The first of the carriages drew up at the door as Anne went down to the drawing room and there was no time for Mrs Bartrum to question her niece about where she had been, for which Anne was thankful. She knew her aunt would be horrified to know she had been visiting a man— not even a gentleman—and been entertained alone in his room. If she knew Anne had given him money and promised more, she would have apoplexy, so it had to remain a secret. It was a pity, because Anne longed to tell someone about it and ask advice about hiring a doctor’s assistant.
What, for instance, did an assistant do? Did he treat the sick himself or only do the menial tasks such as dosing someone for the ague or binding a cut finger? Any competent person could do that, surely? And how much were they paid? Would her bankers have something to say when she asked for a regular amount to be paid from her account every month? Would they insist on knowing why and investigating the recipient? Questions like that bred more questions, but she had to put them aside to stand beside her aunt and receive their guests.
Lord and Lady Mancroft arrived with the Major, magnificent in his regimental dress uniform, then the widowed Mrs Barry with Annabelle and Jeanette, whom she hoped someone would take off her hands before much longer. Lieutenants Cawston and Harcourt arrived on foot, followed by Sir Gerald Sylvester, who came in a cab. Sir Gerald, fifty if he was a day and thin as a bean pole, was got up in a dark blue evening suit, a blue shirt whose collar points grazed his cheeks and supported a pink starched cravat with an enormous bow. His waistcoat was heavily embroidered in rose and silver thread and his breeches were so tight fitting, Anne wondered if he would be able to sit, much less eat. Captain Gosforth arrived last, in a black evening suit, white shirt and brocade waistcoat, and hurried over to bow and make his apologies to his hostesses, which meant he was standing beside them when supper was announced.
‘May I?’ he asked, offering his arm to Mrs Bartrum.
Graciously she laid her fingers on his sleeve, leaving Anne to be escorted by Major Mancroft, who was quickly at her side. His parents followed and everyone else paired up to go into the dining room, the Barry girls with the two lieutenants and Mrs Barry with Sir Gerald. They all knew each other; indeed, it was Anne and her aunt who were the strangers to the company, but Anne did not mind that; it gave her the opportunity to observe their guests. None of them, she realised, was likely to be acquainted with a young physician looking for a first post. Such a being would be beneath their notice.
‘I took your advice,’ she said to Captain Gosforth as the soup was served by the two footmen her aunt had employed for the evening. ‘I took a dip in the sea this morning.’
‘And how did you find it?’
‘Very refreshing. I shall certainly go again.’
‘And did you see the commotion on the beach?’ Lieutenant Cawston asked.
‘No. Was there a commotion?’
‘I was strolling along the sea front when I saw a crowd round a big white tent, so I wandered over to see the cause of it.’ He paused, realising he had the attention of everyone. ‘One of the fishermen had caught a large sea creature in his net and was preparing to make an exhibition of it, hence the tent. There was a notice on a board inviting the public to view the merman at tuppence a time.’
‘Merman! There is no such thing!’ Lord Mancroft scoffed. ‘Nor mermaids either.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Walter Gosforth said. ‘When I was sailing in the south seas, there were stories of strange sea creatures who were said to have the head and upper body of a human and the tail of a fish. They were supposed to lure sailors on to the rocks with their singing…’
‘Oh, do you think the Brighton fishermen have really caught one?’ Jeanette Barry asked, wide-eyed.
‘Of course not,’ her mother said. ‘It is no doubt something they’ve constructed for gullible people to gape at.’
‘I do not think they have constructed it,’ Anne said. ‘I heard about it yesterday from the child of the fisherman that caught it. She said it was a monster.’
They all turned to look at her and she began to wish she had not spoken. ‘You remember, Aunt, I told you about the little girl who was hurt.’
‘Do tell us the tale,’ Annabelle said. ‘How did you come to be in conversation with a fisherman’s daughter?’
Anne was obliged to tell the same story as she had related it to her aunt, which was not very exciting when all was said and done, certainly not to her listeners, who had no interest in the doctor to whom she had taken the little girl. ‘We are indebted to the child’s mother for the fish we are eating,’ she said. ‘She wanted to thank me and that was all she had to give.’
‘So there really is some kind of strange creature on the beach,’ Mrs Barry said.
‘Yes, but it was not described to me as a mermaid or a merman, simply as a monster…’
‘Probably a whale,’ Major Mancroft said.
‘But surely there are no whales off our coast and, if there were, would it not be too big for the fisherman’s nets?’ Anne asked. ‘They would never be able to haul it aboard their vessel.’
‘Only one thing for it,’ Captain Gosforth said. ‘We shall have to pay our tuppence to have our curiosity satisfied.’
‘It’s a trick,’ Lady Mancroft said, wrinkling her long nose in distaste. ‘A few hundred gullible people at tuppence each would line the pockets of those chawbacons very nicely, don’t you think?’
‘They are very poor,’ Anne said mildly. ‘Who can blame them for wanting to supplement their income?’
‘Why not make an outing of it?’ the Captain suggested. ‘I shall be delighted to pay for everyone here to see it.’
‘Then could we not take a picnic with us?’ Annabelle suggested. ‘We could find a quiet situation on the cliffs and the gentlemen could light a fire. It would be such fun.’
Everyone agreed enthusiastically. Mrs Bartrum, who was still wondering how to use up all the fish she had been given, offered to bring shrimps and herrings to be cooked over the fire, and that led Lady Mancroft to donate slices of cold roast beef and a side of ham and Mrs Barry to offer to bring orange jelly and her special biscuits, the recipe for which was a closely guarded family secret. ‘And I will bring wine,’ Major Mancroft offered. ‘The mess has a particularly fine selection.’ He paused. ‘In case the Regent should arrive unexpectedly, you understand.’
‘I will put my chaise at your disposal to convey the servants and hampers ahead of us,’ Lord Mancroft added. ‘Then, if any of the ladies feels disinclined to walk back, they may ride.’
And so it was settled, and all because of Mr Smith and his monster catch. Anne had taken no part in making the arrangements, she was happy to agree to whatever they decided; her thoughts were elsewhere. Talking of the fisherman and little Tildy had reminded her of Dr Tremayne, working away in his consulting rooms, dishevelled, hard up, caring and proud. Oh, she knew he was proud all right. In spite of his shabby room, his untidy clothes, his lack of proper equipment and medicines, he was a man who stood upright and looked you in the eye, even when admitting that he begged. He did not beg on his own behalf, but for those poor souls who had no one else to help them. He said he had been a ship’s surgeon, but why had he gone to sea in the first place? Treating seamen wounded by war was very different from mending the heads of little girls and giving an old man medicine for a chronic cough. She had to see him again and learn more.
The rest of the meal passed in small talk: the doings of the Regent, hardly seen in public since he was so badly received at the victory celebrations earlier in the year: the peace talks going on in Vienna where the allies were carving Europe up between them; the fate of Napoleon, now banished to the remote island of St Helena, and the fear of riots and insurrection as the soldiers returned home to find there was no work for them. Anne wanted to hear more about that, but her aunt quickly suggested it was time for the ladies to withdraw and instead she found herself talking about the latest fashions over the teacups in the withdrawing room.
When the gentlemen joined them, the older members of the company sat down to whist while the younger ones were prevailed upon to sing or play. Walter Gosforth stood beside the piano to turn the page of music as Anne played her piece. ‘Splendid, Miss Hemingford,’ he said, when she finished and everyone applauded. ‘I heard you had a prodigious talent and now I know it to be true.’
Anne laughed. ‘No one but my aunt could have told you that, and I do believe she is biased.’
‘She is a very vivacious lady. I did not like to ask, but how long has she been a widow?’
Anne looked at him sharply and smiled. ‘Nearly two years, Captain. It was a very happy marriage…’
‘Oh, I do not doubt it,’ he murmured. ‘Someone more agreeable than Mrs Bartrum would be difficult to find.’
‘I could not agree more,’ she said, hiding a smile. ‘She also has a very pleasant singing voice. Shall I prevail upon her to sing for us?’
‘Oh, please do. I will be delighted to accompany her on the pianoforte.’
The whist game was drawing to a close. Lady Mancroft was gratified to have won and her rather haughty expression had softened. Anne approached the table and was in time to hear her aunt telling Major Mancroft that her niece had been laid very low by the old Earl’s death, but she would soon be in spirits again. ‘She is a considerable heiress,’ she said. ‘And very independent in mind and spirit, which cannot be altogether good for her. I think she needs someone to guide her, someone as strong as she is—’ Seeing Anne, she stopped in mid-sentence.
‘Aunt, we should be pleased if you would sing for us,’ Anne said. stifling a desire to laugh at her aunt’s less than subtle hints. ‘Captain Gosforth has said he will accompany you.’
‘In that case, of course I shall oblige. Major, do you take a turn about the room with Miss Hemingford.’
‘Delighted,’ he said, rising and bowing to Anne.
‘You know, Major,’ she murmured as her aunt went to consult Walter Gosforth about the music and they moved slowly round the room, ‘I do not need someone to guide me, my aunt is mistaken in that.’
‘I did not think you did, Miss Hemingford. But it does no harm for your aunt to think so, does it? She is a delightful lady and truly devoted to you.’
He was a kind man, she realised. ‘I know. I would not dream of contradicting her.’
Mrs Bartrum sang one solo and one duet with the Captain, which had the effect of sending Major Mancroft to her side, offering to play a duet with her. She declined and suggested he should ask Anne.
It was all very amusing. Anne could see that the Major and the Captain were vying with each other to be noticed by her aunt and yet the lady herself seemed unaware of it. Not for a minute did Anne think either of them were rivals for her own hand, which meant she was saved the business of having to discourage them. By the time the party broke up with everyone promising to meet on The Steine after attending morning service next day, she was feeling exhausted. It had been a long, long day.
The front pews of the parish church of St Nicholas were full of the beau monde, dressed in their finery, intending to see and be seen. At the back, also in their Sunday best, were the working people of Brighton: fisherfolk, bootmakers, chandlers, harness makers, candlemakers, hatters, seamstresses, all the people who worked in the background to cater for the visitors who flocked there every summer as soon as the London Season was over. Sitting alone, neither with the elite nor the artisans, was Dr Tremayne. He was wearing a plum-coloured frockcoat, grey pantaloons, a clean white shirt and a white muslin cravat starched within an inch of its life. He held a tall beaver hat on his knees. Everything about him was neat and clean; he had even made an attempt to control his dark curls.
Anne and her aunt arrived late and most of the pews were full. Anne touched Aunt Bartrum’s hand and indicated the vacant seat beside the doctor. He was kneeling to pray, but rose and moved along to make room for them and it was then she noticed that, though his boots were polished to a mirror shine, the heels were down and the soles worn paper thin. Poor man! But she knew she must not pity him, must betray no sympathy except for his work. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she whispered, settling herself beside him. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Hemingford.’ He had wondered if he might see her in church and here she was, sitting so close to him he could almost hear her breathing, could certainly smell the faint perfume she used—attar of roses he thought it was—could reach out and touch her gloved hand if he were rash enough to try it. Her face was half hidden behind the brim of her bonnet, but he could, when he ventured to take a sidelong glance, see the delicate bloom on her cheeks.
He had been thinking of her a great deal since she left his house and was exasperated with himself for doing so. Every word of their conversation had repeated itself in his head, every movement she made remembered with startling clarity, like the way she had tilted her head and smiled when laying that bag of money on his table. He had not looked at it until after she had gone and had then been taken aback by the amount. Had she been condescending, looking down her autocratic nose at him, being generous because she could afford it and it made her feel good and virtuous? How he hated that idea. He had admitted to begging on behalf of his patients, but that did not mean he had no pride. He was stiff with it.
‘And Tildy? Have you seen her again?’ Her voice was no more than a murmur, unheard by anyone else.
‘Yes, I have been keeping an eye on her. She continues to improve.’
‘I am glad.’
They could say no more, because the parson began his slow walk up the aisle to begin the service, but Anne was acutely aware of the man beside her. They sat a foot apart, but the space between them seemed to vibrate, joining them by invisible ties that moved as they breathed, making them act in unison. They knelt to pray, stood to sing, listened, or pretended to listen, to the sermon, which seemed to go on and on. For once Anne did not mind.
She was wondering again how she could find the man an assistant. Why were they so hard to find? Was it simply that they disliked working among the lower orders where the chances of advancement were non-existent? She would need to find someone as committed as Dr Tremayne himself—where was such a one to be found? If the Doctor had been right, they were disinclined to accept low wages to help the poor, but surely that was what doctoring was all about? A woman would have more sympathy.
There were nurses and people like Mrs Armistead and handywomen who attended births and deaths, some of whom were filthy and too fond of the bottle, some of whom were clean and efficient, but there were no lady doctors. She wondered why not. She supposed women were considered too sensitive to pain, too revolted by blood and disfigurement, too ready to weep, to be able to work calmly. And in the eyes of men who were their superiors in every way, they did not have the brains to understand about anatomy and physiology. In Anne’s opinion that was nonsense.
Women endured the pain of childbirth and could understand it in others, often watched their little ones die, were as stoical in adversity as men and they made good nurses when their kinfolk fell ill, so why not? And there were women who were quite clever enough to do the studying needed. She smiled secretly to herself; Dr Tremayne had called her clever. She sighed; allowing women to become doctors was something not to be thought of. The sound of shuffling and coughing broke in on her reverie and she realised, with a start of surprise, the service was over and Lord and Lady Mancroft were leaving the church, watched by those in the back pews who would make no move until their so-called betters had gone.
Mrs Bartrum rose and set off after them, leaving Anne to follow. She emerged into the sunlight almost side by side with Dr Tremayne. At the church door, the rector stood watching everyone leave, his rheumy eye noting absences that would be pointed out to the miscreants later in the week. He bowed to Lord and Lady Mancroft, who deigned to smile before passing on to chat to others in the churchyard. ‘Dr Tremayne,’ he said, catching sight of Justin. ‘I am glad to see you once again among my flock. It does not set a good example when you absent yourself from church.’
‘I cannot come when I am needed elsewhere,’ Justin said, tight-lipped.
‘Six days shalt thou labour—’ the parson began, but he was not allowed to finish.
‘People fall ill every day of the week, Reverend.’
‘Quite.’ He paused, looking at Anne, who had stopped when Justin stopped. ‘Are you not going to introduce me?’ he asked, still addressing the doctor though his eye was taking in every detail of Anne’s dress and demeanour. ‘It behoves me to know the names of all my flock.’
Justin had been aware that Anne was standing nearby, how could he not? But the idea that the parson thought she had attended church with him disconcerted him. ‘Reverend, you are mistaken…’
‘I am Miss Hemingford,’ Anne said quickly. ‘My aunt, Mrs Bartrum, has taken a house in Brighton for the summer.’ She nodded towards her aunt, now in animated conversation with Lady Mancroft, the curling black feather on her bonnet wagging in time with her jaw.
‘Oh, I see my error. I beg your pardon, Miss Hemingford.’
‘There has been no error, Reverend,’ she said, slipping her hand beneath Justin’s elbow. ‘We are friends of Dr Tremayne. Please excuse us.’ And with that, she put enough pressure on Justin’s arm to make him walk forward.
‘Why did you do that?’ he protested, obeying the tug of her hand because he was too much the gentleman to embarrass her in front of the parson.
‘Who does he think he is, preaching to you?’ she demanded in a whisper. ‘Looking down at you like that. Why, you have more good in your little finger than he has in his whole body.’
‘The Reverend and I fight a verbal duel whenever we meet,’ he said, half-pleased, half-miffed at her championing of him. ‘I am not a kitten who needs a mother cat to defend it.’
She released his arm and laughed. ‘I did not think you did, but I enjoyed adding my contribution.’
They joined Mrs Bartrum, who was looking at Anne in astonishment. How could she possibly know someone in Brighton well enough to take his arm in public? It must be an old family friend, chanced upon by accident. She prepared herself to be civil, but made a note to speak to Anne later about her behaviour. ‘Aunt, may I present Dr Tremayne. You remember, I told you about the little girl who was injured. It was to Dr Tremayne I took her.’
Mrs Bartrum’s welcoming smile faded, but, unwilling to make a scene, she inclined her head in acknowledgement but did not offer her hand or speak. Justin fumed inwardly, blaming Miss Hemingford for the embarrassing situation in which he found himself. A few years before he would have held his own, but not now. He had chosen his path and he had to walk it; if it meant being looked down on by people like Mrs Bartrum and lectured at by parsons, then he had to put up with it. He bowed. ‘Your obedient, ma’am.’ The next minute he had clapped his hat on his head and was striding away.
‘Oh, Aunt, you have frightened him off,’ Anne said.
‘I should think so too! Whatever were you thinking of, taking his arm like that? I really am quite mortified. There is Lady Mancroft with her mouth open in astonishment and Captain Gosforth pretending not to notice, though I know he did.’
‘Oh, Aunt, don’t take on so.’ She took her aunt’s arm and they began to walk from the churchyard. ‘It was all very innocent. The parson insulted poor Dr Tremayne, bowing and scraping to me when he realised you were my aunt and ringing a peel over the doctor for not going regularly to church. I had to do something to extricate him.’
‘Why? You do not know him and he is not a gentleman.’
‘Oh, he is,’ Anne said, steering her aunt towards The Steine where they had arranged to meet the others who were going to see the monster and to join the picnic. Lord and Lady Mancroft had left in their carriage and would no doubt meet up with them again later. ‘I believe he is a very fine gentleman.’
‘He lives and works among the lower ranks.’
‘By choice, Aunt, and I admire him for it.’
‘One can admire someone without becoming familiar with them. Anne, I despair of you. It is no wonder you have not found a husband if you cannot tell a gentleman from a mushroom.’
‘Dr Tremayne is certainly not a mushroom,’ she said. ‘He is making no pretensions to be something he is not. He told me he was a ship’s surgeon in the war and sustained a wound that meant he could not go to sea again. He decided to help the poor instead.’
‘You seem to have learned a great deal about him in a very short time, Anne. I understood you had only met him briefly.’
‘So I did,’ Anne said, feeling guilty about that second visit to the Doctor, but, judging by her aunt’s reaction to being introduced to him, she was glad she had said nothing of it. ‘But it took no longer for him to tell me than it did for me to tell you.’
‘Why did he tell you?’
‘Because I asked him. I was interested in the work he was doing. He spends nearly all his time and money on it.’
‘No doubt he was boasting to gain your sympathy.’
‘No, he is not a boastful man. And in any case I learned some of it from the little girl’s mother. She said he was a saint.’
‘Saints are rare beings on this earth, Anne. For all you know, he may be the very opposite. He may have pretensions to be a gentleman and how do you know he does not have some dark secret in his past?’
Anne hesitated only a moment before replying, admitting to herself that she did find Dr Tremayne a little mysterious. His poor dress and mode of living belied his courteous manners and cultured way of speaking, which was, she supposed, what her aunt had meant. ‘Fustian! You have been reading too many of those romantic novels you are so fond of.’
‘I could say the same of you, Anne, making the man out to be a saint, indeed! He is a man, an ordinary man, not even a gentleman, and you will ruin your reputation if you are not more selective in those you consort with.’
‘Consort, Aunt?’ Anne laughed. ‘I pass the time of day with a perfectly respectable man and I am consorting…’
‘It is how it will be interpreted by society.’
‘Then society is a ninnyhammer!’
‘Anne, I beg you to be more circumspect. You will have us gossiped about.’
Anne conceded her aunt was probably right and, though she did not care for herself, she would not for the world have hurt or embarrassed her sponsor. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, squeezing her aunt’s arm. ‘I did not think.’
They said no more because they had reached The Steine where their friends were gathering. It was an open grassy area, used by fishermen to dry their nets and by the beau monde to congregate to walk and gossip. Neither side welcomed the other. According to the wealthier inhabitants of the town, the nets were an eyesore and the ladies often caught their heels in them and there were plans afoot to stop the fishermen drying them there. Naturally the fisherman maintained they had been using the open space for generations and it belonged to them. Being Sunday, there were no nets out and no sign of the fishermen.
‘Are we all here?’ Lord Mancroft called out, standing beside his carriage ticking off everyone on his fingers.
‘We are one missing,’ Annabelle Barry said. ‘Major Mancroft is not here.’
‘Here he comes,’ Lady Mancroft said, as the Major drove up in his curricle.
‘Mrs Bartrum, would you like to ride with me?’ the Major called out as he pulled up beside them.
‘No, thank you, Major, I shall walk with everyone else.’
‘What about you, Miss Hemingford?’
Anne also declined.
‘In that case, I will walk too.’ He called to one of the men servants to take the curricle back to the stables and then to join the others at the picnic spot to help set it out and start the fire, while everyone went to see the merman. ‘I’ll wager a sovereign to a groat it is nothing of the kind,’ he said.
No one was prepared to take him on and, once the servants had been dispatched, the whole party set off across Grand Junction Road to the beach.
Anne found herself being escorted by the Major. ‘Do all the officers drive curricles?’ she asked him.
‘Those that have enough blunt to keep the cattle do,’ he answered. ‘Life in camp can be prodigious boring, you know. And racing horses or curricles is become the thing to do.’
‘In the streets?’
‘That’s frowned upon, Miss Hemingford. It could be dangerous when there are people promenading.’
‘But it does go on?’
‘Doubtless there are some hotheads who are prepared to risk it, but usually it is done very early in the day before anyone is about.’
‘Before anyone of quality is about, you mean. The fisherfolk rise very early, you know.’
‘So they do, but they are not long on the streets, are they? They go to sea and when they return they sell their catch and disappear like rabbits into their burrows.’
She decided to ignore his deprecating remark, being more concerned with asking her questions. ‘Was there a race last Thursday?’
‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’
‘That little girl I spoke of last evening was run down by a speeding curricle which did not stop. It was driven by an officer in the 10th Hussars. I recognised the uniform.’
‘I cannot believe one of our officers would behave so casually, Miss Hemingford. Perhaps he was not aware of what he had done.’
‘How could he not be aware? The child was flung to the ground and badly injured.’
‘Anne, I beg you not to prose on so about those people,’ her aunt put in. ‘It is not your concern.’
‘But I am concerned. The man should be reprimanded and all racing banned within the boundary of the town.’
‘That may be, but there is nothing you can do about it,’ her aunt said. ‘I doubt anyone would admit to being the culprit.’
‘No, but I shall recognise him and his equipage if I ever see either again.’
The Major smiled. ‘Oh, dear, that sounds like a threat, Miss Hemingford.’
‘Anne, please desist,’ her aunt commanded. ‘We are out to enjoy ourselves and I do not want dissension.’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt. I won’t say another word.’
Mrs Bartrum went off to walk beside the Captain, who had been marching ahead in order to pay everyone’s entrance fee as he had promised. The muslin-clad Barry girls were chatting excitedly, Jeanette on the arm of Lieutenant Harcourt and Annabelle with Lieutenant Cawston, leaving their mother and Sir Gerald to follow more slowly with Lord and Lady Mancroft. Her ladyship was not at all sure she wanted to view this creature, whatever it was, and was already hanging back. It was dead, so there was nothing to fear, her husband told her, to which she retorted that she was not afraid of it, simply worried about catching some horrible disease from the peasants who stood around watching their so-called betters with ill-concealed amusement.
As Anne approached the entrance, she realised that the woman taking the money was Mrs Smith. She smiled at her. ‘I believe Tildy is still improving, Mrs Smith.’
‘Yes, ma’am, and soon she’ll be running about and in as much mischief as ever.’
‘And do we really have a merman in here?’ She indicated the tent, where a man in thick fustian breeches, an open shirt and bare feet, stood to lift the flap and let a handful of people in at a time.
Mrs Smith smiled and shrugged. ‘To be truthful, we don’t know what it is. No one has ever seen one before. But I thought if we charged people to see it, I could pay Dr Tremayne. He has been so good, treating Tildy and coming to see her every day and not a penny piece will he take from us.’
‘And have many people come to see it?’
The woman laughed. ‘They do say curiosity killed the cat. We had lines of people here all yesterday afternoon and ever since we opened again this morning.’
‘Is it not putrefying?’
‘It started to, but we have packed it in ice and it’s not too bad if you do not stay in the tent too long.’
Major Mancroft, who had been listening to this conversation, suddenly laughed. ‘Ah, then there will be no opportunity to examine it in detail.’
‘Would you wish to?’ Anne asked.
‘Only to decide the outcome of the wager.’
‘Oh, that,’ she said dismissively. ‘I do not see how you can establish the properties and description of a merman when no one has ever seen one.’
They were ducking under the flap of the tent as they spoke. It was gloomy inside and the smell of fish overwhelming, in spite of the ice packed round the creature. Seven or eight feet long, it was lying in a tub of rapidly melting ice. There were stakes and ropes round the tub so that none could approach near enough to touch it, not that any of the grand people in their fine clothes would want to do that. It was enough to see it and recoil in horror.
The head certainly looked very human. It had a round face with the large glassy eyes, what appeared to be small ears and a huge droopy moustache that covered the mouth. Its body was greyish and there appeared to be a tiny hand, but it had been badly mauled, either by another creature, or by the manhandling it had received when brought aboard the fishing vessel, so it was impossible to tell what its original shape had been. Its tail was certainly that of a large fish.
‘It’s a fish,’ the Major said dismissively.
‘Or a baby whale.’
‘A walrus,’ said someone else.
‘But the head is like a man’s. It has hair on its face and little ears.’ This was Jeanette Barry.
‘You are letting your imagination run away with you,’ her mother said. ‘Come, I have seen enough. The heat and stench in this tent is enough to bring on the vapours. I need some air.’
She turned to go, allowing others to file past, and it was then Mrs Bartrum swooned clean away.
Captain Gosforth, who had heard Anne’s cry of distress, reached her first, scooped the lady up in his arms and carried her outside, where he laid her gently on the shingle. ‘Dear madam,’ he said, fanning her face with a large handkerchief. ‘Do open your eyes.’
Her eyes remained obstinately closed and her breathing was ragged. Anne flung herself on the shingle beside her. ‘Oh, Aunt, do wake up, I beg you.’ She looked up at the rest of the party all grouped round her, all gaping, not knowing what to do. ‘She hasn’t had a seizure, has she? Oh, I could not bear it. She should never have gone into that tent.’
The Captain ran to the water’s edge and dipped his handkerchief in the sea, which he handed to Anne, who mopped her aunt’s forehead. She moaned and blinked, said, ‘Oh, dear,’ and fainted away again.
‘Give her air,’ Major Mancroft cried, shooing everyone away. ‘How can you expect the dear lady to come about when you are crowding in on her like that?’
‘I’ve brought the doctor.’ Mrs Smith suddenly appeared beside Anne. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
The next minute a breathless Justin dropped on the shingle beside Mrs Bartrum. He put his head on her chest and listened. ‘Nothing untoward there,’ he said. ‘Her heart is beating strongly. Her clothes need loosening.’
‘What, here?’ Lady Mancroft exclaimed. ‘You cannot possibly undo her gown now with everyone watching.’
‘Then don’t watch,’ he snapped without looking at her. ‘Take all these people away.’ He turned to look at the company and spotted the Captain looking at him in astonishment. ‘Tremayne?’ Gosforth queried in surprise.
Justin smiled grimly. ‘Yes, Captain, as you see.’ He turned back to Anne. ‘Miss Hemingford, I could examine the lady better at my house…’
‘Then let us take her there at once.’
‘I will carry her,’ Major Mancroft said, unwilling to let his rival have that honour a second time, but Gosforth, for once, did not have his mind on Mrs Bartrum but was watching the doctor, shaking his head from side to side, as if he could not believe what he was seeing.
‘We have a cart,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘It smells a bit…’
‘Fetch it,’ Justin said, and when it arrived took off his coat and laid it in the bottom so that Mrs Bartrum was not dirtied by fish scales, though there was nothing that could be done about the smell. Anne walked beside it as the men manhandled it up the beach and on to the road, glad that her aunt was still not fully conscious; this undignified mode of travel would have mortified her. Once on the road it was easier and a few minutes later Mrs Bartrum was lifted off and carried into the doctor’s consulting room. The Major and the Captain, having been ushered out by Mrs Armistead, stood in the waiting room, wondering what to do while everyone else had remained at the end of the narrow street, reluctant to venture down it. ‘Please, do go on with the picnic,’ Anne said. ‘The servants will have it all prepared and there is no sense in standing around here. I am sure all will be well.’ She did not wait to see if they went, but hurried to join her aunt and shut the door on them.
Mrs Armistead was already taking off her aunt’s outer garments and undoing her stays. ‘Why women need to lace themselves up so tight I shall never understand,’ Justin said, washing his hands in the bowl on a side table; he washed his hands frequently, Anne noted. They were long fingered, well manicured, smooth. ‘Just asking for trouble.’
Anne was taken aback, not only by his words, but by the swift way Mrs Armistead was stripping her aunt of her clothes in front of the doctor. It just was not done for a lady to be seen in that state of undress by anyone other than her husband—sometimes not even him—and that included doctors. Diagnosis was usually done with question and answer; if that did not suffice, the patient was examined with hands fumbling under skirts and petticoats. ‘Don’t do that,’ she said, putting her hand on Mrs Armistead’s arm. ‘My aunt—’
‘Is a woman like the rest of us,’ Mrs Armistead retorted. ‘How can the doctor tell what is wrong if he cannot see and touch?’
As soon as the last of the lacing had been loosened, Mrs Bartrum took a huge breath and her eyelids fluttered open. ‘Ah,’ Justin said, standing over her. ‘Now you can breathe, madam, you are feeling better, is that not so?’
‘Where am I?’ She struggled to sit up, and seeing her state of undress, gave a little cry and fainted again.
‘Now see what you have done,’ Anne said, picking up her aunt’s gown and covering her. ‘How could you be so unfeeling? She is not one of your common sailors, nor a peasant, to strip her of her dignity.’
‘She has not been stripped of her dignity, merely her outer garments,’ he said. ‘But as it is patently obvious that her swooning was the result of too tight clothing, combined with the heat and smell in that tent, I do not need to examine her. Mrs Armistead, you may help the lady to dress. And, as my presence seems to embarrass her, I will take myself off.’
He turned about and left the room, just as Mrs Bartrum moaned and regained her senses. ‘Anne?’ she queried weakly.
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Although Anne was still seething, she spoke gently and took her aunt’s hand. ‘You fainted clean away in that tent on the beach. We could not bring you round. Doctor Tremayne was sent for and we brought you here. He says—’
‘I heard what he said. I did not swoon again, but I was so mortified I could not look at him.’
‘Oh.’
‘Now help me dress and let us get out of here’
‘Aunt, you did have your stays laced very tight…’
‘Of course I did. How else could I keep my figure?’
‘But if it makes you faint…’
‘I have never done it before.’ She turned to Mrs Armistead, who was helping her dress. ‘Go on, woman, I’m not made of china. Lace me up again.’
When at last she was dressed again, with a slightly larger waist, Anne left her to go in search of Dr Tremayne.
He was sitting at the table in the drawing room, making notes, but looked up when she knocked and entered. He pushed the notes to one side and rose. ‘Miss Hemingford.’
‘Doctor Tremayne.’
They fell silent. The clock ticked loudly in time with Anne’s heartbeat. She did not know what to say to him. She had been embarrassed and outraged on her aunt’s behalf, knowing how the dear lady would feel, and yet, she knew in her heart, he was right. How could doctors diagnose and treat their patients properly if they were not allowed to examine them except at a distance? She wanted to storm at him and thank him in the same breath.
He stood looking at her, waiting for her to say something. He had thought she was different from the rest of her kind, sympathetic, not minding that her clothes were bloodied; she had talked to him about his work, said she wanted to help, had given him money and defended him, though he hadn’t asked her to, but what had that amounted to? Nothing when it came to understanding him and how he went about his work. A large part of it was educating people to look after their bodies and not abuse them, but he was fighting a losing battle over that, just as no one listened to him when he maintained cleanliness was essential to good health. What had made him think Miss Hemingford would be any different?
‘I came to thank you.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘Not for want of trying. Would you please send your account to this address?’ She handed him one of her aunt’s calling cards. ‘It will be paid promptly.’
She was as stiff with pride as he was, he decided. ‘There will be no charge.’
‘Your coat was ruined.’
‘Mrs Armistead will clean it.’
‘I remember you said that you charged the rich who could afford it, in order to finance your work with the poor. You should make no exceptions or you will continue to struggle. We shall expect an account.’
‘I do not ask for payment unless I have earned it, Miss Hemingford.’
She should have left then, turned on her heel and gone without another word. Words could be used as weapons, could convey anger, impatience, contempt, could hurt and she was seething with a desire to utter them. She stood three feet, perhaps four, from him, but it might as well have been miles. The chasm between his life and hers was too deep and too wide to be bridged. And she had been a fool to think that it could. ‘I do not wonder that you have no patients except the poor,’ she said. ‘They are obliged to put up with your incivility if they want treatment, but fortunately my aunt does not.’
He looked hard at her, wondering why she stayed. ‘Then may I recommend she consults a doctor more to her liking.’
‘That is your advice, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘And presumably you charge for advice?’
He laughed suddenly, but it was a hollow sound. ‘Why are you determined to give me money? Is my poverty so obvious?’
‘I am not concerned with your poverty or otherwise,’ she snapped. ‘I was thinking of Tildy Smith and all those like her.’
‘Very well, I shall send your aunt a bill, but I shall not press for payment if she declines to honour it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘You have no patients today.’
‘I have patients every day, but on Sundays they do not come to me. I go to them if they need me.’ He indicated the papers on the table, the inkstand with its pot of ink, his quills and sharp knife. ‘And I have notes to write up.’
‘Then I will not detain you, but do you mind if my aunt sits in your waiting room while I go to find a cab? She should not be walking home.’
‘Of course.’ He bowed and went to open the door for her.
But there was no need to go looking for a cab. Major Mancroft had returned with his curricle and proposed to convey Mrs Bartrum home in that. ‘We abandoned the picnic,’ he said. ‘Everyone was concerned for dear Mrs Bartrum, and no one felt like going on with it.’
‘I am sorry for that,’ Mrs Bartrum said. ‘I am completely recovered, as you see.’
‘Nevertheless, I shall convey you safely home and then let everyone know how you are. They will be congregating at the Assembly Rooms for tea later this afternoon.’
‘Then I shall join them.’
‘Aunt, really, you ought not—’ Anne began.
‘Fustian! A little rest and a change of clothes is all I need. I have never been one to make a fuss over my health and I do not propose to start now.’
Anne remembered Doctor Tremayne’s advice. Had he been hinting there was something wrong with her aunt, or was he simply being over-cautious, or giving as good as she had served out to him in angry words? She did not want to alarm her aunt, but perhaps she ought to see a doctor, one that knew how to treat susceptible ladies.
But her aunt seemed so well, and, by the time she had rested, had two cups of tea, eaten a honey cake and changed into another gown, she seemed her old self. Anne concluded that her aunt knew more about her own health than anyone else. Later Major Mancroft arrived in a light chaise to escort them to the Assembly Rooms at the Ship and Anne decided to try to put the enigmatic doctor from her mind.