His Bluestocking Bride

by Sally Britton

  “I remember your sketches,” she said, lowering her eyes to his cravat. “They were beautiful, when we were children.”

  “Thank you.” He tucked the book beneath his arm and kept the pencil case in his hands. “I’m going to freshen up. My room is next to yours, that way.” He nodded down the hall. “If you need anything, there is a bell-pull next to the bed and Sarah should be waiting in your dressing room.”

  “Dressing room?”

  He pointed over her shoulder to a door near one of the bookshelves. She hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  Marcus nodded again and pulled the door shut as he left.

  Ellen stepped forward and leaned against the door, taking in her perfect bedroom again.

  “Stop trying, Ellen,” she whispered to herself. “Be the woman he wants you to be. Useful. Sensible.”

  It was hardly sensible for a newlywed woman to cry. Ellen forced herself to square her shoulders and went in search of Sarah to restore her appearance.

  This home is mine, Ellen reminded herself, taking in the room with one sweeping glance. And I will be happy here.

  ¤

  Marcus waited for Ellen in the upstairs drawing room, thinking over their recent interactions. Their wedding vows still weighed on his heart. Why had he never paid attention to that list of promises made before God and man? He had attended several weddings, but since the words were never said by him he had not given them enough notice.

  Wilt thou love her.

  When had that been written? What did it mean? Romantic love had been a chance thing until the last few decades. His parents had been part of an arranged marriage, and they got on well enough. Had they made the same promises of love when they barely knew each other?

  Then there was Ellen’s declaration after the service. I always keep my promises.

  Did she mean their wedding promises?

  Marcus shook away the thoughts as best he could, pacing from the irritating crackle of the logs in the fire to the window and back again. Their promises hadn’t bothered him until he arrived at the house with her. That was when it struck him, holding her hand to help her down from the carriage, that their vows sealed them together for good or ill for the rest of their lives.

  He looked at Orchard Hill with new eyes. Was it enough to present to a bride? It was not even so large as the home she had been brought up in. Oak Lodge was statelier than his inherited home.

  As brother to an earl, it would be his duty to remain part of society without ever holding title or rank, to reflect well on Lucas and the family. But he would have none of their wealth or importance.

  He could not even give his wife love, though he’d promised it in the church the day before.

  Then he watched Ellen’s reaction when she saw their home.

  Ellen’s lovely face had born an expression that nearly took his breath away. Her eyes shone with a joy that returned his pride to him. The house did not disappoint her. She retained that look of near-awe when they walked inside, an energy radiating from her that nearly put his fears to rest.

  The house pleased her, he thought with a measure of comfort.

  His addition to her room, the bookcases, delighted her.

  And suddenly, without warning, Marcus wondered if he pleased her. Yes, she made the choice to wed him, but would she ever look at him with such unabashed joy as she did at so simple a thing as shelving?

  That isn’t what I want. Theirs was a practical arrangement. Nothing more.

  A soft knock preceded her entrance. Marcus turned to face the door as Ellen stepped in, no longer in her travelling clothes, but wearing a dress of deep blue. Her bonnet was gone, replaced with a bandeau to tame her black hair. When his stare met hers, Ellen’s cheeks pinked and she wasn’t smiling.

  Possibly she was upset by his reaction to her gift. He’d put the sketchbook in the study’s desk, with no intention of using it, though touched by her thoughtful gesture.

  “It is nearly dinner time,” she said, not stepping fully inside.

  Marcus beckoned her forward. “Then we should begin our tour here. It will not take long, I’m afraid.”

  “It might,” she said, coming three steps inside. “I may wish to take in every detail, you know, as I am to be mistress.” She sniffed and raised her nose in the air, giving him a narrow-eyed look that surprised a laugh out of him.

  Relieved, he responded with honesty. “You are mistress here, Ellen. From the moment you agreed to marry me. This is your domain.” He dropped his shoulders and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck while he looked around them. “This is the drawing room. When I was growing up, it was where the family always sat together before and after mealtimes.”

  “It’s lovely.” He watched as Ellen took it in, looking from one side of the room to the other. “Though very lavender.”

  “I believe it is my mother’s favorite color.”

  Her lips quirked upward at that. “Mine is blue.”

  “Then we will have it done over in blue.”

  If his quick statement surprised her, she didn’t let it show. “The windows face west?”

  “Yes.” He glanced around and then came forward, waving to the hall. “Would you like to see the rest of the first floor? Then the ground floor, and the second floor after dinner?”

  “Yes, please.” She stepped through the door into the passage and looked both directions. “How many bedrooms are there?”

  “Four, on this floor, then two smaller rooms adjoining the nursery upstairs.” Her cheeks flushed and it took him a moment to realize why. Then he felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and stepped into the hall. “But they are all modest rooms. There is one dressing room, between your bedchamber and mine.”

  He showed her each of the public rooms and she looked about with interest, asking the occasional question about portraits or what the views from the windows were like. The sun had set shortly after their arrival, preventing him from showing her the grounds. He took her to the ground floor, showing her his study adjacent their small but comfortable library. Marcus could tell his wife would’ve lingered in that room for the rest of the evening, but he showed her a larger sitting room, the dining room, and the conservatory.

  Though tempted more than once to take her hand, as that would be a natural way to guide her through the halls, Marcus was careful not to touch his wife. Her reaction to his kiss on the back of her hand, when all he’d meant to do was show how pleased he was she liked the house, stayed with him. She had not seemed to care for the familiarity of his touch.

  The butler, Matthews, found them in the hall staring at a painting of a mountain neither could guess the location of.

  “How could you not know where this is meant to be?” Ellen asked, hands clasped behind her as she studied the rocky ridges.

  “I only spent a few weeks here every year,” he said in his defense. “Mostly as a boy. Why would a boy ask about a painting when there are trees to climb and streams to play in?”

  “I shall write to your mother and inform her of your complete lack of knowledge. Shameful.” The pronouncement was made with a grave tone, but when she looked over her shoulder, Ellen’s eyes held a teasing glint.

  “Mr. Calvert, Mrs. Calvert,” Matthews said. “Dinner is served.”

  “Ah. Thank you. Shall we, Mrs. Calvert?” He offered his arm and she took it after bobbing a curtsy, completely unnecessary and amusing.

  “I would be honored, Mr. Calvert.” She threaded her arm through his and Marcus’s heart gave an odd sort of twist that he nearly found pleasant. Maybe not all touches would be abhorrent to her. Maybe she was nervous, or shy.

  He led Ellen to the dining room with greater confidence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marcus went through the notes on the growth and harvest of his apple and pear trees, hardly understanding some of them. The accounts had been provided by the farmers he employed to care for his orchards. He owned three hundre
d acres of apple trees, one hundred acres of pears.

  Having grown up playing in the trees and sampling the fruits, he knew the most basic facts of tending to them. His mother never had an interest in the plants, and his father passed on before he could train either of the brothers to take on Orchard Hill. This meant the task of caring for the land fell to his mother’s steward, who never took initiative to try new things and allowed the orchard go on as always.

  While he had spoken with each of the three men tasked with ensuring a good growing season, Marcus was lost. They knew their business, but they did not possess many ideas for improving upon it. Marcus must be his own tutor, as no other gentlemen in the area grew trees as he did.

  This was a fine time for farming, from all he understood, as advancements in the last several decades had made men wealthy from what had been only fields of food to provide for a family.

  A soft knock on the door, characteristic of his wife, interrupted him. “Come in, Ellen.” Her company would be a welcome respite from his studies.

  The door swung open and his wife of five days put her head around it. “Tea?”

  “Yes, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the hour.” He started to stand, but her head disappeared, and the door came fully open, revealing Ellen carried a full tea tray. Marcus hurried around his desk to help her, but she twisted her waist enough to move the tray from his grasp.

  “I have come this far, you may as well let me finish the trip,” she said, her narrowed eyes challenging him.

  Since their arrival, Ellen had taken the whole house in hand as her own. While he could not say he noticed any radical changes in the running of the staff or other matters, he did see the change in his wife. Ellen remained quiet, her thoughtful nature made that a fixture of her personality, but she acted with a decisiveness he did not know she possessed.

  Although he should’ve, given how swift her decision to marry him had been.

  “Let’s take tea in the library.” He went ahead of her to the adjoining door and pushed it open, allowing her to pass through first.

  The library had become Ellen’s. Marcus knew she spent part of her morning reading before the fire in her bedchamber, but evenings he found her curled in a library chair.

  She put the tray down on the table behind the sofa and prepared their cups. She didn’t hum as she worked, nor speak, but moved with a graceful sort of efficiency that he enjoyed watching. He waited until she handed him his cup, then he sat down with his back to her and the tea things.

  “How are you this afternoon?” she asked, the slight clink of spoon on cup indicating she still worked behind him. “I’ve not seen you since breakfast.”

  “I am well, thank you. What have you been doing this morning?”

  “Working in the stillroom, rearranging the music room. Hardly anything worth mentioning. Then I saw the time and knew you would not remember to take any nourishment.” She came around the sofa and sat next to him, a pastry in one hand and her cup in the other. “You are single-minded when you work.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Marcus’s mouth and he shook his head. “I become absorbed in tasks. My mother claims a house could fall down around my ears and I wouldn’t notice.”

  Ellen laughed; the pleasant sound that brought out his grin. “I think I must agree with her. In the days since we’ve been here, I’ve had to send people to fetch you out of your study for every meal but breakfast.”

  “Really?” He chuckled and sat back in his seat, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa. His hand rested above Ellen’s shoulder. “I didn’t even realize it until now, but you’re right. Every afternoon, a maid reminds me of tea, and every evening a footman or Matthews raps on the door to tell me dinner is within the hour. I’ll try to do better, Ellen.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, angling her body more towards his. “I admire the way you dedicate yourself to the task at hand and no one is put out by it. You are master here, after all.” She raised her eyebrows and hid a smile behind the rim of her cup, but Marcus caught it and grinned back.

  “And how are you enjoying being mistress of Orchard Hill?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the back of the sofa, taking in her appearance with appreciation. Ellen’s self-possession, her satisfaction, were evident in the way she held herself. During the day, he saw her move with purpose through the house, directing the servants with kindness. She was nearly always smiling, too.

  “It’s wonderful,” she admitted, her cheeks turning pink. Ellen’s eyes lit up as she told him about the music room and how she had rearranged it to suit her tastes. That was something else he liked, that her practicality thus far had lent itself to making improvements in the rooms without asking for extra funds, though he had expected there to be a more immediate need for purchases.

  “What of your improvements to the library?” he asked, looking around the room. “I don’t see any changes.”

  “I haven’t decided on any yet.” She reached over the couch to put her cup down on the table behind them, her arm brushing across his. Marcus felt a tingling sensation run through him at the contact, brief though it was. He quickly pulled his arm back, running his hand through his hair to try and make the movement appear more natural.

  Days into this marriage and I’m as disconcerted as a schoolboy at his first ball. Marcus avoided her eyes, concerned she might see his thoughts within them. He’d managed not to have more physical contact thus far but being careful had necessitated becoming extremely aware of her nearness. That had to be the reason for the sensation her brief touch had caused.

  “It isn’t a very large library,” he said, his eyes taking in the shelves built into the walls. “But we could add to it. If you like.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and was rewarded with her expression of obvious pleasure.

  “I would, very much. I made a list of titles from my father’s library I would dearly love to have. But every time I come in here to catalog your collection, I get distracted and end up reading.”

  “That will not do,” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head in as disapproving a manner as he could manage. “First, you must never call it my collection again. It is ours.” She lowered her head but he caught her lips turning upward. “Second, a proper catalog is essential to a well-maintained library. Come, I will help you make a start of it. Where are you recording your finds?”

  Ellen’s head came up and her eyes widened, their warm brown depths full of surprise. “But you are so busy,” she said. “I do not wish to bother you with it.”

  “Nonsense. I could actually use the distraction this afternoon.” He stood and went to one corner of the shelves. “Where did you start and how far have you gotten?”

  Ellen rose more slowly, with the self-possessed grace he admired, and went to the mantel where a slim leather notebook rested. She opened it and he saw a pencil inside. “It is nothing very extravagant. I thought to first catalog things then organize a system for recording and shelving the books.”

  “A good way to start.” He held out his hand to receive the notebook from her and their bare fingertips grazed each other. Marcus ignored the spark that jumped from her hand to his and instead looked down at the page. “Ellen,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. He chuckled and showed it to her. “You’ve written down five titles?”

  The blush flared in her cheeks again and she tucked her hands behind her back, shrugging. “I told you, I became distracted.”

  He let his shoulders slump dramatically and shook his head, affecting a disappointed frown. “Ellen, Ellen. What you need is some of my single-mindedness to complete this task.”

  “Very obviously,” she answered, matching him look-for-look and dipping her head in a sage nod. “Shall I read the titles and you record them?”

  “I think it best you move far from the shelves and record as I read them. Else you may distract us both by reading aloud from their pages.”

  She laughed, and he joined her, pleased she’d accepted
his teasing for once. His wife, lovely and sensible as she was, did not laugh nearly as much as she ought.

  Ellen gestured to the shelves with one hand and held the other out for the notebook. “Shall we begin?”

  He handed it back to her, careful to hold the edge, avoiding another accidental brush of fingers.

  They had been at it for ten minutes when Ellen interrupted him. “I think you should read that one, Marcus.”

  He paused and looked at the title again, having read it rather absently. “Treatise on the Culture of the Apple and Pear.” He pulled the book from the shelves. “Is it as thrilling as it sounds?”

  She ignored his flippant remark. “I have read some of the author’s other work from the Royal Society journals. He’s a horticulturalist and I know he’s written other things about orchards and farms.”

  “Sir Thomas Knight,” Marcus read from the inside page. “Interesting. He’s with the Royal Society?” It would be more than a dull memoir of a gentleman farmer, he realized.

  “Yes. He must be something of an expert in the field. That is one of the books which distracted me yesterday. It was printed in 1801. I imagine there will be good advice inside.” She stood and came to his side, turning the pages while he still held the book in his hands. She smelled of honey and the apple pastry from tea. It was a sweet scent, suiting her perfectly, and reminding him of spring.

  “Here,” she said, pointing down to a page and bringing him out of his embarrassing thoughts. Did other men stand around thinking such things of their wives?

  Ellen was explaining the page to him. “You see where he explains his experiment? Can you imagine, ten thousand acres of farmland?”

  “Intriguing.” Marcus could hardly manage more, distracted by his wife’s proximity. He looked closer at the page, ignoring Ellen as best he could, but as he began to read his eyes narrowed. “Most intriguing. You said he publishes in the science journals?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcus looked up at his wife with a new perspective, taking in her earnest expression and the way her eyes shone. It was not so much emotion that made her glow the way she did as it was the intelligence she held, lighting her from within. He knew she enjoyed reading, and she admitted that she did not limit her literary choices to artistic works. Ellen’s mind was more than practical, it was sharp and an instrument she employed regularly.