Page 17 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“Have you travelled much?” she asked cautiously, apparently inclined to believe he was to be handled with kid gloves now, in case he blew up on her again.

Lord, but he was a wretched fellow.

“Sadly, I missed out on the Grand Tour, as Napoleon put an end to such things. I would very much like to travel, though, and hope to do so. There is so much of the world out there and so many strange and exotic things to see. Even in Europe there is so much diversity, in plants and trees and animals and way of life. Just imagine what you might discover in the New World.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, one hand almost reaching out to him, her eyes shining with delight. “I would say just the same things to my father, and he would say, ‘but we can discover it all in books, without ever leaving home!’”

“Oh, that’s no good,” Nat replied. “You can’t hear the call of a strange bird in a book, or smell the perfume of some exotic flower, or touch its petals and leaves and investigate its texture. No, no. That won’t do at all!”

“No, nor taste the variety of food or wine, or feel the sun on your face, or hear strange music and singing the like of which we cannot dream. Books can bring us so much, can transport us to far-off places and broaden our minds, help us live a thousand other lives, but it is not the same as living them firsthand. How can it be?”

Their eyes met over the table, enthusiasm brimming between them like a glass on the brink of spilling over, but then they remembered themselves, their places, the correct way they ought to behave, and retreated to their proper demeanours, watching each other guardedly.

“Then, you would like to travel, Miss Bancroft?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Even if I had the funds, I should be too scared. I am afraid I am my father’s daughter, Mr Ashford. Whilst I might recognise the difference between the lives and places one reads about, and living firsthand, I am not so bold as to set off on adventures. The very idea scares me to death.”

“But why should it? There is nothing so very dangerous or difficult if one is not reckless.”

“There speaks a man,” she replied, her lips quirking.

Nat subsided, recognising the truth of her words. “Of course. But perhaps you will marry one day, and perhaps your husband will take you travelling?”

“And perhaps this mythical being might turn pebbles into sovereigns,” she replied, admonishing his naiveté.

She was right, of course. Beautiful she might be, and excellent company too, but marriage was another matter. Few men could marry a woman with no dowry, no connections, and her obvious intelligence would scare off most of those.

“A pity,” he replied softly, meaning it. Someone ought to take her to those places. He could just imagine her among the ancient ruins of Rome or Greece, telling a fellow about the history of all the ancient places they travelled to, about the people who had lived there, the books they had written, the battles they had fought.

“Ah, well. In another life,” she said, a wistful look in her eyes as if she too had seen the pictures he had formed in his mind. She shrugged it off, becoming the sensible and level-headed young woman he was coming to know. “And now, I really must go up. I had better be well rested if I am to endure the events of tomorrow.”

Nat nodded, not detaining her again but bidding her goodnight. He sat there for some time though, finishing the wine and wondering about another life. What life would he have chosen if he could do anything, be anything? No answer returned to him, no epiphany, only the acceptance of the truth, a realisation that had been looming over him for too long.

He did not wish to go on as he had been. Something must change. He must change.

Chapter 4

Can you see the sea?

Through East Sussex, 6th December 1815

Despite Mr Ashford’s warnings about dreadful roads being quite accurate, they arrived at The George in Rye in the early afternoon, shaken about but otherwise in good spirits. Whilst it was bitterly cold still, with an east wind that tried their patience by constantly snatching at bonnets and cloaks, both Meg and Betty fell instantly in love with the town. It was a charming town, if tiny, with a long high street and many ancient buildings, some in red brick, others in white painted wood cladding.

Mr Ashford took them about the place, which did not take very long, enduring Betty’s enthusiasm for looking in shop windows with remarkable good humour, and indulging Meg’s interest in history by telling her everything he knew.

Upon hearing smuggling was rife in the area, Betty turned very pale and began looking about her, regarding every man on the street as if he might jump up and cut her throat at the least provocation.

“Lord preserve us,” she muttered, huddling closer to Meg.

“Well, don’t look to me,” Meg laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t see what use I would be against a violent fellow with a pistol. I suppose I could recite a long, dreary poem and bore him to death.”

“Oh, miss. You are a one,” Betty said, uncertain whether to be amused or soothed by this.

Meg smiled to herself. She liked Betty very much, but she was also dismayed to discover how much she had come to like Mr Ashford. At first, she had thought him kindly and well intentioned, but reckless and foolhardy, the kind of young man who would still kick up larks and pretend he was a careless youth when he was years past being anything of the sort. But their conversation last night had given her pause. He had surprised her and, for the first time in her life, she had felt a sense of kinship, that she had met someone whose ideas and thoughts were in sympathy with her own.

Nonsense, of course. It was just that she was unused to convivial conversation—the thing he himself enjoyed so much. He was used to such stimulating talk, whereas she’d had only her father with whom to converse. Certainly her papa was clever and thought-provoking, but she knew him so well she had known what he might say before he said it, and debating was rather dull when you knew what remarks would be thrown back at you.

She wondered again about her father, and if perhaps their debating had been more one sided than she had realised, acknowledging that he had loved to prove her wrong by bringing out a well-developed argument he’d had waiting and ready, when she was entering a new field unarmed and uninitiated.