Page 27 of The Spinster & the Sock

It’s Blaze’s turn to glare at me now, and holding a questioning finger in the air, whatever he is about to say is apparently deemed unnecessary, because his mouth clamps shut and he instead strokes his mustache uncomfortably.

“I do not wish to continue this conversation,” Mother says finally, looking from my husband to me with a disturbed grimace. “It will ruin a perfectly wonderful supper. I know how fond of shellfish you are.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, following after my family as they trail up the road towards Dashwood House. “I don’t suppose you’re serving crabs? Lynyrd loves crabs.”

From behind me, Blaze snorts and jogs to catch up with me, placing a hand on my back as he whispers once more. “Oh, wife. Please don’t say that.”

The table is immaculately set. The staff has gone to great lengths to arrange a formal meal. Only when we arrive do I realize this is not just a family dinner, as the Winthrops follow us inside and Eliza sits down beside me.

“And how is married life?” she asks coyly. For an unmarried woman, I can’t imagine why she would be so pink in the face about it.

“I find companionship quite agreeable,” I answer, my attention fixed on the plate before me. I was ravenous at the church, but now that I am here, all eyes on me awaiting my account of marriage, my stomach is achingly hollow and I am certain anything I eat will simply resurface. Beside me, Blaze quietly works at finishing his meal. I can tell he is as much, if not more, uncomfortable than I am. His silence feels loud.

“Companionship,” Grandmother laughs lightly, flashing my mother a knowing look. “The one time we want Josephine to say something improper, and she lets us down. George, pass the salt. These potatoes are almost as flavorless as this conversation.”

Eliza lets slip a demure giggle, presses a napkin to her lips, and then takes a slow sip of wine. I, on the other hand, have learned well from Blaze and swallow my entire glass at once.

“You’ve been married for over a month now,” Mother says, her tone more serious. “Are you with child yet?”

I choke on the port, which is not halfway down my throat before mother welcomes herself into the details of my marriage, which seems far more flooded with confusion than I would like exposed at this very moment. Beside me, Blaze stiffens and looks from his plate for the first time. His jaw falls open, and he’s about to speak when Georgia, sweet as ever, interrupts, “I don’t know if women her age can have children.”

“What a shame.” Father shakes his head, looking at me as though I’ve failed the family in every way humanly possible, then he offers Blaze a sympathetic shrug. “The least you can do for your husband is give him an heir.”

I want to say something—to react—but before I have a chance to comprehend anything, Blaze’s response makes me think the name his mother chose for him was actually quite fitting.

He huffs and shoves himself backwards, his chair screeching and drawing every guest’s attention to where he stands. He tosses his napkin onto the table and locks eyes with my father. “The least she can do?!” He spits the words and his hand cups my shoulder in a show of unity. “She owes me nothing. If anything, I owe her—after all…” Uh oh, here he goes. His voice picks up speed, and I try not to smile as I realize he’s rambling now. “A-after all, it’s my damn fault we broke her bed yesterday, so really, I owe her all kinds of things. Actually, you don’t even know the half of it, so just…just…” he trails off as my family’s horrified faces save my grandmother’s, who appears oddly proud, pale in his direction, and Blaze looks down at me apologetically.

I, on the other hand, beam up at him.

Chest Hair’s Hot as Hell

Blaze

“Well, I take it back,” Gerty chimes in, “this conversation just got interesting.”

“You broke the bed?” Eliza gasps in shock.

“What does a bed have to do with any of this? We were speaking of babies,” Georgia interrupts.

“Hush,” Helena snaps at her youngest daughter before spinning toward the oldest. “So, you are with child?”

“I just knew that posterior was muscular,” Gerty chirps. I drag a hand down my face. This old bat is going to be the death of me.

“Ladies, please!” George begs, his hands creeping along his neckline to grip at his ears.

Everyone is standing and talking over one another—that is, except Jo. She is still in her chair, staring holes through her plate and brushing her skirts to the point I’m afraid she’s going to wear through the fabric. Why isn’t she saying anything?

“For fuck’s sake, will everyone just shut up?” I holler. I can’t take it anymore. “Whether or not Jo is pregnant is none of your damned business until the moment she decides to make it your business. My wife is more than a womb and, I repeat, owes me nothing. And Mrs. Dashwood, for the love of all that is holy in this world, find a better way to teach your children about sex!”

“How dare you raise your voice at my wife?” George demands, slamming his hands on the table.

“Oh, you’re as perfectly suited for each other as could be. Neither of you seems to have any sense of how polite society should be navigated! The spinster and her vulgar, jobless husband.” Helena presses her hand to her temple before falling dramatically back into her chair.

“I see now, this passion explains the bed,” Gerty sighs wistfully, her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands.

I hear a scoff beside me, and then Jo is standing in front of me. “Enough!”

The room instantly falls silent.