Page 47 of The Spinster & the Sock

My mother’s voice softens into something mournful. “I am here at your father’s behest, to inform you that your allowance is cancelled henceforth.” She presses a handkerchief to her nose. “Truly, Josephine, I believed in my heart that this wayward spirit of yours would settle in time. I told your father that we ought to keep you close to us so you might return to the good family name once you had…sewn your wild oats. Now I see. I should have trusted him when he wanted to cast you out years ago.”

The silence is so pervasive, I could hear a spool of thread unraveling. I could probably even detect from here the whispers and gasps of last night’s events being retold in the palace itself.

The silence of ruin is loud.

And relieving.

I realize I am smiling, and in an instant, I am laughing.

My husband, brow furrowed, looks over his shoulder at me before his lips twitch into a grin. He faces my mother. “It seems my wife is exactly where she wants to be, ma’am. I apologize for any embarrassment our night out caused you, but you are not welcome here if all you plan to do is yell at Jo.”

She appears on the verge of tears as she turns to leave, offering me one last reproach. “I hope the view from poverty is worth it. I hear already that the ladies of the ton have no intention of soliciting your modiste now.” Her soft features pull taut somewhere between a sob and a grimace, and my mother leaves, the bells jangling behind her, and I watch as her cloaked figure disappears down the street.

“Are you alright?” Blaze is hesitant as he steps towards me, running hands up and down my arms.

I’m inclined to say ‘yes’. I feel alright. My nerves do not betray me. I look up at the best friend I have ever had, and I know I am alright.

Yet, I also know that without the modiste thriving, Blaze and I will be reduced to an entirely different class of society. I take a deep breath and smile, nodding as reassuringly as I can. “I am well acquainted with the reproach of the ton,” I answer, pushing past him to return upstairs.

“Jo, wait.” Blaze follows my gait into our flat, closing the door behind us. “What she said about your customers—”

Nervously, I fluff the pillows on the chaise, realizing a blur of tears blinds my sight with a thought: his descent into poverty and the put-down of society could be avoided with one simple act. Deep down, I believe in my bones that returning to the pond on December 21st is what Blaze needs to do.

How selfish am I to deny him his return? For my own comfort and happiness? The silence of ruin is bearable if I am to share it with him, but social devastation combined with the loneliness I’ll endure with his departure would kill me; of that much I am certain. But is that reason enough not to spare him what will undoubtedly be uncomfortable?

“Jo.”

Blaze’s words cut through my thoughts, and I realize I have been keeping my back to him as I fix last night’s mess. Now, with his countenance wrought with concern, Blaze holds me steady to face him. The thin line of his lips beneath his mustache makes his expression hard to read, but his eyes are all sincerity. “Talk to me.”

Do I tell him what I am really thinking? Do I admit that my instincts tell me I have the answers he spent months looking for, and my current social standing makes that information exponentially more frightening? No. Instead, my chest splits with a heaving choke and my face slumps into my palms, hiding the freely flowing tears.

“Darlin’,” Blaze coos, pulling me tightly to his chest. “I promise this will all be okay.”

The following weeks prove bleak. Winter has well and truly descended upon London, and the ton is quiet with the absence of its more pompous crowd.

In the history of my ‘hobby’, as Georgia so often called it, the modiste has never been quieter. While I have the occasional lady come to me for a repair, the steamstress across town is still drowning in orders. I have not fitted anyone for a new gown…well…since my excursion to the tavern. In fact, the only knock I have received on the modiste’s door belonged to a messenger who was delivering a decadent basket of pastries and breads. Attached to its handle was a small note tied with a blue ribbon. It read: Proud of you both. Grandmother (Gerty)

The nod to her ridiculous nickname seemed to brighten Blaze’s spirits, and while I appreciated her quiet show of solidarity, it still made me sad. If Grandmother wanted to remain comfortably taken care of in her final years, she would undoubtedly have to stay—at a minimum—neutral to the topic of Blaze and me.

Blaze and I have spent most of our evenings tucked away in the loft, reading, talking, and playing pretend. And he doesn’t even know it. His presence, his devotion, his tantalizing mouth kissing me and calling me his wife; it all feels so terribly temporary, and it is all because I care too much to lie to him.

So when do I break the spell?

I’ve even gone as far as to staunch my own guilt in doing whatever I can to make him feel at home here. These thick trousers are a testament to that. A proper gentleman should wear a set of tails and fine pantaloons to the festival, but Blaze has made a fuss about how he would choose comfort over fashion any day. So here I am with the thickest cotton I can find, trying to tailor the perfect pair of trousers so he is warm and practical for our day out.

A needle sinks into my finger, and I curse myself for still not adopting the use of a thimble. With no orders to fulfill, I have time to work on a dress for myself to be worn at the festival. Not that many will stop to admire it. I expect to receive the cut at every turn, but nonetheless, Blaze and I will face the rejection well dressed.

Blaze chuckles from the chaise and peeks over his novel. “You know, I always watched the movie with my mom, but reading the book is way better.” He wags a copy of Pride and Prejudice, which he whooped over when he saw it in a display window a few days ago. “Is it weird that I get swallowed by the ocean, emerge in a pond several hundred years in the past, and end up feeling most at home reading a book published about this very time in this time?”

I peek over my pile of fabric. “What is a movie?”

“Think about watching a play…but it’s in a little box and you can take it home and watch it over and over again.”

I purse my lips. “How do the tiny people get in the box? Why are the people tiny?”

Blaze chuckles and shakes his head. “People in your time would call it witchcraft.” He leans forward, thumping the book closed. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What—now?” I cast a glance beyond the table still cluttered with dinner dishes to the window which reveals the darkness of night, disrupted only by gentle white snowflakes. “It’s dark. And cold.”