Having made her decision, she wrapped an old cashmere shawl loosely round her shoulders and hurried down the stairs to find her mother.
She was seated at the little carved walnut secretary in the morning room, engaged in writing a letter.
“Mama?” Sophie ducked inside, shutting the white-paneled door firmly behind her.
The morning room was Mama’s private domain. It was a thoroughly feminine space, with walls papered in pale blue watered silk and floors carpeted in patterned floral Aubusson. Bright sunlight filtered in through a bank of windows.
“Hmm?” Mama kept writing.
Sophie came to stand beside her. “Will you allow me to try and make up the numbers?”
Her mother’s pen flew across the page. “If you like.”
“I have an idea. Papa and Emily won’t care for it, but it makes perfect sense—”
“Sophie, love, I’m trying to finish this letter to your uncle. It absolutely must go out in the morning post.”
“Then I have your approval?”
“Always,” she said, adding, “Do shut the door when you leave.”
As permission went, Sophie doubted whether it would stand up to scrutiny. However, given their circumstances, it was enough. She pressed a swift kiss to her mother’s rose-perfumed cheek and then, in a swish of petticoats, bounded back upstairs to write a few letters of her own.
The poorly sprung four-wheeler they’d hired at the railway station in Milton St. Edmunds gave another bone-rattling jolt as it trundled through the mud. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the rural track, which the coachman had assured them led to Appersett House, was made no more hospitable by it. The terrain was uneven, the ground riddled with potholes.
“It was very civil of her to extend the invitation,” Ned’s mother said for what must be the hundredth time. “But I can’t feel easy about any of this.”
Ned’s father nodded. “She’s a baronet’s daughter,” he added, also for the hundredth time. As if it explained everything.
Ned looked across the interior of the carriage at his parents. They were a severe, dignified couple, both of them handsomely dressed and both of them long past their middle years.
They’d had him late in life, the only one of their children to live past the age of three.
From boyhood, they had reposed all their hopes in him. And, as he’d grown, they’d seen in him the manifestation of a lifetime of sacrifice and hard work. They would sooner sever ties with him forever than harm his ascent into polite society.
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all. His parents would be uncomfortable. Hell, he was going to be uncomfortable himself. It was unavoidable when people of their sort mingled with the upper classes. “It’s too late to turn back now. Mr. Murray will have already arrived. If we don’t appear, he’s likely to send out a search party for us.”
His mother gave a low cluck of disapproval. “I still can’t credit his being invited. Doesn’t your young lady know what a scapegrace he is?”
“She’s not his young lady,” his father said. “If she were, we’d have met her afore now.”
Ned felt a faint flicker of guilt. He hadn’t introduced Sophie to his parents yet, it was true. He’d been waiting until things were formalized between them. Until she consented to be his wife. In the meanwhile, there’d been no point in getting his parents’ hopes up, nor in subjecting them to the poisonous barbs of the beau monde. He’d been determined to navigate these deep waters alone. To sink or swim on his own.
A wise decision, as it turned out, given that she’d broken things off with him.
And now, there was every chance she’d do so again.
He’d be a fool to ignore the facts. The fate of their relationship hinged on this Christmas house party. Or, more precisely, on whether or not, in the next ten days, he could make Sophie Appersett like him a little. A grim reality, but there it was.
When her letter arrived, inviting both his parents and Walter Murray to Derbyshire, he’d been inclined to write back immediately and tell her it wouldn’t do. His parents weren’t poor, not by any means, but they were of humble origins. And they were in trade. He knew firsthand how the gentry behaved toward such people. He had no wish to expose his mother and father to their derision.
His parents were of the same mind, albeit for different reasons. They were adamant that their presence would harm his chances. It would be much better, his father had said, if Sir William and his lady wife never met them at all. Much better if Ned were evaluated on his own merits than if he were viewed as no better than a Cheapside draper’s son.