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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Martha sighed, adjusting her black parasol to shield herself from the summer sunshine as the cart upon which she was riding pulled to a stop in front of Stone Grove, her aunt Elizabeth's massive country manor. Wilkins, who had been driving the cart, jumped down from his side of the bench and moved around to her side, offering his hand so she could disembark.
It seemed that mere seconds passed after her boots touched the gravel driveway that a small group of men hurried out of the manor and toward the cart. They made quick work of the cargo she had accompanied, unloading the crates and carrying them inside. Martha followed curiously, still confused as to why Aunt Elizabeth had specifically asked her to make what seemed to be such an unnecessary trip.
"Good afternoon, Miss Martha," her aunt's butler greeted her, immediately taking her bonnet and parasol.
"Good afternoon, Masters," Martha greeted him, her eyes following the line of men as they made their way down the hallway with the crates. "My aunt asked me to come...?"
"Yes, miss—she regrets that she cannot meet you here," Masters explained politely. "She asked that you join her in the west drawing-room upon your arrival."
Odd, Martha thought. The west drawing-room was only used when her aunt had a good number of guests, and she had not seen any other carriages in the driveway. "Thank you," she said, following the crate carriers down the hallway and toward the aforementioned room. "Goodness," she commented upon stepping inside. It was like a bazaar or market, with crates stacked high. "Aunt Elizabeth?"
"There is no need to raise your voice, Martha," Aunt Elizabeth scolded, stepping out from behind a small wall of crates. "I am not as deaf as all that."
"I apologize, ma'am," Martha quickly said, flushing. "I did not know if you were here. What is all this?"
"I had lunch with your father," Aunt Elizabeth said, as though that answered the question. "He said you have been quite out of sorts these past months."
"Yes, well..." Martha said, glancing down at her black mourning dress. It had not even been three months since William's death. "Am I meant to be in high spirits?" she blurted out, squeezing her hands into fists and pressing her nails into her palms. That was quite rude of her. "I apolog—"
"No, of course you are not meant to be in high spirits," Aunt Elizabeth replied, speaking over Martha's apology. "But there are more productive things you might do to channel that sorrow."
"It is not proper for ladies to be active while in mourning," Martha pointed out, but she was not arguing. She was simply confused. "It can cause hysteria if we do not rest."
"Oh—" Aunt Elizabeth scoffed, waving the idea away with a sweep of her wrist. "Pure nonsense. Remaining cooped up in a dark room for months with your melancholy is the shortest road to insanity."
Martha could not argue that fact. Two and a half months shut away in Cedarvale with her mother and she could attest to the fact that she had nearly lost whatever little was left of her sanity. "How am I meant to be productive, then?" she asked curiously, stepping closer to an un-lidded crate. Books—stacks and stacks of books.
