Page 50 of The Spinster & the Sock

We trudge past a fine leathersmith, and I admire the designs burned into his luxury tack before following Blaze’s lead across the street. Every direction I look, ladies of high fashion shimmer in the lantern light, their beautiful clothing a cold reminder of what I didn’t make. While each dress is still lovely, I tingle with the realization that my own gown is the most breathtaking piece on display this evening, a detail many others seem to notice as well. My ears burn, the whispers catching flame as I pass through the congestion and see old clients and familiar faces, all leaning in to speculate.

The ruined ex-spinster with her rake of a husband daring to draw attention to her shame. It’s thrilling.

“I must admit,” a woman coos from behind, “I am glad the light posts are all barricaded.”

I roll my eyes, noting the freshly cut trees propped against the nearest posts.

She continues, “The modiste and her stray mutt might mistake one for their bed again.”

I groan, and Blaze’s hand tightens around mine, but he slows our pace. “No need to rush and give them exactly what they want,” he whispers, nodding towards a candle vendor. “These look nice. Do we need more?”

I think of all we truly do need and how I am not sure we will afford much of it in the coming weeks. “It doesn’t hurt to look.”

We browse casually, Blaze decidedly unconcerned by the gossip, while I’m far too concerned by it, until we find ourselves at the edge of the frozen pond, sitting on a lovely stone bench. We watch the quaint skaters gliding across the ice, catching the light every once in a while as they pass into the lantern glow, then out again, becoming shadows against the white.

A young boy trots up the street with an armload of firewood. A delightful, illuminated canopy nearby smells of decadent treats and hot drinks. And to my absolute horror, I notice models moving in and out of another tent displaying the fine wears of my competitor. Her additional stall is actually a fashion show.

“She has her own models!?” I hiss, nodding towards the exhibition, realizing my career is more dead than the bodies in the cemetery. “She really has profited from my downfall.” My eyes dart between the familiar faces of my former patrons and I mutter under my breath. “Judases.”

“Her display sucks ass,” Blaze retorts. “These outfits are lackluster at best, and there is no way your old clients don’t realize it. Judas knew he’d fucked up, and so do they.” He nods towards the ladies, his mustache twitching with a scowl. “Hey! Fucker!”

His vulgar address draws my attention to a delivery boy popping out of the modiste’s tent, his arms stacked high with neatly wrapped parcels. It’s Jonathan Thomas. “Traitor,” I call out, glaring at the boy as he trots through the snow.

“Maybe he will forget to deliver her packages too,” Blaze says with a cross tone.

I sink further into the bench, staring at my skates, unsure if I even have the energy to put them on. “Whether they realize it or not, they won’t return to my shop. I am completely fucked.”

Blaze grins at my use of his favorite word, and as if he has read my mind, he slides from the bench to kneel in the snow before me, taking my ankle in his hand. I am certain we draw attention to ourselves as he relieves me of my polished boot, but frankly, I don’t care. “Completely fucked?” He licks his lips and glances up at me before focusing on sliding the skate onto my foot. “You don’t have any room for further fucking?”

My middle grows hot, and I smile, looking sidelong to avoid his lustful gaze. “Oh, off with you.” I dismiss him with a playful wave, completing the task on my own. “It seems you need to go cool down.”

With skates donned, we wobble towards the ice. Together we join the couples who glide gleefully across the frozen pond to the cheerful melody of carolers. It is beautiful. It is warm despite the freezing conditions. But the blades grating beneath me feel like the shriek of betrayal, demanding I confess to my husband the secret I have been keeping.

By the time we leave the gliding merriment and rejoin the trail of festival-goers to dip in and out of tents, I fear my mood for partaking in the celebration has vanished. Every time I open my mouth, I am certain the truth will stampede out and knock us both flat on our behinds.

So when we come face to face with my parents, I am stricken with a stupid silence.

Mama stares at me wide-eyed, and Father turns his head, blatantly looking anywhere but at me. The dreaded cut. How delightful.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood!” Blaze greets them warmly, and I wonder how he manages to act as if they haven’t disowned me. I suppose I should be grateful for his attempt to avoid any awkwardness, but right about now I wish he would show some of his 2025 farm-boy manners, turn the tables, and challenge my father to a duel.

“Mr. Hollows.” Father is curt, offering a brief nod, but not so much as looking at me.

The droop in Blaze’s forced grin is instant, and I can sense his disappointment. I wish I could tell him how effortless it is for my father to switch from a fishing companion to an enemy. I’ve watched it my entire life. His disappointment is always louder than his loyalty.

“Is the family enjoying their winter season away from all this bustle?” Blaze asks and is met with a quick, rude response.

“You mean, are we enjoying our retreat from the shame of our daughter’s descent into evil?” Mother nearly chokes on her words, retrieving a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her nose.

“Yeesh,” Blaze whispers. “I am glad you did not inherit your mother’s flair for the dramatics.”

I almost laugh, but then I meet the sunken eyes of my parents. Perhaps I should feel guilty. For whatever reason, I don’t. “If my shame is so hard to bear, why are you here?” I whisper, ignoring the snide hissing of those passing.

Mama gasps, and Father grunts a response, “Because hiding would make our shame that much more of a conversation.”

I smile sweetly and reach towards a tray. I am suddenly thankful we meandered into the sweets tent. Perhaps if I shovel these small cakes into my mouth, I can gag myself before I say something regrettable.

“Josephine,” my parents chide unanimously, the sentiment continued by my aghast father. “People are watching!”