Page 2 of His Bluestocking Bride

Ellen swiftly closed the door on that thought.

The butler entered with a silver tray. “The afternoon post, madam.”

“Lovely.” Mama held her hand out to accept a letter. “Oh—it is in Dorothea’s hand.”

Teresa gasped and laid her things aside, attentive eyes on their mother. Ellen sat back on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap.

Mama read hastily, but silently.

Before they could ask what news the letter held, she stood and began waving the sheet of paper like a sailor’s signal flag. “I’ve delightful news. Your sister has sent for me at last.” Her excitement made her cheeks bright and she rushed from the room at a pace that was as near to a run as Ellen had ever seen her come.

Teresa grinned at Ellen, her joy for their youngest sister readily apparent.

“She must’ve gone to Father,” Ellen said.

“Go with her, Ellen. There may be more to the letter.” Teresa made a shooing motion with her hands. “And heaven knows I cannot run down the hall after her.”

Ellen recovered from her surprise and followed their mother. Down the steps to the ground floor, she made it to the hall in time to see Mama burst into the study. Ellen tried to follow at a more sedate pace.

“Stephen,” Mama said excitedly, her voice filling the room. “Dorothea has sent word. She has need of me. I must leave first thing in the morning.” She handed Papa the letter, which he read with more deliberateness than his wife had. “We may only lack a few weeks until our new grandchild comes.”

Reginald, the youngest of the family and the lone son, was sitting in a chair across from his father at the desk, watching with amusement. “Congratulations must be sent. What can I do to help you, Mama?” he asked solicitously.

Their father answered. “Send word to the stables. Your mother will want to leave early. Tell cook to prepare a hamper.”

Reginald stood and bowed to his parents before leaving the room.

“Isn’t this wonderful? My youngest daughter, a mother.” Mama clapped her hands, beaming at Papa. “What a glorious thing.”

“So it is, darling.” Papa stood and came around his desk to embrace her. As they parted, sharing a familiar tender look, Ellen felt her heart constrict. She took a step back, recognizing their moment as one private between husband and wife.

Ellen quietly left the room but stopped at the staircase and sank down on the bottom step. The silence of the empty hall gave her room to collect herself.

Ellen had given up on a marriage and family of her own after five seasons. When she had her come out at last, she was already older than most debutantes. Her mother had wanted to wait until Margaret married, but at last gave in and allowed Ellen out in society as well. Then, partway into Ellen’s season, the family was in raptures over Teresa’s first babe and left Bath in a hurry to meet the newborn.

As the seasons came and went, her elder sisters married, had babies, and her younger sister was brought out. And Ellen remained the sole Miss Bringhurst.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the thought. It made her feel gray more often than not, and she knew she ought to put those feelings aside and be content. She did not need to be morose just because she was a spinster.

That dreaded word had never crossed her lips. But at twenty-six years old, without prospects, Ellen accepted the designation society would bestow on her for the rest of her life.

Plenty of families had a spinster or two lying about. Ellen knew this. Spinsters were useful sorts, called upon to help their family members as the need arose. She could assist in nursing the ill members of a household, serve as chaperone to her nieces one day in the future, or provide companionship for a sister, whatever they required, for the rest of her days.

Her mother emerged from the library and Ellen rose. “Can I do anything to help, Mama?”

“Not at present,” her mother said cheerfully. “Teresa will be taking her leave soon. I must let her read the letter.”

Ellen nodded, but did not follow her mother back up the stairs. Instead she retired to the library adjoining her father’s study. This room was dearer to her than any other in the house, as it always felt warm and inviting. She liked the dark oak paneling and rich red curtains, finding they made her feel safe and warm, and she needed that comfort.

She returned to the volume of Sir Richard Harris’s study of Roman Civic Improvements and settled in her favorite chair. The fire in the hearth kept away the chill November air.

Ellen had made her way through a single page of the volume when the door to her father’s study opened. Her brother Reginald came striding out.

Reginald paused upon seeing her. “Ellen, what book is your nose stuck in today?” He spoke in a playful manner. “That tome is far too dangerous. It looks large enough to swallow you.”

She raised her eyebrows and gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Perhaps it will, and then you shall have to search its pages to find me again.”

“Not I,” he insisted with a laugh, resuming his walk to the shelves. “Father sent me for a ledger. We are studying the effects of the weather on crop production.”