Page 69 of Mistletoe

Something broke inside Emma, the thing that kept her agreeable to polite society. She had never lost her temper with her parents, despite all their vexations.

Well, this was the West Lands, and there wasn’t much in the way of polite society. It was high time to bid adieu to her calm and controlled temperament.

“You believe this is your house?” she asked.

“I am the head of this family. Of course, it is my house.”

Her mother and Felix had fallen silent, observing the battle now playing out in the parlor.

“Your house? Your house!” Incensed, Emma took a step forward. She really wanted to throw another tumbler. Or the entire decanter of brandy. “This is my house!”

“My name is on the deed.”

“Oh yes,the deed.” That horribly legal piece of technically correct paperwork which in no way reflected the reality of the situation.

“I do not appreciate your tone.” Oscar sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

Her father, the nonconformist rebel poet, didn’t appreciate her tone.

“This land was leased to you with the understanding that improvements would be made to the property,” Emma said. That was the homesteader’s law. “Do you know how many of our neighbors had their leases revoked after a decade with no significant improvements?”

“I can’t say that I noticed.” He now clutched his notebook to his chest like a shield.

“Of course not. Why should the notorious Oscar De Lacey notice?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “Five. Five families failed to meet the minimum improvements required to keep what was otherwise free land. Did you even notice when the inspector toured the farm?”

“What inspector?”

“Pa.” Now Felix spoke. “The inspector sent by the territorial governor to ensure that we have made sufficient improvements. Surely you remember the inspection last autumn.”

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why am I even bothering to explain this? You had no idea what occurred inyour house, like always. Do you know why Mistletoe Farm passes inspection?”

“No, but I am certain you’ll inform me.”

“Because I put in the work, Pa. This is my house. I made the improvements. I repaired the house. I tilled the ground and planted a garden. I built the fences and tended to the animals.”

“Not by yourself.”

“With Felix’s help. With farmhands that we’ve hired but I oversee. I manage this farm. I turned it from a wasteland into something that can provide for us.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you didn’t have to. Was I supposed to ignore the hunger in my belly? Or the leaking roof? The drafts in the winter? No. I saw the need, and I did the work.”

“So, I made you into a common laborer? Is this monster fixation an act of rebellion? You are too old for this behavior, Emma.”

She desperately wanted to throw the decanter, but that would be a waste of a good decanter. Instead, she snatched his pen from the writing table.

He seemed to know what she grabbed and warned, “Do not. That is a very expensive pen.”

“Surely it’s of no concern for a poet as famous as yourself. Just spend another decade writing your next volume to be paid a pittance. Oh, that’s right, you’re an artist, and making an income from your work is horribly vulgar. Better to beg a patron for a new pen.” The wood snapped with a satisfying crack. She threw the pieces at her father, which bounced off his chest and fell to the floor. “Perhaps if you stooped so low as to truly work with your hands...actually, I’d be happy if you just acknowledged the common labor required to allow you the luxury of your profession.”

“This is about that boy!”

For crying out loud?—

“If I had wanted to marry Robert Walton, I would have, whether you forbade it or not,” Emma said, enunciating each word carefully. As if she ever required his permission. “I have always picked this family above my own wishes. Not anymore, Pa. I won’t sacrifice Hal. I’m taking what I want.”

“And you want him?” Agatha asked, her voice pleasant and sweet. It was such a radical change from her father’s bluster and fury.

---