. Apart from her name, he knew nothing else about her. Who was she? Where had she come from? How could a single woman as young as she was control her own money? Surely she was not one of those demi-reps who pranced about Brighton on the arms of their aristocratic lovers, glad to have risen above the lives they were born to? Was it conscience money she was offering? He did not want to believe that. For the first time in years, he found himself admiring a woman, but stopped himself before his foolishness let him down again. She was beautiful, but Sophie had been beautiful too and what had that signified except a cold, calculating heart.

‘I think you should go away and think about this very carefully before you do something you might regret,’ he said.

‘Oh, I intend to. I shall make the most stringent enquiries, have no fear. You will not be burdened by a cabbage-head or an idler.’

‘I was not referring to the assistant, Miss Hemingford.’

She rose to go. ‘Oh, I know that, Dr Tremayne.’ She laughed as she offered him her hand. ‘But my mind is made up and those who know me best will tell you I am not easily diverted from my purpose.’

He could well believe that, he decided, as he took her hand and raised it to his lips before going to the door and opening it for her. He walked beside her down the corridor and passed the open door of the waiting room, already filling up with new patients. ‘You will be hearing from me again,’ she said. And without waiting for more protestations she stepped out into the street.

As soon as she turned the corner, she stopped and leaned against a wall to stop her knees buckling under her. Had she really had that extraordinary conversation? Had she really promised to find him an assistant and pay his wages? How, in heaven’s name, was she going to do that? She must be mad. She knew nothing about doctors or their assistants or where they could be hired. And, as for making stringent enquiries, she had no idea what questions to ask to verify an applicant’s suitability. And inside her, in the place where her conscience resided, she knew it had all begun as a ploy to keep talking to him, to enjoy his company, to look at that gaunt but handsome face and to wonder what it would be like shining with health. She had been imagining him among the people she associated with, fashionably dressed, his hair trimmed, his cravat starched, dancing with her at a ball, riding with her on the Downs, accepted by her friends as a gentleman. She was mad. Such a thing was not possible.

But that did not stop her from thinking about him and his plight. All the way home, she turned the problem of the assistant over in her mind. She had not come to a solution when she entered the house, nor when she arrived in her room to find Amelia in a taking because she had been gone so long and it was time to dress for supper. ‘Susan went to dress Mrs Bartrum an hour ago,’ she said. ‘And now there is no time to arrange your hair in the style we decided.’

Anne smiled and allowed herself to be dressed and have her hair coiled up on her head and fixed with two jewelled combs; she was hardly aware of Amelia’s grumbling. Her mind was in an untidy room in a back street, drinking tea and making outrageous promises to a man who seemed to have mesmerised her.

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