Page 12 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

Chapter 3

Let me pick your brain.

Angel Inn, Tunbridge Wells, Kent, 5th December 1815

“Will you wear the rose satin or the dark green?” Betty asked, gesturing to the bed where she had laid out two of the most exquisite dresses Meg had ever seen. “The rose satin would look lovely with your colouring, though I do love that green,” she added, clearly torn between the two herself.

Meg did not blame her. If the past two days had been challenging, the past hour had been almost too much to endure. When Betty had opened the two enormous trunks that the poor servants had lugged up the stairs to her room, she did not know which of them had been more astonished.

Betty clearly thought her an odd sort for having worn such a drab and threadbare gown for the past two days when such delights of colour and style were languishing in her luggage. But then she had unpacked the undergarments, silk stockings and embroidered garters, and stays embellished with lace and little satin bows. Meg had not known where to look when she considered who had furnished such intimate items for her. Had he seen and chosen all these items himself? Oh, surely not! The thought made her burn with shame and a peculiar heat she did not care to dwell upon. She wondered how she would ever face him again.

Yet face him she must, and soon, for he was waiting for her downstairs in a private parlour, and she must dine with him.

“The rose,” Meg said decisively, almost immediately wishing she’d chosen the green. She held her tongue, though, and allowed Betty to fuss about, helping her dress and prettying up her hair.

“Where are your jewels, madam?” Betty asked.

“Oh, I don’t hav—”

“Never mind, I found them. A pretty set of pearls, how lovely,” Betty said happily, bringing the box over to the dressing table. It seemed to Meg that Betty was having a marvellous time and could not have been more pleased if she herself were dressing in fine clothes and eating with an eligible man. Meg heartily wished she was.

Betty set the jewellery box down before her, and Meg gazed with growing agitation at a simple but lovely string of pearls with a gold clasp, earbobs, and hair combs. She felt as if she were drowning, the situation having spun so far out of control she could not imagine ever breaking the surface and breathing again.

“No. No jewellery, that’s quite enough,” Meg said, standing suddenly and heading for the door.

“Well, I suppose it is only dinner at an inn, but he is your fiancé, don’t you want—”

“No,” Meg said, her tone brooking no argument.

“As you like, miss, but don’t forget your shawl,” Betty exclaimed, snatching up the luxurious cashmere shawl that was a darker shade of rose than the gown and embroidered at the edges with green leaves. “Might be drafty downstairs,” the girl advised, settling it carefully around Meg’s shoulders.

Though she knew she ought not, Meg lifted the expensive material to her cheek, closing her eyes as it brushed her skin. So soft. Oh, Meg, what have you done? she thought desperately, before squaring her shoulders, and going downstairs to dinner.

Nat stood with his foot on the fender, gazing down into the flames.

He’d been feeling most out of sorts since his last conversation with Miss Bancroft and, try as he might, he could not shake it off. It wasn’t as if it was a new sensation; Hawkney always made him feel like an imbecile, though to be fair he did not do so on purpose. It came naturally.

Forget it, he told himself. It’s only a fiction anyway. Three weeks to keep her safe and warm and him from the parson’s mousetrap, then she could go her way, and he could carry on his merry existence, just as before. Except he’d had a sneaking suspicion for some time now that his existence was not as merry as it had once been.

The door opened, putting an end to such depressing thoughts and forcing him back to the present. Nat felt nothing but relief, for he did not go in for self-absorption, which would doubtless surprise many who knew him. Looking up from the flames, he felt as if they still danced behind his eyelids as he set eyes on Miss Bancroft, for she dazzled in a manner that rocked him back on his heels.

“Good heavens,” he said, before he could think better of the remark.

She stood just inside the door, awkward and embarrassed and looking as if she would just as soon turn around and go back upstairs.

“No! I-I’m a clumsy oaf, it’s just… well, you look quite magnificent, is all,” he said, wondering why she looked so sceptical. “You took me by surprise, coming in unannounced and looking so very lovely. I knew you would, of course, but even my powers of imagination had not conjured quite such a vision.”

She winced and held out a hand to him, indicating he should stop speaking. “I will not back out. I told you already. There’s really no need to pour the butter boat over my head.”

“But I’m not,” he said, and with such sincerity her stiff poise became a fraction of a degree less rigid. “Did you not see yourself in the looking glass before you came down? That gown is simply divine on you.”

Meg shook her head. “I feel such an imposter I don’t think I shall ever be able to look myself in the eyes again.”

“Come now. Don’t be like that. Sit down and let me pour you a glass of wine,” he offered, guiding her to the table which had been laid for them.

She regarded the table, set for two, with misgiving but sat down.

“Don’t worry, the staff will be in and out the entire time. You’re quite safe,” he assured her, pouring out a glass of the very tolerable Bordeaux he had been enjoying whilst awaiting her arrival.