Free Marrying Miss Hemingford by Nadia Nichols Page B

seat beside the doctor. He was kneelingto 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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜And Tildy? Have you seen her again?’ Her voice was no more than a murmur, unheard by anyone else.
    â€˜Yes, I have been keeping an eye on her. She continues to improve.’
    â€˜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