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...
For those who are unaware, November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The goal of the month is to write a 50,000 word novel, but as mine are definitely longer than that, my goal every November is to write 50,000 words. Yes, the way this story is going, that amounts to about 5 chapters, but I'm already up to a little over 16,000 in just four days. My goal is to have the story finished by the end of the month, December at the latest, and I think I've FINALLY reached the point where I can start posting twice a week regularly. I might have to go back to weekly if this changes, but let's hope for the best! Starting next week Mondays and Fridays will be chapter days.
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Martha heaved a weary sigh, flinging her rag at her container of wax before picking herself up from the floor with a grunt she had never intended to make. She walked toward the bar, emitting a whining grumble with each step, before climbing directly onto the long, polished surface and stretching out, closing her eyes. She was bone-tired and overheated, her body quickly flooded with the sensation of floating while also sinking like lead. But, she was off her knees—that was all she wished. She heard approaching footsteps, but she did not care.
Sure enough, it was not even a minute before she heard Rick's voice, but she did not so much as open her eyes.
"What in blazes...?"
"I have spent all morning on that blessed floor, I will have you know," she said, still refusing to open her eyes. She could have easily sprawled out on the patch of floor that was yet to be waxed, but she is in a personal quarrel with the planks of wood.
"So, naturally, you climbed onto my bar," he commented, and she heard him approach. "How silly of me not to realize."
"Indeed." She adjusted her position to ensure her feet—and thus, her ankles—were hidden beneath her skirt. "My hands are blistered raw and my knees are bruised—I feel it. And my back and arms ache like anything. Not even Meister Franz would deny me the small mercy of a break."
He chuckled, and now she heard that he was very near her. "Who?"
"Meister Franz," she repeated dismissively, waving an absent hand. "Bavarian executioner from the 1600's—a true master of torture. I purchased a copy of his diary in to vex Frau Keller—my companion—but I only understood approximately a third of it. My Deutsch is entsetzlich."
If Rick found it odd that a lady would read an executioner's diary—and he must have—his tone revealed nothing. "My German is non-existent," he said, and she realized he was leaning against the bar near her head. "I do appreciate what you're doing, you know—"
She nodded, her cheek rubbing against the bar with each bob. "Yes." For an odd, uncomfortable moment, she thought he was about to reach out to her, but she remained untouched. Perhaps she was listening to too many rumors.
"Would you like me to see if the Dragonfly can spare some lemonade?"
At that, Martha opened her eyes. Waxing the floor was thirsty work, but not the sort that was aided by downing beer and whiskey. Rick had coffee, but it was hot. He had water, and it was sufficient, but lemonade sounded divine.
