Page 6 of A Holiday By Gaslight

Sophie couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said. She was new to reading Mr. Darwin’s works and his latest, On the Origin of Species, was still very much a mystery to her. “I believe one must accept the modern world,” she said carefully. “Even if it makes one uncomfortable to do so. We none of us can avoid progress. We must change ourselves constantly in order to grow with the times. Either that or risk being left behind. But there are limits, Mama.”

“And you’ve reached yours with Mr. Sharpe?”

“I have. And let that be an end to it.” She was done with reviewing the pathetic business of her failed romance. She’d made a decision—a sensible one, at that—and she had a mind to stick to it, no matter the consequences.

And there would be consequences. There always were when she butted heads with her father. But she absolutely refused to let the prospect dampen her holiday spirits. The weeks leading up to Christmas were her favorite of the year.

She inhaled a breath of crisp morning air “If only Papa wasn’t so angry with me.”

Mama made a soft chuffing sound. “He’s not angry. He’s worried.”

“About money?”

Her mother gave a reluctant nod. She didn’t like discussing their finances, but she and Sophie had an understanding of sorts when it came to matters of money. An unspoken acknowledgment that they would share the burden of Papa and Emily’s excess.

“We’ve spent a great deal too much on our stay in London,” she said. “He’d hoped you and Emily would make a success of it. If you had, it would’ve all been worth it. As it is, we shall have to give up our lease and return to Derbyshire. Which is too bad, really. There are no suitable gentlemen there for Emily. Only this morning Lady Colson recommended we give her another season. If you were married—and married well—we could bring her out as we should. No more skimping on little luxuries.”

Sophie steeled herself against her mother’s words. She refused to be made to feel guilty.

Mama gave Sophie’s arm another squeeze. “You’re not to think we value Emily’s happiness more than yours, my dear. But you must allow that your sister is not as sensible as we are. She’s more like your father.”

“She’s selfish.”

“And you, my pet, are too severe.”

“Am I? It seems I’ve spent my life making sacrifices for Emily’s comfort—and for Papa’s—because I’m sensible and know my duty to the family. Is it so unforgiveable that I should wish to marry someone I might like just a little, and who might like me in return for reasons other than my pedigree? I don’t require love. I’m not so silly as that. But you ask me to leave our family, to marry a stranger and live out the rest of my days in his house, as his possession. That isn’t the same as dying my old gowns and thrice-darning my stockings so that Emily might wear the latest fashions.”

Her mother frowned. “No, indeed. We’ve asked a great deal of you, haven’t we? It hasn’t always been fair.”

“I’ve never complained.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Your sister and your father have a taste for fine things. They aren’t always wise. While you and I… Well, we love our family, don’t we? We aspire to do what’s best for them. And if such can be achieved by a small sacrifice here and there—”

“A small sacrifice? Really, Mama.”

“Wearing last season’s dresses or eating beef only once a week, I meant. Not marriage.”

Sophie cast a glance at her mother. Three years before, when Papa had first begun the repairs and modernizations to Appersett House, she’d appeared to support his decision. And later, when the household budget had been reduced to practically nothing, she’d contrived various ways to make do.

The economizing had grated, especially on Emily.

“What use is a gaslit ballroom if we cannot entertain?” she regularly complained.

But much as it bothered Emily—and even Papa, on occasion—Sophie had never thought it bothered her mother a great deal. Indeed, Mama had seemed to consider their reduced circumstances a challenge to her cleverness.

Had she merely been putting on a cheerful face?

A knot formed in Sophie’s stomach as she registered the fine lines of worry between her mother’s brows and the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Their circumstances must be precarious indeed if Mama was losing sleep over them.

“No,” Mama said. “Marriage—especially to a gentleman of Mr. Sharpe’s ilk—is no small sacrifice. Your father and I were wrong to ask it of you. The poor fellow would have never fit in with our sort of people. He’s a bit coarse, isn’t he?”

“I never thought him so.”

“And rather too stern about the mouth.”

“He’s a serious man, certainly, but—”

“These quiet, brooding types sometimes conceal a fearsome temper. Who knows how ill he may have treated you if given half a chance?”