A Holiday by Gaslight Page 11

  Emily leaned back in her chair, resting her arms on her voluminous green silk skirts. “It’s right there on your office door in Fleet Street. Sharpe and Murray. Just like anything out of Mr. Dickens.”

  Walter cast a pointed look at Emily’s crutch. “And who are you in this little pantomime? Tiny Tim?”

  “Foolishness,” Ned’s mother muttered. “Is it any wonder this country is going to rot and ruin with young people talking nothing but nonsense?”

  “It’s Christmas, mother,” Ned said quietly.

  She looked at him. “That’s no reason to dispense with one’s good sense. If one ever had it to begin with.”

  Sophie, who was tying a red velvet ribbon onto one of the branches, visibly winced at the disapproval in his mother’s tone.

  Ned’s own expression hardened into resolve. This had gone on long enough.

  As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he invited his mother to accompany him upstairs on the pretext of selecting more ribbons and tinsel for the tree. He felt a bit guilty at just how readily she obliged him. She clearly wasn’t enjoying herself here in Derbyshire. Perhaps it had been a mistake to relay Sophie’s invitation to his parents. Perhaps they would have been happier spending the holiday in Cheapside.

  “Where are these decorations, then?” she asked.

  He opened the door to the drawing room and motioned for her to precede him. “There aren’t any.”

  His mother pursed her lips but didn’t question him. She entered the drawing room and took a seat, waiting silently while he shut the doors.

  Ned didn’t sit down. “Mother, is there anything you wish to tell me? Anything that’s happened to put you in such a poor temper?”

  She held his gaze, as formidable now in her black silk taffeta and lace matron’s cap as she’d been in his youth, when she’d manned the counter in the draper’s shop. “You made no mention when she invited us here that Miss Appersett had already rejected you.”

  Bloody blasted hell. He was going to strangle Walter Murray.

  “Do you deny it?” his mother pressed.

  He clasped his hands at his back. “It was a misunderstanding. Nothing worth mentioning. We’ve resolved to try again, as you see.”

  “She’s making a plaything of you, Ned.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. Her words stung. “You don’t know her.”

  “I know her kind. All the young ladies here are just the same. Dazzling you with their airs and graces. And all the while their eyes are fixed firmly on your bank balance.”

  “I’ve never been dazzled yet.” It wasn’t entirely true. And Ned could tell that she knew it.

  “She’s not good enough for you. None of them are. I was wrong to encourage you to aspire to such a match. You’d be better served with a sensible girl like Marianne Goodbody or Jane Randolph.”

  Good Lord. Those were two names he hadn’t heard in an age. They were well-to-do tradesman’s daughters. Girls of his own class who’d been “finished.” Whatever that meant. “What is it exactly that you object to in Miss Appersett?” he asked.

  “She’s inconstant,” his mother replied without missing a beat.

  “Leaving that aside for the moment.”

  “How can I? Am I to disregard a facet of her character?”

  “I don’t ask you to disregard anything, merely to refrain from passing judgment on matters you don’t understand.”

  His mother’s mouth tightened. “You think me hard. You always have. But I won’t apologize for how I raised you. I brought you up to be strong. To stand fast against whatever comes.”

  “And every day I thank you for it.”

  “Aye. You’ve never been ungrateful. But I know my own son. You’ve always had a wanting for softness, ever since you were a lad. I won’t begrudge you it now. Neither will I see you squander your future on a fine lady who’ll treat you no better than a dog once you’ve wed her.”

  Ned went still. Her words sank into his flesh like poisonous barbs. “And that’s what you believe Miss Appersett will do if I marry her.” He searched his mother’s face. “Why?”

  His mother’s expression was as unyielding as her posture. She sat straight and proud, her spine not even touching the back of the silk-upholstered chair. “Her parents are forcing the match. Did you know that?”

  “Who said so?”

  “Her sister, Miss Emily. Called her the Sacrificial Lamb. Made a joke of it to one of those young ladies from London. How they laughed, the pair of them. I was sitting near the fire. I expect they didn’t know I was there. Not that it would have stopped them. These society girls make malicious sport of everything when the gentlemen aren’t by.”

  The Sacrificial Lamb.

  Ned inwardly winced. Still, he supposed it could be worse.

  He went to his mother and sank down in front of her chair. “Have you ever known me to make poor decisions?”

  “Not since you were a lad,” she admitted grudgingly.

  “Then trust me. I know what I’m about with Miss Appersett.”

  His mother reached out and briefly touched his cheek. She was not a woman comfortable with displays of affection. She preferred to show her regard through hard work and fierce loyalty. It made the small gesture all the more poignant. “She’s going to break your heart, Ned.”

  He bowed his head for a moment. His mother was right. There was every chance that Miss Appersett would reject him after Christmas. That she’d leave him worse off than he’d been the day she jilted him in Hyde Park. He wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it, either to his mother or to himself. “Very likely,” he said. “But I’m willing to take the risk.”

  Sophie studied her cards, doing her level best to ignore Lady Barton’s whispered advice on improving her strategy.

  It had been Mama’s idea that after-dinner card partners be chosen at random from slips of paper placed in a glass bowl. This would prevent the upper-class guests from closing ranks against the lower, she’d said, forcing each table to have a socially diverse group of players.

  Sophie had thought it quite a good idea. That is, until she found herself paired with Lady Barton—a compulsive gamester—against the less impressive team of Mr. Fortescue and Miss Tunstall.

  Ned was faring no better. He was partnered with Mrs. Lanyon against a stammering London debutante and an elderly squire with an ear trumpet. They were seated at a nearby card table in the drawing room, close enough that Sophie could hear every word Mrs. Lanyon uttered about the untimely death of Prince Albert.

  She stole a swift glance at Ned over the top of her cards.

  Tomorrow night was the Christmas ball. It was expected to be a crush. Invitations had gone out to friends and relations in both London and Derbyshire. Even people who’d shunned the house party were expected to make an appearance at the ball. There would be an orchestra. There would be waltzing.

  More to the point, there would be waltzing with Ned.

  It made her slightly giddy to think of it.

  There’d been no more romantic encounters with him since that kiss in the library, but she’d daily been in his company. She’d seen how respectful he was of his parents and how kind and solicitous he’d been to her mother and even, on occasion, to her sister.

  She’d observed his unfailing patience when dealing with those who others dismissed as tedious, long-winded bores. He was a good listener. Not given much to words, but always attentive in his silence.

  A quality that was on full display.

  “He and the Queen married for love,” Mrs. Lanyon said. “How his death must be affecting her! She will be grieving for a long while, I expect. Longer than is the custom. A lady does not recover from such a loss in a few years’ time.”

  “Nor would a gentleman,” Ned murmured.

  “You think not, Mr. Sharpe? In my experience, gentlemen don’t feel t
he loss of a much-loved spouse as deeply as we ladies do. I’ve seen it time and again when my brother counsels newly bereaved widowers. They’re saddened, to be sure, but I can detect no permanent injury to their hearts and minds. Do you find differently, sir?”

  “I cannot speak for all gentlemen,” Ned said as he played a card. “But if I loved and lost, I believe I would feel it rather keenly.”

  Sophie’s heart turned over.

  “Miss Appersett,” Lady Barton said sharply. “It’s your turn.”

  “Yes, of course. I do beg your pardon.” She played a card of her own. The wrong card, if Lady Barton’s expression was any judge. But Sophie didn’t care. Her thoughts were far from the game.

  She remembered what Ned had said on his first day at Appersett House when she asked if he considered himself a warm person. It had been the truth. He didn’t often show emotion, but he felt things deeply. She recognized that now.

  And that wasn’t the only thing she recognized.

  He was a good man. So much more than his stern appearance. She wanted…

  Oh, but she didn’t know what she wanted. She couldn’t put it into words. Couldn’t even organize it into a coherent thought.

  If only she’d met him under different circumstances. If only Papa didn’t keep stealing him away to show him things on the estate or to huddle with him in his study. She’d tried to put it out of her head, to let Ned shoulder the burden of it, but the weight of Papa’s mania for improvements weighed on her. Even more now that she realized how much she liked Ned. It hadn’t mattered as much before if Papa scared him away. But now…

  She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if Ned decided she wasn’t worth it. If, after Christmas, he simply packed up his things and returned to London.

  Her worries were only intensified the following morning when Ned and Mr. Murray once again accompanied Papa out onto the estate. Sophie didn’t know what they were doing. Looking at the gas works again, perhaps.

  The rest of the guests were occupied with final preparations for the ball. Her mother and Emily had things well in hand. For once, Sophie wasn’t needed. She slipped out at the first opportunity, making her way down the stairs and across the hall to the library. She wanted some privacy. A chance to curl up with a book and catch her breath.

  Instead, as she passed the door to Papa’s study, she found herself hesitating. Before she could think twice, she turned the doorknob and let herself inside.

  The study was Papa’s private domain. It was where he met with his steward. Where he wrote letters and balanced the accounts. Sophie had seen the ledgers once. They’d been filled with red ink and scribbled notations. She didn’t think she’d ever shut a book so quickly. The contents had horrified her.

  There were no ledgers on his desk now. She crept up to the tall burled walnut monstrosity and scanned the surface. It was riddled with crystal paperweights, inkwells, and haphazard stacks of what looked to be tradesman’s bills. Her fingers itched to go through them, but she restrained herself.

  Across the floor of the study was a standing globe in a heavy frame, a line of short bookcases with glass doors locked tight, and an inlaid drum table on which a map was draped. No. Not a map. Something finer. A drawing or a sketch of some kind.

  Curious, she moved closer, her eyes drifting over the fine lines and angles.

  It was Appersett House. A detailed plan of the layout, complete with cross-sections of the interior of the walls and the spaces beneath the floorboards.

  “Sophia!” Papa bellowed from the doorway. “What are you doing in here?”

  Sophie turned around with a start.

  Her father closed the distance between them in a few hurried strides and snatched the plans from the table. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

  “They don’t require me at the moment. I was going to the library to read awhile.” She followed her father as he folded up the plans and went to his desk. He sat heavily in the chair behind it. “Are those plans for the new plumbing?”

  He scowled. “What do you know of that?”

  “Only what you’ve said on occasion. And…what Mr. Sharpe has told me.”

  “Sharpe’s been telling tales about my project, has he?” Papa looked outraged. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s got no vision. No appreciation for progress. Murray, on the other hand…”

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mr. Murray?”

  “He’s the son of a stonemason. As wealthy as Sharpe in his own right, but with an appreciation for building and renovation.” Her father scrubbed at his face. He looked tired and irritable. Not the best time to approach him with her problems. Even so…

  “Papa, you don’t really think having plumbing installed is a good idea, do you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She rested her fingers lightly on the edge of his desk, casting about for a diplomatic way to phrase things. There wasn’t one. “Because we can’t afford it. Surely you must see—”

  “Of course we can afford it! Why do you think I permitted Sharpe to court you? He’s got more than enough to cover the plumbing, and all the rest of it besides.”

  Her breath stopped. For several seconds, she could do nothing but stare at her father. “The rest of it? What rest of it?”

  Papa had the grace to redden. “Trifles,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Paint. Roof tiles. Gravelling the drive. Nothing that will bankrupt the fellow.”

  She pressed a hand to her midriff. Her corset felt suddenly as if it had been laced two inches too tight. “We don’t need it.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “We don’t need it,” she said again.

  Something in her voice made her father sit up straight at his desk. Any hint of embarrassment about his plans evaporated. “Don’t take that tone with me, young miss.”

  In the past, Sophie might have quailed at the hint of iron in his words. But today, try as she might to respect him, there was no backing down. “You won’t be content until you ruin us. Until you ruin him.”

  “I’m in no mood for dramatics,” Papa snapped.

  Sophie didn’t care what he was in the mood for. “You’ll make him despise me, do you realize that? Any hope there might be for my happiness…you’ll destroy it with your constant demands on him.”

  “I have a responsibility to the estate.”

  “You have a responsibility to us! To Mama, Emily, and me. How can you not see that?”

  Papa gritted his teeth. “I have no heir,” he ground out.

  “You have me. And you have Emily. And—”

  “Two daughters. What use are you to me? You’ll marry and take your husband’s name. You aren’t my heirs. This house will be my only legacy. The only thing of value left when I’m gone. The only thing that will endure. I have a duty to see it right.”

  “Oh, Papa.” She shook her head. “I love Appersett House, too, but it’s not flesh and blood. Emily and I are what’s real. Mama is what’s real. This house is—”

  “It’s my legacy. And if you think I care two snaps of my finger whether that makes a draper’s son despise the lot of us—”

  “That draper’s son is the gentleman you mean me to marry.”

  His expression turned mulish. No different from Emily’s when she was in a temper. “It’s the only way. Even with your sister’s dowry—”

  Sophie barely managed to suppress a gasp. “What about Emily’s dowry?”

  Papa dropped his gaze. “Things have arisen. Necessities for the estate. I owe you no explanation.”

  “Is it…is it gone? Did you spend it all?”

  “I told you. It doesn’t concern you. Now be off with you, Sophie. I have work to do.”

  A heavy blanket of gloom settled over her, snuffing out the last spark of her holiday cheer. “Does Mama know?” she asked softly.<
br />
  Her father hung his head.

  She needed no other answer. She let herself out of his study, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Emily sat at her dressing table, head bowed as Sophie brushed her hair. Their eyes met in the mirror. “I don’t know why you prefer my limited skills to Annie’s,” Sophie said.

  “She doesn’t do it as well as you.”

  Sophie doubted that very much. Annie had been with them several years and had grown adept at managing their thick tresses. Granted, she was no French lady’s maid with a talent for dazzling coiffures, but she could handle a brush and hairpins well enough. “She’s going to arrange my hair for the ball.”

  “How will you wear it?” Emily asked.

  Sophie parted her sister’s hair into two sections. “A bandeau bouffant, probably. Or perhaps a crown of plaits.”

  “The same as always.”

  “It’s easiest. And if it comes unpinned during the dancing, I can repair it myself.”

  “Why must you always be so practical?”

  “One of us must be.”

  “Well, it shan’t be me,” Emily declared. “My hair will be woven with a waterfall of flowers. Just like the picture we saw in Mama’s magazine.”

  Sophie nodded. After her father’s revelation, she was determined to indulge her sister. There would be time enough for Emily to learn the truth about her dowry after Christmas. Until then, they could all try and enjoy themselves. “Rolls at each side and three rolls at the back, wasn’t it? It’s going to take a great deal of pins, Emmy. You’ll have a dreadful headache by the time the night is over.”

  “I don’t care. As long as it looks as it should. And as long as no one else will arrive with the same coiffure.”

  Sophie reached for one of the rats on her sister’s dressing table. Made of hair collected from Emily’s brush each evening, the homemade hairpiece would be used to pad out the rolls and help them keep their shape. “Is there anyone particular you wish to impress?”

  Emily pursed her lips. “Possibly.”

  “You know you can talk to me.”

  “Not about matters of the heart, I can’t. You wouldn’t understand.”