Page 36 of A Holiday By Gaslight

“Oh, thank heaven.” Sophie reached out to clasp her sister’s hand. “My poor dear. Does it hurt terribly?”

Emily gave a weak smile. “It’s better now.”

Ned’s gaze flicked from Emily’s face to Walter’s. His friend’s foul mood appeared to have vanished. “How did it happen?”

“Overexuberance,” Walter said. “A failing in the very young.”

“I’m not so much younger than you,” Emily retorted. “Not so anyone would notice.”

“Whatever you say, brat.” Walter adjusted his hold on her. “Tighten your arms around my neck, will you? I’d hate to drop you in a snowbank.”

Emily clung to him fiercely. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Ned chanced a look at Sophie as they followed in Walter’s wake. Her face was drawn with concern. Whatever was going on between Walter and her sister clearly didn’t sit well with her. “It will be all right,” he said quietly.

Sophie met his eyes. “I hope so, Ned. For everyone’s sake.”

The next two days passed in a blur of holiday revelry. While Emily rested on the sofa, a knitted blanket draped over her legs and her bandaged ankle elevated on a satin pillow, the rest of the party decorated the house with greenery, ribbons, and tinsel. The gentlemen hauled in the Yule log and the ladies gilded acorns and artificially frosted holly and ivy leaves with a mixture of alum and boiled water.

The following afternoon, Mrs. Sharpe joined them in the drawing room. She took a seat not far from Emily, her knitting needles soon clacking in a steady rhythm. “You’d be wise to stay off of it until the new year. Or risk walking with a limp for the rest of your days.”

Emily looked doubtful. “That would mean missing the Christmas ball.”

“A small price to pay to avoid permanent lameness.”

“But I must dance, Mrs. Sharpe. It will be our first ball at Appersett House since the gaslight was installed. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Sophie was seated at a low inlaid table with Miss Tunstall, the Viscountess Barton, and Mrs. Lanyon. She was mending the tree skirt while the other ladies worked together on the kissing bough. “Perhaps just one dance.”

Emily snorted. “One? That’s little better than nothing.”

“How many waltzes will be played at the Christmas ball, Miss Appersett?” Miss Tunstall asked.

“Three or four, I should think,” Sophie said.

Mrs. Sharpe’s features tightened with disapproval.

Sophie didn’t know why. It had been ages since the waltz was considered scandalous. Then again, Ned’s mother was a woman of advanced years. “Do you object to waltzing, ma’am?”

“I object to public displays, in any form,” Mrs. Sharpe said with a forceful click of her needles. “Waltzing is but another excuse for excessive intimacy between young men and women. It can lead to nothing but trouble.”

Emily struggled up to a sitting position on the sofa. “But everyone waltzes at balls.”

“It’s true,” Sophie said. “It’s unexceptionable, even at the most formal events. Why, the Queen herself has been known to enjoy a waltz on occasion.”

“With Prince Albert,” Mrs. Lanyon said. “God rest his soul.”

Mrs. Sharpe was unmoved. “It may be very well for your lords and ladies, Miss Appersett, but it doesn’t change my opinion of it.”

No sooner had she finished her sentence than several of the gentlemen entered the drawing room. Among them were Ned and Mr. Murray. They’d been with Sophie’s father again, traipsing about the estate for the second day in a row.

Ned leaned down to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Your opinion on what?”

“Waltzing,” Emily said. “Your mother doesn’t approve.”

“I won’t apologize for my views, Miss Emily,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “Humble as they may seem to you.”

Mr. Murray winked at Emily. Emily responded by turning a becoming shade of rose.