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She was becoming a newer version of herself, for good or for ill, and she had a feeling her mother would not like that at all.

Martha’s mother wanted her to be a reflection of her own image, rather than herself. The truth of herself.

Martha had never given much thought to the truth of herself.

Until now.

Various crashing sounds from above them paused their quiet stroll through the house, prompting both of them to look upwards as though they could see through the ceiling.

“Oh dear,” Eliza said mildly, despite the heavy sigh. “That will be the twins. I predict tears or shouts shortly.”

Martha winced. “Perhaps I should go into the village now, then.”

Her cousin gave her an almost aghast look. “No! I wanted you to rest so that your ankle might heal.”

“I promise, my ankle is well,” Martha assured her, smiling for effect. “I will even put a poultice on it before I retire to ensure it is even better tomorrow. Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose,” Eliza grumbled. “You will need to wear different boots. The ones from your walk are far too muddy. The village paths are dry, so your London boots should suffice.”

Martha nodded as though instructed, wondering if it was difficult for her cousin to recollect when she was a mother and when she was not. “I will fetch them and go now. Will you be so good as to create a list for me of what exactly you would like me to purchase?”

“Of course,” Eliza said, dropping her arm from Martha’s waist. “It is only some bread, but there may be additional items available. I’ll have it for you momentarily.”

It was odd, Martha thought as she hurried out of the corridor and up the rickety stairs to the family rooms, that she was now about to go on an errand for her cousin. Her mother would never have dreamed of doing anything that could even remotely resemble something a servant could or, in her mind, should do. And she would have been particularly aghast if she knew that her daughter was doing so.

Yet Martha felt no shame in what she was about to do. No irritation or embarrassment, no resentment that she had been thus relegated. Eliza had walked to Allington several times since Martha’s arrival for various errands, and there had been no chagrin in her manner about it. The fact of the matter was that they did not have the staff in their home for others to do such things, and in all honesty, it was likely a great relief for Eliza to take such an expedition herself when Lanfare was so full of jubilant noise and chaos.

Martha had even gone with her the second day, and there was something intimate and quaint about such a venture.

One would never do such a thing in London. Not anyone of her station, at any rate. It was simply unfathomable.

But here in Wiltshire, it was not only fathomable, but expected and unremarkable.

It was blessedly freeing to have so much opened to Martha since her arrival. Fewer restrictions and more opportunities. Fewer airs and more humility. Less reliance and more resilience.

Resilience. That was the word. There was something resilient about life in Wiltshire, and that was fascinating, indeed.

Martha’s London boots, as they called them, sat on the floor of her bureau, and she pulled them out after a bit of shuffling other items aside. It had become supremely evident very early into her time at Lanfare that she had overpacked, and had brought wholly unnecessary items with her as well, which had led to the bureau housing her clothing becoming overstuffed.

The London boots were perfectly suitable for outings in Hyde Park and walking along Bond Street, but would never do for walks in the country lanes in Wiltshire. They were a softer leather, a perfect partner for the subtle fabric used in ladies’ slippers and heeled shoes, and while Martha had opted for a simple pair without adornment, other young ladies chose shoes that took as much design and elaboration as any ballgown in the world.

Considering the voluminous nature of skirts in current fashion, one did wonder why footwear required so much attention when they were rarely seen.

A scant few minutes later, Martha was out of doors once again, list in hand, London boots on her feet, walking towards Allington. She inhaled deeply, then sighed in delight at the freshness that filled her lungs. Allington was so close to Lanfare, it could be seen once one stepped outside the door. A small, well-worn walking path extended down to the road, and then it was simply over the stone bridge before one was at the edge of Allington proper. Apparently, it was the stream over which the Allington bridge sat that dictated the boundaries of the village, which kept Lanfare as private property, in the most technical sense. As Lanfare had little land beyond the house itself, it was hardly worth contention.

It was astonishing how comfortable she felt taking this path without someone accompanying her. Or any of her walks and rides, for that matter. In London, she was never alone. Had never been alone. Was not permitted to go anywhere alone, unless within the walls of her home, and under those circumstances, there were servants everywhere, so she was never alone even when she was. But here, she was completely without escort or companion, and it would not garner a second look from those who saw her.

Where was the insecurity she ought to feel because of such independence? Where was the feeling that her safety was in jeopardy? Where was her sense of prim propriety?

Nowhere in sight, she realized. Nowhere in sight.

What did that say about her true nature?

“Good afternoon, Miss Smith,” a cheery voice called from Martha’s right.

She glanced over, and found herself beaming at the smiling countenance of Miss Holmes, the eldest daughter of a local lawyer. They had met twice before when Martha had come into Allington, and Martha was impressed with the completely unspoiled nature of the girl. They were of an age, Martha thought, and seemed as though they would suit well, should they wish to become friends.

Martha would only be so fortunate.