Page 23 of Appointment in Bath

Though Meg was no longer certain that it was a fact.

“The footmen have carried down the Christmas decorations from the attics,” Mrs. Church said when Meg returned. “I’ve had them put the boxes in the morning room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Church. I’ll go through them once I’ve changed.” Meg removed her riding hat and gloves. She passed them to a footman as she crossed the hall. “Is my father awake?”

Mrs. Church’s perpetually pinched mouth compressed into a thin line. “He is. And suffering mightily from coming downstairs last night, as I could have told you he would. I’ve taken the liberty of summoning Dr. Spragg.”

“He was only here three days ago.”

“It can’t be helped. I must do as I see fit.”

Meg hesitated on the stairs. In any other household, it would be she who was giving the orders not Mrs. Church. It was another circumstance Meg could lay at her father’s door. He was the one who had invested the wiry little housekeeper with so much authority.

“I’ll send Lucy with the hot water,” Mrs. Church said before withdrawing.

After washing and changing into a warm, chestnut-colored cashmere day dress, Meg made her way to her father’s chamber.

Sir Frederick’s room was in a wing of its own, located on the opposite end of the portrait gallery. To reach it, Meg had to pass beneath rows of disapproving Burton-Smythe ancestors, their distinctive red hair immortalized in aged oils and faded watercolors. The gentlemen were all brawny as bulldogs and the ladies equally so. It was how Meg knew she’d inherited her face and her figure from her mother.

Two tall wooden doors marked the entrance to the master’s chamber. She tapped softly before entering.

Her father was in his cavernous four poster bed, propped against a stack of pillows. His satin coverlet had been drawn back to reveal his abscessed calf, elevated on a cushion.

“Good m-morning, father,” she said.

He glared at her from within the depths of his half-drawn bed curtains. His hair was disheveled, his linen nightshirt opened at the neck. Perspiration dotted his face and throat.

She didn’t wait for his reply. Crossing to the windows, she drew open the heavy curtains. “There’s sunshine t-today,” she said. “It would d-do you good.”

“What would do me good is a drink,” he growled.

She turned to face him. It was impossible to tell what he meant her to say to that.

Possibly nothing.

“You d-don’t want a drink,” she said. “It’s overindulgence that’s c-caused your c-condition.”

“I won’t be told no.”

“Then you m-must t-take it up with Mrs. Church. I won’t br-bring you anything b-but plain food and black tea.”

He scowled at her. “When did you grow a backbone?”

“I am your d-daughter.” Like it or not, she might have added. “The B-Burton-Smythes are a stubborn lot.”

“Stubborn as bedamned. I’ll not lie down and die to please you and your brother.”

Meg couldn’t speak for Roddy. The meaning of her brother's absence had been unambiguous. He would remain abroad until he inherited the title. But she was a woman. There was no benefit to her in her father’s death.

“I d-don’t wish you t-to die,” she said. “Only to live d-differently. If you’d refrain from rich foods and drink—”

“You’ll keep your sermons to a minimum while you’re in my presence. I didn’t raise you to be a scold.”

You didn’t raise me at all, she nearly said. It was the nursery maids, the nannies, and Miss Adams. They had tucked Meg in at night. Taught her to walk and to read. Not her father or her brother, but servants.

“I d-don’t recall you overindulging b-before your accident,” she said instead.

His brows sank with displeasure to be reminded of the injury he’d suffered two years ago. He’d been hunting and had taken a gate that was too tall for his horse. The resulting fall had bruised his spine. It was the pain of it that had first driven him to double—and then triple—his servings of after-dinner port. He’d claimed it was the only way he could sleep undisturbed.