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Not that she wished to be a bluestocking or a busybody, but she did wish to have some modicum of intelligence about topics relating to her life and existence. And Society. And the world in general.
There was nothing about being blank inside that was enjoyable for Martha.
Which was leaving her more and more frustrated with Society and its collection of vapid ladies of fortune and breeding, despite being one of them herself.
One of the more promising ones, in fact.
But in Wiltshire, she could be no one, if her cousin truly lived in as remote a portion of the country as her mother had led her to believe. What in the world could that be like?
“I don’t know what you’re so fascinated about, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Rhoades grumped from beside her. “You’ve seen one country hill, you’ve seen them all. There’s been nothing but hills for miles and miles.”
Their three companions across the way grunted in acknowledgement of her statement.
Martha turned and gave her adopted chaperone an exasperated look. “For a young woman who has only ever seen London, and at the furthest, Richmond, every hill stream is extraordinary, Mrs. Rhoades.”
Mrs. Rhoades’s expression turned pitying. “My dear child, that will not last long. How much time are you spending in Wiltshire? A week? Two?”
“Six, I believe,” Martha replied, smiling blandly.
That prompted a deep bark of laughter from Mrs. Rhoades. “You will find nothing remarkable to look at on the return journey. It will be boredom from start to finish, and you will crave the sight of cobblestone.”
The idea of so much misery building up from her time in the country that she would hate the view from the window, which was so exhilarating to her now …
It didn’t sit well with Martha.
“Heavens,” Martha murmured as she turned to gaze upon the rolling countryside, wondering how anyone could become bored with the sight of them. “I hope not.”
“Hope does not water flowers, child. I doubt your mother is sending you to Wiltshire to appreciate the countryside.” Mrs. Rhoades paused, then patted Martha on the knee. “Your optimism does you credit, Miss Smith.”
Did it? Martha was less convinced of her optimism as she was about her obstinacy, perhaps her determination to ruin her mother’s plans.
She would see as much of the countryside as her cousin and Wiltshire could show her while she was in this part of England. She would embrace what she discovered, admire what goodness she found, and continue on as she had done, albeit with a less naive image of England in her mind. There would be no coming to whatever sense her mother feared she lacked, and there would be no accepting of proposals simply because the man could further her popularity in Society.
Surely, there was some sense in seeking more from life than that, even for a woman.
But the rolling hills of Wiltshire had no answers for Martha on that score. Time would tell if they ever would.
“I hesitate to ask, for fear of becoming a nuisance,” Martha announced, avoiding the temptation to bite her lip as she looked back at her fellow occupants in the coach. “But … when do you think we will arrive at our destination?”
The portly man directly across from her chuckled with what appeared to be good nature. “I expect we will be reaching Chippenham within the next quarter hour, miss, if I am any judge. From there, it would be a less expeditious drive to wherever you are bound. Stagecoach only goes through the market towns and more.”
The term caught Martha’s ear for no other reason than because it was foreign to her. “Market town?” she repeated, sitting forward just a touch. “Is that what Chippenham is?”
His smile spread, his stained teeth not particularly off-putting, given the warmth in his eyes. “Aye, miss. Wiltshire has more sheep than people, and Chippenham more than most, so the wool market is popular. Have you ever seen a sheep, miss?”
“Only in storybooks,” Martha quipped without shame, her own ignorance over something that was so simple to her companions becoming amusing to her. “I take it I will see several?”
Most of her companions were chuckling now. “Look out of the window, miss. The white bunches on the hills are sheep.”
“What?” Martha whirled to the window once more, her eyes scanning for any specks of white among so much green. They were scattered everywhere in the distance, and she realized she had been seeing them all along, but somehow, she had never considered them to be animals. They had seemed so remote, so natural, so part of the landscape that she had presumed them to be part of the regional flora.
But they were sheep!
A childlike wonder began to seep into her as she tried to make out the details of the sheep from her place, wishing one or two would come closer to the road without encountering any danger. She wanted to see what was so common and ordinary for the country, wanted to find it common and ordinary herself, although not too quickly. She wanted the novelty to linger a while, giving her something to be curious over and admire while she began her exile.
If she despised the sight of sheep by the time she returned to London, so be it. At least she would have seen sheep.
Perhaps that was the more important notion. If she gained nothing else on this excursion but the satisfaction of her mother and the separation from Society’s emptiness, at least she could also claim to have lessened her ignorance.
