Page 85 of Appointment in Bath

“I don’t hate Fred,” she said. “Hate is a useless emotion. I’ve no energy for it, and certainly no room for it in my heart. Still…I’ve seen what Fred’s capable of. His conniving took your father from me for ten years. It’s that which I can’t forget—or forgive.”

“I can forgive none of it.” Lord Allendale set a protective hand on the small of his wife’s back, even as he held Ivo’s gaze. “You may require the man’s support for a railway. I won’t stand in the way of that. It’s business. As for his daughter, I advise you to think very hard about what it would mean to foster a connection with her.”

Ivo’s mother pressed his hand again, as though her gentleness would be a salve on the sting of his father’s warning. “It’s one thing if your heart is engaged, my dearest. However, if this is just some passing fancy—”

“It isn’t,” Ivo said resolutely. “She isn’t.”

His parents exchanged a look. They appeared to come to a mutual decision.

“Very well,” his father said. “Do what you will. You’re of age. You don’t require our permission.”

Ivo stilled. “What about James?”

“You don’t require his, either,” his mother said. “But take care, sweetheart.”

“Yes, do,” his father agreed. “I strongly advise you not to rush into anything. You are young, though I know you hate to be reminded of it. Given time, you may find someone more suitable. Someone you can love without the burden of all this history.”

Ivo didn’t reply. There was no more point in arguing. Not tonight. Unless he was mistaken, his parents well understood him.

What need had he to wait for some worthy young lady to whom he might pledge his heart? He’d already found her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Meg huddled deeper into the bed of old Farmer Penny’s cart, her slight figure hidden amid the bags of feed and cans of milk, as the rickety conveyance rattled down the snow-covered road toward the village.

Dawn was just peeping over the West Country hills, sending its rays streaking across the snow. Farmer Penny regularly made his rounds at this hour. It had been easy to stow away in his cart while he briefly stopped in the Letchford Hall kitchens to take a cup of tea with Mrs. Stapleton. None of them had noticed as Meg slipped out a side door of the house, swathed in a dark bonnet and drab cloak, with her carpet-bag clutched firmly in her hands.

It had been the only way.

It was either this or remain to face her father’s wrath when he awakened. Then, any chance Meg had of a season would be gone. He’d already been reluctant to provide one. When he learned about her unchaperoned moonlight visit to Beasley Park—about how she’d danced with all of the Beresford men, and returned home with Ivo as her escort—he would forbid a season altogether. Indeed, she’d be lucky if he didn’t ship her away to some dreadful school somewhere.

Meg wasn’t interested in suffering another of her father’s lectures. And she had no desire to take her punishment, however well deserved it might be. Her concern—her sole concern—was for her future.

Last night, her heart aching too much to allow for sleep, she’d lain awake in her bed and formulated a plan.

She’d resolved to go to Bath herself, even if she must take the common stage. It wasn’t a matter of money. She had enough set by from her quarterly allowance to see her through. It was a question of taking her fate into her own hands.

During her eighteen and a half years on this earth, Meg had had countless hours to ponder her identity. Her conclusion? She had none. Certainly none bestowed on her by birth. She was the child of an unhappy marriage. Neither beautiful, nor graceful, nor blessed with an excess of wit. Even her name wasn’t her own. It belonged to Lady Allendale.

But Meg wasn’t going to think about the Beresfords today. They were part of the past now. As for Meg’s father…

Once in Bath, Meg would apply to Miss Adams for sponsorship. Sir Frederick would be presented with a fait accompli, just as Ivo’s parents had been last night. Meg prayed that this time the result would be more to her liking.

A chill wind whistled through the barren branches of the trees, making her bones ache and her teeth clack. She heartily wished there had been another means of getting to the village, but she hadn’t dared risk implicating any of the servants in her scheme. The last thing she wanted was for a groom to lose his place on account of driving her into the village or for one of the stable lads to be let go because he’d witnessed her riding out on her mare.

She all but held her breath until the milk cart arrived in Maidenbridge. When it drew up in front of the bustling coaching inn, Meg nimbly hopped off the back of the cart and slipped inside the building. Not twenty minutes later, ticket in hand, she boarded the mail coach for Bath.

As acts of rebellion went, it was right up there with her older brother having gone off to France. But Meg didn’t consider it a rebellion. Not in the least. Her actions were practical. Sensible. And the only course, really, if she was ever to have an identity of her own.

The seventy-mile journey to Bath had to be made in stages. At each stop, Meg’s nerves jangled anew. Young ladies of quality weren’t permitted to travel unescorted. It was therefore understood that any female riding alone on a public conveyance must be the very opposite of a lady. An uncomfortable state of affairs. It left one open to all sorts of insults and encroachments.

Meg had armed herself with a very large hatpin for precisely that reason. It would be the work of the moment to extract it from her bonnet and convert it into a weapon.

Fortunately, she had no cause to do so. Most of the travelers she encountered on the road were working men and women. Honest folk, who had no interest in robbing her or debauching her. The worst Meg could say of them was that, at every stop, they drank excessively to warm themselves. When crammed next to her in the coach, shoulder-to-shoulder, they stank so strongly of beer it made her nauseous.

By the time she arrived in Bath, night had fallen and it was raining heavily. The mail coach deposited her at the busy coaching inn in Friday Street.

It would have been easy to be overwhelmed by the experience. To crumple under the weight of her sudden independence. All was strange and new. But it was exhilarating, too. A true adventure, though Meg’s exhaustion had dimmed the brightness of it.