A Holiday by Gaslight(27)

The remaining gentlemen were making just as much noise. The sight of so much snow had raised their holiday spirits to an irritating degree. They joined the ladies in talking, laughing, and carol singing.

Ned cast a glance back at Walter. In other circumstances, he’d have been one of the first to add his voice to the cacophony. Today, however, he didn’t seem to feel much like talking, let alone singing.

Ned drew back from the group to walk alongside him. Unless he was mistaken, his friend was still very much in the doldrums.

“Mark my words, Ned,” he grumbled, “we’ll end up cutting and hauling the Yule log ourselves. None of those fine gentlemen look strong enough to fell a sapling.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Just stating a fact.”

“Still in a mood, I take it.”

Walter exhaled. “She apologized to me. Can you believe it?”

“Who did?”

“Emily Appersett. Last night after dinner. I was making my escape to the billiard room and she cornered me in the hall.”

Ned grimaced. He didn’t think much of Sophie’s sister. She was spoiled and self-indulgent. And she commanded far too much of Sophie’s precious time. “You need to stay away from her.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Knowing and doing are two different things. You’re my friend and my business partner. If you meddle with her, I’m the one who’ll have to answer for it.”

“God forbid I should cause you a moment’s inconvenience,” Walter said acidly. And then: “I have no intention of meddling with her.”

“Good.”

They walked in silence for several steps before Walter heaved a heavy sigh. His cold breath was a visible puff in the frosty December air. “What you see in this family, I can’t begin to imagine.”

“I don’t care about the family. It’s Miss Appersett I’m after.”

“You can’t have one without the other.”

Ned looked straight ahead, his jaw set. “Watch me.”

“Mr. Sharpe!” Mr. Hubbard, the vicar, called back to them. “Mr. Murray! Do join us. Mr. Fortescue and I have been having the most stimulating discussion about last Sunday’s sermon. Are you familiar with ancient Aramaic?”

Mr. Fortescue, the schoolmaster, gave them both a nervous glance.

Ned felt the sudden urge to laugh. Ancient Aramaic? Good God.

“I don’t know about Sharpe,” Walter said, “but I don’t speak a word of it.”

They were spared from further conversation by Mrs. Fortescue and one of the young ladies from London. Miss Tunstall? Or was it Miss Trowbridge? Ned couldn’t remember.

“No more ancient Aramaic, Vicar,” she said. “Today is for caroling and mistletoe.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Fortescue agreed, linking her arm through her husband’s. “If you must argue about the Bible, let it be over the Christmas story.”

“The English translation, if you please,” Walter said. They all laughed.

Up ahead, the rest of their party had stopped in the midst of a grove of pine trees. Ned and the other stragglers joined them.

“Break off as many boughs as you can,” Sophie was saying to the gentlemen. “We ladies will drag them back to the house.”

Ned watched her issuing orders. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her brown eyes shining. Christmas agreed with her. So did Appersett House, he was obliged to admit. The grandeur of it. The luxurious furnishings and rich surfaces. The sense of history about it all.

He wondered if she could ever find happiness in London. If she could ever be content as the wife of a tradesman. A mere draper’s son.

“What about the mistletoe, Miss Appersett?” one of the younger ladies called out with a giggle.

“We can sometimes find it growing on the oak trees,” Sophie said. “They’re on the opposite side of the estate. Shall we split up?”

It was soon decided that Walter, Emily, and Mr. Fortescue and his wife would stay with half the group collecting pine boughs while the other half of the group, comprised of Sophie, Ned, Mr. Hubbard, and the younger guests, would strike out to find the mistletoe.

Ned was content to let the young people run ahead with the vicar while he fell into step beside Sophie. She glanced up at him.

“We’re among the elders of the party, I’m afraid,” she said. “Reduced to chaperonage.”

“The vicar and I, perhaps,” Ned conceded. “But you? You’re hardly in your dotage.”

“I’m three and twenty. It’s not exactly the first bloom of youth.”

“You know my opinions on the matter.”

She bent her head, smiling. “Yes. You find me a beautiful creature.”

Ned inwardly winced. As compliments went, he saw no fault with it, but clearly Sophie found it lacking somehow. “That offends you.”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t offend me. It’s a very nice thing to say.”

“Then why do I get the impression you’d rather I’d never said it?”

Sophie cast him another glance. “Beauty doesn’t last forever. Not the exterior kind. If that’s what you value in me, you’ll soon be disappointed.”