A Holiday by Gaslight
Mimi Matthews
In memory of Christmas Marzipan
“Zippy”
2008-2018
London, England
November, 1861
An icy late November breeze rustled the bare branches of the trees along the Serpentine. Hyde Park was practically deserted at this time of morning. And no wonder. It was freezing cold, the gray skies heavy with the scent of impending rain. Sophie Appersett thrust her hands more firmly into the confines of the oversized mink muff she wore suspended from a silken cord round her neck. “So you see, Mr. Sharpe. There’s no reason to continue as we are.”
Edward Sharpe walked at her side in complete silence. His large gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his deep blue eyes fixed straight ahead. His expression was somber. So somber that, when paired with his severe black suit, black topcoat, and black beaver hat, he might easily have been mistaken for a man on his way to a funeral.
No one who saw him now would ever believe he was one of the wealthiest manufactory owners in Greater London. And they certainly wouldn’t credit him as being part owner of not one but two separate railway concerns.
Sophie cast him a sidelong glance. He was a handsome man, if one liked tall, dark males of the serious variety, but he was infuriatingly difficult to read. He never betrayed his feelings with a look or a word. And when it came to conversation, silence was, by far, his favorite subject. During their brief courtship, she’d been obliged to do most of the talking.
In the past two months, she’d come to hate the sound of her own voice. It was always droning on and on, filling up the vast emptiness between them with magpie-like chatter. Forever talking, talking, talking, but never really saying anything.
But she was saying something now. Something she should have said two months ago. “We simply do not suit.”
“No indeed, ma’am.” Mr. Sharpe’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. He had no discernible accent. Quite the opposite. He spoke in the cultured tones of a gentleman. Where he’d learned to do so, she hadn’t the slightest idea. His parents were London shopkeepers. He’d never gone to Eton or Cambridge. Instead, he’d spent his youth delivering packages and stocking the shelves of their store.
And now he was one and thirty. Wealthy, powerful, and—according to her parents—imminently eligible.
“He’s trying to gain entrée into polite society,” Mama had said when she and Papa first broached the subject of an alliance. “It’s why he wants to court you, my dear.”
“And he’ll never flaunt his common origins in your face,” Papa had added. “He’s too ashamed of them. Now he’s made his fortune, he wishes to forget his humble beginnings. And if he can forget them, Sophia, then so can you.”
Sophie didn’t care about Mr. Sharpe’s humble beginnings. Quite the opposite. She’d often wished he would speak of them. She’d been curious about him and desired to know him better. But after two months…
She sighed. “I haven’t told my parents yet. I know they’ll be dreadfully disappointed. They like you very much.”
“I expect they do,” he said.
She shot him a narrow glance. His face was set in lines as immoveable as granite, his broad shoulders taut beneath the expensive fabric of his topcoat. “You needn’t be unpleasant about it. They were no more mercenary than you.”
“Mercenary,” he repeated. “Is that what I’ve been?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s how these things are done. It’s how they’ve always been done. Alliances contrived between wealthy merchant’s daughters and impoverished nobleman. Or—as in our situation—successful men of business and the daughters of impoverished country gentry.” A troubled frown clouded her brow. “I’m sorry it’s all come to nothing for you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, but…honestly, Mr. Sharpe, if you wish to gain admittance into society, you would do better to look higher than the Appersetts of Derbyshire. Find yourself an earl’s daughter. A lady who is accustomed to moving about in society. As for myself, I—”
“Is there someone else?” he asked abruptly.
Sophie’s gaze jerked to his. “What?”
“Is there another man? Someone you prefer?”
“Goodness no. If there were, I’d never have agreed to walk out with you.” She slowed her pace. They’d ventured too far from the entrance to the park. And she couldn’t stay much longer. She had to get back before her absence was remarked. “It’s only that we have nothing at all in common. After two months, surely you must see that.”