Mary Nichols - Marrying Miss Hemingford

‘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 manage to acquire her?’

‘Our agent hired her.’

‘We have a French chef,’ Lady Mancroft explained. ‘And he will brook no interference, otherwise we might have tried to add her to our staff…’

‘I’ll wager Mrs Carter would not have gone,’ Anne whispered to her aunt behind her fan.

Mrs Bartrum, prompted by Lady Mancroft, included Mrs Barry and her two daughters, Annabelle and Jeanette, Sir Gerald Sylvester, an acquaintance of Lord Mancroft, and Lieutenants Cawston and Harcourt, both officers of the 10th Hussars.

‘That’s settled then,’ Mrs Bartrum said, and, after bidding goodbye to the company, she and Anne took their leave.

‘We shall have to live up to Mrs Carter’s reputation now,’ Anne said as they strolled home. ‘Will the fish be enough?’

‘In quantity there is no doubt of it, but we cannot feed them on fish and nothing else. We will have to have a roast or two and a chicken dish, boiled ham and several sweets.’

‘You did say it was to be informal.’

‘So it shall be. Small, select and exquisitely cooked. I will not have Mrs Carter compared unfavourably with a French chef. And they do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

Anne stopped in mid-stride and turned to face her aunt. ‘Which man?’

‘Oh, there are several possibles. Did you not find Major Mancroft very handsome?’

‘He was not ill looking, but…’

‘Oh, I know he is only the son of a baron, for all the superior airs Lord Mancroft assumes, but you have left it a little late to catch a true aristocrat…’

‘Too late, my dear aunt. I told you I did not want you to find me a husband.’

‘I am not. But if one should appear, we should not look a gift horse in the mouth.’

Anne laughed. ‘But Major Mancroft is not a horse.’

‘No, but you know what I mean. I am simply pointing out the possibilities. And there is Captain Gosforth. He was a naval captain, you know. Widowed…’

‘How do you know?’

‘I made it my business to find out. His wife died some years ago while he was away at sea. They had no children. He was invalided out at the beginning of the war and is now a gentleman farmer…’

‘You mean one who does not get his hands dirty or his boots muddy except on the hunting field.’

‘Of course he would not. Anne, how provoking you are. You know I would never think of inviting a yokel to supper. He is related to Lord Downland, I think, though I am not sure of the exact relationship, but he is perfectly acceptable.’

‘Maybe he has his sights elsewhere.’

‘With you in the room, no single man has any business looking elsewhere.’

Anne burst out laughing and hugged her aunt’s arm as they continued their walk. ‘Oh, Aunt Georgie, you are as good as any medicine.’ And suddenly she was remembering Dr Tremayne again. Was he single? Surely a man as dedicated and busy as he was would need a wife to help him? She had at first thought Mrs Armistead was his wife until he had addressed her by name and in a voice that one would use to a servant, so she supposed she was his housekeeper or perhaps a nurse to help with his patients, but one who also made sure he had regular meals.

One thing was certain, he was not afraid to dirty his hands, nor his clothes come to that, and he had spent five minutes in the same room with her before he had even deigned to notice her. He had a hard outer crust, but that was assumed, she was sure of it, because when he was dealing with Tildy, his whole expression had changed and his eyes had softened and become full of concern. Like her, he loved children. She smiled; it was a good thing her aunt did not know what was occupying her thoughts at that moment.

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I was thinking of Lord Mancroft’s praise of Mrs Carter,’ she fibbed. ‘She must be famous in Brighton.’

‘Judging by the size of his lordship’s waist, I would say he was an expert in culinary appreciation, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh, no doubt of it,’ Anne laughed, then added, ‘Shall we take a dip tomorrow? Mrs Smith, the mother of that little girl, is a bathing attendant and she said she would look out for us.’

‘You seem to have found out a lot about her in a short time, Anne.’ There was a note of censure in her voice and Anne found herself on the defensive.

‘Not at all. I know very little. The child told us her mother worked on the beach, so I went in search of her. The husband is a fisherman and there is also a boy called Tom. I imagine it was he who brought the fish to us. Tom was supposed to be looking after Tildy while his mother worked, but he went off to help his father.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘He had apparently caught a monster.’

‘A monster? What kind of monster?’