A Holiday by Gaslight(15)
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.