1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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"Sì, Signora," Martha murmured with a sigh, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders as she strode down the street. Her current companion could cluck and fret all she liked, but Martha was in no mood for dainty steps—rather, she now took full advantage of her long legs to carry herself at a quick pace.
"Signorina," Signora Bianchi scolded, huffing and puffing behind her as she attempted to match Martha's speed. "Non c'è bisogno di correre come un puledro selvaggio!"
Martha grinned. If this old bag wanted to see a wild colt, she was sorely tempted to give her just that and break into a full run. The woman might collapse onto the cobblestones from the exertion and a new companion appointed. On the other hand, a new companion hardly promised a better one, as Martha had learned well these last months. She was beginning to suspect William was doing this intentionally as some sort of joke he found quite funny.
"Ma Signora, è una bella giornata!" she argued happily, stretching out her arms and beginning to spin in circles as she tilted her chin to the sky, closing her eyes. It was a beautiful day, in every sense of the word. The wind was blowing salty air off the nearby sea, the city itself bustling with the music that was life. There was a hint of a crisp bite in the air that made Martha feel truly alive, truly aware, and truly grateful for every moment.
"Signorina—"
"Signora Bianchi," Martha interrupted, stopping in her tracks and dropping her smile. She was doing nothing wrong except making a spectacle of herself, and that was hardly the end of the world. Especially on a day like this, when the apocalypse had taken on an entirely new and vividly real meaning. "I am quite tired, and wish to retire to my rooms until dinner," she announced, reverting back to English.
Wherever she went, Martha did her best to speak the native language out of respect and consideration, but such things were a one-way street with Signora Bianchi, who had no sense of decorum other than believing it to mean 'you become as quiet and invisible as possible while I gripe about every inconvenience'. This woman made no effort to show Martha any manner of respect, digging at her constantly for the slightest flaw. That was to be expected, of course, but damn it, Signora Bianchi had made it her mission to pour cold water on Martha's excitement as often as possible, and Martha had had a bellyful of it.
The matronly woman stiffened at Martha's imperious tone, her displeasure painted across her face. Why was it that those women who insisted on a demure facade had no skill in such a thing themselves? "Signorina Whitcomb—"
Martha held up a staying hand. "That will be all," she dismissed as though she were royalty, turning on her heel. It was not her fault she was still young, and still found joy and delights in what life had to offer. It was not her fault she had not yet cheerfully thrown herself in a tedious existence with nothing left but to make others around her more miserable than she. She really did try to be respectful, but she refused to become a target for this woman's frustrations, especially when Signora Bianchi was receiving a handsome income for the effort. "I will see you at dinner," she added, hurrying up the steps of the Grand Hotel and into the magnificent foyer, where she found the concierge.
