Page 53 of The Spinster & the Sock

This is likely my final night with my husband, and I can’t bear to lie beside him. Instead, I sit on the floor, the shoulder of my shift drooping lower than my spirits, which is saying a lot. I am surrounded by his things. His almanac, his fishing waders, and those damn ugly boots. I considered packing a few of the fitted pieces I made him, then reconsidered it. He will already be questioned without the aid of authentic 1813 clothing adding to the curiosity.

If I am right about my suspicions, tomorrow evening at this time, I’ll be alone.

My stomach sinks and feels as though all the horses in His Majesty’s army weigh it down. As I fold, sort, and arrange Blaze’s things through blurry vision, the horses leave my stomach and stampede through my heart, making me shake, and the tears spring free.

“I woke to a cold bed and for a second, I thought this was all a dream and I was back on the farm.”

His groggy voice creaks louder than the bedroom door as he pushed through it, coming to slump on the chaise, which hasn’t been his bed in months.

“You should be resting,” I chide. “You have a big day when the sun rises.”

“And you don’t?” Blaze’s eyes dissect me, first pausing with a painful grimace on my tearful face, then traveling downwards to where his belongings surround me. “Eager to see me gone?”

“Dreading it,” I answer too quickly. “But I thought I could…get you ready.” My words fail me, and with a sniff, I stand and smooth the skirt of my shift. “One last way to show you…”

“Show me what?” Blaze asks, looking up at me from his seat with the pure expression of a puppy, and I swear beneath his rusty mustache, his lips quiver.

“Nothing,” I manage, turning my back to him, imagining just how glad he will be that he listened to me once he is in his mama’s arms again. “I can’t find your socks.” I sputter a laugh and quickly dry my cheeks in time to turn and smile at him, fresh-faced and with no sign of tears remaining. “Whatever have you done with them? You just wore them.”

Blaze sheepishly scratches his head and offers me a shrug. “They fell victim to my impatience. I threw them along with everything else we were wearing before we made it to bed, and I have no clue where they are. I guess I’ll have to return without them.”

“Nonsense.” I hurry back to the bedroom and begin rooting around every corner, flinging possessions and small items over my shoulder, each toss more aggressive than the last, until I fail to find the socks and slump into the bed with a defeated humph.

“Fuck.” I glance over my shoulder.

Blaze leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “You done?”

I nod slowly and make room on the mattress beside me. “How will you leave your lucky socks behind?”

“I am getting ready to leave my wife behind,” he grumbles, not looking at me. “You really think I care about a pair of socks?”

My hand snakes across the cold space between us and finds his. I grip his white knuckles and look sidelong at him, sucking in a bolstering breath. “You have experienced a tragedy, and somehow it has turned out beautifully for both of us. I will miss you every day, and thank God just as much for the time I have had with you, but your family needs to know their son didn’t drown. You need to at least try, if not for my conscience, then for your parent’s sake.”

Blaze is quiet for what feels like an eternity. He gnaws at his lower lip, and for fear of him drawing blood, I reach across our bodies with my free hand, gently brushing fingertips against his lips, and we share in the silence until he is ready to speak.

“I will try for you and for my parents’ sake, but God forbid it works. I’ll be home in 2025 grieving a wife my family never met. What a cruel tragedy that would be.” His hand slips out of mine, and he motions towards the bed. “Come, let me hold you for one last night.”

Blaze leaves the modiste with an axe slung over his shoulder, and while I have become comfortable with the way people look at him, the uncomfortable expressions from members of the ton aimed at my husband while he trudges through thick snow wearing a scowl and his fishing waders while practically brandishing a weapon is a new one for us.

I trot behind him, wordlessly carrying his almanac, which we have wrapped in many layers of leather and tied firmly with cord. He will zip the bundle into his waders before jumping in, but I thought the added leather might help preserve it. He opted to leave everything else, not believing it would make the trip anyway.

By the time we reach the pond in Regent’s Park, the sun is nearly overhead and a steady string of onlookers stroll past, offering us curious glances as we stand at the water’s edge.

“No DeLorian, no standing stones, no ruby slippers, and no Dart Jover,” Blaze mumbles a cranky string of curses, then holds the axe at arm’s length, pointing it threateningly at the frozen surface. “Just me, the winter solstice, and this son of a bitch.” He tests the ice with his boot, stomping hard. “Ready to laugh at me one last time, wife?”

I smile weakly and ignore the screaming inside my head. “It’s my favorite thing to do,” I respond merrily, contrary to every emotion churning inside my chest. I swear it would be easier if I knew he was going to turn around and bury that axe in my heart. “How will I know you’ve traveled and not…”

Blaze grins over his shoulder, beckoning me to follow him to the center of the pond. “And not trapped myself in a watery grave? You won’t.” He shrugs, and we trudge for a few minutes on the slippery ice before he stops and nods. “This’ll do.”

Will it? Or will he jump in there and leave me, and I’ll regret not keeping my mouth shut?

Blaze raises the axe overhead, and the muscles of his shoulders and back show through the thin cotton shirt he wears under his waders. He lowers the blade with a vicious thwack, and then works at the end of the handle to dislodge the tool, raising it to swing again.

Did God send me the kindest husband I was ever going to find, and I simply woke up one fine winter day and told him to leave?!

Three more strikes and the ice groans under our feet, a small crack arching its way beneath us.

My body heats like iron in a forge. My hands tremble around the almanac, and my vision blurs. I could ask him to stay, but then he would think I’m out of my mind—begging him to go, begging him to stay. Do I even know what I want?