A Dream Christmas

‘Your loving brother, Frank.’

Miss Sheridan sighed. Mr Churchward sighed. Both were thinking in their different ways of the insouciant Frank Sheridan who would have fathered a child so lightly, made cheerful provision for her future perhaps, but not really given the matter the thought it deserved. Mr Churchward could imagine him dashing off such a letter before he went off to join the East India Company on yet another mad attempt to make his fortune…

Sarah’s voice broke into Mr Churchward’s thoughts. ‘Well, Mr Churchward, can you, as Frank suggests, throw any more light on this mystery?’

Mr Churchward sighed for a second time. ‘I confess, madam, that I did know of Miss Meredith’s existence. Your late father…’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Sheridan came to me seventeen years ago to ask me to make arrangements for a certain child. I thought…’

‘You thought that the child was his own?’ Sarah said calmly. For a moment, Mr Churchward could have sworn that there was a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye, a look that was surely inappropriate for a young lady when confronted with the evidence of some improper connection of her family.

‘Well, I assumed—’ Mr Churchward broke off unhappily, aware that it was dangerous for lawyers to make assumptions.

‘It was a natural supposition,’ Sarah said kindly, ‘especially since Frank could have been little more than eighteen himself at the time.’

‘Young men…wild oats…’ Mr Churchward made a vague gesture. He suddenly realised the impropriety of discussing such a matter with a young, unmarried lady, cleared his throat purposefully and pushed his glasses up his nose. He deplored the necessity of giving Miss Sheridan this information, but there was nothing for it. Best to be as businesslike as possible.

‘The child was placed with a family in a village near Blanchland, I believe, madam. The late Lord Sheridan paid an annuity to a Dr John Meredith each year during his lifetime and…’ he hesitated ‘…left a sum to him in his will. Dr Meredith died last year, at which time his widow and daughter were still resident near Blanchland.’

‘I remember Dr Meredith,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘He was a kindly man. He attended me when I had the measles. And I do believe he had a daughter—a pretty little girl some seven or eight years younger than I. She went away to school. I remember everyone saying that the doctor must have some private income—’ She broke off, a rueful smile on her lips as she realised that the mystery of the doctor’s finances was now solved.

The arrival of some refreshments—a pot of coffee for Mr Churchward and a strong cup of tea for Miss Sheridan—created a natural break in the conversation and gave the lawyer the opportunity to move smoothly forward.

‘I do apologise for springing such a surprise on you, Miss Sheridan—’

‘Pray do not, Mr Churchward.’ Sarah smiled warmly. ‘This is none of your doing. But I understand from Frank’s letter that you were to contact me if Miss Meredith was in need of help. In what way may I assist her?’

Mr Churchward looked unhappy. He reached for his bag again and extracted a second letter. It was smaller than the first, the paper of inferior quality, the hand round and childish. ‘I received this three days ago, Miss Sheridan. Please…’

Once again, Sarah read aloud.

Dear Sir,

I am writing to you because I am in desperate need of help and do not know where to turn. I understand from my mother that the late Lord Sheridan gave her your direction, instructing her to contact you should either of us ever be in dire need. Please come to me at Blanchland, so that I may acquaint you with our difficulties and seek your advice.

I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,

Miss Olivia Meredith.

There was a silence. Mr Churchward was aware that he should have felt more at ease, for provision for illegitimate children and difficulties raised by said children was very much a part of Churchward and Churchward’s business. Never before, however, had he been confronted by the situation in which an errant brother had asked his younger sister to offer help to his by-blow. Frank Sheridan had been a likeable man, but thoughtless and devil-may-care. He had indubitably put his sister in a very awkward situation.

‘Miss Meredith makes no mention of the precise nature of her difficulties,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘And when Frank wrote his letter he would have had no notion of the sort of help she would need—’

‘Very difficult for him, I am sure, madam.’ Mr Churchward still looked disapproving. ‘He wished to do the right thing by the child without knowing what that would be.’

Sarah wrinkled up her nose. ‘I fear I am becoming confused, Mr Churchward. May we go over this once again? I shall call for more coffee and tea.’

The pot was replenished, Sarah’s cup refilled, then the maid withdrew once again.

‘Now,’ Sarah said, in her most businesslike voice, ‘let us recapitulate. My late brother left a letter with you to be despatched to me in the event of a plea for help from his natural daughter, Miss Meredith. Frank was, I suppose, trying to guard against my niece being left friendless in the event of his death.’

‘I assume that to be correct, madam.’

‘And there has never been any request for help until three days ago, when you received this letter from Miss Meredith?’

Mr Churchward inclined his head. ‘All contact with Dr Meredith and his family ceased on your father’s death, ma’am. I believe that Lord Sheridan left them a sum of money—’ Mr Churchward’s lips primmed as he remembered that it was a not-inconsiderable sum of money ‘—in order that the child should want for nothing in the future. Why she has seen fit to contact us now…’

‘The help Miss Meredith needs may not be of a financial nature,’ Sarah observed quietly, ‘and she is still my niece, Mr Churchward, despite the circumstances of her birth.’

‘Very true, madam.’ Mr Churchward sighed, feeling reproved. ‘This is all most irregular and I am not at all happy about it. For you to have to return to Blanchland is the most unfortunate thing imaginable!’

Once again, the lawyer thought that he detected a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye. ‘Certainly, Frank asks a great deal, Mr Churchward.’

‘He does indeed, ma’am,’ Mr Churchward said fervently. He shuddered, thinking of Sir Ralph Covell, the late Lord Sheridan’s cousin, who had inherited Blanchland Court upon Frank’s death. In the following three years Covell had turned the place into a notorious den of iniquity. Gambling, drunken revels, licentious orgies…The tales had been wilder each year. It seemed impossible to believe that Miss Sarah Sheridan, respectable spinster and pillar of Bath society, would ever set foot in the place.

‘Your cousin, Sir Ralph Covell, is still in residence at Blanchland, Miss Sheridan?’ Mr Churchward asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

‘I believe so.’ The warmth had gone from Sarah’s voice. ‘It grieves me to hear the tales of depravity at Blanchland, Mr Churchward. It is such a gracious house to be despoiled by such evil.’

Churchward cleared his throat. ‘For that reason, Miss Sheridan, it would be most inappropriate for you to return there. If your brother had known what Covell would do to your home, he would never have suggested it. Besides…’ Churchward brightened ‘…he has not actually asked you to go to see Miss Meredith yourself! You may advise her through an agent, perhaps—’

Churchward broke off as Sarah rose to her feet and crossed to the window. She gazed into the distance. The bare trees that lined the Circus were casting shifting shadows onto the pavements. A carriage rattled past.

‘Perhaps someone could represent your interests at Blanchland,’ Churchward repeated, when Sarah did not speak. He was desperately hoping that she would not ask him to be that person. His wife would never stand for it. But Sarah was shaking her head.

‘No, Mr Churchward. I fear that Frank has laid this charge on me alone and I must honour it. I shall, of course, gratefully accept your advice when I have ascertained the nature of Miss Meredith’s problem. I imagine that it should be easy enough to find the girl and see how I may help her.’

Mr Churchward was ashamed at the relief that flooded through him. There was an air of decision about Miss Sheridan that made it difficult to argue with her, despite her relative youth, but he still felt absurdly guilty. He made a business of shuffling his papers together and as he did so he remembered the piece of news that he had still to impart. His face fell still further.

‘I should tell you, ma’am, that I took the liberty of sending a message to Miss Meredith to reassure her that I had received her letter. By chance I passed my messenger on the road as I made my way here. He had been to Blanchland and was on his way back to London.’

There was a pause. Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’

Mr Churchward looked unhappy. ‘I fear that he was unable to find Miss Meredith, ma’am. The young lady was last seen approaching the front door of Blanchland Court two days ago. She has not been seen since. Miss Meredith has disappeared.’

Later, as he was driving back to London, Mr Churchward remembered that he had forgotten to tell Miss Sheridan about the third letter, the one that Francis Sheridan had requested be despatched to the Earl of Woodallan. His spirits, which had been depressingly low since leaving Bath, revived a little. Woodallan was Sarah’s godfather and a man of sound sense into the bargain. It was a pity that Mr Sheridan had ever thought to involve his sister in such an undignified situation, but at least he appeared to have had the sense to apply to a man of Woodallan’s stature to support her. Mr Churchward sat forward for a moment, debating whether to ask the driver to turn back to Bath, then he caught sight of a signpost for Maidenhead and sat back against the cushions with a sigh. He was tired and nearing home, and, after all, Miss Sheridan would learn of Lord Woodallan’s involvement soon enough.

Lady Amelia had already left for her morning engagements by the time Mr Churchward departed for London, so Sarah had no chance to confide in her cousin. She thought that this was probably a good thing, for her natural inclination had been to rush and tell Amelia all, when perhaps it would be better to think a little. Frank had not laid any strictures of secrecy on her, but Amelia was the least discreet of people and no doubt the tale of Sarah’s niece would be all over Bath in a morning were Amelia to be made party to the story.

Sarah sat on the edge of her bed and thought of Frank and of her father, paying for his granddaughter’s upkeep, and of neither of them breathing a word to her. She suspected that neither of them had ever intended that she should know. But perhaps Frank had had some premonition of his own end when he was about to set sail for India that last time. At least it would have been some comfort to him to think, as he lay racked by fever so far from home, that he had made some provision, hasty and thoughtless as it was, for Olivia’s future…

Sarah stirred herself. She could sit here thinking of it all day, but she had errands of her own to attend to—some ribbons to match at the haberdasher’s and bouquets to collect from the florist for the ball Amelia was holding the following night. Sarah replaced her lace cap with a plain bonnet, donned a sensible dark pelisse, and hurried down the stairs.

Mrs Anderson, Lady Amelia’s housekeeper, was lurking in the stairwell, a look of slightly anxious eagerness on her homely face. She started forward as Sarah reached the bottom step.

‘Was there…did the gentleman bring any good news, Miss Sarah?’

Sarah, adjusting her bonnet slightly before the pier glass, smiled slightly. News travelled quickly and a visit from the family lawyer was bound to cause speculation.

‘No one has left me a fortune I fear, Annie!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mr Churchward came only to tell me of a request my brother Frank made a few years ago. Nothing exciting, I am sorry to say!’

Mrs Anderson’s face fell. In common with all the other servants in the house, she thought it a crying shame that Miss Sheridan should be the poor relation, and her a real lady, so pretty-behaved and well bred. Not that Lady Amelia ever treated her cousin as though she was a charity case, but it was Miss Sarah herself who insisted on running errands and doing work that was beneath her. She was doing it now.

‘Would you like me to collect the vegetables whilst I am out?’ Sarah was saying. ‘It is only a step from the florists to the greengrocer’s—’

‘No, ma’am,’ Mrs Anderson said firmly. It was one thing for Miss Sheridan to carry home a bouquet of hothouse roses and quite another for her to be weighed down with cauliflower and lettuce. She moved to open the door for Sarah and espied the portly figure of a gentleman just passing the gate. ‘Why, ma’am, ’tis Mr Tilbury! If you are quick to catch him up, he may escort you to the shops!’

‘Thank you for warning me, Annie,’ Sarah said serenely. ‘If I walk very slowly, I am persuaded he will lose himself ahead of me! I just pray that he does not turn around!’

Mrs Anderson shook her head as she watched Sarah’s trim figure descend the steps and set off slowly up Brock Street towards the Circus. There was no accounting for taste, but to her mind a marriage to a rich gentleman like Mr Tilbury was far preferable to being a poor spinster. Unfortunately, Miss Sheridan seemed too particular to settle for a marriage of convenience. Mr Tilbury was older, a widower with grown-up children, and if he were a little dull and set in his ways, well…

Mrs Anderson closed the door, noticing in the process that the housemaid had left a smear on the polished step. She walked slowly back towards the kitchens, still thinking of Miss Sheridan’s suitors. Bath was a staid place and could not offer much in the way of excitement, but there had been several retired army officers who would have been only too happy to offer for Miss Sheridan if she had given them the least encouragement. And then there was Sir Edmund Place—an invalid, with a weak chest, but a rich one! And there had been young Lord Grantley—very young, Mrs Anderson admitted to herself, barely off the leading reins, in fact, but infatuated with Miss Sheridan and no mistake! Old Lady Grantley had soon whisked her lamb out of harm’s way, declaring to all and sundry that Miss Sheridan was a designing female! Mrs Anderson bridled. Miss Sarah was more of a lady than Augusta Grantley would ever be!

Still, there was always hope. Cook’s sister, who was Lady Allerton’s housekeeper, had overheard her ladyship mention that a number of new visitors had been listed in the Bath Register, chief amongst whom was Viscount Renshaw, son of the Earl of Woodallan. Not just that, but his lordship was rumoured to be staying with his good friend Greville Baynham, one of Lady Amelia’s beaux…Still plotting, Mrs Anderson called for the housemaid and made some pungent remarks about the slovenliness of her cleaning.

The subject of these musings, completely unaware that her cousin’s matchmaking staff had plans for her, had purchased two very pretty pink ribbons for the bodice of Amelia’s ballgown and was just leaving the florist with her arms full of specially cultivated roses. No matter how she tried to avoid it, the events of the past hour kept flooding back into Sarah’s mind. A niece of seventeen! And she was only four and twenty herself! Frank, her senior by eleven years, had begun his womanising young. He had always been one with an eye for the prettiest maids. And who had been Olivia’s mother? Sarah paused on the street corner. Surely it had not been the doctor’s prim little wife? Mrs Meredith had been so very proper…

Aware that she was speculating in a most ill-bred manner, Sarah smiled a little. She was certain that Churchward had been shocked by her lack of sensibility when acquainted with the news! Engrossed in her thoughts, she stepped off the pavement and someone bumped into her, knocking all the breath out of her body. The roses went flying across the cobblestones. Sarah lost her balance and would have fallen were it not for an arm that went hard around her waist, steadying her.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am!’ a masculine voice exclaimed. ‘Devilish clumsy of me!’

The gentleman set Sarah gently on her feet and removed his arm from about her with what she considered to be unnecessary slowness. He turned to gather up the scattered flowers, but he was too late. A carriage, bowling along at a smart pace, neatly severed the heads of half of them.

‘Oh, no!’ Sarah went down on her knees again to try to rescue those that were left, but even they were bruised, their petals drooping. Amelia would be furious. The red roses were the centrepiece of her decoration the following night and the florist had grown them especially for the event. With all her heart Sarah wished she had left the roses to be brought round later on the cart with the other flowers, but she had been looking forward to walking through the winter streets with such a splash of colour. She sat back on her heels, holding the sad bouquet in her hand.

‘Pray have some sense, madam! You are likely to be squashed flat if you remain in the road!’

The gentleman took Sarah firmly by the elbow and hauled her to her feet again. There was considerably less courtesy in his voice this time.

Sarah stepped back and glared at him furiously. ‘I thank you for your concern, sir! A pity you did not think of the danger before you consigned my roses to precisely that fate!’

The gentleman did not answer at once, merely raising one dark eyebrow in a somewhat quizzical fashion. His thoughtful gaze, very dark and direct, considered Sarah from her skewed bonnet to her sensible shoes, pausing on her flushed face and lingering on the curves of her figure beneath the practical pelisse. Sarah raised her chin angrily. Her experience of gentlemen was indisputably small, but she had no trouble in recognising this one as a rake—nor in reading the expression in his eyes.

His was a tall and athletic figure, set off to perfection by an elegance of tailoring seldom found in conservative Bath society. London polish, Sarah thought immediately, remembering Amelia’s description of her years in the capital and the intimidatingly handsome gentlemen who had flocked to her balls and soirées. This gentleman had thick fair hair ruffled by the winter breeze, its lightness a striking contrast to the dark brown eyes that were appraising her so thoroughly. A slight smile was starting to curl his firm mouth as he took in the angry sparkle in Sarah’s eyes, the outraged blush rising to her cheeks.

‘I can only apologise again, madam,’ the gentleman said smoothly. ‘I was so taken in admiring the beauties of this city—’ the amusement in his eyes deepened ‘—that I was utterly engrossed!’

Sarah felt an answering smile starting and repressed it ruthlessly. There was something here that was surprisingly hard to resist; some indefinable charm, perhaps, or, more dangerously, an affinity that was as disturbing as it was unexpected. The gentleman exuded a careless confidence and a vitality that seemed to set him apart. Bath was full of invalids, Sarah realised, and it was almost shocking to meet someone who seemed so very alive.

The strangest thing of all was that he seemed vaguely familiar. The combination of fair hair and dark eyes was very unusual and definitely stirred her memory. She paused, unaware that she was staring and that the quizzical twinkle in the gentleman’s eyes had changed to thoughtful speculation.

‘I beg your pardon, but have we met before, sir?’ Sarah frowned slightly. ‘There is something familiar—’

Too late, she realised just how he might misinterpret her question. She had been thinking aloud and bit her lip, vexed with herself.

The gentleman’s dark eyebrows rose fractionally and there was a certain cynicism in his drawl as he said, ‘You flatter me, ma’am! I should say that we could be very good friends if you so choose.’

The colour flooded into Sarah’s cheeks. She stopped dead, regardless of curious glances from the other shoppers in Milsom Street.

‘That was hardly my intention, sir! I would scarcely attempt to scrape an acquaintance in so ramshackle a manner, particularly with a gentleman who is an undoubted rake! Your assumptions do you no credit! Good day to you, sir!’

He was already before her as she turned on her heel to leave him standing there.

‘Wait!’ He put out a hand to detain her. ‘Forgive me, ma’am! It was not my intention to offend you!’

Sarah looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm, and he removed it at once. ‘I should have thought that that was precisely what you intended, sir!’

‘No, indeed!’ He would have seemed genuinely contrite were it not for the glint of amused admiration she could see lurking in his eyes. ‘I intended quite otherwise—’ He broke off at the furious light in Sarah’s eyes. ‘You must allow me to apologise for my deplorable manners, ma’am! And for the roses…’ He gave a wry smile to see the drooping posy in Sarah’s hand. ‘I hope it is a simple matter to procure some more?’

It was said in the tones of someone who had never had any difficulty in finding—or paying for—two dozen red roses for his latest inamorata. Sarah, who was finding it extraordinarily difficult to remain angry with him, managed a severity she was proud of.

‘I fear that these were the last roses to be had, sir,’ she said frostily. ‘They were grown especially. And even if they were not, I can scarce afford to go around Bath buying up flowers in an abandoned fashion! Now, you will excuse me, I am sure!’

The gentleman appeared not to have heard his dismissal, although Sarah suspected that he had, in fact, chosen to ignore it. He fell into step beside her as though by mutual consent.

‘I trust that you were not injured at all in the accident, ma’am?’ The undertone of amusement was still in his voice. ‘It was remiss of me not to enquire before. Perhaps I should escort you home to reassure myself that you are quite well?’

Sarah raised her eyebrows at such flagrant presumption. She wondered just how blunt she was going to have to be to dismiss him. It was difficult when a part of her was drawn to him in such a contrary fashion, but she was not accustomed to striking up a conversation with strange gentlemen in the street. Besides, no matter what her errant senses were telling her, such behaviour was dangerous. This man was definitely a rake and had already shown that he would take advantage.

‘It is quite unnecessary for you to accompany me, sir. I am indeed well and will be home directly!’

‘But it is not at all the done thing for a lady to wander around unattended, you know,’ the gentleman said conversationally. ‘I am sure that Bath cannot be so fast as London; even so, the worthy matrons would not approve of such behaviour!’

Once again, Sarah was almost betrayed into a smile. He was outrageous, but surprisingly difficult to resist.

‘I am sure that you are aware, sir, that it causes less speculation to walk around unchaperoned than to be seen in company with a complete stranger! That being the case, I shall continue alone and wish you a pleasant stay in our city!’

So saying, she gave him a cool nod and walked away, every line of her body defying him to follow her.

Guy, Viscount Renshaw, watched the slender figure walk purposefully away from him. A faint, rueful smile curved his lips. He saw the lady reach the corner of the street, saw her pause to exchange greetings with a gentleman coming the other way and noted with quickened interest that the gentleman was his good friend, Greville Baynham. Reflecting that it was fortunate that Bath society was proving to be so close-knit, Guy strolled across the street just as Greville took his leave of the lady.

‘Sorry I was so long, old fellow!’ Greville gave his friend an amiable grin. ‘Saw a pair of Purdeys that took my fancy. I hope that you found enough to amuse you in my absence!’

‘Oh, I was well entertained,’ Guy said lazily, watching Sarah disappear out of sight. She had a very trim figure, he thought, good enough to challenge any of the accredited London beauties. Those hazel eyes, set in the wide, pure oval of her face, were magnificent…He realised that Greville had addressed another remark to him and was waiting patiently for his response.