The Madam of Purgatory Reach

Chapter 7: Likeable

"I came to tell you that I am marrying, Mother," Martha said, sitting with Mrs. Whitcomb in the drawing-room of Little Cedarvale, the woman's self-imposed palace of exile. The curtains were never drawn back entirely, leaving the rooms lingering in a hint of gloom—bright sunlight tended to bring on her mother's headaches.

Mrs. Whitcomb nodded, her attention still on her needlework. Martha was not entirely sure what sort of drugs Thomas fed the woman, but it left her feeling as though she were speaking to a shadow, a ghost of someone who used to be alive but no longer truly existed. "How nice—I had about given up hope on you," she said in such a flat, dull manner, as though she were delivering a trivial comment instead of a sharp, cutting remark.

"Yes," Martha said, fidgeting with the gathered folds of skirt that rested on her thighs and attempting to push the comment aside. She was still twenty—hardly a spinster, and hardly a lost cause. "I am so...I am truly happy with him. He makes me feel—"

"Who is the man?" her mother asked, cutting her off and instead focusing on what supposedly mattered.

"Benjamin Morgan—I do not know if you—"

Mrs. Whitcomb sighed. "The Morgans," she said, the name distasteful on her tongue. "I would have hoped for better," she admitted, her tone still listless, flat, her eyes still on her needlework. "But I suppose one can only work with what one possesses."

Martha clenched her jaw, rising to her feet. She did not need to sit here and listen to such things. "Yes, well—William has given his consent, and the ceremony is to be at Cedarvale," she said anyway, wavering slightly as her mind attempted to force her out the door while her heart stupidly tried once more. "Would you—"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Whitcomb dismissed before Martha could even ask the question. "But thank you for the invitation—have you come with Thomas, perchance?"

"No," Martha said, deciding not to mention she had traveled to this awful haunted place with Isabella. After her divorce, Mrs. Whitcomb had disowned Isabella entirely. After her marriage to Sullivan, Isabella no longer existed. There was a vile part of Martha that wished to see the horror on her mother's face knowing her hated elder daughter currently waited in the foyer, but she held it at bay. It would only be spiteful, and Martha was determined to cease such behaviors.

Without another word, she exited the drawing-room and approached her sister, shaking her head. "It was a stupid hope," she admitted, retrieving her hat from the housekeeper and stepping outside into the autumn chill, Isabella at her side. "I don't think she even cared that I have been away this last year and a half."

Isabella nodded sadly, taking Martha's hand in hers as they walked toward the carriage. "She cannot help the way she is, but I do sometimes wish I could give her a good shake and slap," she admitted softly, following Martha into the carriage and sitting next to her. "I truly am sorry though—I did wish she might have surprised us."

"Yes," Martha said, staring out the window as Wilkins guided the horses to begin their slow journey down the twisting drive. She had hoped as well, despite everything. Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Whitcomb had said, as though her own daughter was not the bride. As though it was not her role as the mother of the bride to host the wedding, to make the preparations. As though she was not meant to be Martha's pillar in this time of great change.

She felt Isabella's hand in hers again, and returned the soft squeeze of affection. "It is no matter," Isabella insisted. "The rest of us will do everything in our power to make the day perfect for you."

Martha smiled softly, removing her hat and resting her cheek on her sister's shoulder. "Thank you," she said, squeezing Isabella's hand again. If nothing else, she could say that her siblings had been the very picture of support. The Whitcomb siblings had developed a much tighter bond since their father's death and William's ascension to the head of the family. They had collectively lost much of their patience for their supposed peers, and had been described more than once as cold and eccentric, keeping to themselves.