Page 7 of His Bluestocking Bride

“Sarah is a gem and hopes to be a proper lady’s maid one day.” Marianne turned her attention back to her guest, still smiling brightly. “Please take your time settling in. We won’t expect you down until dinner.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Show her to her room, Sarah.” The maid bobbed once and led the way to the stairs. Ellen followed, her step light.

A spacious and well-appointed guest room waited for her, a fire already lit against the cool night air. Her trunk arrived when she did, carried by a footman. Sarah bustled about, putting things to rights and finding evening clothes. Ellen took a seat at the dressing table and began to unpin her hair.

“Have you worked here long, Sarah?” she asked. She felt it important to acknowledge servants as people too, with hopes and dreams. Ignoring the person waiting hand and foot on her had never been possible.

“Two years.” The girl’s cheeks, rosy more with pleasure than exertion, were full and round when she smiled. “This is my first time serving a guest, miss. I hope you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do for you. A special way to do your hair or your favorite sorts of hot house flowers for your table.”

Ellen began to brush her hair, releasing the tension caused by travel. Her hair might be black, but it wasn’t drab. It fell in soft waves around her shoulders, shining like silk. If only society allowed women of her age to wear their hair down more often.

“Would you lay out my blue gown, please?”

“Yes, miss. Lady Falkham said I ought to suggest you wear your best gown tonight, if you thought of saving it for another occasion.” The maid approached her from behind, biting her lip, just visible in the mirror over the dressing table.

Ellen’s eyebrows raised. “Did she say why?”

Sarah shook her head, eyebrows furrowed. “No, miss. But I imagine it’s something to do with our other guest.”

Turning fully to look up at the maid, Ellen hoped her expression did not entirely give away her curiosity. “Oh? Who else is visiting? Another member of the family?”

“No, miss.” The girl’s smile returned, along with the pink in her cheeks. “It’s a handsome gentleman, one of His Lordship’s old school chums. Mr. Calvert is his name. Might you know him?”

Know him? Ellen could feel the blush rising in her cheeks the moment his name passed Sarah’s lips.

“Yes. He often visited during the summer as I did. When we were children.” She turned back to her toilette, her eyes not knowing where to settle. “But please, lay out the blue dress anyway. It will do well enough for Mr. Calvert.” Though she felt tempted to request the pale pink evening gown she knew set off her complexion, she would not allow herself to change plans for him when he likely gave no thought at all to her. No more than any man would give to a spinster.

Finally feeling more composed, Ellen affixed a smile to her face and looked back up at Sarah. “How are your skills with hair? I would like something simple this evening, I think. But appropriate.”

Sarah instantly began to describe all her favorite ways to style hair and seemed more than well practiced, having grown up with several sisters both older and younger, all in service as maids throughout the county. Ellen let her talk, offering comment when necessary, trying not to think overly long on the other guest lurking somewhere about the estate.

But the effort was wasted. Marcus Calvert was in the house with her, the same as he had been during her childhood. She had never slipped through a London ballroom to dance with him, never seen him across a drawing room at a morning visit, nor would she ever do such a thing. Though they shared many childhood memories, she had never known the man he had become beyond what rumor brought her.

Doubtless he came to see Collin before the start of the season, to discuss the society and politics they shared, before going to town. She would do well to remember this and stay close to Marianne, enjoying the company of a woman who was not one of her expectant sisters.

Ellen squared her shoulders as her blue gown was settled about her by Sarah, who turned out to be a genius with hair, and told herself to enjoy her time away from home. It would not be long until her services were required there and her days of freedom were at an end.

¤

At first torn between exasperation and surprise, Marcus had not been certain whether to thank his meddling friends or flee the premises. His trust in Collin and Marianne at last convinced him to stay.

Entering the parlor ahead of dinner, Marcus realized he did not arrive first. Pacing before the fire, expression one of distraction, and figure finer than he remembered, was Ellen Bringhurst. She wore a gown the color of sapphires, a darker color than most debutantes favored during the season. Her hair glowed in the firelight, turning parts of the deep black to a midnight blue. He stood in the doorway for several long moments, taking her in.

The last time he had seen her, at her cousin’s wedding, she’d not made this much of an impression on him. Of course, he had been distracted by his heartache at the time, not wishing to notice any woman beyond paying the idle compliment. He ought to have taken more time to renew their relationship instead of wallowing in misery.

Ellen paused in her march before the hearth and turned her head, noticing him at last. She stood frozen for a heartbeat, but her expression warmed and a smile curved her lips. She dipped a curtsy, remembering formalities before he could take two steps forward. “Mr. Calvert. Good evening.”

Marcus quickly returned her smile and bowed. “Miss Ellen. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m afraid it’s Miss Bringhurst now. All my elder and younger sisters are married, leaving the surname to me to bear.”

He came further into the room and slipped into the role of charming gentleman with ease. “That is a shame. Your Christian name is lovely. Might we dispense with formalities, given that we have nearly always known one another? You may call me Marcus.”

Her head tilted to one side and her expression relaxed. Her dark eyes, a shade of brown as rich as chocolate, took him in with open frankness. “I suppose we can allow for that, at least in Collin’s home. You have held me hostage in towers too often to be formal.”

He laughed outright, memories flooding his mind of a disgusted girl sitting with arms folded, demanding to know when she might be rescued so she could go about her own business. “You put up with a great deal from us during our school years.”