Marrying Miss Hemingford. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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“Dr. Tremayne, thank you for coming.”
Anne could almost believe he was a gentleman. One whose coat was three years out of fashion, but a gentleman for all that.
“My aunt wishes to consult you.” Anne smiled. “You must have made an impression on her, though I cannot think why when she was in a dead faint most of the time.”
He looked as though he were about to laugh, but then he pulled himself together. “Miss Hemingford, are you bamming me?”
“Indeed, I am not. I would not presume on so short an acquaintance.”
He wondered if she would do so on a longer acquaintance, and he allowed himself to imagine them teasing each other, laughing together, happy in each other’s company. But, suddenly remembering Sophie, he brought himself back to reality.
MARY NICHOLS
Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren. Marrying Miss Hemingford features characters you will have already met in The Hemingford Scandal.
Marrying Miss Hemingford
Mary Nichols
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
1815
The funeral cortège was a long one; the old Earl of Bostock had been respected, if not greatly loved, in the Lincolnshire village from which he took his name. He had lived to a great age, over eighty, so it was said, and had outlived wife and sons, and the only family left to mourn were his grandson Harry, now the new Earl, Harry’s wife, Jane, and his twin sister, Anne. She, most of all, mourned the passing of her grandfather. In his latter years the Earl had become almost a recluse, irascible, opinionated and intolerant where everyone but his beloved granddaughter was concerned. She had been the apple of his eye, the joy of his old age and his constant companion. And now he was gone.
Anne watched from the window as the coffin, on its carriage drawn by black plumed horses, left Sutton Park, followed by other carriages containing male members of the family, some of whom were so distantly related she had never met them before. Behind them in the procession were many of her grandfather’s friends and close associates. The day was overcast, cooler than of late and threatening rain, though none as yet had fallen. It was a day in keeping with the sombre occasion.
Anne turned as her aunt came into the room. ‘I thought he would live for ever,’ she said, giving her a wan smile. ‘I cannot believe he has gone.’
‘We all have to go sooner or later.’ Although she was forty, Georgiana Bartrum still had the petite figure of a girl; her features were unlined and her hair was still raven black and topped by a lace-edged black cap. ‘Be thankful that he lived so long…’
‘I wish I could have gone to the funeral, seen him laid to rest.’
‘My dear Anne, you know ladies do not go to funerals.’
Anne sighed, doing her best not to weep; Grandfather would have considered it a weakness. ‘I don’t feel like a lady, I feel like a little girl, lost and bereft.’
‘I know, my dear, but that will pass in time.’ Her voice faltered and Anne went at once to put her arm round her.
‘Oh, Aunt Georgie, I am so sorry, I did not mean to make you sad too.’
Her aunt, her mother’s much younger sister, was herself in mourning for a beloved husband who had died suddenly eighteen months before, but, on hearing of the demise of the Earl, had come down from the Lake District for the funeral, determined to put her grief aside for the sake of her niece. ‘You must not wish the old Earl back,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a wisp of handkerchief. ‘He was a great age and could do nothing for himself at the end. He is with his wife and your dear mama and papa now and you must think of yourself.’
Her aunt had put her finger on the problem. Twenty-seven years old and unmarried, Anne could not contemplate her future with equanimity. Harry and Jane wanted her to make her home with them, but though she loved them dearly, she did not think it would serve. Ape leader, old maid, maiden aunt were words that leapt to her mind. Why had she turned down every offer of marriage made to her when she was still young enough to be thought marriageable? Not quite every offer—there had been one she would have accepted from a perfectly eligible young man with whom she had imagined herself in love. They had been dealing famously with each other and she had been expecting an offer.
And then her brother, serving as a very young Hussar lieutenant, became involved in the scandal over Mary Ann Clarke, the Duke of York’s one-time mistress, who had been using her influence with the Duke to sell promotions. It had been unpleasant at the time, but it had all blown over, although not before the gentleman in question had decided to beat a hasty retreat. Grandfather had said if he was so easily blown in the wind he was not worthy of her, which had been small comfort at the time.
That had been five years ago and since then she had been wary and refused every offer. Those who came after had not been ineligible, ugly or cruel, and yet she had rejected them all. She had made excuses not only to them but to herself: her grandfather was old and ill and could not manage without her; she looked after his household, wrote letters for him, read to him, ran errands and even fed him when he became too feeble to feed himself. She had also assumed the charitable duties on the estate and in the village that her mother would have done had she lived. And now it was too late; her grandfather was dead and she was well past marriageable age.
Now no one needed her. Jane was easily able to fulfil the task of the lady of the manor, though she pretended she would need Anne’s help. But Anne could not while away the remainder of her life, doing embroidery and being a companion to her sister-in-law, however much she loved her. She loved her little nephew too, and therein lay much of her unease. She longed for children of her own with a fierce passion that made her miserable, and seeing little William, toddling about on his unsteady two-year-old legs, giggling when she held out her arms to catch him, made her want to weep. She had to make a life for herself, a life that she would find fulfilling, so that her lack of children did not become an unhealthy obsession.
‘But what am I to do?’ she asked her aunt. ‘My usefulness is at an end…’
‘Nonsense!