Marrying Miss Hemingford (12 page)

‘Naturally I did. I know you for what you are.'

He looked startled, as if caught out in a guilty secret. ‘What do you mean?'

‘That you are a man to be admired for the good work you do, for your unselfishness in caring for others.'

‘Oh. Thank you.' The words were spoken with relief and quiet sincerity. ‘But it takes another of like mind to see it.'

‘I have heard you are about to lose your home to the greed of the developers.'

‘Yes.'

‘You will fight them, of course.'

‘No, I do not have the means and it would be a futile thing to do. I would rather expend my energy on finding somewhere else.'

‘You need a proper hospital.'

He gave short laugh, quickly stifled. ‘What I need and what I may have are two different things, Miss Hemingford.' He paused to negotiate a way around another couple. ‘But Captain Gosforth seems to think that if I put myself about and conduct a public campaign for funds I shall succeed.'

If she was disappointed that he had not come to the ball especially to see her, she did not show it. ‘He is right. We could have a musical evening, another ball. There are any number of ways to raise money for a good cause. All we have to do is convince people of its importance.'

‘We, Miss Hemingford?' And for the first time his face was lit in a genuine smile. He had been handsome before, but with his eyes sparkling with humour, he took her breath away.

‘Of course.' How she managed to keep her voice from betraying her, she did not know. She had fallen in love, really in love, for the first time in her life, the first, last and only time. He had softened enough to smile, but there were still mountains to climb, one of which was the fact that he had given no indication he returned her feelings. In his eyes, she was a wealthy philanthropist, indulging herself, trying to lay up good marks in heaven. But she did know that was the way to his heart. And even if she managed to pierce its shell, there was still prejudice and snobbery to overcome.

Aunt Bartrum would not consider his station in life
high enough and she was sure her brother would not approve. Harry had no jurisdiction over her, but she would not like to fall out with him. He and Jane were very special to her; she could not lightly discount what they had to say. And there was still a mystery surrounding the man himself, still questions unanswered, questions she had no right to ask. But it did not make one jot of difference to the way she felt. It was glorious, heart-stopping and at the same time frightening in its intensity. Her emotions were so scrambled, she didn't know whether to laugh aloud or burst into tears. Surely he knew? Surely she had given herself away?

‘I intend to do all I can to help,' she said, doing her best to overcome the crack in her voice. ‘The first donation shall be mine and I intend to rally everyone to support you.'

‘You have already given me money.'

‘Ah, but this is different, this will be an official fundraising project.'

He laughed. She was glowing with life, ready to take on the world and it made him smile indulgently. She had brought with her the first of sign of brightness in his life for years, a ray of hope. ‘I think you do not know what you are taking on, Miss Hemingford.'

‘Oh, be sure I do. Now let us go and tell my aunt all about it.'

He allowed himself to be led towards Mrs Bartrum, who was standing beside Captain Gosforth. With the Captain so evidently on good terms with the doctor, she could do nothing but acknowledge Justin and listen to Anne's enthusiastic proposition. Anne knew she had boxed her
into a corner, but it was in a good cause and she felt no qualms about it. The poor of Brighton, particularly the children, needed to be looked after and she meant to do all she could to see that they were. It had, so she told herself, nothing to do with the fact that she had fallen head over heels in love with Dr Tremayne.

They were all standing together in a group when there was a movement by the door, which meant a newcomer had arrived. Anne, who had her back to her, did not see her, but Justin did. His face blanched and, excusing himself on the grounds that he had a call to make, he bade everyone goodnight and hurried from the room by another door.

Perplexed, Anne stared after him and then turned to see who had entered. The woman approaching the Master of Ceremonies was unbelievably lovely and she evidently knew it and smiled easily as everyone stopped whatever they were doing to watch her progress. She had golden hair, a flawless complexion and eyes the colour of cornflowers. Her gown of cream satin shimmered as she moved and the diamonds at her throat glittered.

‘Who is that?' Anne whispered.

‘That,' murmured the Master of Ceremonies, who had heard her question, ‘is Mrs Tremayne.'

H
ow Anne got through the rest of the evening, she did not know. She danced, made conversation, laughed, and watched the vision who had invaded her happiness with a great lump in her heart that threatened to stop it beating altogether. All her hopes had been shattered. She was engulfed with misery. Why had he not told her he had a wife? Captain Gosforth had hinted that he might have, but he should have said so himself. Surely when they were dancing he had realised how she felt about him? It was cruel and unfair and she wanted to crawl away and hide.

Of all the foolish things to do, falling in love at her age was the silliest, and falling in love with a married man was the outside of enough. She could never admit it. She had to go on as if nothing had happened, to pretend all was as it should be. She had her pride, after all, and it was her pride which must sustain her.

The long evening came to an end at last. Arrangements were made for people to meet again, to go to other func
tions, but Anne hardly heard them. All she wanted was to go home, to find her bed and give way to her distress.

‘You are quiet, Anne,' her aunt said as they travelled home in a cab. ‘Did you not enjoy yourself?'

‘Yes, Aunt, of course I did. I am a little tired, that's all.'

‘You should not be tired at your age. You should be able to stay up until dawn and not feel a thing. Are you unwell? Shall I send for Dr Tremayne in the morning?'

‘No, no, I do not need to consult a doctor, certainly not Dr Tremayne.'

‘Oh, has he displeased you?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘Strange, isn't it?' her aunt went on, unaware that she was twisting a knife in Anne's wounded heart. ‘The doctor is living in that unsavoury tenement, apparently as poor as a church mouse, and yet there is a wife, bedecked in diamonds and silks, who suddenly appears like a ghost from the past…'

‘And the doctor disappears like a bolt from a crossbow.' The laugh Anne attempted died in her throat. ‘Perhaps they are estranged. But if they are, why has she put in an appearance now?'

‘I am sure I do not know.'

‘Did he not tell you when you consulted him?'

‘Why should he do that? If he wants to have secrets, it is his business, not ours.'

‘To be sure.'

‘Did he say nothing to you when you danced with him? I am not at all certain that I approved of that, but as the Captain assured us he was a gentleman, I could say nothing against it, but I am sure it was noted.'

‘By the Mancrofts, I suppose. You may tell them, if
they ask, that we talked of his wish to set up a hospital, nothing more.'

Her sharpness alerted her aunt and she turned to face her. ‘Something has put you in the suds, Anne, I wish you would tell me what it is.'

‘Aunt Georgie, I am not in the suds, I am simply tired.'

‘Then perhaps you should lie in tomorrow. We are not expected at Captain Gosforth's picnic until the afternoon.'

‘I know. I heard you talk of it. Who else is going?'

‘I do not know. The Mancrofts, of course and I suppose Mrs Barry and her girls, and, if they are going, you may be sure the lieutenants will not be far behind.'

‘Mrs Tremayne?' She could hardly utter the name without a catch in her voice, but surprised herself when she managed it.

‘Good heavens, why should she be invited?'

‘I just wondered.'

Her aunt gave her a knowing look, but decided not to comment. ‘Major Mancroft is calling in the morning,' she said. ‘He has promised to advise me about hiring a carriage and horses for the rest of our stay in Brighton. I had hoped you would accompany us.'

‘Pray excuse me, Aunt. I have letters to write.'

‘He will be disappointed not to see you.'

‘I am sure he will recover from it, especially if he has you for company.'

‘But I am not the one looking for a husband.'

‘Neither am I. It is the last thing I want.'

‘Oh, Anne, what am I to do with you?'

Anne reached out and squeezed her aunt's hand. ‘Nothing, dear Aunt, I am past marrying. Let me be.'

They drew up at the house, paid off the cabby and let themselves into the hall where a single lamp burned on a side table. Lighting two candles from its flame, they made their way up to their rooms. Anne was glad she had told Amelia not to wait up for her; she did not want to be quizzed on how the evening had gone, did not want to talk about it at all. She pulled off the lovely gown and flung it in a corner. She had danced in it, danced a magical waltz with the man of her dreams, had been transported to heaven on the wings of optimism and been hurled back to earth with such violence she was battered and bruised. And now there was nothing but wounded pride.

She finished undressing and flung herself into bed, knowing she would not sleep. What could she do to recover her sanity? What could she do to return to being the Anne Hemingford who had arrived in Brighton, content with her lot as a spinster, unaware of the pitfalls of falling in love with the wrong man? Why could the object of her affection not have been Major Mancroft or Captain Gosforth, or even one of the other gentlemen to whom she had been introduced? Why, oh, why did she have to fall for a married man?

No one must know. She must call up all her reserves of strength and carry on as if nothing had happened. And that meant throwing herself wholeheartedly into raising money for the new hospital and finding an assistant for Dr Tremayne, perhaps more than one. And if she had to meet his wife, why, then she would smile. And smile.

 

Justin, walking the dark streets, was furious, so furious he could hardly contain himself. What was she
doing in Brighton? Had she come to torment him? And where was Andrew? Perhaps he should have stayed to find out, but the sight of her, walking into that ballroom, her head in the air, a smile on her lips, as if she knew she would find a welcome, had filled him with horror and he had bolted. He did not want to introduce her to the assembled company, certainly not to Miss Hemingford. As far as the people of Brighton were concerned, he was a practising physician who treated the ill, the lame and the needy. He did not want to have to explain who he really was, did not want to be the subject of the tattle of the
beau monde,
who would undoubtedly make up the reason for his estrangement from his family if he did not provide them with one. What price his hospital now?

 

It was nearly dawn before he decided to turn his steps towards home. He would not let her spoil his plans. She was his sister-in-law, wife of his brother, nothing more. He had found a new life for himself and a new love, even if he could not tell her of it. Not yet. Not until Sophie had gone home and left him in peace again.

The house, in its narrow mean street, loomed in front of him. It had been his home and his workplace, but soon it would be no more, and in its place would be a grand villa, one of a new terrace, occupied by people like Lord and Lady Mancroft, Mrs Bartrum and Sir Gerald Sylvester, even Sophie and Andrew if they fancied a seaside holiday. But that did not mean he would give up. Thanks to Miss Hemingford, he had at last managed to interest a few influential people in the idea of a hospital
and that must be his only concern. It was safe, uncomplicated and engrossing and did not leave him time to brood.

If only Sophie had not arrived. He could not understand why she had come or what she would tell his father and brother, or even if she would tell them anything. He could not believe they had sent her or even condoned her coming. Was it simply an unpleasant coincidence?

He smiled grimly as he let himself in, passed the waiting room, dark and empty now, and went upstairs to his bedroom. He had nothing to be ashamed of, not inside himself where his conscience resided, even if polite society thought differently. And he had much for which he could feel a degree of satisfaction. He would do as Gosforth suggested and go out and about, try to raise money for a hospital and keep faith with his patients and nothing Sophie could do would hurt him. He stripped off his uniform, returned it to the sea chest he kept against the wall and tumbled into bed.

 

Two hours later, he woke to a new day, knowing that his waiting room would be full, and if he wanted to keep Miss Hemingford's good opinion of him he had a great deal of explaining to do.

His sister-in-law arrived halfway through the morning, pushing her way past Mrs Armistead who tried to bar her way and sailing into the room where he was treating a man with a wound to his leg that was threatening to become gangrenous. He had seen enough of those in the navy to recognise the early symptoms; unless treated urgently the patient might lose his limb. He was not prepared for the perfumed tornado who invaded his sanctum.

‘So this is where you have been hiding yourself,' she said, looking round with her full red lips curled in distaste. ‘No wonder we could not find you.'

‘I cannot think why you would wish to find me,' he said coldly.

‘She would come in,' Mrs Armistead said from the doorway. ‘I tried to stop her.'

‘I know that, Mrs Armistead,' he said wearily, going to wash his hands. ‘I'll deal with it. Will you refresh the dressing on Mr Gorton's leg for me in the way I showed you, and tell anyone else who is waiting that I will be a little delayed.' He turned to Sophie. ‘You had better come through to the drawing room. I assume you have something to say to me.'

‘Who is that woman?' Sophie demanded as soon as they had entered the dingy room.

‘She is my housekeeper and assistant.'

‘Really? I had thought you would have more taste, but I suppose being on a man o' war has made you less discerning.'

He refused to rise to the bait. ‘What do you want, Sophie? I am very busy.'

‘Are you not going to invite me to sit down?'

‘If you must.'

She sat in one of the armchairs, her rose silk pelisse making it look shabbier than ever. ‘What a place!' she said, looking round. ‘Surely you could have done better than this? It is a positive slum.'

‘It suits me.'

‘Are you still repining?'

‘Over what? Your rejection of me?'

‘Oh, but I did not reject you, Justin dear, you jilted me, don't you remember?'

He had agreed to be the one to break off the engagement in order to save his father pain. Andrew was the heir and Andrew's reputation must not be stained by gossip about stealing his brother's intended bride from him. It did not matter if the second son was talked about as long as the inheritance remained unsullied. He had been so angry and hurt at the time, he had not cared who would be publicly blamed. All he wanted to do was escape from a situation he found intolerable. And now she had turned up again, curling her lip at the way he lived.

‘You know that's not true,' he said quietly. ‘Like a dutiful son, I did as I was asked. I left my home, cut myself off from my family so that Andrew could comfort you in your distress and marry you when the gossip died down. I assume that is what happened.'

‘Yes. But it was a mistake. I made a dreadful mistake. I should have stayed with you.'

Why did he find that difficult to believe? ‘Are you not happy?'

‘No, I am miserable.'

‘Why? You have everything you could wish for. You have the heir, the estate is in good heart, you will never want for blunt…'

She smiled slowly. ‘I know, I do not need to be told that, but I do not have you, do I? Oh, Justin, I was wrong. I realise that now. All I want, all I ever wanted was you…'

A year ago, even a month ago, he might have been heartened to hear her say that, although he would never have admitted it. She was his brother's wife and that, as
far as he was concerned, was the end of it. He looked into her empty blue eyes and found himself comparing them with a pair of amber ones and wondered how he could have been such a fool. ‘You made your choice and we must both live with the consequences. Now, if you will excuse me, I am very busy.'

‘Busy scraping a living as a country doctor, and not very successfully if the state of this place is a measure of it. Justin, are you not ashamed of how you live? Your papa would be mortified if he could see it.'

‘How is my father? He is not ailing, is he?'

‘No, he is well, but wishes you would come home. When I tell him how I have found you, he will insist upon it.'

‘How did you find me?'

‘His physician told me about a paper you wrote, something to do with antisepsis in surgery, so he said, but it meant nothing to me. He traced you through the publisher.'

‘He had no right to do that.'

‘If you wanted to keep your whereabouts a secret, you should have used a
nom de plume.
Even then I did not realise how you were living. I thought you would at least be working among people of your own rank.'

‘I go where I am of most use.'

‘But you still go to balls and mix with the
ton.
' She paused. ‘Who is she?'

‘Who is who?'

‘The beauty in the lilac gown you were dancing with. I watched you from the doorway for a long time before you saw me. Very engrossed with each other, you were.'

He stared at her, wondering why he had ever imagined
himself in love with her. She was beautiful, there was no denying it, but the beauty was only skin deep. She would not kneel on the ground to comfort an injured child, would not worry about the Mrs Smiths of the world, as Miss Hemingford did, would not even deign to speak to them. Miss Hemingford's beauty was in her whole being, in her compassion and understanding; it came from within. ‘A friend.'

‘A friend, eh? One of the numerous demi-reps who inhabit this town, no doubt.'

He kept his temper with a visible effort, clenching his fists at his sides. ‘Miss Hemingford is a lady.'

‘So that's her name. Well, well. And does she know how you live?'