Chapter 3 #3
For a bluestocking, she was remarkably good company, Nat reflected, rather surprised.
He realised that, whilst he had never been critical of intelligent women, it had never occurred to him he might enjoy their company.
Well, why should he? Hawkney was the cleverest fellow Nat knew, and he was insufferable.
Why would a woman be any different? But she was different indeed.
“How long will it take us to reach your grandmother’s home tomorrow?”
“How long is a piece of string?” he said with a sigh. “It ought not take above three hours, less even in the summer, but the roads are appalling in the winter. We must hope fortune is smiling upon us.”
She made a slightly derisive sound, not unlike a snort, and he regarded her curiously. Miss Bancroft reddened and shook her head.
“I beg your pardon, that was most unladylike. I must remember my manners, or we shall both be in the basket. It is only that I have rather given up on good fortune recently.”
“Come, come, Miss Bancroft. Fortune favours the brave, does it not?”
“Apparently.” She smiled this time, a rather derisive expression but a smile all the same. Nat decided to cheer her further.
“Who said that anyway?” he asked nonchalantly, wondering if she knew and suspecting she’d enjoy telling him.
“It is believed to have been first used by a Roman playwright named Terence,” she said at once, brightening at his question.
“It appeared in Act one of Phormio, fortes fortuna adiuvat, which translates as fortune favours the strong. However, Virgil was the first to use it in the modern sense, as you just did—audentes fortuna iuvat.”
Nat gazed at her, astonished, but she had not finished.
“Though there is also a story that suggests it comes from Pliny the Elder. He said it to encourage his men to head for Pompeii on a rescue mission upon the erupting of Vesuvius. On that occasion it did not serve him, however, for he perished in the attempt.” Her expression became rueful once more as she regarded him, amusement glinting in her grey eyes.
“I’m afraid that’s not a terribly good example, is it? ”
Nat huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Well, let us hope that our fate is otherwise.”
She sighed before gathering up her discarded gloves. “Indeed, Mr Ashford. Well, I thank you for a most… interesting and educational evening.”
“You’re not leaving already?” he objected as she got to her feet, not yet ready to bid her goodnight.
“I think I had better,” she said, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “The temptation to drink more wine is one I must resist.”
“Well, that’s easily done.” With that, he picked up the bottle and set it on his side of the table, filling his glass. “You may have no more, Miss Bancroft, but I shall supply a pot of tea or coffee, as you prefer. How’s that?”
He watched indecision flicker behind her eyes and smiled; for all her cleverness, she was remarkably easy to read. She wished to stay and talk with him but thought it improper and reckless.
“Well, tea then, please, but just one cup. Poor Betty is all by herself, which must be rather dull.”
Nat got up to pull the bell cord once more. “I think poor Betty is having a wonderful time.”
Miss Bancroft nodded, for it was clear Betty was enjoying herself enormously. “She is a dear creature, so pleased by everything.”
She gazed down at the table with a frown, tracing an old scar in the polished wood with her finger.
“If I am to remain down here a little longer, I believe we ought to make good use of the time. Your family will not believe us if we do not know more of each other. A whirlwind romance is one thing, but we cannot be entirely ignorant of each other’s likes and dislikes. ”
Nat shrugged, happy enough to play along. “As you like. I enjoy good wine, good food, music, the theatre, dancing, convivial company—” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, meant to encompass all that sort of thing, but Miss Bancroft only frowned at him.
“Everyone enjoys good food, and one presumes no one likes bad wine. What kind of music, what kind of theatre? You say convivial company, but what does that mean?”
“Good Lord, you are determined to make this a slog, aren’t you?” he objected, suddenly on edge, for he could hardly explain that opera dancers and rogues were the kind of people he usually spent his time with.
“No. But I don’t want vague answers, I need to understand you.”
Those intelligent eyes gazed at him, as if she might unpick the stitching on his brain and peer inside. It was unsettling. Nat scowled. “You first. What do you like?”
She scrutinised him for a moment longer, dissatisfied by this change in tack but she did not object.
“You know everything there is to know. I like to read, to learn, to debate. I do not know if I like company, convivial or otherwise, or dancing, or the theatre, for I have not had the chance to discover. I like music but have only heard what my father or I could play on our piano, which was not a terribly fine instrument. I also enjoy good food and wine,” she remarked somewhat smugly.
Nat snorted. “Do you enjoy novels?”
“I do,” she admitted at once. “Though I have read very few. We joined a subscription library, but in recent years could not afford the cost. I confess I read as many novels as possible whilst it lasted, for Papa did not really approve and would never have bought such titles, but he allowed me to read what I wanted via the library, which was a blessing. Do you read, Mr Ashford?”
Nat frowned, wishing he had not asked the question. “I find it difficult to sit still for long,” he said, evading a truthful answer and aware his tone was somewhat brittle.
“Yes, you are perhaps more of a sporting gentleman?” she suggested, an encouraging expression on her face that put his back up at once.
“Yes, you know, the kind who excels in the field and can’t string an intelligent sentence together,” he said bitterly.
Miss Bancroft blinked, obviously taken aback by his sudden aggressiveness. “I said nothing to suggest that was what I thought. If you find insult in my observation, I apologise, but none was intended.”
Nat gritted his teeth. “I beg your pardon. That was damned uncivil. It’s just…
well, my family admire my ability in the saddle, and I excel at most sports, but they seem to think that’s all I’m good for.
I am advised to settle down with a wife and breed horses, or something gentlemanly of the sort. ”
“I see.”
Miss Bancroft was watching him. He could feel her gaze upon his face, but he did not wish to meet her eyes. Absurd to be unnerved by a bluestocking who had never been in society.
“And what should you do if given the choice?”
Nat hesitated. The urge to tell her was tantalising, but he did not wish to look a fool, especially as he was beginning to realise just how sharp her mind was.
She might think him a dreamer, building castles in the sky.
It would be too galling if she looked upon him with the same pitying disgust as his father had the one time he’d tried to explain his interests.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Wine, women and song. That’s me in a nutshell,” he said, lifting his wineglass and drinking whilst doing his utmost to ignore the penetrating way she was looking at him.
“Have you travelled much?” she asked cautiously, apparently inclined to believe he was to be handled with kid gloves now, in case he blew up on her again.
Lord, but he was a wretched fellow.
“Sadly, I missed out on the Grand Tour, as Napoleon put an end to such things. I would very much like to travel, though, and hope to do so. There is so much of the world out there and so many strange and exotic things to see. Even in Europe there is so much diversity, in plants and trees and animals and way of life. Just imagine what you might discover in the New World.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, one hand almost reaching out to him, her eyes shining with delight. “I would say just the same things to my father, and he would say, ‘but we can discover it all in books, without ever leaving home!’”
“Oh, that’s no good,” Nat replied. “You can’t hear the call of a strange bird in a book, or smell the perfume of some exotic flower, or touch its petals and leaves and investigate its texture. No, no. That won’t do at all!”
“No, nor taste the variety of food or wine, or feel the sun on your face, or hear strange music and singing the like of which we cannot dream. Books can bring us so much, can transport us to far-off places and broaden our minds, help us live a thousand other lives, but it is not the same as living them firsthand. How can it be?”
Their eyes met over the table, enthusiasm brimming between them like a glass on the brink of spilling over, but then they remembered themselves, their places, the correct way they ought to behave, and retreated to their proper demeanours, watching each other guardedly.
“Then, you would like to travel, Miss Bancroft?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Even if I had the funds, I should be too scared. I am afraid I am my father’s daughter, Mr Ashford.
Whilst I might recognise the difference between the lives and places one reads about, and living firsthand, I am not so bold as to set off on adventures. The very idea scares me to death.”
“But why should it? There is nothing so very dangerous or difficult if one is not reckless.”
“There speaks a man,” she replied, her lips quirking.
Nat subsided, recognising the truth of her words. “Of course. But perhaps you will marry one day, and perhaps your husband will take you travelling?”
“And perhaps this mythical being might turn pebbles into sovereigns,” she replied, admonishing his naiveté.
She was right, of course. Beautiful she might be, and excellent company too, but marriage was another matter. Few men could marry a woman with no dowry, no connections, and her obvious intelligence would scare off most of those.
“A pity,” he replied softly, meaning it.
Someone ought to take her to those places.
He could just imagine her among the ancient ruins of Rome or Greece, telling a fellow about the history of all the ancient places they travelled to, about the people who had lived there, the books they had written, the battles they had fought.
“Ah, well. In another life,” she said, a wistful look in her eyes as if she too had seen the pictures he had formed in his mind.
She shrugged it off, becoming the sensible and level-headed young woman he was coming to know.
“And now, I really must go up. I had better be well rested if I am to endure the events of tomorrow.”
Nat nodded, not detaining her again but bidding her goodnight.
He sat there for some time though, finishing the wine and wondering about another life.
What life would he have chosen if he could do anything, be anything?
No answer returned to him, no epiphany, only the acceptance of the truth, a realisation that had been looming over him for too long.
He did not wish to go on as he had been. Something must change. He must change.