Page 7 of Appointment in Bath

The elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Church, and the white-haired cook, Mrs. Stapleton, were seated in front of the kitchen fire, engaged in one of their daily sessions of tea and scandal. They were both in their aprons; both hard-eyed, mean-mouthed, and perpetually disapproving. Between the two of them, they knew all the latest West Country gossip.

On seeing Meg, Mrs. Church rose and hurriedly crossed the kitchen. Small in stature, she made up for her diminutive size with an outsized air of command. “What’s happened?” she demanded of Timothy. “Has she fallen from that mare of hers?”

Mrs. Stapleton quickly joined them. She was as plump as Mrs. Church was lean. “Oh, but the master won’t like to hear of this. And if she’s broken her head, I won’t be the one to tell him so. Not me, my good fellow.”

“It isn’t my head,” Meg said. “It’s only my ankle. And it’s not broken.”

The words came easier now that she was in the safety of familiar surroundings. Indeed, among the servants and those who didn’t directly threaten her peace of mind, Meg had largely conquered her childhood stammer. Deep breaths and strategic pauses helped.

“Count to ten,” Miss Adams had advised Meg as a little girl. “Or twenty, if necessary. It isn’t the words that defeat you, but the feelings behind them.”

It was true, much to Meg’s frustration. Even now, having attained the maturity of her eighteenth year, her stammer was still the most reliable barometer of her unruly emotions.

Mrs. Church’s flinty gaze lifted briefly to Meg’s face. “I’ll be the judge of that, madam.” She snapped her fingers at Timothy. “Set her down by the fire.”

Meg grimaced as Timothy settled her into the chair where the cook had sat only moments before. He brought a low wooden stool for her foot. “That all right, miss?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Timothy. I’m comfortable now.” Meg drooped in her seat, exhausted by her ordeal. “Would you see to Rowena, please?”

“Yes’m.” Timothy tugged at his brown cloth cap before departing.

Mrs. Stapleton made Meg a cup of tea while Mrs. Church bustled around the kitchen, gathering her supplies. When the housekeeper had cold-soaked bandages sufficient to the purpose, she sank down in front of Meg’s foot to remove her boot and stocking.

Meg gritted her teeth through the whole of it.

“Unlucky girl,” Mrs. Stapleton murmured. “You’ll be abed with your leg up soon, just like your poor father.”

“It’s already swelling,” Mrs. Church remarked.

“Not enough to summon the doctor, surely,” Meg said. “I d-don’t want to make a fuss.”

“Should have thought of that before taking that mare out. And without Timothy to accompany you. I’ve warned you time and again.” Mrs. Church began wrapping the wet bandage around Meg’s ankle. “How did the creature unseat you?”

“I was cantering by the river and Rowena stopped short to crop some weeds. I went straight over her head.”

“Wretched beast,” Mrs. Church said.

Meg instantly rose to Rowena’s defense. “She isn’t. She’s only poorly trained. It’s entirely m-my fault. I wasn’t as firm as I might have been when I was teaching her.”

“You should have let Timothy break her instead of mucking around with the business yourself.”

Meg stifled a wince as the housekeeper finished wrapping her foot. “I d-didn’t want her broken. It’s cruel to crush a horse’s spirit.”

Or anyone’s, she might have added.

Mrs. Church flashed her a perceptive look. “It’s a kindness—with horses and with young ladies.” She tied off the bandage. “Your Miss Adams would say the same.”

Mrs. Stapleton brought Meg a steaming cup of tea. “Aye, she would have done and all.”

Meg accepted the tea with a quiet murmur of thanks.

She refused to agree with their assertions about Miss Adams. It was true that Meg’s former governess had enforced a great many rules and regulations during her tenure at the Hall, but those rules had been meant to shape Meg’s personality, not to alter it completely.

“Drink it down,” Mrs. Stapleton urged. “The sugar will do you good.”

“Excellent for shock,” Mrs. Church agreed. She straightened. “I’ll summon a footman to carry you to your room. Then, I’ll inform Sir Frederick.”

Meg’s stomach sank. Her father had been abed for a fortnight, suffering mightily from his gout. He was in no frame of mind to be troubled by anything to do with her. In truth, he seldom was.