Page 7 of A Holiday By Gaslight

“Mr. Sharpe is not an ogre, Mama.”

“All the same. I see why you’d wish to avoid the match.”

Sophie was silent. She had the distinct impression that her mother was managing her. A frustrating—and all-too-common—experience.

“I shall explain it all to your father when he’s calmed down a bit,” Mama continued. “And then we shall go home. I confess, it will be a relief.”

“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “I did try to make it work. Had I known—”

“Naturally, my love. I don’t fault you. I only wish we hadn’t suffered the expense of staying in London. And then there’s the Christmas party to think of. Another dreadful expense.”

“Is it too late to cancel it?”

“And disappoint your father? I daren’t suggest such a thing. He’s so dreadfully proud of how well the house looks. This will be his first chance to properly show it off.”

“But—”

“No. You must trust me on this matter. A Christmas celebration won’t send us to debtor’s prison. And it will make your father and sister so very happy. As for the rest of it…well.” She gave a heavy sigh, sounding suddenly more tired that Sophie had ever heard before. “We shall think of that in the new year.”

“Sharpe and Murray,” Emily read aloud from the sign over the door. “Rather like Scrooge and Marley, isn’t it?”

“Hush, Emmy.” Sophie was in no mood for her sister’s little jokes, even if Mr. Sharpe’s office in Fleet Street did put her in mind of something out of one of Mr. Dickens’ novels. It was dark and unwelcoming—and situated far too close to the river for her comfort. Not the sort of place two young ladies should be visiting so near to dusk, even if they did have a maidservant in tow.

“Oh, miss,” Annie said, her voice pleading. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“I agree with Annie,” Emily said. “This was a fool’s errand. No one’s at home. There are no lamps lit in the windows. And the street is empty.”

“It’s not his residence. It’s his office.” Sophie reached up to ring the bell. “You may wait in the carriage if you like.”

Emily’s expression turned mulish. “I’d like to go back to Green Street.”

Sophie could have happily throttled her sister. She had no use for her dramatics, least of all on such a delicate errand as this. She’d wanted Annie to accompany her alone, but Emily had insisted on joining them, and once Emily set her mind to something there was no dissuading her.

“I want to go back now,” Emily said.

“Then go.” Sophie gave the bell a determined tug.

“And leave you here? How will you get back? It’s too far to walk.”

“I’ll hail a hackney.”

Emily looked out at the empty street. There was no sign of a hackney, nor of any other conveyance for hire. “I don’t like this.”

“Oh, do stop going on,” Sophie said, exasperated. “It’s Mr. Sharpe’s office, for heaven’s sake, not a den of waterfront thieves. If I can’t find a carriage, I daresay he’ll see me home himself.”

Annie stood wide-eyed next to Emily. The young maid had a perpetual expression of pale-faced terror. As if she’d just seen a ghost. Or, far worse, as if she were one step away from being cast off without a reference. “Miss? If Lady Appersett were to find out—”

“Quite,” Emily said. “I’m going home. I should never have agreed to come. The risk to my reputation—”

“Yes, yes,” Sophie interrupted. “Go if you must. You need say no more.”

Emily nodded once. “If Mama asks, I shall tell her you’re visiting Lady Dawlish.”

The tightness in Sophie’s chest eased a little. Emily was spoiled and selfish, it was true, but she could be rather a good sport on occasion. “See that my sister goes straight home, Annie. No stopping at the shops.”

“Yes, miss.” Annie hesitated only a moment before following Emily down the steps and back into the carriage.

The coachman gave the horses the office to start and the carriage set off down Fleet Street. Sophie watched it until it disappeared from sight.