Page 47 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“Strangely, I can think of nothing I’d like better,” he said, glancing up at her and returning a lop-sided smile. “Night, night, Meg. Sweet dreams.”

He released her hand and Meg got to her feet, though her knees felt decidedly odd. Hurrying to the door, she turned the handle, about to make good her escape when she felt the need to glance back. Nat was watching her still. A blush crept up the back of her neck, making her cheeks burn, the heat in her belly intensifying. Disconcerted, she fled.

All the way up the stairs she scolded herself for being a fool, for even daring to imagine for one moment that a handsome, rich and fashionable man like that would choose her when he could have some society beauty, with wit and charm, and a fat dowry, not to mention the experience to navigate this world with ease, experience that she lacked so badly.

As for the dowager, she was just teasing them, not knowing that the whole thing was a sham. It was what people did, wasn’t it, when their friends and relations got engaged? There was always good-natured ribbing about when the happy day would be. It was nothing more than that.

Nothing had changed, she reminded herself. This was a splendid holiday from reality, and she was having a wonderful time. When it was all over, Nat would find her a respectable job as a governess, and they would go their own ways, just as they had arranged, which was exactly what she’d wanted.

Yet as she reached her room to discover Betty as cheerful as ever, her lovely bedroom warm and cosy, and the thought of spending another wonderful day with Nat tomorrow in this magical place, all she wanted to do was cry.

Chapter 10

Revelations, book one.

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, 8th December 1815

Nat sat in the library, an enormous book spread out on the table and his notebook beside him. He was alone, or else the notebook would never have made an appearance. His untidy scrawl and appalling spelling was not something he willingly allowed anyone to see, though he thought the little watercolours and drawings he’d done were well enough. He rarely enjoyed time spent reading, but there were exceptions when a subject really interested him, and some books which fired his imagination.

Kreutterbuch by Pietro Andrea Gregorio Mattioli was one of a handful of books that had fascinated him as a boy. There were others, like Elizabeth Blackwell’s A Curious Herbal, and Medical Botany by William Woodville. The one thing they had in common were bright, colourful illustrations of plants and trees, many of them things that would never be seen in England.

As a boy he had lived for the time when he would be old enough to go on his own Grand Tour, to discover the wonders to be found in these books for himself, but then Napoleon had raised his ugly head and put paid to that dream. Instead, he had tried to learn all he could from the gardeners who worked at his home, and in the great houses he sometimes visited with his parents, especially in the hothouses where exotic things grew in strange ways. Until his father had found out, that was.

Whilst he had finally earned some degree of respect from his sire upon his discovering Nat’s talent for sports of all kinds, his father had still thought him a fool. That he had dreams of becoming a gardener of all things, well, that had not gone down well.

Nat had tried to explain that his father was mistaken, that what interested him was the discovery of new things, and learning how they adapted to the different climate in Britain, if indeed it were possible to grow such things at all, and under what conditions. But his father had been a man who lacked imagination and empathy and could not be reasoned with, so Nat had buried his interest, and even after his father died he had not considered it again.

But recently his thoughts had returned to that early passion. Now that the war was over and travel was possible again, he could visit all the places he had read about and see all the exotic species he had only read about in books. The idea had excited him for a while, and he had made plans, plotting his journey around Europe to see as much of it as possible.

It had been something he had looked forward to doing, and yet suddenly, as much as he wished to go, it held a good deal less appeal than it had.

No doubt he was just unsettled. This visit had been an odd one so far. It stirred up memories of his childhood, both happy ones and less so. His time here as a boy with the dowager and Hawkney had been blessedly free of his father, and even though Nat and Hawkney had never been bosom pals, they had been friends. They’d swum, and fished, and played games and blacked each other’s eyes a time or two. But it had been freedom, and happiness of a kind he’d not experienced until then.

He realised he rather missed that friendship, but it was long gone now. Hawkney was too stiff-rumped to have a laugh with, and Nat too brittle to endure his grace’s rather sardonic humour for long.

And then there was Meg. This whole business made him feel uneasy. Lying to his family was not as straightforward as he’d hoped. Which, if he’d listened to her for a moment, he might have anticipated. Not that he hadn’t known, not really, he’d just ignored it. He’d wanted to help her, and it was the only way he could think to do so, consequences be damned. Except there were consequences, like his grandmother taking such a shine to the girl she couldn’t wait to see them tie the knot.

Nat groaned and banged his forehead on the table. “Great lummox. What are you going to do now?”

“If the story is that bad, you don’t have to finish it, you know?” came an amused voice from behind him.

Nat jumped, struggling to his feet. “Meg!” he exclaimed, appalled at having been caught out looking like such an idiot. “I—that is, it’s not a novel, I was only—” Nat did not know what he’d only been doing and any thoughts he might have had dissolved as he looked at her.

She wore a rather demure gown in a shade of dusty pink. It was high-necked and closely fitted about her bust, but showed her figure rather splendidly, and suited her fair complexion. But it was the look in her eyes that arrested him, the teasing warmth in the grey. She didn’t look at him like he was a fool caught doing something embarrassing, but like… like a friend, an ally, someone who cared and knew he was more than he appeared to be.

“Oh, what a beautiful book,” Meg exclaimed, much to his relief, immediately diverted upon seeing the enormous tome, complete with brass clasps and corner pieces.

She sat down, craning her head to read the title. “Oh, I’ve heard of this, but I’ve never seen a copy. May we look at it?”

“Of course,” he said, sitting down beside her. “The illustrations are remarkably beautiful. Here, look at this one.”

Nat turned the pages to one he had marked earlier, which showed a beautiful illustration of a pear tree and the fruits, some whole, some dissected. Whilst it was not a rare tree, the picture made it appear something extraordinary, the colours still leaping off the page though the book was two hundred years old.

“It’s wonderful, Nat,” Meg said, glancing at the other books he’d selected with interest. “Did you know there’s a Roman cookbook? It’s called De re coquinaria, and it has a recipe for a spiced stewed pear patina. I think it’s a kind of soufflé, and I also seem to remember Pliny suggesting they be stewed with honey,” she added, looking so delighted he could only gaze at her. How he adored it when she dragged out some ancient piece of information that no one else on earth would think he’d be interested in. But she did.

“Sounds delicious, you must find the recipe, and we’ll ask Grandmother’s cook if he can make it for us,” he suggested as he hurried to close his notebook, which had been left open upon a page of notes, with a small drawing of his grandmother’s orangery on the other side.

“This is what interests you, then?” she asked, looking so intent that he did not bother to pretend indifference, as he might have done with anyone else.