Page 5 of A Holiday By Gaslight

“I have not lost my temper,” Papa said. “But when I think of all our plans—the expenses here in London—the lease on this infernal townhouse—all so you and your ungrateful sister might—”

“What have I to do with it?” Emily cried out from her place near the fire. She was still finishing her tea, a honey-slathered scone suspended halfway to her mouth. A drop of honey threatened to plop down onto her skirts.

Sophie leaned forward in alarm. “Emmy, do be careful!”

Unlike Mama’s old taffeta, Emily’s dress was new. It was a delicate pink-and-yellow floral confection made only last week by a fashionable modiste in Bond Street. Removing a stain would be well-nigh impossible without fading the print.

“Don’t be such a fusspot.” Emily caught the drop of honey on her finger a fraction of a second before it fell, then popped her finger into her mouth.

Mama sighed. “Emily, use your napkin, do.”

Papa continued to pace, his face getting redder by the minute. “Is it too much to ask that my daughters do their part? That they for once—just for once—show a degree of gratitude for all the sacrifices I’ve made for them?”

Sophie shot her mother a desperate glance. When Papa was in such a state, no one else could bring him to his senses.

Mama lay aside her needlework and rose from the sofa. With characteristic languor, she strolled to the drinks table and poured out a large measure of brandy. “Come, my love.” She pressed the half-filled glass into Papa’s hand. “If you succumb to a fit of apoplexy, you’ll be of no use to anyone.”

“These ungrateful girls,” Papa muttered as he raised the glass to his lips. “They do you no credit, madam.”

Emily gave another indignant huff. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t see why I must be scolded simply because Sophie has—”

“Hush,” Mama said. She turned to Sophie. “Come, dear. Let’s have a walk in the garden, shall we? I could do with an airing.”

Sophie’s spirits sank. She could withstand Papa’s remonstrations. It didn’t matter how much he bellowed or threatened. But Mama applied an altogether different—and far more effective—technique.

She linked her slim arm through Sophie’s as they exited the drawing room. “Is it damp out? Will we need our coats?”

“No, Mama. Just a shawl, I think.”

The townhouse on Green Street was small but elegant. It had a neat little back garden with trees and shrubs laid out in a welcoming design. In the summer it was filled with the scent of fresh greenery and fragrant blooms. Now it was as stark and bare as the landscape along the Serpentine.

Her mother led her down a barren path at the edge of the garden. They walked in silence for several minutes. And then, “You must forgive your father,” she said.

Sophie felt a twinge of bitterness at the unfairness of it all. It didn’t last long. It never did. “There’s nothing to forgive. I know I’ve disappointed him. I wish it were otherwise.” She paused before adding, “But I won’t let him bully me into marrying a gentleman I don’t like.”

“Bully you? He would never do any such thing. Nor would I. We only want what’s best for you and your sister. Surely, you know that?” She squeezed Sophie’s arm. “Besides, I wasn’t aware you disliked Mr. Sharpe.”

“I don’t dislike him. Not really.”

“But you object to him? You never said so. What’s changed, my love? Has he done something? Said something?”

“He’s done nothing. Said nothing.” Sophie stopped on the garden path to face her mother. “We have nothing in common, Mama. Not a single blessed thing. And I know he must feel the awkwardness of it as keenly as I do. Indeed, when I told him I wished to put an end to our courtship, he seemed almost…relieved.”

“Did he? Well, then I daresay you’ve done the right thing.” She once again linked her arm through Sophie’s. “Come. Let’s walk. It’s too cold to be standing still. You’ll get a chill on your lungs and we can’t have that. Not so close to Christmas.”

They continued in the direction of the mews. The rattle of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves sounded in the distance. There was a black iron gate at the end of the garden, a convenient shortcut to the stables and, thereby, to the street. It was how Sophie had slipped away to meet Mr. Sharpe in Hyde Park.

That had been only a few days ago. Three and half days, to be precise. It had taken her that long to muster up the courage to tell her parents what she’d done. Which was unlike her, now she thought of it. Usually, when she made an independent decision, she had the confidence to reveal it to her family without delay. This time, however, she hadn’t felt very confident. Indeed, it wasn’t long after leaving Hyde Parke that she’d begun to experience a niggling sensation of doubt.

“What do you suppose Mr. Darwin would make of your decision?” Mama asked.

Sophie wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I don’t see that Mr. Darwin has much to do with my present situation.”

“Doesn’t his book advise altering one’s behavior? Adapting oneself to changing circumstances in order to ensure survival?”

“He was speaking in terms of evolutionary theory, not issuing practical advice for young ladies.”

“As I recall, it was you who claimed such theories could apply to our modern society. Or was that just a means of convincing yourself to accept Mr. Sharpe’s suit?”