A Holiday by Gaslight(6)

Sophie steeled herself against her mother’s words. She refused to be made to feel guilty.

Mama gave Sophie’s arm another squeeze. “You’re not to think we value Emily’s happiness more than yours, my dear. But you must allow that your sister is not as sensible as we are. She’s more like your father.”

“She’s selfish.”

“And you, my pet, are too severe.”

“Am I? It seems I’ve spent my life making sacrifices for Emily’s comfort—and for Papa’s—because I’m sensible and know my duty to the family. Is it so unforgiveable that I should wish to marry someone I might like just a little, and who might like me in return for reasons other than my pedigree? I don’t require love. I’m not so silly as that. But you ask me to leave our family, to marry a stranger and live out the rest of my days in his house, as his possession. That isn’t the same as dying my old gowns and thrice-darning my stockings so that Emily might wear the latest fashions.”

Her mother frowned. “No, indeed. We’ve asked a great deal of you, haven’t we? It hasn’t always been fair.”

“I’ve never complained.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Your sister and your father have a taste for fine things. They aren’t always wise. While you and I… Well, we love our family, don’t we? We aspire to do what’s best for them. And if such can be achieved by a small sacrifice here and there—”

“A small sacrifice? Really, Mama.”

“Wearing last season’s dresses or eating beef only once a week, I meant. Not marriage.”

Sophie cast a glance at her mother. Three years before, when Papa had first begun the repairs and modernizations to Appersett House, she’d appeared to support his decision. And later, when the household budget had been reduced to practically nothing, she’d contrived various ways to make do.

The economizing had grated, especially on Emily.

“What use is a gaslit ballroom if we cannot entertain?” she regularly complained.

But much as it bothered Emily—and even Papa, on occasion—Sophie had never thought it bothered her mother a great deal. Indeed, Mama had seemed to consider their reduced circumstances a challenge to her cleverness.

Had she merely been putting on a cheerful face?

A knot formed in Sophie’s stomach as she registered the fine lines of worry between her mother’s brows and the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Their circumstances must be precarious indeed if Mama was losing sleep over them.

“No,” Mama said. “Marriage—especially to a gentleman of Mr. Sharpe’s ilk—is no small sacrifice. Your father and I were wrong to ask it of you. The poor fellow would have never fit in with our sort of people. He’s a bit coarse, isn’t he?”

“I never thought him so.”

“And rather too stern about the mouth.”

“He’s a serious man, certainly, but—”

“These quiet, brooding types sometimes conceal a fearsome temper. Who knows how ill he may have treated you if given half a chance?”

“Mr. Sharpe is not an ogre, Mama.”

“All the same. I see why you’d wish to avoid the match.”

Sophie was silent. She had the distinct impression that her mother was managing her. A frustrating—and all-too-common—experience.

“I shall explain it all to your father when he’s calmed down a bit,” Mama continued. “And then we shall go home. I confess, it will be a relief.”

“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “I did try to make it work. Had I known—”

“Naturally, my love. I don’t fault you. I only wish we hadn’t suffered the expense of staying in London. And then there’s the Christmas party to think of. Another dreadful expense.”

“Is it too late to cancel it?”

“And disappoint your father? I daren’t suggest such a thing. He’s so dreadfully proud of how well the house looks. This will be his first chance to properly show it off.”

“But—”

“No. You must trust me on this matter. A Christmas celebration won’t send us to debtor’s prison. And it will make your father and sister so very happy. As for the rest of it…well.” She gave a heavy sigh, sounding suddenly more tired that Sophie had ever heard before. “We shall think of that in the new year.”





“Sharpe and Murray,” Emily read aloud from the sign over the door. “Rather like Scrooge and Marley, isn’t it?”

“Hush, Emmy.” Sophie was in no mood for her sister’s little jokes, even if Mr. Sharpe’s office in Fleet Street did put her in mind of something out of one of Mr. Dickens’ novels. It was dark and unwelcoming—and situated far too close to the river for her comfort. Not the sort of place two young ladies should be visiting so near to dusk, even if they did have a maidservant in tow.

“Oh, miss,” Annie said, her voice pleading. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“I agree with Annie,” Emily said. “This was a fool’s errand. No one’s at home. There are no lamps lit in the windows. And the street is empty.”

“It’s not his residence. It’s his office.” Sophie reached up to ring the bell. “You may wait in the carriage if you like.”