Page 30 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Jo,” he hums my name in his sleep, and for a glorious second, his heavy hand drapes across my forearm, pulling me as close to him as I can possibly be, and then he flinches. “God, Jo!” He sits up in bed, a horrified look on his face. “I am so sorry. The one night you let me in your bed and I can’t even honor the pillow barrier. I am a total ass. I am really, really sorry.” His eyes, heavy with sleep, find mine and I can’t decide if I am entertained or disappointed.

“No, Blaze,” I assure him, slipping out from beneath the blanket, nodding towards him. “I think it was I who broke the rules.” Simultaneously, we both look to where Blaze lies, nearly clinging to the edge of the bed on his side. During the night, I pushed and pushed my way to where he was.

I swallow hard, avoiding his eyes as he looks back to me with a coy grin stealing over his face. “There’s a naughty girl in there somewhere, isn’t there, Jo?”

Blaze leaves just as the sun is rising to make some deliveries for Albion, which allows me time to dress before my first customer arrives.

It is the last promenade of the season, and likely the last time I get to engage in any social interactions of true substance with a husband by my side before they all return to calling me a bluestocker, thus I decide on a more striking gown than I would usually care to fuss with.

I sewed this garment from a fine, lightweight, cream-colored muslin. Embroidered delicately across the dress’ entirety are pink and red poppies with dull green leafy vines and stems swirling throughout the fabric. A bronze-colored ribbon is ruched at the bust of the empire waist and ties at the back. More bronze ribbon trims the square neckline as well as the cuffs of my bishop sleeves. Mechlin lace at the hem creates a playful flounce, and I finish the look off with a matching sawyer’s jacket, a ruffled bonnet, and lace gloves. I am just tucking a few final curls into place to frame my face when I think of the farmer’s almanac Blaze has left sitting open on the table before the hearth. He mentioned last night that he plans on taking it back to his time—a souvenir of sorts.

An idea takes form, and I carry the almanac to my desk. I have written many letters at this very seat before. I have watched the carriages roll by and the ladies of fashion converse in the street below. And words have never seemed to flow as easily as they do now.

Dearest Blaze,

When you read this, I am certain you will have successfully found your way home. There is much I could say about our time together; however, I can think of nothing more important than expressing my gratitude. My prayers have never felt truly reverent, but when you are gone, I am certain I will eternally thank God for the kindness He showed in bringing you to me.

While I wish our time could have been forever, I know you are where you truly belong.

Eternally Yours,

Jo

I set the quill in its inkwell and watch as the gleaming black ink dries before I tuck the letter near the back of the almanac and return it to its place on the table.

One of the season’s debutantes, now engaged and on the prestigious path to becoming a duchess, has come to have her wedding wardrobe fitted.

“Miss Barring,” I welcome the glowing young lady cheerfully, offering her well-to-do mother a polite curtsy before bustling around behind the stunning bride-to-be. “What will we be measuring for, today?”

“Of course, all of the delicates,” the proud mother says with a rosy smile. “We must have her looking and feeling her best on her wedding night.”

I nod as though I have experience. While I am starting to piece together what bits of information I have, I know I’m still missing something significant, so as a married-on-paper only wife, I keep my mouth shut and take notes of each item they order. I’ve made many sets for brides, but it is only now that I wish I had true use for any of it myself. “A new pelisse is essential. I hear Chatsworth House becomes chilly in the cold season.”

“Mama,” Jane Barring speaks at last, flashing her mother a chiding glare. “Must we be so boastful?”

I take Jane’s measurements from bust to floor and smile up at her. “Boast away, Miss Barring. You’re to wed the Duke of Devonshire in a fortnight!” At this, a previously restrained grin stretches across the girl’s face, and with a bolstering breath inward, she examines herself in the mirror. “It is everything we hoped for, is it not, Mama?”

Something inside me pities Jane. In all her glory, her fabricated joy built entirely on a title, I can’t help but question if she’s lacking something. “And are you happy?” I ask, smiling softly at her, wondering if simply accepting the viscount’s proposal years ago would have brought some level of contentment for myself and my mother.

Jane glances down at me, and for a second, her eyes flicker with uncertainty. I wonder if she examines me and imagines the life of freedom I have made for myself. However fleeting her doubts are, I swear I see them just as her white teeth are put on display and she exclaims, “I’ve never been happier!” A response her proud mother accepts with an approving nod.

“Rightly so,” Mrs. Barring encourages her daughter. “There is no greater joy in life than to marry well in the name of progress.”

‘Progress’ is the Barring’s favorite word. They own the most influential bank in all of London. Progress supports their ever-increasing interest rates.

I think of progress how Blaze described it: women holding titles of land and masters of their own purse—and bodies. That sounds like my kind of progress.

It’s midday by the time we make our way towards what Blaze refers to as the ‘fashion and title pissing competition’.

The sun is smoldering and families have set up colorful tents all over the park. Children float paper boats on the pond while vying young ladies strut here and there, fanning their bosoms and swishing their skirts. I watch Blaze’s lip twitch and his brows furrow. He glances from one spectacle to the next before landing his attention on me.

“It’s a pompous parade of peacocks, Jo.”

I giggle and nod in agreement. “How else are we supposed to show off our wealth than with excessively large hats and flaunting our gems in the daylight?”

“I have a nice watch at home. Nobody would catch me walking through a park on any random day shaking my wrist at the sun. Why on earth do you come to these things?” he asks, and I realize he is sincere.

“Well, what do you do on hot summer days?” I inquire, thinking of all the days one would have to spend cooped indoors with a griping mama were it not for promenades.