A Holiday by Gaslight

by Mimi Matthews

  “What?”

  “Bad advice. From a book.”

  She drew back to look at him. “What sort of book?”

  It was dark, the only light coming from the small lamp on the sleigh, but Sophie could have sworn that a flush crept into Ned’s cheeks. “An etiquette book. For gentlemen.

  Her brows lifted.

  “I bought it at Hatchard’s the day your father gave me permission to court you. Suffice to say, the advice within its pages wasn’t as practical as the sort offered by your Mr. Darwin.”

  “Mr. Darwin doesn’t write etiquette books.”

  “No, indeed. And yet, I suspect you’ve been using his teachings as a guide. Trying to adapt yourself to rapidly changing circumstances. To acclimate yourself to marrying a tradesman.”

  It was her turn to blush. “Perhaps in the beginning.”

  “And now?”

  “I still think it rather sensible. The world is changing. We can’t keep doing the same thing anymore, can we?”

  “No. But it’s not going to be easy for you, Sophie. There’s much you’ll have to give up. The society matrons in London—”

  “I don’t give a fig about them. If they want to shun me, they may do so with my good wishes. I’ve never sought the approval of the beau monde.” She slid her hand around the back of his neck. “At the moment, I’m more concerned with the approval of your mother.”

  “You already have it.” Ned paused before adding, “Though she’s a bit out of temper with you for rejecting me this evening.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Never mind my mother. Look up, Sophie.”

  The night sky was lit with stars. They twinkled like diamonds nestled on a bed of black velvet. She inhaled a soft breath at the perfect beauty of it.

  “Didn’t I tell you I’d kiss you under the stars?” Ned murmured into her ear.

  “That’s not just any star, Ned.” She urged his gaze heavenward. “That’s the Christmas star.”

  They fell quiet for a time, both of them looking up at the star that shone so much more brightly than the others. “Well,” Ned said finally, “if that isn’t fortuitous for this partnership, I don’t know what is.”

  “A partner,” Sophie repeated. “Is that how you think of me?”

  He made a soft sound of assent as he enfolded her back into his embrace. “Not very romantic, is it? But I don’t want you to feel powerless with me. I value your intelligence and your strength. I’d rather you stood at my side than in my shadow.”

  She tightened her arms around his neck, blinking rapidly against another swell of tears. “I think that may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  His lips brushed over her damp cheek. He held her fast for a long while, the bells on the horses’ bridles the only sound in the star-studded darkness.

  “Come,” he said at last, his hands moving over the curve of her spine. “Let’s go back to the house before you and the horses turn into icicles. There’s a blazing fire in the drawing room. And your mother said something about iced gingerbread cake.”

  She hugged him tighter. “Yes, by all means. We still have Christmas to celebrate.”

  “We do.” He pressed one last soft kiss to her temple. “This Christmas and all the Christmases to come.”

  Christmas Day

  December, 1861

  Though Emily’s betrothal was effectively still a secret, Sophie had no compunction about sharing the news of her own engagement with the entire world. Her betrothal to Ned was announced to their respective families on Christmas Eve and to the rest of the guests on Christmas Day. There were a few whispers from the gentry, but among the villagers, the news was met with near unanimous approbation.

  “A love match,” Mrs. Lanyon said, beaming. “Just as the Queen had with her dear Prince Albert.”

  Mrs. Sharpe smiled. “I’ve never yet heard my son compared to a prince, but I cannot deny that he and Miss Appersett are well suited.”

  “I should say so,” Mrs. Fortescue agreed. “They’ve been billing and cooing all morning.”

  Sophie tried not to blush. She’d already done enough of that for a lifetime. It seemed that everyone delighted in embarrassing the two of them.

  “You’ve only to say the word and I’ll announce your sister and Murray’s betrothal,” Ned said to her in a low voice. “It would shift the focus off of us, at least.”

  “That wouldn’t be very sporting.”

  “Perhaps not. But all’s fair in love and war, as the poets say.”

  Sophie gave him a look. “The poets haven’t met my sister.”

  As if on cue, Emily approached with a few of her friends. “Show Miss Tunstall your betrothal ring, Sophie.”

  Sophie obliged her, extending her hand as Miss Tunstall and the other young ladies admired the diamond Ned had given her that morning. It flashed in the gaslight, almost as dazzling as the Christmas star had been the previous evening.

  “Oh, look at it!” the ladies exclaimed. “How utterly divine!”

  Ned stood beside her, one hand resting at the small of her back. When the well-wishers finally dispersed, he accompanied her to the drawing room sofa. Mama was seated nearby presiding over the tea tray.

  Her lips quirked as she watched them sit beside each other. She poured them each a cup of tea. “It will only get worse. People love nothing better than teasing a newly engaged couple.”

  “I don’t mind it,” Sophie lied.

  Ned was tactfully silent.

  She slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed over hers, returning her clasp with a masculine strength tempered by heartbreaking gentleness. “Have you had a happy Christmas, Mama?”

  “I have two daughters engaged to two very worthy—and very wealthy—gentlemen. What mother could ask for more?” She smiled fondly at Sophie. “Didn’t I tell you it would all come right in the end?”

  “You did.” Sophie’s eyes found Ned’s. “And it’s ended very happily, hasn’t it?”

  Ned brought her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “I couldn’t be happier. But this isn’t the end, my love. Far from it.”

  Her heart fluttered. “You’re right. It’s only the beginning.”

  “A toast,” Papa bellowed from his place by the drawing room fireplace. “To the happy couple.”

  The guests lifted their glasses. “To the happy couple!”

  “And to their future!” Mr. Sharpe said.

  Sophie smiled at Ned as she raised her teacup. “To the future,” she echoed. “May it be bright and full of wonder.”

  “It will be,” Ned promised. “For all of us.”

  And it was.

  A Holiday by Gaslight was inspired by the social, scientific, and technological advances of the mid-19th century. Like us, the Victorians were faced with a rapidly changing world. Many wanted to cling to the status quo, but some—like Sophie’s father—embraced the change to the point of folly. Having his country house fitted for gas is just one example. In the mid-Victorian era, the cost of such an endeavor would have been equal to about $100,000.00 in the present day. So, no small sum.

  Another prominent theme in A Holiday by Gaslight is adaptation to changing circumstances. Charles Darwin’s then controversial book On the Origin of Species was published in November of 1859. Sophie uses Darwin’s theories as a starting point for embracing a future that is largely out of her control. This culminates in her engagement to Ned, a gentleman who is not of her class.

  Speaking of class, those of you who are Elizabeth Gaskell fans may have noticed the subtle allusions to Gaskell’s 1855 novel North and South. Like John Thornton, Ned Sharpe is a stern tradesman with a strong—and rather severe—mother. He also makes the mistake of referring to Sophie as “a beautiful creature.” There are other North and South breadcrumbs in the text if
you care to look for them.

  Finally, like all my books, A Holiday by Gaslight is sprinkled with actual historical events and Victoriana. For example, in June of 1861, Prince Albert really did preside over the opening of the New Horticultural Gardens at South Kensington. And then, in December of that same year, he tragically passed away.

  If you’d like to learn more about the Victorian fashions, holiday traditions, or any of the people, places, and events which feature in my novels, please visit the blog portion of my author website at MimiMatthews.com.

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  North Devon, England

  September, 1859

  Helena Reynolds crossed the floor of the crowded taproom, her carpetbag clutched in her trembling hands. The King’s Arms was only a small coaching inn on the North Devon coast road, but it seemed to her as if every man in Christendom had gathered there to have a pint. She could feel their eyes on her as she navigated carefully through their midst. Some stares were merely curious. Others were openly assessing.

  She suppressed a shiver. She was hardly dressed for seduction in her gray striped-silk traveling gown, though she’d certainly made an effort to look presentable. After all, it was not every day that one met one’s future husband.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” the innkeeper called to her from behind the crowded bar.

  “Yes. If you please, sir.” Tightening her hands on her carpetbag, she approached the high counter. A very tall man was leaning against the end of it, nursing his drink. His lean, muscular frame was shrouded in a dark wool greatcoat, his face partially hidden by his upturned collar and a tall beaver hat tipped low over his brow. She squeezed into the empty space beside him, her heavy petticoats and crinoline rustling loudly as they pressed against his leg.

  She lowered her voice to address the innkeeper directly. “I’m here to see—”

  “Blevins!” a man across the room shouted. “Give us another round!”

  Before Helena could object, the innkeeper darted off to oblige his customers. She stared after him in helpless frustration. She’d been expected at one o’clock precisely. And now, after the mix-up at the train station and the delay with the accommodation coach—she cast an anxious glance at the small watch she wore pinned to the front of her bodice—it was already a quarter past two.

  “Sir!” she called to the innkeeper. She stood up on the toes of her half boots, trying to catch his eye. “Sir!”

  He did not acknowledge her. He was exchanging words with the coachman at the other end of the counter as he filled five tankards with ale. The two of them were laughing together with the ease of old friends.

  Helena gave a soft huff of annoyance. She was accustomed to being ignored, but this was the outside of enough. Her whole life hinged on the next few moments.

  She looked around for someone who might assist her. Her eyes fell at once on the gentleman at her side. He didn’t appear to be a particularly friendly sort of fellow, but his height was truly commanding and surely he must have a voice to match his size.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” She touched him lightly on the arm with one gloved hand. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but would you mind very much to summon—”

  He raised his head from drinking and, very slowly, turned to look at her.

  The words died on Helena’s lips.

  He was burned. Badly burned.

  “Do you require something of me, ma’am?” he asked in an excruciatingly civil undertone.

  She stared up at him, her first impression of his appearance revising itself by the second. The burns, though severe, were limited to the bottom right side of his face, tracing a path from his cheek down to the edge of his collar and beyond it, she was sure. The rest of his face—a stern face with a strongly chiseled jaw and hawklike aquiline nose—was relatively unmarked. Not only unmarked, but with his black hair and smoke-gray eyes, actually quite devastatingly handsome.

  “Do you require something of me?” he asked again, more sharply this time.

  She blinked. “Yes. Do forgive me. Would you mind very much summoning the innkeeper? I cannot seem to—”

  “Blevins!” the gentleman bellowed.

  The innkeeper broke off his loud conversation and scurried back to their end of the counter. “What’s that, guv?”

  “The lady wishes to speak with you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Helena said. But the gentleman had already turned his attention back to his drink, dismissing her without a word.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the innkeeper prompted.

  Abandoning all thoughts of the handsome—and rather rude—stranger at her side, Helena once again addressed herself to the innkeeper. “I was supposed to meet someone here at one o’clock. A Mr. Boothroyd?” She felt the gentleman next to her stiffen, but she did not regard it. “Is he still here?”

  “Another one for Boothroyd, are you?” The innkeeper looked her up and down. “Don’t look much like the others.”

  Helena’s face fell. “Oh?” she asked faintly. “Have there been others?”

  “Aye. Boothroyd’s with the last one now.”

  “The last one?” She couldn’t believe it. Mr. Boothroyd had given her the impression that she was the only woman with whom Mr. Thornhill was corresponding. And even if she wasn’t, what sort of man interviewed potential wives for his employer in the same manner one might interview applicants for a position as a maidservant or a cook? It struck her as being in extraordinarily bad taste.

  Was Mr. Thornhill aware of what his steward was doing?

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. It was far too late for doubts. “As that may be, sir, I’ve come a very long way and I’m certain Mr. Boothroyd will wish to see me.”

  In fact, she was not at all certain. She had only ever met Mr. Finchley, the sympathetic young attorney in London. It was he who had encouraged her to come to Devon. While the sole interaction she’d had with Mr. Boothroyd and Mr. Thornhill thus far were letters—letters which she currently had safely folded within the contents of her carpetbag.

  “Reckon he might at that,” the innkeeper mused.

  “Precisely. Now, if you’ll inform Mr. Boothroyd I’ve arrived, I would be very much obliged to you.”

  The man beside her finished his ale in one swallow and then slammed the tankard down on the counter. “I’ll take her to Boothroyd.”

  Helena watched, wide-eyed, as he stood to his full, towering height. When he glared down at her, she offered him a tentative smile. “I must thank you again, sir. You’ve been very kind.”

  He glowered. “This way.” And then, without a backward glance, he strode toward the hall.

  Clutching her carpetbag tightly, she trotted after him. Her heart was skittering, her pulse pounding in her ears. She prayed she wouldn’t faint before she’d even submitted to her interview.

  The gentleman rapped once on the door to the private parlor. It was opened by a little gray-haired man in spectacles. He peered up at the gentleman, frowned, and then, with furrowed brow, looked past him to stare at Helena herself.

  “Mr. Boothroyd?” she queried.

  “I am Boothroyd,” he said. “And you, I presume, are Miss Reynolds?”

  “Yes, sir. I know I’m dreadfully late for my appointment…” She saw a woman rising from a chair within the private parlor. A woman who regarded Helena with an upraised chin, her face conveying what words could not. “Oh,” Helena whispered. And just like that it seemed the tiny, flickering flame of hope she’d nurtured these last months blinked out. “You’ve already found someone else.”

  “As to that, Miss Reynolds—” Mr. Boothroyd broke off with an expression of dismay as the tall gentle
man brushed past him to enter the private parlor. He removed his hat and coat and proceeded to take a seat by the raging fire in the hearth.

  The woman gaped at him in dismay. “Mr. Boothroyd!” she hissed, hurrying to the older gentleman’s side. “I thought this was a private parlor.”

  “So it is, Mrs. Standish.” Mr. Boothroyd consulted his pocket watch. “Or was, until half an hour ago. Never mind it. Our interview is finished in any case. Now, if you would be so good as to…”

  Helena didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. All she could hear was the sound of her own beating heart. She didn’t know why she remained. She’d have to board the coach and continue to Cornwall. And then what? Fling herself from the cliffs, she supposed. There was no other way. Oh, what a fool she’d been to think this would work in the first place! If only Jenny had never seen that advertisement in the paper. Then she would have known months ago that there was but one means of escape from this wretched tangle. She would never have had reason to hope!

  Her vision clouded with tears. She turned from the private parlor, mumbling an apology to Mr. Boothroyd as she went.

  “Miss Reynolds?” Mr. Boothroyd called. “Have you changed your mind?”

  She looked back, confused, only to see that the other lady was gone and that Mr. Boothroyd stood alone in the entryway. From his seat by the fire, the tall gentleman ruffled a newspaper, seeming to be wholly unconcerned with either of them. “No, sir,” she said.

  “If you will have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs that surrounded a small supper table. On the table was a stack of papers and various writing implements. She watched him rifle through them as she took a seat. “I trust you had a tolerable journey.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “You took the train from London?”

  “I did, sir, but only as far as Barnstaple. Mr. Finchley arranged for passage on an accommodation coach to bring me the rest of the way here. It’s one of the reasons I’m late. There was an overturned curricle in the road. The coachman stopped to assist the driver.”