Page 7 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

Except your reputation, chimed in a little voice in the back of her mind. All the time she stayed out of the way of the Corbyn family, her reputation was intact. Yet what good did that do her if she could not feed herself or put a roof over her head? Her only recourse would be the workhouse, an idea that terrified her so much she’d not been able to face it at all last night. In the clear light of day, there was no escaping her reality though.

Recoiling at the idea, Meg stiffened her spine. Mr Ashford was clearly a reckless man intent on enjoying his life by frittering it away on mindless pleasure, but he was also kind and honourable in his way, and she had decided to go along with his mad scheme. So she may as well make the best of it.

“Here, miss, I can do that for you. I’m a dab hand with hair, though it’s a shame there're no tongs. Takes a curl lovely, I expect, eh?” Betty said, her nimble fingers twisting Meg’s hair into a loose chignon with no visible effort. “We used to have quite a fine lady in one of the rooms Ma lets out, and she taught me a bit about being a lady’s maid, in case I ever got the chance, but I’m that busy helping Ma with cleaning and looking after the little ‘uns I never got the opportunity. You could have knocked me down with a feather when Mr Ashford asked for me. He’s such a nice gent, ain’t he? Not all are, I know,” she added sagely.

Meg glanced at her in amusement, rather liking the merry and talkative girl.

“You know him well?” she asked, unable to resist.

“Me?” Betty snorted. “No indeed! Only to say good day and the like, but he’s always polite, opens the door for me like I’m a lady and speaks to me like I’m as good as anyone else. There’s plenty who look straight through you or bark at you like you’re something they stepped in.”

Meg nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. A governess might be a step up from a servant, or even a girl whose mother owned the rooms she was cleaning, but the step down was shorter than one liked to consider. She knew what it was to be dismissed as if she was of no consequence, and to be treated daily as if she were worthless. It wore away insidiously at one’s pride and confidence.

“There,” Betty said with evident satisfaction. “Well, I ain’t forgotten how, that’s a blessing. Mind, it’s easy when you’re such a beauty.”

“I am not beautiful,” Meg said with a laugh, though she had to admit to being rather impressed with the girl’s skill as she inspected the results in her looking glass.

“Says you,” Betty replied with a cheeky grin. “Reckon your fiancé would have another answer, eh?”

Meg blushed and looked away, realising that she must endure a deal of this good-natured ribbing over the weeks to come, for poor Betty knew nothing of the deception, thank the lord.

A sudden knock at the door had her heart leaping and her nerves jangling, for she knew she must face Mr Ashford once more. How would he appear to her now? Would she see at once he was a bounder and a cad, and that she was the biggest fool who ever lived?

“Speak of the devil,” Betty said with a giggle as she ran to open it, which did nothing to soothe Meg’s uncertainty.

Getting awkwardly to her feet, Meg turned to the door and felt her breath catch as she saw Mr Ashford standing there.

His hair shone in the weak morning light, glints of gold and bronze turning it from merely brown to something quite out of the ordinary. The laughing blue eyes still glimmered, ready to crinkle at the edges with amusement, but impossibly they seemed a darker blue than ever. He really was too dreadfully handsome for her peace of mind. If only he had been dull and prosy, or ugly or old, perhaps then this would not seem like such a monumentally foolhardy thing to do. But to put her future in the hands of a man who looked like he might equally be the hero of the piece or a wickedly handsome villain was too much to bear.

“Good morning, Miss Bancroft. I trust you passed a good night?”

“I did, I thank you, sir,” she replied politely, k gaze for the present by returning the few meagre items she owned back into her well-worn carpetbag.

“Betty, have you eaten yet?” he asked the girl, who shook her head.

“Not yet, sir. I brought Miss Bancroft’s breakfast up like you said and helped her get ready. I just finished her hair,” she added with obvious pride.

“And a fine job you made of it,” Mr Ashford said with approval, eyeing Meg’s coiffure with approval. “Run along then but make haste. We must leave in twenty minutes, or we shall risk missing the diligence.”

Betty bobbed a curtsey and hurried out. Meg stiffened, alarmed at the impropriety of being alone with Mr Ashford in a hotel bedroom.

“Don’t look so woebegone, I’ll stay on the threshold,” he assured her with a smile. “Now, about your baggage—”

“I have it here,” Meg said, gesturing to her carpetbag. “You were able to procure the extra tickets, then?”

“Yes, I was, and I don’t mean that baggage,” he said impatiently. “I mean the wardrobe you will need during the coming weeks.”

“I beg your pardon? We said nothing about a wardrobe, and there’s no time to think of that now, so I beg—”

“Beg all you like, it’s all sorted. I’ve barely slept, but I intended to perform a miracle, and, by God, I think I have. No mean feat it was either, but you’ll look splendid, that much I’m sure of,” he replied, looking appallingly smug and very much like he expected congratulations.

Meg gazed at him in consternation. “Do you mean to say… are you telling me you have bought me an… an entire wardrobe?”

“I do and I have,” he agreed, leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb.

“Well, you can jolly well take it all back!” Meg said, incensed.

Mr Ashford blinked at her before pushing himself upright. “The devil I will.”