Page 27 of A Holiday By Gaslight

Emily’s eyes puddled with tears. She sniffed loudly. “I don’t want to be a dinosaur.”

“Then take this as a lesson. We mustn’t be so judgmental. And we must never say things behind a person’s back that we wouldn’t say to their face.” Sophie let go of her sister’s chin and reached into the pocket of her morning dress to retrieve a handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose. There’s no point crying. You’ll only upset Mama.”

“I’m not crying.” Emily blotted her eyes. “And I wouldn’t upset Mama for the world.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Are you ready to get dressed now? Or do you need me to stay a little longer?”

Emily was still in her wrapper, her sable hair a mass of tangles down her back. She crumpled the soggy handkerchief in her hand. “What about Mr. Murray? I’ll have to see him again. And I know he hates me.”

“I doubt that very much,” Sophie said. “And even if he does harbor some ill will, does it truly matter so much what he thinks?”

“No. But I wish him to like me all the same.”

“He’s practically a stranger, Emmy.”

“Not entirely.”

“No?” Sophie’s brows lifted in surprise.

“We first met the day I was allowed to accompany you to Cremorne Gardens to see the high-wire act.”

“I know that much.” Sophie had gone with Mr. Sharpe and a small party of friends, Mr. Murray among them. Emily had not initially been invited but, at the last moment, she’d insisted on coming. Sophie hadn’t minded. The outing had seemed a harmless enough treat to share with her sister.

“We met again the next week at Mrs. Ashburnham’s dinner party.”

“I’d forgotten that,” Sophie said. “You were seated beside him, weren’t you?”

Emily nodded. “He teased me and made me laugh. He was so absurd.”

“He’s a good-humored gentleman.”

“I thought so.” Emily’s eyes dropped to her handkerchief. “A week later, I encountered him at Hatchard’s. He retrieved a book for me off a shelf that was too high.”

Sophie refrained from commenting. She knew only too well how such inconsequential actions could come to loom large in the imagination of a romantic-minded young lady. Hadn’t she just spent a good half hour reliving her walk with Ned? Analyzing his every action and dissecting his every word?

“I thought I would see him again when you went to Fleet Street,” Emily confessed.

“Ah. So that’s why you wished to come.”

“Yes, but…when I saw how dark and dirty the street was—and how ugly his offices—I knew I’d made a mistake. He’s a tradesman. A stonemason’s son, Papa says.” Tears sprang once more into Emily’s eyes. “And now he despises me.”

“Perhaps you might apologize to him?” Sophie suggested.

“Why?” Emily snuffled into her handkerchief. “Everything I said was true. I can’t be sorry for it. I’m only sorry that he heard me. I didn’t intend to hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, Emmy.” Sophie sighed. “You have a great deal of growing up to do.”

Her sister made no reply. She was staring out the window. Sophie followed her gaze. There were two gentleman riding down the snowy path, one on a chestnut hunter and the other on a strapping gray. It was Papa and—

Good gracious!

“Is that Mr. Sharpe?” Emily asked.

“I fear it is.”

“Where’s Papa taking him?”

There was a sinking feeling in Sophie’s stomach. “To see the gas works, I suspect.”