Page 1 of His Bluestocking Bride

Chapter One

Ellen flicked a black curl from her forehead, but the irksome spiral just bounced back. Her irritation mounted, and she wished her mother’s maid had not thought to give the matron and her daughter the same curls.

“Ellen, try this.” Teresa, the eldest sister in the Bringhurst family, pulled a hairpin from beneath her bonnet and held it across the tea things to Ellen. “And for heaven’s sake, please tell Mrs. Rowlings to try something else with your hair. It isn’t as thick as Mama’s for all those curls to be practical.”

What flattered her sixty-year-old mother did not do Ellen any favors.

Teresa resumed weaving tiny stitches into the little cap she held and turned back to the conversation with their mother. “What of Dorothea, Mama? Have you any news from her?”

“Not this past week.” Mrs. Bringhurst leaned forward, prompting her two present daughters to do the same. “Though she hinted she would send for me soon.”

Teresa tsked and shook her head. “The first confinement is dreadful. She will be glad of your company before the baby arrives.”

“I miss Margaret today,” Ellen said. “It is a shame she did not feel well.” Margaret, born after Teresa and before Ellen, had announced her own impending increase and remained home from the weekly meeting of mother and daughters.

As the only sister unmarried and uninitiated in the ways of motherhood, Ellen had little else to say on the matter, for all she loved her nieces and nephews.

Although I likely know more than any woman without children ought to know about child rearing. Ellen bit the insides of her cheek to keep from smiling.

“The house will soon be full of grandchildren,” Mama said, her eyes aglow.

Ellen nodded, thinking of her nieces and nephews playing in the gardens the previous summer. “And the miracle of children is that each one brings more love with them. We are a fortunate family.” Sometimes when she thought such things, Ellen’s stomach felt oddly hollow, as though she was missing something important.

“We shall keep you busy, traveling from one house to another to look after grandchildren. However will you manage, Mama?” Teresa asked, her manner teasing.

“Quite well, I should think. Ellen is here to look after the house and there is not much else to keep me occupied.”

“There will be no trips to Bath this year,” Ellen added, more cheer in her tone than necessary. If they had gone to Bath again, the distance from mother to expectant daughters would be the work of several days’ journey. It had been the right decision, to stay at home.

And I have no desire to go and pretend a woman of nearly twenty-six years can compete in the marriage mart. Ellen kept that thought private but wondered if any of her family considered the same thing.

“Though I admit I will miss the society of a few friends, it will be much better to be nearby when you girls need me,” her mother added.

“I do worry that Dorothea is farther away,” said Teresa, her brows knitting in concern.

“Pashaw. She is five hours from here when I take the carriage, with the roads in good condition. That is but a morning’s work of it.” Mama adjusted the sewing in her lap, the white lace of a Christening gown trailing down her skirt. “And I will be with her for at least a week prior to her time.”

“I think it’s lovely we all managed to settle nearby.” Teresa looked as unruffled as ever, her hair done up in an elegant twist beneath her bonnet and her gown the color of fresh peaches. Motherhood suited her. “We are ever as much in each other’s company as we were before.”

“Indeed. I have not had to give up any of you.” Their mama looked happily between the sisters and both offered smiles in return. Ellen’s felt strained, but she blamed her unease to fatigue from reading late the night before.

Ellen cut her thread and held up the handkerchief she’d been working on. “There. Finished.”

“Lovely, dear,” her mother said. “Your sister will like that gift very much.”

Ellen relaxed under the praise and the conversation continued while she put her things away in the sewing box.

Looking to the window, Ellen took in the beautiful landscape, which remained familiar and soothing, wrapped in its golden shawl of autumn leaves.

But a tiny thought intruded upon her contentment. Though she loved the sight of the rolling hills framed by the oak trees of her father’s property, sometimes she longed to view a different horizon, one that belonged just to her.

Ellen shook herself from those thoughts and set about tidying the tea tray.

The very first time she held her eldest nephew, Teresa’s firstborn, she declared to the family that nothing in life was as precious as that little bundle. The proceeding infants were passed into her arms as well, and each she declared to be perfect and of infinite worth.

But she had always thought that someday there would be an infant of her own to hold and keep in her arms.

While twenty-six was not too old to wed and be a mother, she had given up on that hope. No man had ever caught her interest in that way. At least, no man she might actually have a chance with. The one man she had dreamed of, had dared to place in her imaginary world of husband and home, had never spent a single season in Bath.