Page 14 of His Bluestocking Bride

Marianne’s topic of conversation the next morning left no doubt of that.

“What if he fell in love with you after you married?” Marianne sat with an embroidery hoop, working on handkerchiefs to give out at Christmas. “It has happened, where affection grows with time and constancy. A man who flirts as outrageously as he does is bound to have a little romance tucked away somewhere.”

“I suppose there is a chance of that.” Ellen gave her friend a weak smile and moved away from the window to perch on the edge of the plush pink sofa. “I like how you’ve set up this room.”

Marianne sighed in exasperation. “Do not change the topic under discussion.”

The room was like Marianne. All lightness in color and feel, in hues of pink and green, the delicate furnishings scattered about in a whimsical manner, and the wall adornments were pastoral scenes of peaceful milkmaids and rolling fields. It suited the woman of the house.

If such a room belonged to Ellen, how would she decorate the walls to put her mark of ownership upon it? She’d never bothered to think on it since her third season on the marriage mart, when she began to understand no house might ever be given to her.

“I am not really trying to change the topic.” She picked up her project, a pair of mittens for her oldest nephew, and went back to knitting a thumb. “Since you brought up the possibility of marrying, I have been trying to think what it would mean for me.”

“Oh?” Marianne’s hand stopped moving, her eyebrows shot up. “Besides a life no longer dedicated to the whims of your family?”

Ellen could not help but make a tsking sound. “That is harsh, Marianne. My family hasn’t been making demands of me.”

“Not yet. I have seen what family members do to the unwed sister. I have an Aunt Polly. That is all anyone ever calls her. Not even her proper name anymore. But she is shuffled about from one of my cousins to another, back to her brother’s house, and then does the whole round again. Wherever there is sickness, Aunt Polly is called, with no regard for the fact that she is sixty years old and should have respite. If there is a death, birth, or sudden attack of nerves, Aunt Polly. She has no proper home. She is forever a guest, but one expected to earn her keep.”

Marianne looked down at her embroidery and thrust the needle through the fabric with more force than necessary. “I mean to have her come here. She need never leave again. I will give her pin money and a personal servant.”

Ellen could think of nothing to say. Finally she murmured, “Your aunt will be glad, I’m certain.”

“Indeed. But we were talking of you and how being a wife would change your future.” Marianne sniffed daintily. “I want to see you happy, Ellen. It will distress me greatly if you remain a spinster when you could be happily married.”

Ellen nodded, her eyes falling to the work in her hands. Although she had no great talent for knitting, the mittens she made were always passable. Her hands knew the work well enough for her to speak as they moved.

“I am glad to have you as a champion.” She glanced up, trying to keep her tone light as she spoke. “Being a mistress of my own home would be a vast improvement to my situation.” She looked around the room again, taking comfort in its peaceful colors and decor. “If I married, I could have a room like this to myself. I could redo the cushions any number of times. Rearrange paintings. Order new drapes. I could make it to suit myself.”

“What of Marcus? You’re talking about furnishings when I would much rather hear how you would manage a husband.” Marianne’s eyes danced and her crooked smile turned devious.

Ellen shook her head and huffed with playful impatience. “Marcus likely will not mind how I furnish rooms so long as I stay within a budget. I understand that is the way of things with husbands.”

Marianne dropped her embroidery hoop in her lap with undisguised frustration. “Ellen, you have always had tender feelings for him. Dream a little. What would it be like, how would it feel, to be his bride?”

Although the warmth of a blush crept up her neck, Ellen swiftly swatted down any romantic notions forming in her mind. “As Marcus has no idea of what my feelings for him are, and it would be nothing more than a means to an end for him, I imagine I would do my best not to let my feelings run away with me. If we could begin as friends we would do well together. Many marriages of such a nature have been made with both people content in their choice.”

Delicate, lovely, proper Marianne gaped at Ellen with an open mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. “That is the most unromantic thing I have ever heard.”

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Ellen kept at her work. “It’s practical.”

“Nonsense.”

“Perfectly sensible.”

Before Marianne could counter again, they both became aware of a sound from the front of the house. The door knocker.

“Who could that be?” Marianne muttered, putting her embroidery aside.

Ellen could not resist teasing. “Are you certain it is not another bachelor you’ve invited in an attempt to find me a husband?” She put her knitting back in her basket and pushed it beneath the sofa.

“I only invited the one,” Marianne answered saucily. “And I’m not at home to visitors today.”

The butler appeared at the doorway. “My lady, your cousins Miss Wright and Miss Verity Wright.”

Ellen suppressed a groan and could tell from the look Marianne sent her way that her friend did the same. It had not been charitable of them, but in the past they referred to the cousins as Miss Right and Miss Very Right. The two ladies, though younger than Marianne, had always been in possession of a superior manner in their mind, if not in truth.

"Send them in, Russell.”