A Holiday by Gaslight(4)

And yet, seeing her had been the brightest spot in his day.

No, it hadn’t been love, but it had been…something. Something warm and filled with promise. Something that was gone now, irrevocably, leaving him empty and alone.

“I admired her. A great deal.”

The understatement of a lifetime.

“And Miss Appersett didn’t admire you in return, is that it?” Walter considered the matter. “What does that etiquette book of yours advise in these circumstances? A tin of sweets? A flowery apology?”

Ned stifled a groan. “I wish to God I’d never told you about that blasted book.”

Walter flashed a broad grin. It only served to make Ned more irritable. Things had always been easy for Walter Murray. He had a natural way about him. A twinkle in his green eyes and a spring in his step. With his long, lean frame and ginger-colored hair, he wasn’t particularly handsome. Nevertheless, people seemed to like him. Women seemed to like him.

“What you should do,” he advised, “is wait until Christmas and then, when you’re in Derbyshire, fall on your knees and beg her for a second chance.”

Ned leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He was beginning to develop a pounding headache.

There would be no second chance with Miss Appersett. And even if there were, what use would it be? She’d already rejected him at his gentlemanly best. He had nothing left to offer her. No further way to prove himself worthy.

“I won’t be going to Derbyshire for Christmas.”

“Why not?”

“Damnation, Walter. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? My relationship with Miss Appersett is over. She’s called it off.”

“Ah, but has she rescinded your invitation to Appersett House?”

Ned gave a short, humorless laugh. “No, but I’m not likely to go, am I? Not after Miss Appersett’s given me my marching orders.”

“But—”

“She’s made her feelings plain and I mean to respect them.”

“And that’s an end to it?”

“It is.” Ned returned his attention to his papers, resolved to ignore the heavy ache in his heart. “My time with Miss Appersett was a pleasant interlude, but now it’s over. I shall go on as I did before. The world doesn’t end simply because I’ve had a personal disappointment.”

But he certainly felt like it had.





“You told him what?”

Sophie winced at the outrage in her father’s voice. She’d known he’d be upset by her news, but she hadn’t anticipated he’d lose his temper to quite such a degree. “It’s really for the best, Papa. If you’d but consider—”

“You foolish, empty-headed girl. Have you any idea what you’ve done?” Papa advanced upon her, his round, fleshy face red as a beetroot. “You had no business speaking to the man. No business at all—”

“Mind your temper, my dear,” her mother warned. She was seated on the overstuffed drawing room sofa, a scrap of needlework in her hand. With her elegantly inclined head and impeccable posture, she looked almost queenly. One hardly noticed that her black taffeta day dress was out of date—the color a little faded and the well-worn hem turned and mended within an inch of its life.

“I have not lost my temper,” Papa said. “But when I think of all our plans—the expenses here in London—the lease on this infernal townhouse—all so you and your ungrateful sister might—”

“What have I to do with it?” Emily cried out from her place near the fire. She was still finishing her tea, a honey-slathered scone suspended halfway to her mouth. A drop of honey threatened to plop down onto her skirts.

Sophie leaned forward in alarm. “Emmy, do be careful!”

Unlike Mama’s old taffeta, Emily’s dress was new. It was a delicate pink-and-yellow floral confection made only last week by a fashionable modiste in Bond Street. Removing a stain would be well-nigh impossible without fading the print.

“Don’t be such a fusspot.” Emily caught the drop of honey on her finger a fraction of a second before it fell, then popped her finger into her mouth.

Mama sighed. “Emily, use your napkin, do.”

Papa continued to pace, his face getting redder by the minute. “Is it too much to ask that my daughters do their part? That they for once—just for once—show a degree of gratitude for all the sacrifices I’ve made for them?”

Sophie shot her mother a desperate glance. When Papa was in such a state, no one else could bring him to his senses.

Mama lay aside her needlework and rose from the sofa. With characteristic languor, she strolled to the drinks table and poured out a large measure of brandy. “Come, my love.” She pressed the half-filled glass into Papa’s hand. “If you succumb to a fit of apoplexy, you’ll be of no use to anyone.”

“These ungrateful girls,” Papa muttered as he raised the glass to his lips. “They do you no credit, madam.”

Emily gave another indignant huff. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t see why I must be scolded simply because Sophie has—”

“Hush,” Mama said. She turned to Sophie. “Come, dear. Let’s have a walk in the garden, shall we? I could do with an airing.”