Page 13 of The Spinster & the Sock

I had dogged my mom for weeks when she made me take those ballroom dance lessons with her, but now I owe her the world for it.

“Shall we go inside, Miss Dashwood?” I ask in my best British accent. Jo rolls her eyes with a smile, and we walk to the manor.

A Combless Rooster

Josephine

The single most anticipated soiree of the season has arrived.

As have I, and my spasming nerves.

With a foreigner from the future who says unpredictable things at unforgivable times. Things that are developing into a habit of making me laugh at unforgivable times.

My heart pounds. With every step closer to the Winthrop estate, my throat tightens as though an invisible noose has already found its place, and this ball will be my ‘short drop with a quick stop’.

Spinsters don’t tend to do well at society gatherings.

We are either the reason for the whispers as we pass, or we are the reason the room goes completely silent as we enter.

This may very well be the most notable occurrence in the history of Josephine Dashwood, for I arrive at a prestigious society event with an escort who is not a brother or my father. Arm linked with his, I swear I can feel him tremble too as the grand house opens like a gaping mouth, beckoning us into what is undoubtedly—not counting His Majesty’s palace—the most spectacular residence in London.

Fresh garlands of in-season florals in blues, pinks, and yellows adorn every banister, and where they couldn’t find space to hang the flowers, the blooms float in beautiful crystal bowls with candles casting rippling glimmers of light in all directions. Hand-painted vases serve as floral receptacles as well, bringing a sense of gardened serenity to the indoors. At the center of the grand entrance, the Winthrops have installed a Venus fountain where, within the shallow waters surrounding the grand shell and goddess, lovely performers in her likeness slowly dance. Marble bistro tables are thoughtfully arranged around the fountain, and small champagne towers grace each table. Ladies and gentlemen not quite ready to join the dance have already found seats and are merrily talking and watching the choreographed dance in the dimmer lighting.

“See that tall lady?” I nudge Blaze, who has in a panic grabbed the nearest drink he can find, and offer a discreet nod to guide his attention. The object of my focus has hair dark as a raven, warm honey-colored skin, and a head held high enough to let everyone know that she knows what she wants. In this case, I trail her gaze to where my brother, Stanley, stands. I make a mental note to ask him about her later. It’s high time he was married, according to Father, that is.

Blaze is oddly quiet despite his nod of acknowledgement, and I think he must be nervous. I take a deep breath despite my own nerves and attempt to calm both of ours. “Well, I made the dress she is wearing.”

At this, he pauses to examine the gown even closer. I am proud of it. It shimmers, iridescent like water. One might consider calling it blue, but the longer you look at it, the colors change as she moves with the light. The fabric is magical.

“Wow,” Blaze offers me an approving nod. “It’s incredible! It reminds me of the sea…”

I am about to ask him where his long rambles have gone when our first trial arrives in the form of the Winthrops themselves.

They stand in a row, greeting their guests one by one, and at last, it is our turn. Knees trembling before our esteemed hosts, I fold into the steadiest curtsy I can manage, and dip my chin, praying to God that Blaze follows my father’s lead with a deep bow.

“Lady Winthrop,” my mother chimes warmly. “What a beautiful affair you have graced us with. How can we ever thank you for your hospitality?”

Lady Winthrop drawls on about being honored enough by our presence, probably the same smoke she has blown at every single person before us, and I think we just might have avoided disaster when Eliza Winthrop speaks.

To me, personally, it seems.

“While our floors are made of the grandest marble in the city, I highly recommend not lying on them, as I know how fond of floors you are.” She shares a not-so-subtle giggle with her sister Marianne, suggesting my earlier fall has been a topic of discussion throughout their day, then she glances back down her long nose at me. “We have set up tables in the foyer for those who aren’t as steady on their feet. I would hate for anyone to step on you.”

“Jo?” Blaze speaks, and my stomach tightens and threatens to lose itself on the floor all at once. God, no, he is talking. “Not steady on her feet? My beautiful dove.” I cringe at his attempt to sound like he belongs. “I will always think you are the very picture of grace.”

There is that silence I am so used to.

Anyone within earshot has stopped to get a look at the man with the strange accent whose arm I am gripping for dear life. My face heats and then his hand lands softly on mine. I have half a mind to be mad at him for speaking until I see the looks on the faces of those around us. They judge him. They hide smirks. As always, they are utterly cruel.

My anger is redirected, but not given nearly enough time to take root into anything truly dangerous, for the terrible conversation continues.

“And who might you be, sir?” Lord Winthrop clears his throat in an effort at hospitality, but just as introductions are about to be made, Eliza, clearly bored with my family and I, raises a hand gleefully, signaling to a friend. I take the opportunity to quickly draw Blaze away from the interrogation.

“Of all the people we do not want to spend too much time talking to,“ I hiss beneath my breath, “The Winthrops are at the very top.”

“Why on earth do you go to parties hosted by people you don’t like, then?” Blaze asks, following my lead as we shuffle our way past dancers, through masses of petticoats, to a safe place along the wall.

“Don’t you?” I finally respond breathlessly, noticing how my skirts itch and my hair feels heavy and sweaty. I would commit murder to be home right now. My home. Not Dashwood House. My quiet flat. With tea.