Nicola Cornick - The Blanchland Secret

‘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.