Adding Up to Love

Adding Up to Love Book One of the Flower Sisters Series Ginny B. Moore Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Ginny B. Moore All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. The characters, with the exception of some historical figures, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. First edition ISBN 979-8-9875467-0-3 (paperback)ISBN 979-8-9875467-1-0 (eBook) Cover design by GetCovers.comCover image from PeriodImages.com Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 38. Epilogue Afterword An excerpt from Where You Are About the Author Also By Ginny B. Moore Chapter 1Oxfordshire, April 1899“Fern!” Fern huffed out a breath, wishing for a third arm so she could cover her ears without putting down her book. Her mother had been screeching louder and louder for the past fifteen minutes, even sending up an unwitting maid and a reluctant footman, before the mounting frustration in the woman’s voice made her feelings obvious to anyone within a mile of their estate. Two decades of experience ignoring her mother’s demands were rendered moot when the Viscountess Redborne wanted to go shopping. Fern’s eyes darted over the engrossing volume of statistical analysis, hoping to steal a few more minutes with the text. She loved finding the patterns, predicting the future from the configurations, and seeing the beauty inherent in the numbers. “Fern!”Fern flinched at the noise and dropped the book to the floor as she got to her feet. “I’m coming!” She pulled on her low boots and a fawn sweater over her forest green muslin dress, then dashed down the stairs to meet her mother and sisters in the foyer of their home. The ancient walls of Boar’s Hill, the ancestral seat of the Redborne viscountcy in Oxfordshire, overflowed with family heirlooms and portraits of past viscounts, screaming of the rich history of their hallowed ancestors. The eyes of long-deceased forebearers seemed to follow Fern in silent judgment as she tromped down the stairs.The slack jaws and wide eyes of three of the Waverly women met Fern’s arrival. She knew that look: she had done something wrong. Her life was full of moments where she did something wrong or said something wrong. Fern gave herself a mental once-over. Wearing appropriate shoes? Yes. Dressed correctly for the weather and social situation? Yes, or close enough for my purposes. “Fern,” her twin sister Rose whispered, widening her eyes and then patting her own head. Oh, yes, her hair. She should probably brush it. Being twenty years of age, Fern should have a better grip on managing her appearance, at least according to her mother. Having dispensed with the use of a ladies’ maid years ago, a necessity since the employment services refused to send any more to the house, the responsibility for Fern’s upkeep was entirely in her hands. She turned on her heel and dashed upstairs, ran a brush through her fine brown hair enough times until she could sweep it back in a simple knot. She looked in the mirror for anything else her mother may object to, referring to the portrait she had posted next to her vanity. Frustrated with her mother’s incessant disapproval of her appearance, Fern drew a sketch of herself when she appeared presentable: hair smooth and pulled back from her pale cheeks, dress neat and without stains, boots or slippers on her feet. Fern captured a remarkable likeness of her body on paper, but not her face. She never drew faces. While the symmetry of the human body fascinated her, she could never capture the human visage without it seeming inhuman, soulless and cold on the page. Straightening the collar of her dress, she confirmed it lacked stains and she was, in fact, wearing boots and stockings. She nodded once at her reflection in approval and bounded down the stairs.Lady Clara Waverly, Viscountess Redborne, began dressing her five daughters in colors matching their names from the moment they arrived in the world. White for the eldest daughter Lily, yellow for their second, Marigold. Her third daughter Violet waited at the bottom of the stairs in a walking dress the exact shade of the heliotrope blooming in the garden, topped with a purple velvet hat adorned with a long purple feather. Rose’s more understated pink wool skirt, fitted pink jacket, and white topper embellished with pink roses did not distract from her beauty but emphasized her narrow waist and gleaming chestnut brown curls. Blast. Fern had forgotten her hat. She turned to fetch it when she heard her mother release a heaving sigh. Again. “We haven’t time, Fern. Mrs. Hastings is waiting to give you the final fitting before tomorrow night.” Shaking her head, Lady Redborne shooed her girls forward into the waiting carriage. Chatter about the upcoming party filled the brief but bumpy ride into Oxford proper. “Your father will be so surprised by this year’s event,” the viscountess remarked, sitting back on the plush velvet cushions. “This party happens every year for his birthday, Mama,” Fern said. “How would he be surprised?”“Because he will be sixty,” Rose retorted, as though achieving this milestone was akin to discovering a previously