The Bachelor's Bride (The Thompsons of Locust Street #1) - Holly Bush
Chapter 1
Philadelphia 1868
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“No! No, you will not, James.”
“I will do as I wish,” he thundered, slamming his hand on the thick wooden table, making the crockery dance.
“I am the head of this family, and I say you will not breathe a word of this to our brother or sisters,” Muireall Thompson said through gritted teeth.
“Head of the family, are you, lass?”
“I am the oldest.”
“And a real sibling to boot,” James said and marched out of the kitchen.
Elspeth hunched under the stairwell outside the kitchens and watched her brother hurry past, his leather boots slapping against the stone floors, nearly masking his whispered curse words. He slammed the door at the top of the steps. She jumped when Aunt Murdoch spoke to her, just inches from her ear.
“What are you doing, child?” she asked.
“I was eavesdropping on an argument between Muireall and James.”
“Does anything good ever come from eavesdropping?”
“Nay. Never,” Elspeth said. “But that won’t stop me from doing it.”
One side of Aunt’s mouth turned up. “There’s no denying you’re a MacTavish, with that sassy tongue of yours.”
“MacTavish, Aunt? I’ve heard you call one of us that on occasion, but I never understood why. Are they our ancestors? A clan we’d best forget?”
“Shush,” Aunt Murdoch hissed. “Have you finished the mending? Or are you just lazing about, listening to others’ private talks?”
Elspeth looked into Aunt Murdoch’s filmy blue eyes. There were some mysteries surrounding her family, the Thompsons. Some secrets. She’d overheard snippets over the years as some had not realized she was in the same room with them, but lips immediately clenched when they did realize, or when her younger sister, Kirsty, or her younger brother, Payden, were nearby. Aunt knew all the secrets, she was certain, but she was just as certain that she would never reveal any of them.
“I need more blue thread to fix one of Kirsty’s church dresses. I’ll be going to Mrs. Fendale’s for more.”
“Then get there and get back,” Aunt said and went through the door to the kitchens, no doubt to harass Muireall.
Elspeth found James in the parlor, repairing the floor where a nail had come up through one of the varnished boards.
“If you pound that any harder, you’re going to fall through,” she said, wondering what he could have possibly meant by real sibling when he was arguing with Muireall.
“Better than fighting with our sister,” he said, each word punctuated by a pound of the hammer. He sat back on his heels and looked up at her as she pulled on her short linen jacket. “Where are you off to?”
“Mrs. Fendale’s for thread.”
“You shouldn’t be going to that part of town alone,” James said as he stood. “I have to see about this beet delivery today, but I’ll take you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine, James,” she said to his sputtering. She stopped at the front door and pulled on her bonnet, examining herself in the mirror above the marble table. James was still telling her she wasn’t allowed to leave without him, as she was a stubborn and foolish girl, when she pulled the door closed behind her.
She set out north toward the edge of Society Hill where they lived, crossing Chestnut Street, enjoying the spring air. Streets were crowded with carriages and wagons and horses, and all types of people too. Elspeth’s family knew their neighbors, and she waved at old Mrs. Cartwright sweeping her steps and watched Mr. Abrams shaking his finger at his children as their heads nodded in agreement. The sun was shining, one of the first March days to be warm, and it seemed as though everyone was out of their homes and enjoying the weather after a particularly long and cold winter.
Three blocks more and she was less likely to wave or shout a hallo. She stared straight ahead, glimpsing the swinging sign over the door of her destination, and did not listen to the ridiculous and inappropriate comments some young men were directing at her. In just their shirtsleeves, no jacket or four-in-hand tie, and even some without a vest, they were hanging about a stairwell to a basement or coal chute or leaning against the gas streetlight posts, hooting and hollering at each other and at others on the street. Once she crossed Arch Street into Southwark, the houses were a little shabby, the streets had a little more garbage strewn about, and the residents looked a little more downtrodden, but she could see Mrs. Fendale’s Millinery shop, not half a block away.