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...
We're in for a bit of a treat in this chapter, as we get to see ALL the POV's and also will be seeing events from a brand new perspective!
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"Martha..."
She whined in protest, turning to press her face into her pillow in an attempt to fall back into peaceful slumber and blissful dreams so rudely cut short. What time—
She opened her eyes.
"You're still here," she murmured sleepily, rolling over and finding that yes, Benjamin still lay next to her. She could barely make him out in the early light of dawn whispering through her window, but he was there, watching her.
He smiled, the warmth easily winning over the cold morning glow as he reached in, brushing the pad of his thumb against her cheek. "Where else would I be?" he asked, amused, and Martha flushed. He had promised to stay until morning, and yet, there was a part of her that had expected him to disappear as suddenly as he had returned to her. "Someone is at your door."
She groaned, moving closer to him and pressing her face against his neck. "Someone can live with the disappointment," she said, but the sound came again, and she sighed in realization. "Blazes," she mumbled, pulling from Benjamin's strong arms with an exasperated huff. "One moment," she called to the intruder—presumably, Rick.
"Not so loud," Benjamin grumbled in protest, pulling the linens over his head and disappearing from view. Martha scoffed in agreement—they had enjoyed a bit too much wine, as the tiny hammers on her skull merrily reminded her, but as soon as she moved to climb from the bed, her headache was entirely forgotten.
"Sakes alive—what did you do to me?" she mumbled, pressing her palms against her hips and kneading her thighs. She was stiff as anything—stiff, sore, and wanting nothing more than to lie down and refuse to move for the next month.
He said nothing, but his soft chuckle made it clear that he was not sorry. And neither was Martha, mostly—she was not sorry, but it would have been nice to be able to walk.
But, she could hardly crawl to the door—naked as the day she was born, no less—so she reached into her carpetbag for the nightdress she had never bothered to don, lifting it over her head with a dramatic whine and pulling on her sacque, tying the ribbon around her waist. Her hair—oh, who cared?
She walked over to the door, cursing her limbs. She was not worried about Benjamin—he was not about to say anything, and so long as she did not allow Rick into the room, he was out of sight.
"I suppose this is you telling me it is time to depart," she said by way of greeting as she opened the door and confirmed that yes, Rick had come to wake her, and yes, he was already wearing his riding clothes.
He nodded, bowing his head to stare down at the floor with a nervous clearing of his throat. She was still meant to be angry at him, after all, though such a negative feeling was not coming naturally this morning. Or, perhaps, she was underdressed with her hair down and he was a gentleman. "Yes," he confirmed. "Will you be ready soon?"
