Page 8 of A Holiday By Gaslight

And then she rang the bell again.

Visiting a gentleman’s place of business—especially when that gentleman was not related by blood or marriage—was the height of impropriety. The less time she spent lingering on the front steps the better.

She tucked her hands into her muff and waited.

And waited.

At last, the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs could be heard. The front door rattled as someone disengaged the locks at top, bottom, and center. Sophie’s heart thumped high in her chest, making a creditable effort to leap into her throat. She swallowed hard as the door was flung open, revealing an irritated-looking man with a shock of carroty hair.

It was Mr. Murray, Mr. Sharpe’s business partner and friend. She’d met him several times before, though never under such dubious circumstances as this.

“Miss Appersett!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Good day to you, Mr. Murray. I’ve come to see, Mr. Sharpe. Is he here?”

“Er…yes. But I don’t think—”

“May I come in?”

“That may not be the wisest—” Mr. Murray broke off, appearing to collect himself. “Forgive me. Yes. Do come in, ma’am.” He opened the door wide and took a step back for her to enter, then shut and bolted it behind her. “Is Mr. Sharpe expecting you? He hasn’t mentioned—”

“I’m not expected.”

“And you’ve, er, come here alone?”

“I brought my sister—”

“Your sister!”

“And my maid, but they’ve both abandoned me, as you see.” Sophie strived to sound as if she had the matter well in hand. “I saw no reason to insist they stay. The street is deserted. My presence can hardly have been remarked.”

Mr. Murray’s mouth quirked briefly. “My dear Miss Appersett, I’ve no doubt curtains have been twitching up and down Fleet Street from the moment of your arrival.”

Sophie suppressed a grimace. This visit—she was beginning to realize—was not one of her better ideas. Quite the reverse, in fact.

Mr. Murray seemed sympathetic. “Come. I’d best take you to Sharpe.” He gestured for her to precede him up the stairs. The rickety steps creaked under her booted feet. She caught up her heavy skirts in her hands as she climbed, mindful not to crease the fabric.

She’d dressed carefully for this visit, choosing to wear one of her most elegant afternoon gowns. Only two seasons old, it was made of rich claret-colored silk trimmed in embossed velvet ribbon. It was ridiculously flattering to her complexion and figure.

And it was as ill-suited to the premises of Sharpe and Murray as a wire crinoline was to a lightning storm.

She supposed she should feel rather silly to have put so much effort into her appearance. Then again, a lady must always don her strongest armor when going into battle.

“Forgive the state of things,” Mr. Murray said. “Our clerk doesn’t come in on Wednesdays.”

An image of Mr. Cratchit, hunched over a tiny desk, entering figures in a ledger by the light of a guttering tallow candle, sprung fully formed into Sophie’s mind.

Drat Emily for ever mentioning Scrooge and Marley!

Mr. Murray led her through another door. It opened into a sort of sitting room, equipped with a round table, wooden chairs, and a small stuffed settee positioned in front of a coal fire. There was an open door to the left of it and a closed door to the right. Offices presumably. One of them belonging to Mr. Sharpe.

“If you’ll wait a moment,” Mr. Murray said, “I’ll tell him that you’re here.”

Sophie clasped her hands tightly together inside her muff. Doubts, heretofore kept at bay, now assailed her. They were as painfully overwhelming as a sudden shower of hailstones.

What on earth had possessed her to call on him in this manner? Was it temporary madness of some kind? Or merely desperation? Both, she suspected. Why else would she have embarked on a course of action so careless? So stupid? So unutterably pathetic?

Mr. Darwin said that a grain in the balance could determine the survival of an organic being. That adaptations in however slight a degree could, ultimately, shift the scales.