Page 51 of The Spinster & the Sock

My cheeks bulge as I wedge something tangerine-flavored further into my mouth. I chew aggressively, avoiding the wide-eyed questioning of my husband before swallowing, disappointed to feel the words still clawing at my throat. Apparently Blaze’s method of eating cakes is not as deadly as it looked, but certainly just as painful.

I am overheating, and my heart is pounding. Can they see it? Is the collar of my jacket bouncing above the violent throbbing? Perhaps one last cake will do the trick?

Alas, nearly dying on whatever this nut and berry tart thing doesn’t help the situation either, and by the time I swallow that as well, I find three pairs of startled eyes examining the bits of sugar clinging to my lips.

I wipe the remnants of my stress snack from my face, and my courage ramps up faster than a prize racehorse at the event of its life. “People are watching!” I laugh nervously and dust crumbs from my skirt. “Maybe the entire ton can watch as I tell you with everything I have to say: I could not care less if every single person in London turns their back on me, because the people I love most in this world have already discarded me. Strangers on the street? Peers within society? Their rejection pales compared to yours. If you must endure my shame as a consequence of your contempt, I suppose I can also bear your shame.”

Blaze nods and offers them a polite smile as he turns us to leave. His brows furrow in concern as he looks down at me, unbudging. “Should we go while you’re ahead?” he whispers, but I hardly hear him.

“And while we are on the topic of shame, perhaps we should discuss what Stanley was even doing in that part of town when he found Blaze and me? That seems a little hypocritical. While you’re in the business of writing off your children, Stanley might be next in line to tarnish the good family name.” I giggle nervously.

My parents gape at me, but I prattle on before they get a word in.

“I wonder if Dashwood heirs exist unbeknownst to us!” I flash my horrified husband a grin. “I may be the aunt of a child whose mother lives in a brothel. What a titillating thought!” I squeak another nervous laugh, cram a shortbread cookie in my mouth, and try to breathe around the dry crumbs.

“We call that a plot twist where I am from,” Blaze squeaks, offering me his best attempt at support.

“Josephine!” Mama cries.

“Lower your voice!” Father hisses, but I continue speaking over him, flecks of cookies and pastries falling from my chin.

“Georgia’s disposition is positively fragile, so we can add two spinsters to the list of your failures, as I am certain you will have to beg and bribe any half-decent suitor to make her his bride. She would spend her honeymoon fretting and abed with smelling salts, and I am quite convinced no gentleman wants an ill wife before he has an heir. And while we are ruminating on our many, many concerns! You have lots of children and just as many delightful opportunities for failure! Three reasons to be embarrassed already exist. I wonder how many more you are in for.”

Horror chills my veins, but the words simply cannot be stopped. I spin to face Blaze. “Marrying me is probably the worst decision you have ever made in your life, for it seems I tell the truth when I absolutely should not, and I cannot bring myself to speak the truth when I know I should! So!” I lift my arms at my side, feeling a humiliating cackle leaves my throat. I grin like a madwoman at my parents and husband through the blur of tears. “Shall we continue with a detailed account of my many shortcomings?”

Inadvertently, my traitorous hand snaps like a viper towards the tray of cakes, and I stuff one more in my mouth, chewing loudly with wide eyes.

I think I just stress-ate the cost of our lamp oil for the next month.

The Almanac

Blaze

“And that’s enough of that,” I drawl, slapping a few coins onto the table next to the now nearly empty pastry display. “As much of a displeasure this has truly been, I’m grateful we have to go,” I say to Jo’s miserable excuses for parents.

I’ve been steadily losing my patience with the damn Dashwoods and holding it together for my wife’s sake, but seeing her finally crack and lose the fucking plot breaks my heart. How dare they hurt her this way? Do they not see or care about the impact their actions have had on her? Thank the fucking stars for Mom and Pop, because I don’t know how Jo manages to smile every day with these assholes judging down the family tree.

Jo chews more quickly, dry-swallowing a chunk of cake in preparation to speak again, but I’m pulling the ripcord. With a quick nod—mostly to myself to confirm that I am about to do what I think I’m about to do—I turn wholly to her, grab her waist and throw her over my shoulder, though not before she snatches another tart from the display.

Jo makes some unintelligible bird sound, her middle finger waving in my periphery.

Helena sucks in a breath like she’s auditioning to be the next Dyson.

George sounds like he’s rapping the entire alphabet backwards.

“I do so hope I don’t have the misfortune of breathing your same air again any time soon—unless so wished by my beautiful bride,” I call out over my shoulder as I stride away, and I punctuate my claim with a swift swat to Jo’s ass—grinning like a madman at her carb-loaded ‘eep’!

In the ten minutes it took to carry her home, Jo has successfully uttered every possible variant of the words fuck, shit, damn, and bitch that I’ve used since landing at her feet six months ago. Even though most of them were directed at me for refusing to put her down, I’m rather impressed. Aside from calling me a ‘chicken fuck’ when I suspect she meant ‘chicken shit’, she used every phrase correctly.

“I was just warming up! I can’t believe you carried me out of there like an ill-behaved toddler!” My red-faced wife glares in my direction after I finally set her down at the top of the stairs to the loft, and she crosses her arms with a huff.

“Oh, don’t I know it. That’s exactly why I intervened.” I kick my boots off before stepping toward her, taking her face in my hands. “I know they’re your parents and nothing I say could make what they’ve done hurt any less, but I hope they invent Legos a hundred years early and then someone places one under George and Helena’s feet after every six and a half steps. May they suffer the discomfort of a hair stuck in their ass-crack, one that they don’t notice is there until the entire ton is watching them so they can’t just root around and dig it out. The only person who maybe even barely deserves the privilege of standing in your presence is probably Gerty—but that’s just because ‘lesser of two evils’ or what the fuck ever—though I may never forgive her for the Johnson dress.” I grimace at the memory.

“Have I told you recently how exotic your insults are?” Jo giggle-sniffs, relaxing slightly in my hold. Fuck, she’s trying not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For just being you, I suppose. You have been blindly defending me since the very moment you dropped into my life. I know falling back in time has been a curse for you, but it has been such a blessing for me.” Jo looks up at me, unshed tears glistening in her eyes.