A Dream Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер

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