A Holiday by Gaslight Read online

  “During the holidays? Deliveries, mostly. On Christmas Eve I used to take people their parcels. Last-minute Christmas gifts, most of them. Up one city street and down another, through the sleet and snow. It would get so I couldn’t feel my hands.”

  “That’s dreadful.”

  “It wasn’t, actually. People were grateful for their parcels. They tipped rather generously. And then later, when my deliveries were finished and I returned to our apartments above the shop, my mother would give me a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. It was my reward for a job well done.”

  Sophie refrained from saying that a biscuit seemed a poor reward for a child forced to traipse through the sleet and snow on Christmas Eve. A child who was frozen through. Who couldn’t even feel his hands. “Are you very close to your parents?”

  “As much as they’ll permit.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Don’t they wish to be close with you?”

  “My parents taught me the habits of hard work and economy. They also taught me self-denial, which I felt most keenly when they made me put by half my earnings each week. It was a hard lesson, but a good one. Because of them, I was able to save enough to make my first investment. It was a merchant ship sailing to the West Indies. Murray and I each put all our savings into its cargo. Had the ship been lost at sea, we’d have been ruined. Instead, it arrived safely back in port, making us very rich indeed.” He looked at her briefly. “You might say that everything I have I owe to my parents. But they’re not warm people, for all that. They’re not given to an excess of emotion.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. His expression was as solemn as ever, but his black hair was rumpled, a section near the front standing half on end. It was oddly endearing. On every other occasion she’d been with him, his hair had been combed into meticulous order. There had never been a strand out of place. She decided she preferred it this way. He looked far less intimidating. As if he’d just risen from his bed in the morning.

  The thought brought another flush of heat to her face. She swiftly looked away from him, pretending to be absorbed in admiring the snow-covered landscape. “Do you consider yourself to be a warm person?”

  “Compared to my parents?”

  “Compared to anyone.”

  Ned didn’t answer right away. When he did, he spoke with a greater than usual degree of care. “I’m not a man given to great expressions of emotion. It’s not how I was raised. It’s not how I’ve lived my life. But I do feel things deeply. I may not always show it, but I do.”

  She stopped beneath one of the trees that stood at the edge of the path. Its wide branches provided meager shelter against a sudden flurry of snow. “I was afraid you were made of stone. Until the day I came to your office, I thought you might be.”

  “I wasn’t very warm to you then.”

  “No, but it was then I realized…” She backed up against the tree trunk as he came to stand in front of her. He was so tall and darkly handsome; his blue eyes fixed on her with a single-mindedness that made her pulse tremble.

  How many ladies before her had been the beneficiaries of that intent blue stare? How many had held Edward Sharpe riveted?

  A wave of shyness assailed her. She was no experienced London flirt. She couldn’t act the coquette to save her life.

  “What did you realize?” he asked.

  “That I’d hurt you somehow. Until that day, I hadn’t thought you capable of being hurt. I didn’t think you cared about me one way or another.”

  “A foolish assumption.”

  “Based on the evidence of my eyes and ears.”

  He set a gloved hand on a branch beside her, dislodging another fall of snow. “It worked both ways, you know.”

  “What did?”

  “The lack of communication between us.”

  “I communicated,” she said. “It was you who was always silent and brooding.”

  “You did talk to me, I’ll give you that.” His eyes flickered with rare humor. “You had a great deal to say about the weather.”

  A smile threatened. She barely succeeded in suppressing it. “It’s a perfectly acceptable subject.”

  “And a very boring one.” Ned loomed over her, his arm caging her against the tree. “The snow is very white and very beautiful,” he said in a primly accented monotone. “The sky is very blue and the sun is very bright.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “That’s not how I sound!”

  “No. When you’re voicing atmospheric platitudes, you sound a great deal prettier. I believe I could listen to you talk about the weather all day.”

  “Good,” she said tartly. “Because I intend to rhapsodize about the snow all through Christmas.”

  “Heaven help me.”

  She did smile then. And he smiled back at her, holding her gaze. Her heart performed a queer little somersault. How his face changed when he smiled! There was a sparkle in his eyes and a flash of strong white teeth. A brilliance to make her catch her breath.

  “Had I known teasing would make you smile so brightly, I’d have done it sooner,” he said.

  “I’m sure I’ve smiled at you before.”

  “Not like this you haven’t.”

  “I’m merely surprised,” she said. “It’s not like you to engage in light-hearted banter.”

  “I don’t claim to be an expert at it. I’m certainly not up to Murray’s weight.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  Ned’s mouth hitched. “Perhaps I should take another leaf out of Murray’s book.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Court you as I would someone of my own class. As I would have courted a stonemason’s daughter.”

  Sophie didn’t know whether to be intrigued or appalled. A flood of questions filled her head. She didn’t know which one to ask him first. “Is it really so different?”

  “In some ways, I expect. There are still rules—an abundance of them—but a fellow can be a bit easier. He can tease and flirt. Steal a kiss, perhaps.”

  Her heart executed another acrobatic gyration. She couldn’t imagine Edward Sharpe teasing and flirting with anyone, least of all her. As for stealing a kiss…

  “Would you have kissed me if I was a stonemason’s daughter?” The question tumbled out in an anxious rush of breath.

  Ned’s gaze darkened. He took another step toward her, a flash of something in his blue eyes that was almost predatory. “Would you have liked me to kiss you?”

  She pressed her back to the tree trunk. The dusting of snowflakes clinging to the bark melted into the fabric of her paletot. “I…I don’t know. Perhaps. If we grew fond of each other.”

  “In other words, you’d have preferred I refrain.”

  “Well,” she said with sudden frankness, “I don’t think I’d have enjoyed it if you’d simply grabbed me and kissed me. A lady likes to prepare herself for such an event.”

  “Fair enough. Are the next nine days enough time to prepare yourself? Because, unless you very strenuously object, I intend to kiss you this Christmas.”

  Sophie stared at him, her mouth suddenly dry. It took all of her strength of will to compose herself. To moisten her lips and formulate words more substantial than a breathless squeak. “Under the mistletoe, I presume.”

  “Under the mistletoe. Under the gaslight. Under the stars.” Ned bent his head close to hers. “Perhaps all three.”

  The rest of the day progressed in a haphazard fashion. After washing and changing his clothes, Ned proceeded downstairs to the breakfast parlor. Eggs, sausages, and other hot foods were arrayed in silver serving dishes on a mahogany sideboard. He fetched a plate and helped himself to a generous portion of each before joining the other guests at the table.

  Sir William was seated at the head of it, perusing a newspaper while a footman poured his coffee. Walter was
there as well, as was the vicar, Mr. Hubbard, and a reedy-looking fellow who Ned understood to be the village schoolmaster. Another of Sophie’s last-minute guests, he suspected. And, if Sir William’s scowl was any indication, not one who was very welcome.

  They were joined in short order by Ned’s father and a few more of the guests, a smattering of gentlemen and unmarried ladies. The married ladies, including Lady Appersett and Ned’s mother, didn’t make an appearance at all. They had the privilege of having breakfast delivered to them in bed.

  Ned didn’t see Sophie at the table. Instead, he found himself seated between Walter and the vicar’s widowed sister, Mrs. Lanyon, who—like her brother—had a great deal to say on the subject of Prince Albert’s death.

  “The Queen’s grief can scarcely be imagined,” she confided to Ned in sepulchral tones. “To lose a much-loved spouse—to see him struck down in the very prime of his life—such pain and desolation cannot be measured—”

  “I say, Sharpe,” Sir William interrupted. “Do you ride?”

  Ned lowered his fork to his plate. “I do, sir.”

  “Capital, capital.” Sir William finished off his coffee and rose from his seat. “Meet me at the stables in half an hour. I’ll take you down to see some of the improvements.”

  Ned watched him leave, frowning. He was well aware that Sir William expected him to help the estate in some way. But what form that help would take had never been discussed. Ned had assumed it would consist of settling Sir William’s debts or the equivalent. A small price to pay for the privilege of marrying the man’s daughter.

  Not that Sophie was ready to marry him. Hell, she wasn’t even ready to let him kiss her.

  But she’d smiled at him.

  And her voice had quavered when she spoke.

  It was progress, Ned decided as he finished his coffee. And the day wasn’t half over yet.

  “Going riding with Sir William?” Walter murmured. “Quite an honor.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Hardly.”

  Ned gave his friend a searching look. He was more rumpled than usual, his eyes lacking their normal twinkle of good cheer. “Miss Appersett told me what happened this morning.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “You’re not…upset about it, are you?”

  Walter gave a dismissive snort. “God, no.” He speared a piece of sausage with his fork. “What difference does it make to me?”

  Ned’s gaze remained on him until Mrs. Lanyon once again commanded his attention. When she paused to draw breath, he rose and made his excuses. He didn’t know where the devil Sophie had got to, nor where her shrewish little sister was, but he didn’t have a second to linger. Not if he was to be on time for his meeting with their father.

  Sophie sank down on the cushioned window seat beside her sister. The chintz curtains had been pulled back to reveal a view of the snow-covered north lawn. It wasn’t a heavy snowfall as yet. Certainly not deep enough for them to bring out the sleds or hitch up the sleighs. But Sophie had hopes for tomorrow. The temperature would surely drop by several more degrees, ensuring a deep enough blanket of snow for all their Christmas activities.

  Until then, she must contrive other ways to keep the guests busy. There would be music and games, naturally. And Mrs. Phillips had already started the baking. By this time tomorrow, the house would smell of fresh-cut pine, hot gingerbread, baked apples, and peppermint. Sophie could hardly wait.

  If only Emily would allow herself to get into the holiday spirit. The poor dear. Sophie had never seen her so morose. Not even when she was pouting over being denied a favorite treat.

  “I didn’t know he was standing there,” she said once again. “If I had known…”

  “Yes, it’s very unfortunate,” Sophie acknowledged. “But don’t you see? It doesn’t matter whether he was there or not. You shouldn’t say such unkind things about people.”

  “It’s nothing worse than what Papa says.”

  “Papa is from a different generation. He’s old and set in his ways. But you and I…” Sophie tipped her sister’s chin up with her fingers, forcing her to meet her eyes. “We’re part of the modern age, my dear. Everything is changing so very rapidly. We must change along with it or be left behind in the dust. Like the dinosaurs we saw at the Great Exhibition. Do you remember?”

  Emily’s eyes puddled with tears. She sniffed loudly. “I don’t want to be a dinosaur.”

  “Then take this as a lesson. We mustn’t be so judgmental. And we must never say things behind a person’s back that we wouldn’t say to their face.” Sophie let go of her sister’s chin and reached into the pocket of her morning dress to retrieve a handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose. There’s no point crying. You’ll only upset Mama.”

  “I’m not crying.” Emily blotted her eyes. “And I wouldn’t upset Mama for the world.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Are you ready to get dressed now? Or do you need me to stay a little longer?”

  Emily was still in her wrapper, her sable hair a mass of tangles down her back. She crumpled the soggy handkerchief in her hand. “What about Mr. Murray? I’ll have to see him again. And I know he hates me.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Sophie said. “And even if he does harbor some ill will, does it truly matter so much what he thinks?”

  “No. But I wish him to like me all the same.”

  “He’s practically a stranger, Emmy.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “No?” Sophie’s brows lifted in surprise.

  “We first met the day I was allowed to accompany you to Cremorne Gardens to see the high-wire act.”

  “I know that much.” Sophie had gone with Mr. Sharpe and a small party of friends, Mr. Murray among them. Emily had not initially been invited but, at the last moment, she’d insisted on coming. Sophie hadn’t minded. The outing had seemed a harmless enough treat to share with her sister.

  “We met again the next week at Mrs. Ashburnham’s dinner party.”

  “I’d forgotten that,” Sophie said. “You were seated beside him, weren’t you?”

  Emily nodded. “He teased me and made me laugh. He was so absurd.”

  “He’s a good-humored gentleman.”

  “I thought so.” Emily’s eyes dropped to her handkerchief. “A week later, I encountered him at Hatchard’s. He retrieved a book for me off a shelf that was too high.”

  Sophie refrained from commenting. She knew only too well how such inconsequential actions could come to loom large in the imagination of a romantic-minded young lady. Hadn’t she just spent a good half hour reliving her walk with Ned? Analyzing his every action and dissecting his every word?

  “I thought I would see him again when you went to Fleet Street,” Emily confessed.

  “Ah. So that’s why you wished to come.”

  “Yes, but…when I saw how dark and dirty the street was—and how ugly his offices—I knew I’d made a mistake. He’s a tradesman. A stonemason’s son, Papa says.” Tears sprang once more into Emily’s eyes. “And now he despises me.”

  “Perhaps you might apologize to him?” Sophie suggested.

  “Why?” Emily snuffled into her handkerchief. “Everything I said was true. I can’t be sorry for it. I’m only sorry that he heard me. I didn’t intend to hurt his feelings.”

  “Oh, Emmy.” Sophie sighed. “You have a great deal of growing up to do.”

  Her sister made no reply. She was staring out the window. Sophie followed her gaze. There were two gentleman riding down the snowy path, one on a chestnut hunter and the other on a strapping gray. It was Papa and—

  Good gracious!

  “Is that Mr. Sharpe?” Emily asked.

  “I fear it is.”

  “Where’s Papa taking him?”

  There was a sinking feeling in Sophie’s stomach. “To see the gas w
orks, I suspect.”

  Emily wrinkled her nose. “Dirty, smelly place. If Papa ever spends my dowry, I hope he’ll use it for something more pleasing. An orangery, or a tennis court, perhaps.”

  Sophie rose, only half listening. “I’ll send Annie to help you dress,” she said as she turned to leave.

  After exiting Emily’s bedroom, Sophie went to her own. She briefly considered changing into a riding habit, having her mare saddled, and setting off after Papa and Ned. But that would be overreacting, surely. Besides, Ned was more than capable of withstanding any pressure Papa put to bear. At least, Sophie hoped he was.

  Sir William was a man who was fond of good horseflesh. He kept a string of hunters along with his riding horses. Big, leanly-muscled beasts with near-perfect conformation. The one he’d assigned to Ned was a well-built gray with a great deal of spirit. Ned supposed it was a challenge of sorts. A test to see whether or not he could control a mount that wasn’t lame in all four legs.

  As a humbly born Londoner, he hadn’t been much of an equestrian in his youth. Riding horses were a luxury in the city, expensive to buy and to maintain. It wasn’t until he was an adult that he’d learned to ride properly.

  He didn’t enjoy it overmuch. Not as much as Sir William, certainly. But he was more than equipped to handle the mood swings of the handsome gray, even when the bad-tempered blackguard set his teeth on the bit and refused to let it go.

  “Progress,” Sir William said proudly as they rode away from Appersett House’s private gas works. The ground was white with fresh-fallen snow. “That’s what that is, Sharpe. A modern marvel of engineering.”

  “It’s none too healthy for the workers.”

  “Nonsense! I’ll have you know that my gas works is cleaner and better run than the gas works in the city. The men can breathe without inhaling poison.”

  Ned wasn’t so sure. During his brief tour, he’d inhaled enough noxious fumes to bring on a headache.

  Not that he was unappreciative of the innovation. A country house gas works was a rarity. Rarer still, the elegance and efficiency of the one he’d just encountered. It was made of stone, with bricked archways and chimneys. A skeleton crew of soot-covered workmen were employed within to shovel coal into sealed retorts, which were heated by a large furnace. The crude gas produced was then condensed and purified before being pumped to the main house via a series of underground pipes.