Page 13 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“I have never drunk wine,” she admitted, sniffing the glass with interest. “My father never drank, not that we could have afforded it.”

Nat added this to the information he had gleaned about her father, which all led him to believe the fellow had been a jolly dull dog. “Well, high time you tried, then?” he suggested, watching with interest as she took a cautious sip and immediately screwed up her nose.

Nat laughed. “Give it a chance. It will grow on you, but perhaps you should wait for dinner. Excellent wine and a good meal are a pleasure not to be underestimated.”

“Is this excellent wine?” she asked, regarding her glass dubiously.

“Perhaps not excellent,” he admitted, amused. “But not at all bad.”

She nodded, considering the wine with curiosity now. “Then I shall give it the benefit of the doubt.”

Nat smiled, rather delighted by her but any further comment he might have made was forgotten as their meal arrived. They began with soup à la Julienne, which was delicious, then veal collops with white sauce, pork cutlets with red cabbage, and a dish of mushrooms fried with herbs.

They ate in silence at first, with Nat ensuring Miss Bancroft got the choicest parts of each dish and enjoying the pleasure she took in her meal far more than his own.

“How long did you work for the despicable family?” he asked, once he felt she had relaxed enough to converse with him.

“Almost a year,” she said, glancing at the glass of wine and reaching for it.

“Was it a comfortable position before the trouble over the book?”

She hesitated and then lifted the glass to her nose. “That depends on your notions of comfort, I suppose. I was used to my own bedroom at home, which was small but cosy, to having a maid do much of the housework and cook for us, and to spending my time reading and conversing with my father. I have never been idle, but I found the change in my circumstances rather shocking and hard to adjust to. The room was dark and cold, and so small I could not stand upright. There was little food, and what there was I found nigh on inedible, and I discovered I am not an excellent governess,” she said ruefully.

Nat filed away the information about her room and the fact she was likely hungry the entire time to stew over later, suspecting she would not enjoy his pitying her. “I cannot believe you were not an excellent governess,” he said instead. “I would think you suit the role admirably.”

She shot him a sharp glance that made him realise she believed the remark an insult.

“Only because you are so clever,” he clarified, which seemed to mollify her as she smiled and took a tentative sip of her wine.

“Oh,” she said, licking her lips and looking surprised. “Oh, you are right. It’s very different now.”

She took another sip, savouring the flavour, but if she said anything else Nat had no idea, for he was still riveted by the sight of her mouth, and the place where her tongue had sought the traces of wine. He forced himself to look away, applying himself to his meal once more.

“Indeed. Better with food,” he said gruffly.

“Being clever only made things more difficult.”

Nat looked up. “How so?”

“Surely you know women exist merely to look pretty and agree with men on every topic, Mr Ashford,” she said, and with such cynicism he wondered just how badly the family she had stayed with had treated her. “I have it on good authority that educating women is akin to throwing pearls before swine.”

“Your estimable employer, I take it?” Nat said with a grimace, helping himself to more roast pork.

“Quite so.”

“Yet, you said this man was your father’s friend? Surely—”

“He was the son of my father’s friend,” she corrected. “And he had not the slightest problem with education, only that it not be wasted on the female sex. I committed the cardinal sin of teaching his daughter a few words of Latin and was lucky I did not lose my job on the spot. A pity I did not, as it turns out, for at least then I should still have my book,” she added bitterly.

And I should never have met you, Nat thought. “How did he discover it?”

“My own stupid fault,” she said with a sigh. “The family had all gone out for the day and, for once, my services were not required. A unique event, I assure you. As I had completed all the tasks required of me, I had a few blessed hours of liberty. There was a fire burning in the library, and no one there to enjoy it, so I took the chance of sitting down there. A stupid error of judgement.”

“They came back,” he guessed, wishing he had known, that he’d been able to do something, which was patently ridiculous, for even if he had known, he could not intercede on behalf of an unmarried female.

“Mr Corbyn came back,” she corrected. “He said he had the headache, but I suspect he argued with his wife—they were not an amicable couple—and decided to enjoy his own company instead.”

“There was a scene?”