Page 53 of Appointment in Bath

“I will inform my father.” Meg felt the weight of the servants’ stares as she departed the kitchen. Let them gawp! She didn’t have to answer to anyone save her father. And she wouldn’t defer to him either, not if he persisted in being unreasonable.

She’d promised herself she’d cease fearing his temper—and his judgment of her. It was a difficult habit to break, but one she’d been endeavoring daily to overcome. The grudging respect he’d shown her since their last quarrel had only served to encourage her.

Her father would never admit it, but he admired strength, even if it was possessed by a lowly female. Knowing that emboldened her to seek him out, despite knowing it would only lead to another confrontation.

Sir Frederick was in his bedchamber, still sulking after the doctors’ visit. Clad in his dressing gown, he sat in a chair by the window, his leg elevated on a tufted velvet ottoman. An edition of the Times lay spread across his lap unread as he dozed.

She rapped once at the half-open door. “Father?”

He snuffled awake. “What’s that?”

“It’s only m-me.”

His brows sank as Meg entered and crossed the room to join him. “What do you want? Come to repeat Spragg’s lectures, have you?”

“No indeed.” She stopped by the window. The chill weather had iced over the glass at the corners, making the panes appear as though they were set in frosty-white frames. “I’ve only c-come to tell you that I’ve given orders to the kitchen.”

He went rigid with ready anger. “You? Giving orders in my kitchen?”

“My kitchen as well,” Meg said. She repeated what she’d told the servants, “I am m-mistress here.”

He glared at her in blank amazement, too taken aback by the declaration to formulate a quick reply.

She took full advantage. “It’s m-my duty to see to the running of the household, n-not Mrs. Church’s. The housekeeper and c-cook must properly consult with me.”

Her father’s face mottled with outrage. “Who says so? Miss Adams again? Drat her interference!”

“Miss Adams didn’t invent the rules. She m-merely taught them to me. And she’s n-not wrong, is she? As your daughter—”

“As my daughter, you will obey me.” He refolded his newspaper, snapping the pages with uncommon force. “I see what you’re about. All this rigmarole is a way of circumventing my orders in the kitchen. You mean to starve me as Spragg and his brainless compatriot would have you do. But starvation is no cure, my girl, regardless of what these supposed medical men say.”

“You shan’t starve, father,” Meg said. “And you shan’t die.”

A sudden spasm of emotion flashed across her father’s face. His voice took on a gruff undertone. “I’ll wager you’re eager to see me suffer, though, aren’t you? After I forbade you my carriage—”

“Don’t talk n-nonsense.” She sank down on the ottoman next to his leg, careful not to touch his bandaged calf. Her skirts pooled around her slippered feet. “It was unfair of you to forbid me the carriage, but that isn’t why you m-must let me take charge. It’s because I am the only lady in the household. And I am a Burton-Smythe. You diminish us both by investing Mrs. Church with so m-much power.”

“Diminish myself? Rubbish.”

“It isn’t rubbish. Mrs. Church begins to believe she has m-more rights to Letchford Hall than I do. The other servants follow her lead. What would Roddy think were he to return home and find a housekeeper acting as m-mistress here?”

Her father scowled. But this time he didn’t argue. On the contrary, he seemed unsettled by her argument. It was plainly one he hadn’t thought of before. “Have you heard from your brother?”

“No. Not in ages.” She paused. “Have you?”

“He applies to me for funds, the bounder. Racking up debts all over Europe, with his degenerate friends. The only time he writes is to inquire about advances on his quarterly allowance. That’s all the respect he shows me—the same esteem he’d hold for a banker.”

Meg felt a twinge of sorrow. She and Roddy had never been close, but he was still her brother. She’d rather he returned to Somerset than traipse the Continent for years on end without a thought for his duty. “I’m sorry for it. I don’t know why he won’t come home.”

“Oh, he’ll return soon enough. The moment I die, he’ll be on the next steamer from France.”

Meg couldn’t dispute it. Roddy had always been keen to take over as head of the family. Unfortunately, he had no head for business, only a reckless enjoyment of money. Once in his grasp, she didn’t doubt but that he’d run the estate straight into the ground. “You shan’t die, father,” she said again. “But you m-must change.”

Her father scoffed.

“You must,” she insisted. “Beginning with your diet.”

He rubbed his sullen brow as though staving off a headache. “You’d have me celebrate the holidays with no roast beef? No plum pudding?”