‘You could move somewhere better.’
‘What we have suits us. It is near the sea and my husband’s work.’ She smiled. ‘A lick of paint won’t go amiss, though. And the same goes for the boat, so perhaps I’ll keep a little back for that and a new dress for Tildy, but the hospital shall have the rest.’
Smiling, Anne turned to Justin, thinking he had heard what had been said, but he was in conversation with Mrs Tremayne. She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it again, when she heard the woman say, ‘So she is sister to the Earl of Bostock, is she? Ever since I learned her name I have been puzzling over it and now we know. She has been dallying with you, Justin Tremayne. She is far too high in the instep for you, even if you do leave off this foolish idea of being a doctor. You haven’t a hope in hell with her.’
Anne, taken aback by the venom in the woman’s voice, watched Justin for his reaction. His face was set, his mouth a hard line and his eyes narrowed and she thought he was about to explode. Instead he bowed and excused himself, then strode away. He did not even look at her.
Not for a second would he admit he had come to the same conclusion himself. Anne Hemingford was not for him; there were too many impediments. His need to earn a living, for a start. The allowance he had as his father’s second son and his naval pension would not keep her in the way to which her birth and upbringing had conditioned her. And that took no account of his conviction that he was meant to be a doctor, to heal the sick. He could not ask her to become a doctor’s wife; she would not agree to it in any case. If he gave that up, he would have to find something else to do that befitted his role as a gentleman, but he would be miserable if he did and so would she. He had been fooling himself if he had thought differently.
Chapter Nine
It was obvious that Mrs Tremayne’s words had sunk deep. The doctor avoided being alone with Anne and when they were obliged to meet in company he was correct and businesslike. She could not believe that the disclosure of her rank could have made so much difference to him. The love she felt for him knew no barriers, certainly not the artificial ones erected by those who considered one’s place in life sacrosanct. He could relate to the poor, but he seemed to have no difficulty in associating with the ton, so why should he treat her any differently? Why, oh, why did it matter so much? It should not, since she had told him that she did not wish to marry and he had no doubt taken her at her word.
Before coming to Brighton, she had revelled in her spinsterhood, telling herself, and anyone else who would listen, that she was happy and fulfilled; now she knew that was far from the case. There was something missing, something very important. She had become all too aware of it when her body responded so willingly to his caress, turning it to liquid fire, making her forget everything around her, even her own identity. It was like a hunger and thirst that must be assuaged. Was she to go to her grave never having tasted the delights of physical love? Never having experienced motherhood either? She went about in a half-dream, living again every word they had said, every nuance of meaning, every touch, however slight.
When she thought about the times they had been together at his consulting rooms, and, more poignantly still, roaming half-dressed through that empty house, hand in hand, she could have cried with disappointment and frustration. She had had a foretaste then, had known for a brief moment the tenderness of his touch with its promise of more. Much more. And she yearned for it. Just when she decided she would have to do something to ease the pain, even if it were to humiliate herself by telling him how she felt, she remembered Mrs Tremayne’s words about his in-constancy and held her tongue.
‘Anne, what is the matter with you?’ her aunt asked on one occasion when they were sitting over the remains of a late breakfast. ‘If I did not know better, I would say you were sickening for something. Or in love.’
‘Neither, Aunt. I am perfectly well.’
‘Then do look more cheerful, dearest. I am going to the mantua-maker this afternoon to bespoke a new ball gown. I have decided to come right out of mourning for the Grand Ball and need something with a little colour. Will you come too?’
‘I think not.’ Anne put on a bright smile for her aunt’s sake. ‘But I am glad to hear you are coming out of mourning. You are too young to spend the rest of your life in widow’s weeds, but I do not need to buy a gown. One of those we bought in London will do me very well.’
‘But supposing the Prince were to come…’
‘It will still do. I certainly have no wish to charm the prince.’
‘What will you do if you do not accompany me?’
‘I am going to walk to Cliff House. Mrs Smith has been working there for days now and I want to see how she is doing.’
‘It is a long walk. Why not take a cab?’
‘No, I feel the need of exercise.’
‘Then be sure to take Amelia.’
Anne agreed, but she knew the walk was too far for her middle-aged companion; they had hardly reached The Steine before Miss Parker was complaining that she was fagged out and her feet were hurting her. ‘Then you must go back at once,’ Anne said. ‘I shall go on alone.’
‘Miss Hemingford, you should not, really you should not. You might be set upon.’
‘And if I were, what could you do about it?’
‘I don’t know. Scream, I suppose.’
‘I can scream myself, louder than you, I’ll wager. Now, don’t argue. Nothing will happen to me, I am not a silly chit just out of the schoolroom. I am not carrying valuables or wearing any jewels, and I am wearing my oldest clothes, so no one will bother me.’
‘But Mrs Bartrum said—’
‘I know what she said, Amelia, she worries too much, but I can wind her round my thumb, so do not trouble yourself about what she will say.’
Reassured, Miss Parker turned to retrace her steps, leaving Anne to stride on alone, smiling to herself. Amelia was a dear, but sometimes it was hard work dissuading her from what she considered her duty.
It was extraordinary how much work Mrs Smith had managed to do in the few days she had been working at Cliff House. Anne suspected she had given up her job as a dipper in order to devote more time to it, in which case she must be recompensed, especially as she had given three-quarters of her compensation money to the fund.
‘What a difference you have made,’ Anne told her. ‘But who replaced the missing tiles and the broken glass in the windows?’
‘My husband, Miss. He can turn his hand to most things and the doctor helped him. He said it was no good cleaning the rooms if the roof let the rain in, so the repairs must come first. He is getting a man in to see to the rotten treads on the stairs. If you go up there, do be careful.’
Anne was reminded she had climbed the stairs hand in hand with Justin and for a moment she was sad, but she pushed the heartbreaking memory from her and looked around. ‘Right, what would you like me to do?’
‘You, Miss Hemingford? Oh, no, that would not be proper.’
‘Why ever not? I came in my oldest clothes especially and I am not afraid of hard work.’
Mrs Smith looked at Ann’s grey jaconet gown with its trimming of white lace and smiled. Old or not, it was better than anything she had ever owned and that included her wedding dress. ‘You are a lady…’
‘And so are you, much more a lady than many another I could name. So, tell me what you are planning to do next.’ She rolled up her sleeves as she spoke and dragged an apron and a mob cap out of the bag she had brought with her. She hoped Cook would not miss them and report them stolen before she returned.
‘I was going to scrub the shelves in the pantry, but if you are sure…’
‘I am.’
‘Then perhaps you could take that feather duster and fetch down the cobwebs in the bedrooms. We cannot paint the ceilings and walls until they have been dusted.’
‘Very well, that is what I shall do.’ She picked up the long-handled feather duster and another cloth and made her way carefully up the stairs to begi
n work. The physical effort drove some of her low spirits away and she started to sing, but the dust she disturbed made her cough and she thought it more prudent to keep her mouth firmly closed. Before she had been going many minutes, she was covered in a film of grey powder. It settled on the mob cap and the wisps of hair that had soon escaped from it. It settled on her shoulders and on her bare arms, along with a spider or two. She was thankful Harry had made sure she was not afraid of the creatures when they were children. She brushed them off with a smile. And that was how Justin found her.
‘Good heavens! Mrs Smith said you were working, but I never expected this. What are you about?’
She had been so busy, she had not heard him arrive and turned round with a startled look on her face that made him smile. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Whom else did you expect?’
‘No one.’ There was nothing she could do to make herself more presentable. If he disapproved, then it was too bad. She laughed, waving the feather duster and smothering him with dust. ‘I have been getting rid of cobwebs, years and years of cobwebs. And the spiders are huge.’
‘You are not afraid of them?’ He was amused to see the filthy state she was in, but if anything it increased her attraction. She had smudges of dirt on her forehead and cheeks and her hair was so thick it had pushed its way out of the confines of the cap she wore, but she was wonderfully alive, bright as a May morning and dear to him as his own life. If she were not Bostock’s sister… He shook his treacherous thoughts from him before they could lead him into trouble.
‘No, why should I be?’ she asked. ‘They cannot hurt me.’
‘But you should not be doing this work.’
‘Why not? Mrs Smith cannot do it all alone.’
‘No, which is why Mrs Armistead is here to help her.’
‘Mrs Armistead is back?’
‘Yes, her sister is fully recovered and as I still have the temporary nurse to help with my patients, she offered to come. I have left her downstairs helping Mrs Smith. So you see, there is no need for you to grovel around in the dirt.’
‘But I am enjoying myself.’
He was about to say that, not being used to physical labour, she would overtire herself, but thought better of it. She had more than her share of energy. ‘Your aunt would disapprove.’
‘Though I love my aunt dearly, she is not my keeper, Dr Tremayne.’
‘No, I doubt anyone is.’
She laughed. ‘You are probably right. I have had my own way too long.’ She paused, but went on before he could comment. ‘But see how much I have done. We shall soon be able to paint these rooms.’
‘And I suppose you want to do that too?’
‘Oh, may I? I have never painted a room before, but I should love to try. A pale apple green I think, so light and bright and cheerful.’
‘Not very practical.’
He was smiling and when he smiled, her heart melted and her hard-won composure was severely threatened. The only way she could cope was to turn away and wave her grubby arm to encompass the room she had spent a good two hours cleaning. ‘You would rather have a dark colour that did not show the dirt? But surely that does not accord with your insistence on cleanliness? If you can see a thing is not clean, you can do something about it.’
He laughed. ‘Touché, Miss Hemingford. Apple green it shall be. Would you like to choose it and whatever colours you think suitable for the other rooms?’
‘Oh, yes, please. This must once have been a very lovely house, and I shall enjoy making it so again.’
‘But you have done enough for today. It is becoming late and I am sure you have an engagement for this evening.’
‘Goodness, yes. I had forgot. We are promised at Captain Gosforth’s for a musical evening. I must go.’
‘I am beginning to wonder how are you going to return home,’ he said, standing back to survey her critically, one dark brow lifted and a faint smile playing round his mouth. It was strange how they could tease each other and be so easy together one minute and so tense and restrained the next, as if they were constantly battling to be themselves when the proprieties of society demanded quite different behaviour, all stiff politeness. ‘You can hardly walk through the streets like that.’
‘Oh, once I have taken off this apron and cap, washed my face and hands and put on my bonnet and pelisse, I shall look quite presentable, I think.’ She hurried from the room and towards the stairs.
‘Mind those treads!’ he called out, hurrying after her.
He caught her up when she had almost reached the bottom and was just in time to prevent her falling as one of the treads gave way and her foot went through the rotten board. He supported her as she sank down to sit on the bottom stair. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, I do not think so.’ She put her foot to the floor and gave a sharp gasp. ‘I have twisted my ankle a little.’
He squatted down to examine her foot. She sat, watching the top of his head as he bent over her, his hands moving gently over her foot and ankle, carefully feeling for injury. The throbbing in her ankle was matched by the throbbing of the pulse in her throat and it was not the accident that made her feel faint. He was being the cool professional, but she wanted to reach out and run her fingers through his dark hair.
‘There is nothing broken,’ he said, though the sensations he felt with her foot in his hand were decidedly not professional. ‘Do you think you can stand?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
He helped her to rise, just as Mrs Smith and Mrs Armistead ran through from the back of the house and demanded to know what had happened.
‘Miss Hemingford went through the stairs,’ he told them. ‘I blame myself. I should have forbidden anyone to use them until they had been repaired.’
‘It was my own fault,’ Anne said. ‘I knew about the rotten boards. I should have been more careful. And there’s no real damage done.’ He was still supporting her with his arm round her and she gingerly put her foot to the ground and tried not to let him see her wince.
‘You certainly cannot walk home now,’ he said. ‘I will go and fetch a cab.’
‘I will go,’ Mrs Smith offered. ‘It is time I went home. My husband and Tom will be expecting their evening meal. Where is Tildy? She said she was going to help you.’
‘Tildy?’ Anne queried. ‘I have not seen her. I did not know she was here.’
‘Oh, dear, where has the pesky child got to?’ She went to the foot of the stairs and called Tildy’s name. After a few moments they heard scampering feet and the little girl appeared at the head of the stairs, even more covered in dust than Anne was. ‘Come down very carefully,’ her mother told her. ‘Watch where you are putting your feet.’
Justin went up to meet her and guided her down. Once she was on the ground floor again her mother turned to scold her. ‘Where have you been? You said you were going to help Miss Hemingford…’
‘I know, Ma, but I went to play with the little girl.’
‘What little girl?’
‘The one upstairs. We played hide and seek.’
Justin and Anne looked at each other, each thinking the same thought. ‘What did she look like?’ Anne asked her. ‘Did she tell you her name?’
‘Like me. So high.’ She held her hand on the level with her nose. ‘She never said nuffin’, just waved to me to come, so I went.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She went away.’
‘Where?’
‘Dunno.’ The child shrugged. ‘I heard you calling, so I came.’
‘We can’t leave a child up there,’ Justin said. ‘It is dangerous.’ He hurried up the stairs and they could hear him going from room to room and then his footsteps sounded on the narrow stairs to the attics. After several minutes he returned, carrying Tildy’s doll. ‘There’s no one there, no one at all. The dust in the attics is undisturbed.’ He handed the doll to Tildy. ‘You left this behind.’
Mrs Smith seemed unperturbed. ‘Tildy is always inventi
ng friends,’ she said. ‘Sometimes she insists I give them food.’ She laughed. ‘I usually pretend I can see them too.’ She turned to Tildy. ‘Come along. Pa will be wondering what has become of us. And we have to send a cab back for Miss Hemingford.’
‘And I had better go too and begin cooking your dinner,’ Mrs Armistead said to the doctor. ‘The Professor and the nurse will want to be getting along.’
‘How strange,’ Anne said, after the two women and the child had gone, leaving her alone with the doctor. ‘The little girl…’
‘Think nothing of it. Children often have fancies like that. There are no ghosts, nothing to be afraid of.’
‘I am not afraid, how can I be afraid of a small child? I am curious, that’s all.’
‘You heard Mrs Smith. She does not exist, except in Tildy’s imagination. Now let me help you to the kitchen. There is a pail of clean water there. You can tidy yourself up and I can strap up that ankle.’
‘It is hardly hurting at all, now,’ she said, but she allowed him to support her as she hobbled down the hall to the back of the house. ‘I shall be right as ninepence by the time the cab arrives.’
‘Nevertheless we will wait for it.’ He helped her to a chair, which Mrs Smith had brought from one of the other rooms to stand on to reach the top shelves of the pantry.
‘If you are in haste…’
‘I am not.’ He poured cold water from the pail into a bowl, then went to the dresser where he had left his doctor’s bag and took out a bandage, which he soaked in the water. ‘I’ll bind this up before you go.’
‘Really, there is no need. I am not hurt.’
‘I will say whether you are hurt or not,’ he said, kneeling at her feet.
She was hurt, more hurt than she could say, but it was more emotional than physical. She had felt sure he felt something for her before Mrs Tremayne had taunted him. They had been close, as close as two people in love could be. Or had she been wrong about that? Was flirting with her just another of his whims?
‘There,’ he said, tying off the bandage. ‘How does that feel?’
Marrying Miss Hemingford Page 20
