The bluestocking brides, p.1
The Bluestocking Brides, page 1
The Bluestocking Brides
SAMANTHA HOLT
Helstone Press
Copyright © 2022 Samantha Holt
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Amelia and the Viscount
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Julia and the Duke
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Emma and the Earl
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Catherine and the Marquis
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
About The Author
Amelia and the Viscount
Chapter One
“She’s doing it again,” Catherine complained.
Amelia paused in the entrance way of Luckington Grange and grimaced. Their sister was indeed singing again.
“She really needs to stop. No one wants to listen to that,” Catherine continued.
“Let Emma be. She enjoys it.”
Her youngest sister rolled her eyes. “No one else does. Apart from Mama perhaps.”
“Is Mama home?” Catherine shrugged off her pelisse and handed it to the patiently waiting Mrs. Holmes who hung it up with the sort of swift efficiency one expected from a woman who had been serving their household for nigh on two decades.
“No, she’s visiting with Mrs. Reilly. Lucky her. She does not have to suffer endless hours of this racket.”
Amelia winced when Emma reached a particularly high note. “Hopefully she shall tire of it soon. Singing will be like her many other passions with any luck.”
Catherine shook her head. “Well, she normally tires of them much quicker. If we’re not careful she shall be convinced she is the finest vocalist around, and then we shall be in trouble.”
“It shall pass,” Amelia assured her.
“What shall pass?” Covered head to toe in streaks of mud, Julia swept in through the door.
Mrs. Holmes gave a gasp at the sight and shook her head rigorously as she came to take Julia’s filthy pelisse. “You better not go traipsing through the house with those boots,” the housekeeper scolded.
“They’re not so bad,” Julia insisted. “What shall pass?”
“The wailing,” Catherine said dramatically. “The persistent, unending, ear-splitting wailing.”
Julia looked at Amelia. “She’s singing again?” She paused and made a face. “If that can be called singing. Really, Amelia, we need to tell her to stop. She’ll make an utter fool of herself if she does that in public.”
“One has to be out in public to do such a thing,” Amelia pointed out.
“We are all ‘out’. It is just that no one wants us out.” Catherine tossed up her chin. “Not that I care. They can keep their stuffy balls and parties. I would rather be looking at the stars anyway.”
“Not everyone loathes us.” The words came out less insistent than Amelia would have liked.
The truth was the Chadwick girls were known to be unusual. It had started with Cousin Bess, then continued with her, really. First Cousin Bess had run off to America with a vicar’s son, then Amelia’s passion for writing had tainted them all. She regretted that she had not been cleverer when it had come to her first written tales. She should have adopted a pen name instantly, then no one would have ever thought of them as odd.
Although the Cousin Bess scandal would never be forgotten, even if her writing was.
Her sisters did not help their cause much, either. Julia was always outside, studying nature and all those that resided within it. Her latest interest was the mating habits of otters. It was hardly the sort of topic one could speak about at a ball.
Catherine loved the stars so much that she kept hours entirely different to everyone else. The chances were, she was only awake because of Emma’s singing.
As for Emma…Amelia sighed inwardly. She had yet to find her passion. She went through several a year, if not more. Each new thing would be focused on with such intensity that it drove them all mad, but it would pass and she would find something new to put her energy into. Amelia would almost rather she was digging around in the dirt or watching stars all night. Emma needed to find out who she really was somehow.
“Well, I had better wash or else Mrs. H. will kill me in my sleep.” Julia lifted her hands to reveal the dirt ingrained in them. “I made some excellent notes, though. Well worth it.”
Catherine yawned. “And I am going to bury my head under a pillow to drown out that din seeing as Amelia refuses to tell Emma the truth.”
“I do not see why I must tell her,” Amelia protested.
“Because you’re the oldest,” both sisters intoned.
Catherine chuckled. “You see, dear sister, we follow your lead. You are entirely responsible for the disasters that are the Chadwick girls.”
The teasing glint in Catherine’s eyes did nothing to assuage the guilt building in her stomach. Amelia forced a smile but she could not hide from the truth. Their mother and father were far too busy to pay much attention to these unruly girls so it had been up to Amelia to guide her sisters as best as she could. It seemed, however, she had been unable to guide them in quite the right direction.
Another high note vibrated through the house. Catherine shoved a finger in each ear. “I’m off. I cannot stand another moment of it.”
Her youngest sister stalked out of the room and her footsteps could be heard hammering up the stairs like a herd of cows. Julia put a hand to Amelia’s arm then removed it, swiftly realizing her mistake. A dusty brown handprint marred Amelia’s sleeve.
“Oops.”
Amelia shook her head. “It does not matter. I’m not going anywhere today.”
“Why are you hanging about the hallway then? There are better places to escape Emma’s singing.”
“I’m awaiting a letter.”
“From the publisher?”
Amelia nodded. “I should have news on the publication of my latest book.”
Julia grinned. “If only I could tell the world my sister is a famous author.”
“Not that famous.”
“Famous enough. You are the talk of the ton.”
“How would you know that? You have not been to London in two years.”
Her sister shrugged. “I read the gossip columns just as you do. Your stories are so scandalous, how can they not talk about them?”
Heat warmed Amelia’s cheeks. Writing scandalous stories and talking about them were two different things. What escaped her brain onto paper never quite reconciled with the outer version of her. Her sisters had read her publications, to be sure, but Amelia refused to discuss the books with them. Mama seemed to be oblivious and considered them to be love stories of some kind whilst their father had no idea that Amelia wrote under a pen name. If it were up to her, no one would know at all but she and her sisters had an amazing ability to understand everything about each other. Growing up with so many sisters left little room for privacy.
“Do not blush, Amelia,” Julia said with a twisted grin. “We all know just how naughty that mind of yours is. All that kissing and those naughty liaisons. The ton only talk about it because it’s far too true.”
Amelia would not know. Not really. Her life experience amounted to a kiss with Tommy Bridges in the stables, but as soon as she had entered society she had understood there was more to it than met the eye. Underneath the refinement, were all those things she wrote of—love, scandal, lies.
Of course, her writing had really caught people’s interest when she began writ ing about true love. And Nicholas.
A sigh escaped her.
“You are thinking about him. I can tell.” Julia’s eyes glinted.
Much like the majority of the Chadwick sisters, Julia had green eyes and red hair. The only one of them to differ was Lavinia. Fair-haired, blue-eyed and buxom. For some reason the rest of them had not been so blessed. Lavinia was the picture of their mother while they were all like their father. Taking after one’s father was not exactly ideal when one was a young lady.
“I am not,” Amelia protested. “I hardly think of him at all.”
“You still love him.”
She lifted her chin. “Do not.”
“Do so.”
Emma skipped into the room and paused. Amelia hadn’t even noticed Emma had stopped singing. “What are you arguing about?” she asked, swinging her gaze between them. A brow raised as she took in Julia’s filthy appearance. “Sweet Lord, Julia, were you playing with the pigs?”
“I most certainly was not.” Julia folded her arms. “And we are not arguing.”
“Sounded like an argument to me,” Emma said.
Amelia waved a hand, keen to put an end to this nonsense. If only her sisters would leave her be and let her wait for the post. “It was nothing.”
“She was sighing again.” Julia gave Emma a nudge. “You know what that means.”
“Nicholas,” the both said.
“I was not sighing and nor was I thinking of him.” Once again her cheeks heated. Her sisters would accuse her of fibbing and perhaps she was. She did think of him on occasion, that much was true. But she was no longer some silly girl utterly in love with a man who would never love her back. Oh no, she was not that foolish.
Not one bit.
What woman in their right mind would love a man who had shown himself to be heartsick over another woman. And not just any woman—their prettiest and sweetest sister, Lavinia.
The third Chadwick sister had been married nearly six months now and had moved all the way to Scotland with her braw laird of a husband. Niall was a handsome man indeed but if Amelia had been her sister, there would have been no competition. Nicholas was far more of a catch.
Julia wagged a finger at her. “You need to write about him more. Pen some of those letters that work so well in your books. That will rid you of him.”
Emma nodded. “Oh yes. Those letters are fantastic.”
Amelia wouldn’t mention that she had already penned at least a half dozen more of those. In one of her more melancholy moments, her sisters had persuaded her to write letters to Nicholas. Not to ever be sent off course, but as a way of coming to terms with her feelings for him. They had ended up published in her most popular love story—a tale of a man who had never spotted what was in front of him until it was too late.
The sequel would include more letters and a hero who had been pining for the heroine for years, just as she had him. But would they get a second chance? Amelia grimaced. Second chances might happen in fiction but there would not even be a first chance for her. Nicholas had only ever had eyes for Lavinia—and who could blame him? Lavinia was sweet, kind, beautiful, and simply adorable. Everyone loved her and Amelia loved her no less, even after it was clear the man she loved had fallen for Lavinia.
“Do you not need a wash?” Amelia asked Julia pointedly. “If Mama comes home and sees you like that, she shall have a fit.”
“Pfft. She’s seen worse.”
Nevertheless, Julia headed up the stairs. Apparently, she was not as bold as she liked to think and it was not worth tempting Mama’s wrath. As much as she adored them all, she had little patience for their unladylike hobbies and demeanors.
“Did you hear me?” Emma asked, her eyes shining.
Amelia turned to her sister. “Um, yes. Your voice is quite…strong, is it not?”
“I think I’ve made quite a bit of progress. With more practice, I shall certainly be ready to sing for others before long. Mrs. H. said she had never heard the likes of it before, and Catherine declared I would have everyone spellbound.”
“Spellbound? Indeed. Well, I’m glad you are enjoying it.”
Inwardly, she winced at her weak words. She should just tell her how terrible she really was before she made a fool of herself. But, as she had told her sisters, Emma would find another hobby soon enough and hopefully before she decided to put herself on display. The world certainly did not need more of Emma Chadwick’s voice.
“Are you busy?” Emma asked. “I could do with someone to turn the music for me.”
The thought of standing over her sister’s shoulder while listening to the din made her shudder. Amelia shook her head. “I’m expecting a letter from my publisher at any moment, and I am sure I shall have work to do once it arrives.”
“Will you be writing more about Amelia and Nicholas?”
Amelia gave her a stern look. “There never was and never will be an Amelia and Nicholas.”
Emma waved a hand. “Anna and Nathaniel then. Will their story continue?”
Pursing her lips, Amelia shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is probably time their story ended.”
“With a happily ever after, I hope,” Emma said with glee.
Amelia didn’t answer. Happily ever afters existed for people like Lavinia, to be certain, but for people like her and her other sisters, she was not so sure.
Chapter Two
The shrill sound of Emma once again rattled the house. Mrs. Holmes walked past with a pile of sheets and rolled her eyes. Amelia gave a shrug. What could they do? Whatever Emma turned her mind to, Emma was convinced she was wonderful at. A few weeks ago it had been juggling. The cook had not been pleased with all the bruised fruit that had entailed. And what was it before that? Painting perhaps. No, it must have been pastry making because Mama had declared it undignified for a lady to be putting her hands in dough.
“Give her time,” Amelia told the housekeeper.
“Time,” Mrs. Holmes snorted as she pushed open the bedroom door with her back. “She’s had plenty of time. You all have. None of you are getting younger, and this racket will not help with the finding of husbands.”
“I am not so sure Emma cares for the finding of husbands. Nor do any of us.”
Mrs. Holmes gave her a knowing look. “You care about the finding of one husband.” She vanished into the bedroom before Amelia could protest.
Amelia huffed and made her way through the long gallery that ran along the side of the house. Luckington was an old Tudor house that even had its own moat. Once upon a time there might have been a drawbridge separating it from the land but now a small brick bridge connected it to their front lawns. The house was rickety, with crooked and creaky floorboards. Some sloped slightly and gave one a sense of dizziness if one was not used to it. The small windows were etched with lead lines, segmenting them into little diamonds while a stained-glass crest adorned the top of each window. It had been possessed by the Chadwick’s for nearly four hundred years in its various incarnations and with any luck would continue to be…if Lavinia had a son.
Amelia paused to stare out over the moat at the oak trees that occupied one side of the land. The day was gray and threatening rain. At least Julia had returned home before the weather had broken, though it would not have been the first time any of her sisters had returned home drenched. None of them were particularly good at paying attention to the weather—they all had too many other things of which to think.
Of course, that meant all their hopes had to rest upon Lavinia for a son to inherit. With all her sisters preoccupied with many unladylike things, they had no hope of marrying the rest of them off. But as she had said to Mrs. Holmes, none of them particularly cared for the idea of marriage. By some twist of fate, all the Chadwick girls had been bestowed the gift of indolence and strong minds. Though sometimes Amelia considered it a curse. Even Lavinia had such gifts but she was somehow able to craft herself into someone more acceptable.
She caught sight of her miserable reflection and stuck her tongue out at it. What a miserable beast she was. She had to stop moping and thinking of marriage and worrying for her sisters. Amelia especially had to stop thinking of marriage. After all, she was over him, was she not? She had not seen Nicholas in six months and she was thoroughly over him.
So what if she still penned letters and wrote about the couple who had been conjured up in her mind after all her heartache? It didn’t mean anything.
