They’d had tutors, and carriages, and an entire closet devoted to Evie’s extensive shoe collection. Money was of no consequence and, while they remained humble at heart, the Thorncrofts were considered to be one of Somerville’s most affluent families.
Then came the War of the Great Rebellion.
Four years of devastation that tore the country apart from the inside out. Family fighting against family. Brother again brother. Citizen against citizen. Dr. Jacob Thorncroft had been reluctant to leave his daughters, but his services were needed on the front lines, and he’d never refused to help those in needs.
For nearly eight months, their only correspondence with him had been through letters. He hadn’t made it home for Joanna’s sixteenth birthday, or Evie’s leading role as Juliet in the fall play at Chesterbrook Academy for Young Ladies, or Christmas.
But he’d always sent his letters, and his love, and there was never a doubt in Joanna’s mind that one day he would return to them.
And then one day he had.
In a pine box.
With his name scrawled at the bottom in pencil.
Once the initial shock had passed and the grief had changed from a knife being dragged through the flesh into a dull throbbing, Joanna and her sisters were dealt another blow. Without their father’s income, they could not afford to sustain the lifestyle they’d grown accustomed to.
At first, under the guidance of their grandmother, they made do by selling off the paintings and the furniture. Then the carriages and the horses. Finally, on a day stained by tears and helpless regret, they said goodbye to their beloved childhood manor and used the money garnered by the sale to purchase a two-bedroom cottage a mile out of the village.
It had been a difficult transition, made even harder by all the other changes that soon followed. Evie had to leave Chesterbrook mid-year as the tuition was prohibitively expense, Claire was never given the opportunity to attend, and Joanna halted all plans to go on a grand tour of France with her dearest friend, Louisa, a trip they’d been planning since they were practically in pinafores.
Their forced sacrifices allowed them to survive and, in the six years that followed, they learned to make do with simple things. But none of the sisters, with perhaps the exception of Claire, who was nearly too young to remember, forgot what it was like to have everything. Which was why, when Joanna and Evie came of marriageable age, they set their sights on making a fortuitous match that would help lift them out of poverty.
Or, at least Evie did.
“I knew you’d refuse Charles. I just knew it.” As different from Joanna in appearance as she was in demeanor, Evie had lustrous black hair she brushed exactly one hundred times each morning, a flawless, ivory countenance with nary a blemish or freckle to be seen, and blue eyes that held a hint of violet. She was also shorter, only five feet two inches to Joanna’s five foot nine, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in temperament.
Born only eighteen months apart, the two sisters had begun quarreling in infancy and they’d never stopped. Or so that was how it often felt.
One issue that had been particularly contentious as of late was Joanna’s adamant refusal to take any of her many marriage proposals. Evie saw nothing wrong with marrying a man because of what he could provide, regardless if those provisions included love or not. And Joanna didn’t care what her future husband could provide so long as he loved her unconditionally.
Their differences in opinion, Joanna had long ago concluded, came from the very different ways they had healed after their father’s death. Whereas the unexpected passing of the sibling’s only remaining parent had made Joanna all the more determined to follow her heart, it had left Evie with a lingering sense of bitterness and longing. The middle Thorncroft sister wanted what she’d had to give up, and she was willing to do whatever it took to get it all back.
The beautiful house in the middle of town. A gleaming carriage that turned heads as it passed down the street. Hats and gowns and rooms filled with shoes. Material belongings that meant little to Joanna, and everything to Evie.
There was nothing wrong with either position, except that they were so very opposite there seemed to be no way a compromise could be reached. Added to that, their grandmother had tacitly refused to give her blessing for Evie to marry until Joanna found a husband first, and thus the sisters found themselves at each other’s throats more often than not.
“I did not want to refuse Charles.” Tossing her bonnet onto an empty table, Joanna reached to the nape of her neck and pulled out the pins holding her heavy coiffure in place. Giving a blissful sigh when her hair tumbled freely down her back, she surrendered herself to the nearest chair and kicked her feet up on a worn leather ottoman. Tiny dust plumes flew into the air, illuminated by rays of late morning sunlight trickling in through the curtainless windows.
“Then why did you?” Evie demanded.
“Because he didn’t give me any choice in the matter.” Joanna started to close her eyes, then opened them with a grimace when it became obvious by the tension simmering in the air that Evie had no intention of letting the matter drop. “I did not love him. He did not love me. What else is there to say? Of course, I declined his proposal. It would have been a disservice to both of us had I accepted.”
“What in the world does love have to do with anything?” Evie asked, unknowingly repeating what Charles had said nearly verbatim. “Charles Gaines is the wealthiest bachelor in all of Somerville. You would want for nothing as his wife. We would want for nothing. Surely you don’t have to be in love in order to see that.”
“You’re right, I don’t have to be love. But I do want to be in love.” When Joanna heard the patter of feet on the stairs, she sat up straight and greeted her youngest sister with a warm, affectionate smile. “There you are. I was wondering if you’d returned from the market yet.”
“Half an hour ago.” As fair as Evie was dark, Claire’s light blonde curls framed a delicate face with high arching brows, soft cheekbones, and a mouth shaped like a cupid’s bow. She had a sensitive nature, and a sweet heart, and was adored by all who knew her. “I was able to get more flour and eggs, but butter has gone up to nearly fifteen cents a pound.”
“Fifteen cents?” said Joanna incredulously. “That’s absurd! Mr. Hemphill acts as if his cows are churning out gold.”
The corners of Claire’s lips twitched. “For their sake, I’m glad they are not. That sounds as if it would be very uncomfortable. How was your stroll with Mr. Gaines?” Nudging Joanna’s feet aside, Claire sat on the edge of the ottoman. “Did he—”
“Ask her to marry him?” Evie interrupted with a glare at Joanna. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. I’ll give you three guesses as to what our dear sister said, but you’re only going to need one.”
Clair sighed. “Oh, Jo, not again. I was under the impression you liked Charles.”
“I did like him. Although his choice in pants was admittedly questionable.”
“How did he take the news?”
Leave it to Claire to worry about the man her sister had spurned.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Joanna gave a small shrug. “He’ll be fine, I’m sure. There’s a line of women from here to Boston waiting to marry him.”
“Yes, but you were at the head of the line.” Like a cat with its hackles raised, Evie began to pace back and forth across the room, her skirts swishing angrily between her ankles. “You know Mr. Bridgeton has asked to court me. Not only is his father a senator, but he’s considering a run for the governorship at the end of next year! I could be a governor’s daughter-in-law. Think of all the high society I’d be able to entertain! Why, we’d probably even get to go to Washington and meet President Grant. But if I cannot accept Mr. Bridgeton’s proposal because you keep refusing yours, then there’s no point to it, is there?”
“How do you know Mr. Bridgeton would propose?” Joanna asked.
“Jo,” Claire chided gently. “That’s not v
ery nice.”
“But it’s true. Who’s to say whether he and Evie would get on or not? After all, that’s the entire point of a courtship, isn’t it? To decide if the person bringing you flowers and reciting poetry under the full moon is someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.” Joanna brushed an auburn curl behind her ear. “For what it is worth, I’ve always found Mr. Bridgeton a tad dull.”
Evie stopped short. “Mr. Bridgeton is not dull. He is refined.”
“I believe if you look in Roget’s Thesaurus you’ll find that refined is another word for dull.”
“Oh, dear,” Claire murmured with a distressed glance between her sisters. “Can’t we just—”
“Why must you be such a brat?” Evie hissed.
Joanna’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like to fight with her sister. But she couldn’t very well let an insult pass without returning it in kind. What sort of precedent would that set? Evie was already unbearable under the best of circumstances. Allowing her to get away with her abominable behavior would only make it worse.
“If anyone is being a brat here,” she said, jabbing her finger at Evie, “it’s you. I’ve every right to accept—or refuse—any marriage proposal given to me.”
“Not when your refusal has dire implications for the entire family!”
“What would you have me do?” she exclaimed. “Marry someone I don’t love?”
Evie set her jaw. “Do you love the roof over our heads? Do you love the food on our table? Do you love the clothes on our backs? Because if you don’t marry soon, and marry well, not being able to afford a pound of butter is going to be the least of our concerns.”
Joanna flicked a glance at Claire’s face, which had drained of all color, and then scowled at Evie, who at least had the good sense to appear somewhat contrite.
The elder sisters took no prisoners when they attacked each other, but it was never their intention to upset the baby of the family. Never mind that Claire had turned eighteen just last week. To Joanna and Evie, she would always be a little girl clutching her doll as she struggled to keep up with them on their various escapades.
By silent agreement, Joanna, Evie, and their grandmother had vowed to hide the worst of their financial woes from Claire. It was a burden they didn’t want her to carry. Not when her life was already so different from what Joanna and Evie’s had been at her age.
When Joanna was eighteen, the war hadn’t even started. There were rumblings. Whispers. News of a rebellion growing in the south. But Somerville had remained untouched, even well after the first battle that burned Charleston to the ground, and their lives had remained largely unchanged.
It wasn’t until their father gave them each a piece of chocolate and bid them farewell with a kiss upon their heads that the full weight of the war began to sink in. The enormity of what could be gained if the Union won. And what might be lost if it didn’t.
Even then, even when Joanna watched the dust kick up from the hooves of her father’s horse as he rode away until her eyes stung, she never imagined that would be the last time she’d ever see him. Certainly Claire, all gangly limbs and earnest questions, hadn’t known what would happen. And when it did, when the absolute worst occurred, Joanna and Evie tried the best they could to shield their sister from the grief, and the loss, and the devastation only a parent’s death could bring.
They’d protected her ever since.
Joanna knew that Claire was not oblivious. Her little sister understood they weren’t as wealthy as they’d once been. Heavens, a blind person could see that. Still, Joanna had taken great pains to shield Claire from the extent of their sacrifice. But a stain could only be covered by a rug for so long, and they’d sold off the last of the floor coverings months ago to pay for food.
“Don’t listen to Evie,” Joanna advised, giving Claire a nudge with her foot. “She’s always prone to dramatics. We’ve still plenty left from selling the house. We’ll be fine. It will all be fine.” But even to her own ears, her words sounded hollow. A collection of empty promises she had no way of keeping unless she did the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to do: marry for money instead of love.
If only Evie had been born first! She certainly had no such compunctions in regards to marrying a man for his wealth and social stature. But for reasons that had always baffled Joanna, their grandmother was insistent that her granddaughters marry in the order they’d entered the world. Which meant Joanna either needed to seriously reconsider Charles’ offer, or find another way to save the family from financial ruin.
Given Charles’ proclivity for silk pants, she had her hopes pinned on the latter.
“We cannot continue on with our heads buried in the sand.” Evie put her hands on her hips. “You know as well as I, and maybe it’s time Claire knew as well, that we’ve not enough to see us comfortably through the winter. What little we had was spent on new slate shingles for the roof last fall and rebuilding the summer kitchen after you burned it to the ground.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Joanna snapped. Even though it had happened last year, the topic of the summer kitchen—and its subsequent burning—was still a tender subject.
Joanna had been cooking (always a dangerous feat) when she found herself distracted by a fawn in the meadow across the way. She’d taken care to move the pot she was using off the fire before she flitted out to watch the young deer but, apparently, she hadn’t moved it far enough, and when the pot boiled over, the resulting heat from the steam caused a pile of straw to catch fire. The summer kitchen had gone up in flames despite Joanna’s best efforts to save it, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a white puckered scar on the inside of her forearm from a floating ash.
It wasn’t often she made mistakes. At least, not of that magnitude. She would’ve liked to have forgotten the entire thing ever happened, but Evie had an uncanny knack for bringing it up at the absolute worst possible times.
Like right now.
“You left the pot on, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you burned it down,” Evie said with unmistakable smugness.
If Joanna had that pot handy, she would have thrown it at Evie’s head. Unfortunately, she had to settle for her shoe. Evie ducked, and the ankle boot bounced harmlessly off the wall just as their grandmother entered the room carrying a basket of carrots she’d picked from the garden behind the house.
“My dears,” Ruth Thorncroft scolded, her thin gray brows gathering in disapproval over a hawkish nose. “It is not yet noon. Can we save the shoe throwing for after lunch?”
Joanna sank low in her chair. “Evie started it.”
“And I am finishing it.” Although small and slight in appearance, their grandmother had a will that was as strong as iron. A good thing, as she’d needed that will to see her through the death of her husband, the loss of her only child, and raising her three granddaughters as her own.
The matriarch of the Thorncroft family, Ruth was both stern and loving, strict and compassionate. When the sisters lost their mother to scarlet fever, she’d stepped in without hesitation, and had been caring for them ever since. She’d nursed their hurts, taught them their letters, and modeled the proper way to execute a curtsy. Joanna quite simply did not know how they would have gotten through the past few years without her unwavering support or wisdom, and her face heated beneath the scolding weight of Ruth’s stare.
“I didn’t actually hit her,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.” Ruth clucked her tongue. “Pick up your boot, darling. We may live in a house the size of a pincushion, but the last I checked it wasn’t a barn.”
Obeying her grandmother’s request without argument, Joanna removed her remaining ankle boot before grabbing the one she’d thrown and adding them to the line of shoes beside the door. For a second, her attention lingered on the assortment of footwear, all of it scuffed and worn and patched.
Not too long ago, the leather
would have had a shiny new finish and the buttons would have been covered in silk instead of cheap pewter. Another reminder, however slight, of what had once been before the war.
When the back of her throat tightened, Joanna made herself to turn around. The death of her father was not something she liked to dwell on. For while the general heartache had lessened over time, the razor sharp grief still remained, like a needle lost in the folds of a skirt.
There would be hours, days, even months where she did not miss him at all. Or, when she thought of him, it was only of their happy times together. Then out of nowhere, she would feel the stab of that pesky needle, and all the pain came rushing back.
Placing her hand at the base of her neck, she willed the cool tips of her fingers to soften the shards of glass within as she forced herself to slowly inhale through her nostrils and breathe out through her mouth.
Joanna had always experienced her emotions more keenly than those around her. Or at least, that was how it often seemed. Most likely, because she was incapable of disguising how she felt. If she was sad, she cried. If she was happy, she laughed. If she was angry, she threw shoes. Nobody ever had to guess what Joanna was feeling, because, for better or for worse, it was always right there on her face.
At the moment, the same could be said for Evie.
“I can only assume from the murderous look Evelyn is giving you from across the room—careful, dear, you don’t want your mouth to fix like that—you’ve left another broken heart in your wake?” Ruth asked Joanna as she set the basket of carrots aside and wiped her hands clean on the apron she wore over a faded green and white gingham dress.
“Charles’ heart was far from broken.” Tucking her grief aside, Joanna gave a snort. “I believe he was more upset about almost getting a grass stain on his pants.”
Ruth sat down in her favorite chair, a wooden rocker that had belonged to her grandmother, and drew a blanket across her lap. “As long as you were kind in your refusal, I see no reason to make a fuss.” She gave a pointed glance at Evie, who pursed her lips and looked away. “When you find the man you are meant to be with, he won’t let you go as easily as that.”
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 3