Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary Nichols
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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?’
‘I have no idea. I assumed it was a larger-than-usual fish.’
‘Well, it is of no moment,’ her aunt said. ‘You did what you could to help them and that should be an end of it.’
‘I would dearly like to know who that officer was driving the curricle. How anyone can run down a child and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened I do not know. It was wicked. He might have killed her.’
‘Anne, I know you have a tender heart and I would not have you any other way, but you cannot fight everyone’s battles for them. Put it from your mind. You are here to enjoy yourself.’
Anne did try to put it from her mind, but whatever she was doing, the memory of that tiny child lying unconscious in the road kept intruding, and when she wasn’t thinking of Tildy, she was thinking of Dr Tremayne and, try as she might, she could not banish him. Perhaps if she were to see him again, she might realise that he was not an Adonis, nor clever, just a very ordinary man, not even a gentleman, a physician who worked among the poor because he was not good enough to minister to the rich and earn the substantial fees they were prepared to pay. But that did not mean she could not sympathise with his work. And she had promised a donation. Instead of sending it through a third party as she had intended, she would take it herself when she could get away from her aunt without arousing suspicion. She had a feeling that Aunt Bartrum would not approve.
The remainder of the day was spent in making plans for the supper party. Her aunt drew her into every decision, from the bill of fare and the wine, to the table decorations and the clothes they should wear. Mrs Bartrum would be dressed in unrelieved black, but the gown she chose was of silk, elegantly cut with a low décolletage and deep satin ruching round the hem and it fitted her slight form to perfection. Widow or not, she was still a very attractive woman. But Anne’s choice was another matter. ‘Let me see what you have brought with you,’ her aunt said.
She was sitting on Anne’s bed, while Amelia pulled gowns out of the cupboard and her trunk, which had not yet been fully unpacked. Anne had never been one for finery; living at Sutton Park with her grandfather, she rarely needed to dress up and only when she went to London for the Season, did she bother about her wardrobe. She had not done so this year, so it had not been replenished, except for the two ball gowns her aunt had insisted on buying when they were passing through London. ‘There are at least two balls every week in Brighton,’ she had told her. ‘And you never know, if the Prince is in residence, he might invite us to the Pavilion.’
‘I do not think I should like to go.’
‘Me neither, but an invitation is a royal command and we would have no choice.’
‘In that case we will avoid anyone with any connection to the royal gentleman.’
But it was not ball gowns that interested her now, but something to wear for their supper party when she hoped Anne would make a lasting impression on the single gentlemen present. ‘Black, grey, mauve, dark blue,’ her aunt intoned as the gowns were brought out for her approval. ‘Have you nothing with any colour in it?’