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...
Just a fun fact that I had to work into this story: The prominent style of gowns from the 18th century (called sack-back gowns or robe à la française due to the unfitted back that hung like a cape) consisted of three main pieces: the skirt, the stomacher (a V or U-shaped panel that posed as a bodice), and the sacque (also called a contouche). The sacque was like a robe, and you can see in the photo I chose for this chapter that it covers all but the very front of the stomacher and skirt. As these gowns fell out of fashion into the 19th century, the sacque was often saved for a generation or two and worn on its own as a dressing gown/morning robe for ladies.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Aunt Elizabeth, perhaps you should take some rest," Isabella implored, placing her hand on the woman's arm with a ginger touch. "You are unwell."
Mrs. Lawson closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat, breathing more heavily than Martha would have liked. "It is nothing more than a cough, and it will pass," she said even as the wheezing rattled her lungs. "There are...I have many things I must do today."
"But you are unwell," Martha said, parroting her sister. "No one can fault you for remaining in your bed under such circumstances." And if they did, Martha would rebuke them herself for being so inconsiderate of an elderly lady's needs.
"No—nonsense," Mrs. Lawson argued, but her eyes remained closed. "The latest wave of men from Cold Harbor will be arriving at Saterlee today, and I intend to be there to lend my assistance as I have always done."
Martha exchanged glances with Isabella. It was a commendable notion, and the hospital's need for nurses was never-ending, but she could not help but think that spending time rushed off her feet caring for freshly-wounded soldiers would be devastating for a ninety-three-year-old woman in poor health, 'nothing more than a cough' or not.
"We will go—Iz and I," she announced firmly, rising from her place on the sofa and kneeling next to her great-aunt's char. Martha had accompanied her aunt to Saterlee before, and each visit played merry hell on her nerves. Even her over-worked imagination could never have envisioned what manner of assaults could be inflicted upon both a body and a mind without extinguishing that life altogether. She had seen men without one or more limbs, men with their flesh torn open, all manner of infections, and that was merely the physical suffering. Still, she insisted each time that she could and would stomach it—Charlotte had, after all, remained at York through the entirety of the Overland Campaign thus far, and had been on the battlefield itself at Gettysburg, or very near it. Martha would do this small thing and offer comfort to these suffering men.
Isabella appeared less confident, but she swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes—we will go," she agreed, taking Mrs. Lawson's arm. "After we have helped you to your room."
Mrs. Lawson scoffed. "I am not as feeble as all that, Isabella," she scolded, and Isabella shrank back, but Martha smiled.
"Yes, but we are two silly girls in desperate need of placating," she argued. "Elsewise, we will be fretting and clucking endlessly like two worried chickens—do it for us, as a kindness."
