A Holiday by Gaslight Page 5

  She lowered her voice. “Firstly, I would like you to call me Sophie.”

  Sophie. His heart thumped hard. “And secondly?”

  “I would like you to come to Appersett House for Christmas, as we originally planned.”

  The footman rapped lightly on the outside of the carriage door. “Sir?”

  They must be in danger of drawing attention. A legitimate concern, but for the moment Ned didn’t care. He held Sophie Appersett’s gaze. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “Is there a thirdly?”

  Her dark brows knit. The tension and worry were back. The visible uncertainty about her future and about the future of her family. But there was something more there now. A glimmer of hope in her chocolate brown eyes that gave him hope in return. “That all depends,” she said, “on what happens in Derbyshire.”

  Derbyshire, England

  December, 1861

  Sophie gazed out the rain-streaked window of the railway car. The passing scenery was bleak and wet and oh so familiar. She knew this part of the Derbyshire countryside like the back of her hand.

  In a half hour, they would arrive at the modest station in the village of Milton St. Edmunds. From there, the family carriage would convey them to the lush—and quite isolated—valley where Appersett House had resided in stately splendor since the turn of the sixteenth century. Papa had sent a wire from Waterloo Station. All should be in readiness for them.

  She shifted in her seat, striving for a more comfortable position. Emily’s head was heavy on her shoulder. Sophie dared not wake her. Her sister had only just been lulled to sleep by the motion of the train, drifting off against Sophie’s side mid-complaint. Sophie had no doubt that, if awakened, she’d resume her litany of misery without missing a beat.

  The Christmas party was ruined, or so Emily had been insisting since they departed London.

  For once, she wasn’t exaggerating.

  Prince Albert was dead. He’d passed away late Saturday evening, reportedly from typhoid fever. The bells of St. Paul’s had rung out at midnight, announcing the mournful event to the world.

  Only two days later, the newspapers were filled with recollections of him. Sophie still couldn’t quite believe it.

  Her family wasn’t so exalted as to have known him personally. Indeed, she’d only ever seen him once. It was at the opening of the Horticultural Gardens at South Kensington. The day she’d first met Mr. Sharpe. Prince Albert had been presiding over the event. She’d thought him a noble figure. A man of bearing who, along with the Queen, represented the very best of English dignity and good sense.

  Upon hearing the news, the residents of Green Street had been thrown into an uproar.

  “No one will come to Appersett House for Christmas now,” Emily had wailed. “The holiday is ruined!”

  Papa’s reaction to the tragic news had been no better. He’d bemoaned the expense of the Christmas festivities, all come to nothing now that the nation was plunged into mourning.

  “I won’t wear black,” Emily had said, stamping her slippered foot. “I simply won’t do it!”

  As usual, it was Mama who calmed the troubled waters. “We shan’t be obliged to. But I do think a black armband would not be amiss.”

  Papa had nodded vigorously. “Quite right, my dear. We must show the proper respect.”

  Sophie’s own black armband was presently sliding down to her elbow, courtesy of Emily’s head. She wondered if the servants had already donned armbands of their own? It was very likely. Their housekeeper was a stickler when it came to such things. No doubt she’d run up the armbands herself on the sewing machine they’d purchased last year. Yet another modern invention which Papa had deemed a necessity.

  She glanced at her mother. Unlike Sophie and her sister, Mama was garbed in unrelieved black. She was seated across from them in the railway carriage, her needlework on her lap. Papa had departed some time ago for the smoking car. It was all to the good. He was as restless as Emily on long journeys and, inevitably, would turn his attention to arguing with Sophie about some triviality or other.

  At least, he could no longer reproach her over Mr. Sharpe.

  “Sophie, my love,” Mama said as she tied off a thread. “Wake your sister, won’t you?”

  Sophie gave Emily a little jostle.

  “Are we there yet?” Emily asked as she sat up.

  “Nearly,” Sophie said. “Here. Let me re-pin your plaits.” Emily obediently bent her head while Sophie made swift work of smoothing and pinning her elaborately braided coiffure.

  Sophie’s own hair needed no attention. She’d rolled it into a large chignon at the nape of her neck earlier that morning and secured it with over a dozen pins. It wasn’t likely to budge in a high wind, let alone during a railway journey.

  In short order the train arrived at the station. Papa joined them to disembark, smelling strongly of tobacco and spirits. It was raining dreadfully. An icy wind whistled down the platform, whipping at Sophie’s heavy skirts and biting at her face. Papa shouted to the porters about their luggage and then, with a great deal of fanfare, they all bundled into the carriage and began the last leg of the journey home.

  The roads were awash in mud, and none more so than the rural track that led through the valley. Appersett House rose up amongst the wooded landscape, an enormous structure of graceful lines wrought in honey-colored stone.

  It hadn’t always looked so elegant. During the seventeenth century, the ruin of the original house had been torn down and the whole of it rebuilt in the fashionable Palladian style. All stately windows and engaged columns, set back from a pristine vista of rolling green lawn.

  Even our ancestors didn’t know when to stop improving.

  The carriage rolled up the long drive, coming to a stop in front of the wide, sweeping front steps. The ground was the consistency of pea soup.

  “It needs to be re-graveled,” Papa grumbled as he handed them down from the carriage.

  Sophie pretended she didn’t hear him. The last thing she wanted to think about at the moment was the family’s finances—or lack thereof. What she needed was a warm fire and a hot cup of tea. She followed her mother and sister into the house where both awaited her, along with hot buttered scones and freshly baked lemon cakes.

  For all its splendor—and for all Papa’s endless modernizations—Appersett House was, quite simply, home. The gaslight cast a soft glow on richly carpeted rooms filled with overstuffed chairs, plump sofas, and tufted footstools edged in silken fringe. Every imaginable surface was covered in meaningful bric-a-brac. There were crystal animal figurines, blue and white porcelain, and silver epergnes and branches of candles. Gilt-trimmed clocks chimed from the mantelshelves and paintings of illustrious ancestors graced the silk-papered walls.

  Granted, the carpet and furnishings had seen better days, but the faded grandeur of Appersett House was what Sophie loved best about it. The rooms were cozy rather than austere, perfect for snuggling up with a favorite book or dozing off beside a crackling fire.

  “There’s so much decorating to do before the guests arrive,” Mama said as they finished their tea.

  Emily licked lemon icing from her fingers. “If we have any guests.”

  “No one has sent their regrets, have they?” Sophie asked.

  Mama returned her painted porcelain teacup to the tea tray. “Not as yet, but it’s a fortnight before they’re scheduled to arrive. We may yet hear from them.”

  And hear from them they did

  Nearly half of their guests felt the death of Prince Albert significant enough to disrupt their holiday plans. Letters began arriving within the week, sending excuses and regrets and, in one case, a mild reproof that their Christmas revels hadn’t been cancelled altogether.

  It was a catastrophe, at least as far as her father and sister were concerned. Even her mother lamented the great waste of so much food and
the expense of all the various trifles purchased to make the holiday memorable for their guests.

  Over the course of the next week, Sophie thought on the matter at length. She was not impulsive by nature. She’d spent all her life doing exactly what she was told. But society was evolving at an accelerated rate. This was the modern age, after all. And surely the gentry were no different from any other organic beings. They must adapt to changing circumstances or risk extinction in one form or other.

  Besides, weren’t she and Mr. Sharpe supposed to be open and honest with each other? To dispense with the stiff formality that had characterized the beginning of their courtship and get to know each other for who they really were?

  What better way to do so than to invite his parents to join their Christmas party?

  And if they were to come, surely there could be no objection to inviting others of their class.

  The prospect sent a nervous hum through Sophie’s veins. There was much that could go wrong. But it was Christmas and, despite her concerns, she felt rather optimistic.

  Having made her decision, she wrapped an old cashmere shawl loosely round her shoulders and hurried down the stairs to find her mother.

  She was seated at the little carved walnut secretary in the morning room, engaged in writing a letter.

  “Mama?” Sophie ducked inside, shutting the white-paneled door firmly behind her.

  The morning room was Mama’s private domain. It was a thoroughly feminine space, with walls papered in pale blue watered silk and floors carpeted in patterned floral Aubusson. Bright sunlight filtered in through a bank of windows.

  “Hmm?” Mama kept writing.

  Sophie came to stand beside her. “Will you allow me to try and make up the numbers?”

  Her mother’s pen flew across the page. “If you like.”

  “I have an idea. Papa and Emily won’t care for it, but it makes perfect sense—”

  “Sophie, love, I’m trying to finish this letter to your uncle. It absolutely must go out in the morning post.”

  “Then I have your approval?”

  “Always,” she said, adding, “Do shut the door when you leave.”

  As permission went, Sophie doubted whether it would stand up to scrutiny. However, given their circumstances, it was enough. She pressed a swift kiss to her mother’s rose-perfumed cheek and then, in a swish of petticoats, bounded back upstairs to write a few letters of her own.

  The poorly sprung four-wheeler they’d hired at the railway station in Milton St. Edmunds gave another bone-rattling jolt as it trundled through the mud. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the rural track, which the coachman had assured them led to Appersett House, was made no more hospitable by it. The terrain was uneven, the ground riddled with potholes.

  “It was very civil of her to extend the invitation,” Ned’s mother said for what must be the hundredth time. “But I can’t feel easy about any of this.”

  Ned’s father nodded. “She’s a baronet’s daughter,” he added, also for the hundredth time. As if it explained everything.

  Ned looked across the interior of the carriage at his parents. They were a severe, dignified couple, both of them handsomely dressed and both of them long past their middle years.

  They’d had him late in life, the only one of their children to live past the age of three.

  From boyhood, they had reposed all their hopes in him. And, as he’d grown, they’d seen in him the manifestation of a lifetime of sacrifice and hard work. They would sooner sever ties with him forever than harm his ascent into polite society.

  Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all. His parents would be uncomfortable. Hell, he was going to be uncomfortable himself. It was unavoidable when people of their sort mingled with the upper classes. “It’s too late to turn back now. Mr. Murray will have already arrived. If we don’t appear, he’s likely to send out a search party for us.”

  His mother gave a low cluck of disapproval. “I still can’t credit his being invited. Doesn’t your young lady know what a scapegrace he is?”

  “She’s not his young lady,” his father said. “If she were, we’d have met her afore now.”

  Ned felt a faint flicker of guilt. He hadn’t introduced Sophie to his parents yet, it was true. He’d been waiting until things were formalized between them. Until she consented to be his wife. In the meanwhile, there’d been no point in getting his parents’ hopes up, nor in subjecting them to the poisonous barbs of the beau monde. He’d been determined to navigate these deep waters alone. To sink or swim on his own.

  A wise decision, as it turned out, given that she’d broken things off with him.

  And now, there was every chance she’d do so again.

  He’d be a fool to ignore the facts. The fate of their relationship hinged on this Christmas house party. Or, more precisely, on whether or not, in the next ten days, he could make Sophie Appersett like him a little. A grim reality, but there it was.

  When her letter arrived, inviting both his parents and Walter Murray to Derbyshire, he’d been inclined to write back immediately and tell her it wouldn’t do. His parents weren’t poor, not by any means, but they were of humble origins. And they were in trade. He knew firsthand how the gentry behaved toward such people. He had no wish to expose his mother and father to their derision.

  His parents were of the same mind, albeit for different reasons. They were adamant that their presence would harm his chances. It would be much better, his father had said, if Sir William and his lady wife never met them at all. Much better if Ned were evaluated on his own merits than if he were viewed as no better than a Cheapside draper’s son.

  It troubled Ned how readily they assumed they’d have no place in his life once he married. As if he would sacrifice his own mother and father on the altar of social acceptance. He never would. And he damn well wouldn’t permit them to sacrifice themselves.

  “Not his young lady?” his mother echoed in disbelief.

  “No, mother, she’s not,” Ned said firmly. “Not now. Possibly not ever.”

  His mother snorted. “She’d be a fool to refuse you.” There was a thread of scorn in her voice, as if Sophie had already rejected him out of hand. “Haven’t all the girls in Cheapside been chasing after you these many years and more? Girls from good families—prosperous families—with a sight more to their name than aristocratic airs and graces. You could have your pick of them.”

  Ned removed his hat, running a restless hand over his hair. “It’s a Christmas party. That’s all. Let’s not make more if it than it is.”

  “A Christmas party at the country home of a baronet,” his father remarked to his mother. “Hard to make more of that.”

  “And Walter Murray’s to be there as well? I trust he’s not angling after the younger sister.”

  Good God. Ned certainly hoped not. “He’s helping make up the numbers. I understand the village vicar will be there as well, along with his wife and sister. It won’t all be the gentry. And even if it were, you’re every bit as respectable as—”

  “Oh, my heavens,” his mother breathed. “Is that Appersett House?”

  Ned was in the backward-facing seat and had to twist round to see properly. His mouth went dry at the sight of the coldly elegant Palladian mansion looming up before them. He’d expected something spectacular. Appersett House had a much-vaunted reputation for its beauty. But he wasn’t prepared for the awe-inspiring dignity of all that curving honey-colored stone.

  “I assume it is,” he said. “Unless we’ve taken a wrong a turn somewhere.”

  Ned’s father had gone a little pale. So had his mother. She scanned the gravel drive. “Which one is she, Ned?”

  Ned looked out the window as the carriage came to a halt. “I don’t see Miss Appersett, or her parents.”

  Not that much was visible amongst the flurry of liveried serv
ants unloading trunks and stablemen unhitching horses. The guests he did see were all bundled up in dark wool topcoats and voluminous cloaks, their heads covered in tall beaver hats and fussy feather-trimmed bonnets. He supposed he and his parents looked little different as they climbed out of their hired coach.

  A footman appeared at the door to assist them down. “Welcome to Appersett House.”

  It was a sentiment echoed by the elderly butler who ushered them into the marble entry hall. Sir William and Lady Appersett were poised to receive their guests there, along with Miss Appersett’s sister, Emily. But it was Sophie herself who crossed the hall to greet them, looking warm and radiant in a dress of russet-colored velvet, her dark hair swept up in a glass-beaded net. She sparkled in the light cast from a magnificent crystal gasolier suspended low from the ceiling.

  Ned’s pulse quickened. How well she looked. How perfectly at ease amidst so much splendor. “Miss Appersett.”

  “Mr. Sharpe.” She turned to his parents and smiled. “And you must be Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe?”

  Ned quickly dispensed with the introductions. His parents had assumed their all-too-familiar mantle of cool civility. They were not the warmest people at the best of times. Not even with him. But when they felt themselves at any sort of disadvantage, their temperature always dropped by several more degrees.

  “I’m so pleased you could come,” Sophie said. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  “Very pleasant,” his father replied stiffly.

  “And very wet,” Ned added. “Though the rain seems to have stopped for now.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sophie said. “There’s a distinct chill in the air. And did you see the clouds? It means the snow will start soon. Tomorrow, probably, or the day after.”

  Ned’s mother was looking at Sophie as keenly as she often looked at a bolt of fabric when assessing it for flaws. “You have a fine home, Miss Appersett.”

  Sophie’s smile faded a little under his mother’s scrutiny. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s my father’s pride and joy. Once you’ve rested, I’m sure he’ll want to show you all the latest modernizations. Won’t you, Papa?”