Page 29 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“Uncle,” Nat protested, but to no avail.

“No, no, go away, young scoundrel. I shall make the introductions now. Let me see, oh, yes. I suppose I had better introduce my son, Aubrey, that’s the foppish dandy you see before you. Pray do not let his waistcoat affect your eyesight, I declare staring at it for too long will give you the megrim.”

“Pa!” his son objected. “Dash it all. Don’t embarrass a fellow so. Grandmother has that well in hand, I assure you. Do ignore my father, Miss Bancroft, he’s got no idea of fashion,” the young man said, shaking his head sadly at his sire.

Meg laughed, relieved and delighted to discover Nat’s relations were so amiable. “Indeed, Mr Seymour, I confess I rather like your waistcoat.” This much was true, though it was a dazzling shade of blue and embroidered all over with tiny gold bees.

“Ha! There, see?” Aubrey said, a reaction that made his father roar with laughter. “I told you it was all the crack.”

“Oh, Miss Bancroft, don’t encourage him, pray don’t,” said a soft voice from beside the gentleman. “I had the most awful time persuading him not to wear a most ghastly creation in puce silk. Truly it was most distressing,” she said, with apparent sincerity.

“My sister,” Aubrey said, drawing the lady nearer. “Lavinia, though we all call her Vinnie, and she’s as bad as my father.”

Lavinia, like her brother, was well made, fair of face, with deep auburn hair that seemed to be a family trait in those whose hair had not turned to white. Aubrey’s and his sister’s eyes were a startling green, whereas the rest of the Seymour clan seemed to go through various shades of blue.

Lavinia was not as gregarious as her brother, but smiled warmly, seeming genuinely pleased to meet Meg. From here she was introduced to guests from the town, who had come to dine, presumably to make up the numbers as the ladies seemed to outnumber the gentlemen.

Captain Dearborn was a rather stiff looking but kindly fellow, perhaps in his forties, with a tanned, weather-beaten face and the bearing of a military man. He said little but seemed friendly and easy enough to converse with.

“And this is our dear friend, Reverend Honeywell,” Uncle Charles said, clapping the reverend on the shoulder, as the old man twinkled back at them.

“I am so pleased to meet you, my dear,” he said, and with such approval Meg could not help but believe he meant it. When he turned to Nat, however, the fellow beamed with delight.

“Nathaniel, how well you look! My dear fellow, you have grown so. Well, well, I am so pleased to see you, and to wish you happy too! What splendid news! If you are looking for someone to perform the ceremony, you know where to find me, though I imagine the young lady will be wanting a fashionable affair. St George’s, perhaps?” he said with a wistful expression that suggested he thought this a great shame.

“Oh, no!” Meg exclaimed before she could think her words through. Except the idea of marrying in such a public manner was appalling and having this delightful fellow marry her to anyone was too wonderful to resist. She blushed, avoiding Nat’s eyes, for she was certain he was grinning.

“Little Valentine would certainly be a charming setting for it,” Nat said, taking possession of her hand and placing it on his sleeve in a proprietary fashion that quite made her nerves jump. “We shall bear it in mind, won’t we, my dear?”

Meg mumbled something quite inaudible, which was just as well, for she was certain it would have made no sense, she was in such a flurry. Good heavens, she must get a hold of her unruly tongue and think before she spoke. Her apparent excess of maidenly sensibilities would at least please the older generation, she thought ruefully.

She was saved from any further comment, however, when a beautiful young woman rushed up to her and took her hands.

“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said with a smile. “I’m Della, and I do beg your pardon, but I’ve been waiting very patiently. Nat, you’re such a tease, leaving me until last when you knew I was dying to meet your fiancée!”

Meg laughed, delighted by her frank and open manner. “Well, I hope I do not disappoint you after such anticipation.”

“You won’t, I can tell already. We shall be bosom companions before the week is out, I’m certain of it,” Della said, pausing as a footman hurried up to give her a message. Della opened the slip of paper, read it and sighed before turning to her grandmama.

“Mabel won’t come down. She says she cannot be responsible for odd numbers around the table, for it makes everyone uncomfortable. I did tell you we ought to invite another gentleman,” she added reproachfully. “You know what she’s like.”

“Oh, to the devil with Mabel. She’s such a fusspot,” the dowager grumbled, waving this information away.

“Grandmama’s companion,” Della explained in an undertone. “She is rather a fusspot, to be fair to granny. As if anyone here cares about having odd numbers at table.”

Their conversation halted as the door to the room opened, and a lady came in, taking everyone’s attention, as her late arrival seemed timed precisely to do. She was elegant and lovely and dressed in the height of fashion and with such flair that even Meg, who knew little about such things, suspected her gown was not English in origin.

“Mama,” Nat said, releasing Meg’s arm with a murmured apology as he went to her. “How ravishing you look, as always. You put us all to shame.”

“Foolish creature, how you do flatter one,” the lady protested, though Meg thought she had expected nothing less. Not that Meg could blame her for thinking it was her due, for she was perfectly lovely.

Having already been sat upon thorns at the prospect of meeting Nat’s mother, she was now doubly anxious as she wondered if she could ever meet the expectations of such a fashionable woman.

“Now, Mama, let me introduce you to another very special lady, and one I hope you will become very good friends with. Dearest, this is Miss Margaret Bancroft. Meg, my love, this is my mother, Lady Louisa Ashford.”

Meg’s heart kicked behind her ribs as the lady’s eyes met hers. They were a paler shade of blue than her son’s and, whilst Meg detected no overt signs of either dislike or amity, there was a considering quality to them that made her increasingly nervous.

“My lady,” Meg said, sinking into a low curtsey which the dowager would likely have chastised her for, being fit for royalty. She hoped she might be forgiven in the circumstances, and certainly Lady Louisa seemed pleased. “I am so happy to meet you, ma’am. Nathaniel told me how very lovely you were, but even he did not do you justice.”