Chapter 3 #2
“My own stupid fault,” she said with a sigh.
“The family had all gone out for the day and, for once, my services were not required. A unique event, I assure you. As I had completed all the tasks required of me, I had a few blessed hours of liberty. There was a fire burning in the library, and no one there to enjoy it, so I took the chance of sitting down there. A stupid error of judgement.”
“They came back,” he guessed, wishing he had known, that he’d been able to do something, which was patently ridiculous, for even if he had known, he could not intercede on behalf of an unmarried female.
“Mr Corbyn came back,” she corrected. “He said he had the headache, but I suspect he argued with his wife—they were not an amicable couple—and decided to enjoy his own company instead.”
“There was a scene?”
She paled a little but nodded, and Nat felt his fingers tighten on the cutlery. Forcing them to relax, he kept his voice light. “Was it terribly bad?”
“Humiliating,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Which I could have endured, but he confiscated my book. I became very angry, I’m afraid, and demanded he return it. He refused. I tried to snatch it from him, and he slapped me and told me I should be sorry if I did not go to my room that instant.”
Nat set down his knife and fork with a clatter, his appetite having deserted him. “Go on,” he said gently.
“There’s not much more to say,” she said, but the way she lifted her chin, the slightly forced sound of her voice, as she tried to steady it, the way she determinedly met his eyes, told another story.
“I was frightened, so I went to my room. The next morning I was summoned at seven a.m. I hurried down to Mr Corbyn’s study where he and his wife awaited me. The rest you know.”
“His wife was there? She knew what he was doing?”
“Oh, yes. When I say they were not amicable, I omit to explain that they had a good deal in common, for they were both grasping and avaricious and determined to climb the social ladder. Mr Corbyn is not quite good ton, you see. His wife is better connected but despises him, especially that she was forced to marry him for his money. Yet money and social acceptance is what drives them both, and my book was valuable. I, on the other hand, was not only dispensable but ill-suited to educate their children, being far too clever for my own good. I handed them the perfect reason for throwing me out and keeping the one thing that meant anything to me.”
“But Mr Corbyn’s father, your father’s friend—”
“Died last month,” she said with a thin smile. “Everything dovetailed very nicely for Mr Corbyn, for he never wanted me and only took me on because his father insisted. I think I made him uncomfortable,” she said with a slight frown tugging at her finely arched eyebrows.
Nat did not doubt it. He felt it himself to an extent, the knowledge that this woman was far more than he could ever dream of, that she was quick and clever and beautiful and could likely run rings around him intellectually.
Yet he admired her, and whilst he knew it happened all the time—he had seen how even his own friends could mock women they considered bluestockings—he could not fathom how a fellow could despise her for what he found lacking in himself.
Making a mental note to discover whatever he could about Mr Corbyn, Nat noted with some surprise that Miss Bancroft had finished her wine. He reached over to refill her glass.
Conversation halted for a time while the servers cleared the table and brought in the next course.
Ramekins of cheese, fried oysters, a basket of sweet pastries, and orange jelly were all set before them.
Miss Bancroft refused everything savoury but helped herself to the pastries, which she ate with evident delight, before next attacking the orange jelly.
Nat smiled, amused to discover his serious little governess had a very sweet tooth.
“It tastes different now,” she objected, looking at the glass of wine with dismay.
Nat laughed. “Quite so. We ought to have something lighter now. Here, I’ll order something else.”
Pulling the bell cord, he waited for a waiter to appear and ordered a bottle of Monbazillac, a sweet dessert wine he suspected she would enjoy a good deal.
“But why—?” she began, clearly not satisfied.
“Because you have been eating sweet things. The full bodied, rich nature of the red wine goes perfectly with salt and savoury, but you’ve been eating pastries and now your tastebuds crave that sweetness and find the wine sour.”
“I see,” she said, looking at him with fascination.
Nat smiled, suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, and felt relieved when the servant reappeared promptly with the wine.
Meg watched with interest as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured a small sample into a glass, awaiting Nat’s approval.
Once he had deemed it acceptable, the waiter filled their glasses and went out.
“Now, try another pastry with this wine,” Nat suggested.
“I ought not. I have eaten more than sufficient and—”
“Sufficiency be damned,” Nat said cheerfully. “You’ve been half starved, by the sounds of it. You ought to enjoy good food when you get the chance. Come along now, select another.”
She smiled suddenly, dimples flashing, giving Nat a glimpse of the carefree girl she might have been if things had been different.
Taking the pastry between her elegant fingers, she took a bite and chewed, closing her eyes and sighing as she savoured the sweet treat.
“What now?” she asked eagerly. “Do I drink?”
Nat found it hard to look away from her, delighted by her uninhibited enjoyment, and charmed by her enthusiasm to learn something new.
No doubt she was just the same if you handed her some dusty old tome by some long dead scribe, all eagerness and anticipation.
Something remarkably like desire stirred in his belly and he instructed himself sternly not to be such a blackguard.
“You drink,” he agreed. “But take a small sip and hold it in your mouth for a moment, then swallow. Allow the flavours to warm in your mouth.”
Her eyes widened as she swallowed. “It’s completely different!”
Nat smiled. “Certainly. What can you taste?”
She frowned at that. “What do you mean? I taste wine, sweet wine.”
“Really, Miss Bancroft, I did not expect such an intelligent creature to be so unimaginative. What can you taste in the wine?” Nat took a sip himself, closing his eyes and allowing the flavours to burst upon his tongue. “I taste apricots, perhaps a hint of pineapple.”
“You’re bamming me.”
Nat opened his eyes to find her watching him, a tinge of colour at her cheeks and curiosity in her eyes.
“I’m not,” he said with a laugh. “I promise. Try again.”
She did as he told her, a look of intense concentration on her face, a little frown tugging at her eyebrows, which he found endearing. “I-I suppose, yes, there is apricot,” she said in surprise. “Though I’m uncertain about pineapple, never having eaten one.”
“What about honeysuckle?” Nat suggested, having taken another sip.
She laughed at that, a warm and surprisingly rich sound that was pleasing to his ear, making him smile in response. “Now I know you are teasing me! You have never eaten honeysuckle, so don’t tell me otherwise.”
Nat grinned. “No, but you can taste smells, can’t you? Try again and see.”
Once again, her face took on that look of intense concentration as she learned this new skill. It fascinated Nat to watch her, and he experienced a surge of satisfaction that here, at least, was something he could teach her.
“Oh!” she said, setting down the glass and gazing at him in wonder. “You’re quite right. Honeysuckle. I would never have believed it.”
“And there is your first lesson in the appreciation of fine things,” Nat said, not above feeling a little smug.
“Did I pass?” she asked, and though he’d only been teasing, he sensed she could not abide failing at anything, that whatever she did, she did with her whole heart and mind, and she did not take defeat well.
“With flying colours,” he said, amused by the delighted expression that appeared in the light of his approval.
“What else can you teach me?”
For a moment Nat felt a little startled, her words giving him that odd sense of inadequacy he had always felt at school, but then he saw the eagerness in her eyes, and remembered that this, actually, was something he knew about.
“Well, Monbazillac is a special wine, made in a small village in Southwest France. It’s made from a blend of grapes, Semillon, Sauvignon Blanc, and Muscadelle. Unlike with most wines, the grapes are not picked until they are rotten.”
Miss Bancroft froze, a sip of wine held in her mouth and an appalled look on her face.
Nat couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s quite all right. The grapes are so overripe that they moulder, but the mould gives the wine its intense sweetness. A small price to pay, I think?” he added, lifting his glass to her and taking another sip.
Finally, she swallowed, looking at him with suspicion. “That’s really true?”
“That’s really true,” he agreed. “There are German and Hungarian wines made in the same manner.”
“Well, it is delicious,” she admitted. “Though the idea of drinking mouldy grapes is not a happy one.”
“Ah, but you wish to learn, do you not, Miss Bancroft? I could have left you in happy ignorance. Let me see, what else… do you perchance enjoy black pudding?”
“Stop!” she said, holding out a hand to him. “Yes, I do, and I think that is quite enough education for one evening. Even I have my limits.”
Nat grinned at her, and she returned his smile before picking up her forgotten pastry and finishing it while sipping the wine.