Page 30 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“La, child, I might say the same if my wicked son had deigned to speak a single word about you to me,” she said, applying her fan so rapidly the curls about Meg’s face quivered in the breeze. Nat’s doting mama sent him a scathing look he bore with no outward sign of discomfort, but which put Meg’s nerves in a state of increasing agitation. “However, I must say that, as ever, Nat has the most exceptional taste. A beauty, Nathaniel. She is, indeed. I shall be put quite in the shade.”

She did not sound pleased.

“Nonsense, you will be mistaken for siblings wherever you go,” Nat said gallantly, which Meg thought rather a silly and overblown compliment, but it seemed to soothe his mother’s ruffled feathers and so she did not blame him for it.

“Good Lord, enough of this farradiddle!” The dowager’s voice cut through the room with an exasperated edge that had everyone leaping to assist her from her chair. The reverend got there first, offering his arm as she hauled herself upright. “I want my dinner, and I’ve listened to enough flummery for one evening, I thank you. Honeywell, you may lead the way. I’m too annoyed to stand on ceremony. The rest of you may suit yourselves.”

With this, she stalked regally out of the room, leaving everyone else to make the best of it.

Nat hesitated, clearly torn.

“Go to your mama,” Meg said, giving him a little push, feeling this was definitely the most politic move if Lady Louisa’s nose was somewhat out of joint.

Nat flashed her a grateful smile and did so, leaving Meg to look about her, but not for long. Both Captain Dearborn and Mr Aubrey Seymour stepped forward, but Uncle Charles was quicker.

“Might I have the honour, my dear?”

“You may, with pleasure, my lord,” Meg said, taking his arm with relief.

He grinned down at her. “We’re a rum lot, especially my mother. Got a queer quick in her gallop, says just what she thinks and to the devil with everyone else. Don’t let her trouble you.”

“I think she’s rather marvellous,” Meg said honestly. “If only everyone said exactly what they thought, there would be a good many fewer misunderstandings.”

“Ha! Yes, and a good many more duels, if you ask me,” he replied with a chuckle.

Meg considered this. “Well, I suppose you may have a point.”

They followed in procession along to the dining room, where Meg had to disguise a swift inhale of breath at the magnificence laid out before her.

The dining room was stunning, featuring an ornate white ceiling adorned with gold plasterwork, red silk lining the walls, and large windows draped with silk brocade curtains of the same shade. It was brilliantly lit, the table blazing with candles, light glittering upon rows and rows of polished silver cutlery, sparkling upon cut crystal glasses and chandeliers, and reflected by acres of pristine white linen tablecloth. Footmen stood at the corners of the room, stiff as sentries, and the enormous table appeared to Meg like a scene set for battle as her sense of inadequacy to be among such company hit her with considerable force.

Suddenly, her mouth was dry and her composure, which had been remarkably buoyant, plummeted, leaving her with the urgent desire to run from the room and keep running, preferably all the way back to London.

Coward, jeered a voice in her head. You think you’re so clever, but now you’ve got the chance to shine, you want to run away.

Though she did not feel her brain had produced a very helpful comment, it did at least prod at her pride. She took a breath, pasted a smile to her face and stiffened her spine. She probably looked as if she was about to have some manner of fit, but at least she was still there.

To her great relief, she discovered Nat seated on her left, and Uncle Charles on her right, with Reverend Honeywell before her. Della sat to the right of the reverend, opposite Lord Charles, with the dowager at the head of the table. Nat’s Mama sat on the reverend’s left and Meg prayed she got through the evening without offending her, or anyone else for that matter.

White soup was served, and the company fell quiet for a few minutes whilst everyone settled themselves to their meal.

“Are you longing to stab me with a fork?” whispered Nat, leaning close to her.

“Not the fork,” Meg murmured back, touching a finger to the sharpest knife waiting in the ranks of cutlery before her.

He made a choked sound and returned to his soup.

The soup was taken away, and the table laid with the most overwhelming display of food that Meg had seen in her entire life. She sent Nat a look of sheer panic, but he just smiled calmly at her.

“It’s my job to serve you, just eat a bite of everything, and you’ll survive,” he advised her.

This appeared to be sensible advice, so Meg sat back and allowed Nat to fill her plate. The food was exquisite, and if all she’d had to do was sit and eat, Meg would have considered herself fortunate indeed.

“So, you hail from Hereford?” Uncle Charles asked as he reached for his wineglass. He sat back looking at her expectantly, and Meg set down her knife and fork.

“I do. A little out of the way village near the Welsh border.”

“A beautiful part of the country,” he said approvingly. “Excellent hunting. Remote for a young lady, though, I would imagine. You came to town, I suppose, for the season?”