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Miss Smith Goes to Wiltshire

No one of sense married for love.

Apparently.

Martha Smith was unconvinced of the assertion her mother had attempted to engrain into her mind for the last six months, if not more, but she could certainly concede that it was not the standard nature of Society’s marriages. The majority of her acquaintances who had made matches since they’d all been presented at court had done so for connection, for fortune, for status, and even for appearances, but no one, as far as she knew, had married for love. Or even affection.

It was a commoners’ match, her mother insisted, and hardly a mark of good breeding. She had not married for love, and her marriage had been all the more successful for it, she claimed. Martha’s father could not refute or support the statement, as he had been deceased for ten years now, but as he had been at least twenty years more senior than Martha’s mother, it was not difficult to presume that he felt the same.

Why, then, did Martha feel so convinced she ought to marry for love?

It was a question that had been shouted throughout her home in London, usually in her mother’s voice, and asked within Martha’s own mind at a much more reasonable volume. Her life might have been infinitely more simple had she given up such an idea and made a match for a less fanciful reason, but every attempt to do so had left her cantankerous and sullen. She did not want to have a marriage for appearances or to tolerate her spouse on the occasions required of her.

She wanted to feel as though she were flying when she was with him.

According to her mother, this was likely due to entirely too much reading of novels.

That might have been true, but it did not follow that Martha should have to ignore the impulse.

The fight that had ensued with her mother on the very subject had led to her present position, sitting in a coach heading for the country, riding post, and being jostled into the shoulder of the dozing lady beside her. She had been sent with no chaperone, shockingly enough, though the aforementioned slumbering woman had insisted on acting the part when they’d been introduced at the coaching station. It hadn’t proved all that necessary as yet, as all other occupants of the coach were presently sleeping or attempting to, but it was a pleasant comfort all the same.

Martha could not sleep, which she might regret upon arrival at her final destination, but it was not even a consideration for her. She had never been very far outside of London in her known life, and now she was going into Wiltshire. Every glimpse of rolling hills and streams, every acre of ground not containing a building, was of intense interest to her. Her adoptive companion, Mrs. Rhoades, had grown weary of her questions about the country, and the driver was now accustomed to her inquiries as to their present county at every change of horses.

Thus far, she had seen London, Sussex, Surrey, Hampshire, and Berkshire. They’d stayed the night at a coaching inn in Reading, wherein she had shared the room with Mrs. Rhoades to save them both the cost, and the entire company had again got the morning post to continue on. The last change of horses at Swindon had seen them in Wiltshire at last, and this was what captured Martha’s attention most.

Wiltshire, the county she had been exiled to for six weeks at minimum. The punishment her mother had devised for Martha’s romantic sensibilities, if not for her outright refusal of Mr. Standish and Sir Charles Stark last Season. From what Martha was now seeing through the windows of the stagecoach, it did not seem a particularly poor exchange.

The countryside was beautiful, and she wished there were a better word to describe it. She had never seen so much green, and in so many natural shades. It was better than any landscape she had seen captured in art, and more fascinating than anything she had conjured up in her mind. She had heard so many complaints about the country from her companions in Society, but felt unable to contribute to any conversation on the topic, as she had no knowledge or experience in any such thing.

A ten-year-old girl did not comprehend such a thing, so the entailment on her father’s family estate had been no wrench for her. Even her father had not favored the country, so Martha had never been. Worley Park was a sty, by her mother’s record, and they were better off without it.

Martha had needed to look up the definition of a sty upon hearing it, and now she wished to see one in truth for proper comprehension.

Someday, she had vowed, she would make the journey to Oxfordshire to see the place. She was not entirely certain her mother’s account of things could be trusted.

Then again, she had yet to see Lanfare, her cousin Eliza’s house.

That was her mother’s true punishment for her.

Eliza was fifteen years older than Martha, and the daughter of her father’s younger sister. She had married for love when Martha was a young child, and now lived in a small village in Wiltshire with her many children. Her husband had not come from a wealthy family, but Eliza had been determined to marry him, so her family had consented. She had not been cut off, which Martha’s mother, for one, could not condone, and her dowry had helped to purchase the house in which they had been raising their family.

Their particularly large family.

Which was her mother’s point. She wanted Martha to see what a marriage of love would bring her to and, presumably, what it had brought Eliza to.

Thus far, Martha had no complaints about her journey. The coaching inn was exciting, if a trifle simple and quaint, and the food was excellent. Her bed could have used some fluffing, but even her bed in London was occasionally uncomfortable, so she could not lay blame on the innkeeper for that. The stagecoach was comfortable, as far as coaches went, and there was nothing to be done about the state of the country roads when traveling at these speeds. Yes, they were a trifle cramped with five of them sitting inside all squished together, but how much comfort did one expect to have when traveling post?

Though she was a veritable heiress, and though her station was enviable, she was not so fine a lady that she could not endure a little discomfort where it was reasonable. And she did not expect grandeur wherever she went, only decency. No frills, only kindness. No flattery, only respect.

Thus far, nothing in the country had prevented her from any of that.

But if it so happened that Eliza lived in squalor surrounded by babies, Martha might look very differently upon the state of affairs in her mind. It was vulgar to speak of money, but she was quite certain her dowry was considerably more than her cousin’s had been.

Surely, that would keep her and her prospective husband out of the poorhouse.

Martha knew very little about such matters, and it was infuriating. Ignorance was acceptable for young ladies, even encouraged, for there was nothing more dangerous than an informed woman.

Ignorance was not bliss, in Martha’s mind. Ignorance was madness.