Sir William approached to greet them, seemingly at the urging of his lady wife. Like Sophie and her mother, he wore a black armband, a symbol of mourning at the passing of the Prince Consort. On Sir William, however, the scrap of fabric appeared almost ostentatious. He was a proud man. Rather too proud, Ned thought, given the circumstances.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe,” he said. “You are very welcome.”
As his parents talked with Sir William and Lady Appersett, Ned found himself standing beside Sophie, a little distance away. He looked down at her, uncertain what to say.
She appeared to be equally uncertain. “It wasn’t too great an inconvenience, was it?” she asked at last. “Bringing your parents, I mean.”
“Not at all. They were pleased to accept your invitation. Though it may well prove to be an awkward visit if our courtship comes to nothing.” He instantly regretted his words. What was he thinking to be so dry, so flippant, about something so important?
Sophie didn’t seem to mind. “I’m resolved not to think of what will happen after Christmas. Even if the whole world were to disappear in a puff of smoke—and this house along with it.”
“That bad, is it?”
“You can’t really expect me to answer that, sir.”
“Can’t I? And here I thought we were supposed to be candid with each other.”
“Not in the hall,” she said. “Not as the guests are arriving.”
“When?”
She looked away from him to smile briefly at an elderly lady and gentleman who had just been admitted by the butler “Are you an early riser?”
“Always.”
“We can go for a walk in the morning, if you like. I’m up at sunrise. There’s no one about then.”
He had no opportunity to answer. Sir William and Lady Appersett moved off to greet the new arrivals and his parents drifted back, looking only slightly less uncomfortable.
Sophie gave them a bright smile—far brighter than she’d ever given him. “We have mulled wine and cake in the drawing room,” she told them. “But you must be tired from your journey. And I daresay you’ll wish to freshen up. I can have tea sent to your rooms if you’d prefer?”
His mother drew herself up with offended dignity. “We shall join the other guests, Miss Appersett.”
“Of course. Mr. Murray is already there, I believe. He’ll be glad to know you’ve arrived safely.” She summoned a footman. “Will you show Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe to the drawing room?”
“Aren’t you coming?” Ned asked.
“Not yet. I must remain with my parents until the last of the guests arrive. But please, do go ahead, Mr. Sharpe.”
He bent his head, his voice sinking to an undertone. “You’d better call me Edward. Or Ned, if you like. It will be confusing, otherwise. Too many Mr. Sharpes.”
Sophie looked up at him. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Very well,” she said. “Ned.”
Sophie rose at dawn to wash and dress. Mr. Sharpe—or Ned, as he’d asked her to call him—hadn’t precisely said he’d meet her for a walk, but she was taking no chances.
The house party was already in chaos. Papa was in a foul mood about some of the guests she’d invited. And Mama was at sixes and sevens trying to placate him at the same time she managed everything else. As for Emily…
Well. She’d taken a liking to Mr. Murray of all people.
Sophie was dumbfounded. If she’d known there was a chance her sister would strike up a flirtation with the man, she’d never have invited him. Her parents were banking on Emily marrying a title, for heaven’s sake. If she squandered her chances with a stonemason’s son, Sophie would never hear the end of it.
She fastened up the bodice of her heavy woolen dress and slipped her arms through the wide sleeves of her paletot. With any luck, no one would be up but the servants.
The gaslight in the wall sconces that lined the corridor outside her room was turned on low. It was just enough light to find her way to the stairs. She held her skirts as she descended two flights to the entry hall.
And then she stopped short.
“Good morning!” Emily said brightly. She was bundled up in a fur-trimmed cloak, her hair disposed in sable ringlets beneath a matching fur and velvet hat.
So much for privacy, Sophie thought grimly. She crossed the hall, frowning. “What on earth are you doing up at this hour?”
“Meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Murray.” Emily stifled a giggle. “Of the firm of Sharpe, Murray, and Cratchit.”