‘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?’
‘Grandfather has been gone less than a month, Aunt, and I cannot, in all conscience, wear bright colours. Besides, they do not become me…’
‘Well, this dove-grey crepe will have to do. You can dress it up with lace and silk flowers. We will go out this afternoon and see what the shops have to offer.’
Anne, who had been used to being independent and doing things her own way, felt as though she were losing control of her life. If she were not careful, her aunt would have her married off to the first eligible man who showed an interest. The difficulty was that Aunt Bartrum was such a dear, so well meaning and unselfish, she would be bound to be offended if her niece appeared awkward. There was nothing for it but to go along with her until something happened that meant she would have to stand her ground, then she would have to be firm.
They rose early the next morning and set off for the beach accompanied by Susan and Amelia to help them undress and to look after their clothes while they were in the sea. Mrs Bartrum was complaining good humouredly about having to rise before half the town had even been to bed, but Anne, who loved the time just after dawn when the birds were singing and few people were about, simply laughed and said she would be able to catch up on her sleep that afternoon before their guests began to arrive.
The tide was out when they reached the beach and they picked their way carefully over the newly washed shingle to the bathing machines, some of which were already in the water, and others were drawn up in a line, each with its attendant. Anne, seeing Mrs Smith, made her way over to her. ‘How is Tildy?’ she asked her.
‘She is on the mend, ma’am, thank you for asking. She had a real bad headache for a time, but it passed and the wound is healing. I’m right thankful you came along when you did.’
‘I did nothing, Mrs Smith. It was Dr Tremayne who did most.’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. The man’s a saint, he never turns anyone away and he hardly ever takes money for what he does. I don’t know what us poor folks would do without him.’
‘Then you must be very thankful for him and hope he continues for a long time to come.’ She was aware of her aunt standing beside her, drinking in the conversation, and knew she would be in for a quizzing later.
‘We pray for that, ma’am, but he has to rely on what people give him to carry on. I believe he is finding it ’ard.’
‘We shall have to see what can be done to help,’ Anne said, smiling at the woman. ‘And talking about giving, I want to thank you for that box of fish. But there was no need to send so much.’
‘Course there was. Tildy is worth more ’n a box of fish to me. Besides, you pai—’
She was not allowed to finish before Anne stopped her. ‘Mrs Smith, my aunt and I would like to take a dip in the sea, would you tell us what we have to do?’
The woman called the next of her colleagues in the line to look after Mrs Bartrum while she served Anne. They were each given a brown cotton gown and climbed into the huts with their maids to help them undress. Anne put on the shapeless garment and tied it with a cord round the waist and set a mob cap over her hair, before calling out that she was ready. The horse set off at a steady plod pulling the hut over the wet shingle and into the sea. ‘How deep do you wish to go?’ Mrs Smith asked.
‘Deep enough to immerse myself totally, if you please.’
When the hut came to a stop, facing the English Channel, the door was opened and Anne realised that all but the top two steps had disappeared into the water. Gingerly she stepped down, feeling with her toes and hanging on to Mrs Smith, who led her down. The water was icy cold and made her gasp. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘It always feels cold when you first go in. You will not notice it after a minute or two,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘Best thing is to get in quickly.’
It was what she had done as a child when bathing in the river at Sutton Park with Harry and Jane, but she could not remember it being as cold as this. She jumped off the last few steps, letting out a single shriek as the cold water hit her almost bare flesh, felt her dress balloon around her, then settle about her body. The more genteel ladies simply stayed under the cover of the hood, but that was not enough for Anne; she struck out towards her aunt’s machine. ‘It’s lovely,’ she called. ‘Come on in.’
Aunt Bartrum was a little timid and did not venture far from the safety of the bathing machine where she was hid den, but Anne set out for deeper water, where a few hardy heads bobbed above the surface. As a child she had done everything her brother had done, climbing trees, riding, shooting, swimming; Grandfather had often said she was as much of a boy as Harry was. He had warned her, and so had Amelia in later years, that men did not like women who excelled in physical outdoor pursuits, but she did not see why she should curb her pleasures simply to attract a man. If she took a husband, he would have to love her for what she was. The thought that she might even consider marriage took her by surprise. Was her aunt already wearing her down? She would be silly to allow that, it could only lead to disappointment.
‘Miss Hemingford?’
Startled, she looked up to see the disembodied head of Dr Tremayne not six feet away, his wet hair springing into tight curls all over his head. Treading water, he lifted a bare arm in greeting, making her wonder what he was wearing; the water was not clear enough to see, for which she was grateful. Even thinking about it made her heart beat at an alarming rate. ‘Dr Tremayne, fancy seeing you here.’
‘I am here most mornings. I find it refreshing before the rigours of the day.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘At least, I begin the day clean.’
‘And cleanliness is next to Godliness, so I am told,’ she said, treading water beside him.
‘I do not know about that, but what I do know is that dirt spreads contagion and disease and it behoves me to set a good example.’
She was aware that this was not the sort of conversation a well-bred young lady should be having with a man, certainly not in their present state of undress, but she could not bring herself to turn away from him. He fascinated her. ‘Oh, I am sure you do.’
‘You are a long way from the beach, Miss Hemingford,’ he said, looking back towards the bathing huts. ‘Should you have come so far? The tide can be very strong…’
‘I am a good swimmer, Dr Tremayne. Have no fear, you will not be obliged to rescue me.’ She laughed, but he did not respond and she wondered if he ever smiled. ‘I—I can keep going for hours.’
‘You do say.’ His tone was amused, almost disbelieving.
‘I do and, to prove it, I will race you to that rock.’ Before he could respond, she was off, cleaving powerfully through the water.
He kept up with her stroke for stroke, and it was not until they reached the rock that she realised she could not clamber out because what had been a shapeless garment when she put it on, would have a very definite shape now, clinging to every curve of her body: breasts, hips, legs.
‘I must return to my aunt,’ she called out to him, making for the shore. ‘She will be wondering what has become of me.’
‘And I must return to my patients. Good day to you, Miss Hemingford.’
He swam away from her towards a cove below the cliffs