A Holiday by Gaslight(14)

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.