20. Crop Dust The Congregation
Crop Dust The Congregation
Josephine
Any insufferable rake could have been chosen to scale the impossible barrier of two hundred and twelve years.
He could have been far too old; he could have been ugly; or he could have had the personality of a stale piece of bread.
He could have been mean and wicked and small-minded.
But an awful man wasn’t who fell through time, knocking me off my feet. For good, it would seem.
Blaze did. And as I sit here, warm and comfortable and…safe…against him now, I hate that he’s the one that came. I need to scream into the heavens and ask what cruel sense of humor would send me this man.
For when he leaves, I am certain I shall be irreparably changed and further disgraced from society.
I manage to have this horribly depressing train of thought all while snuggled comfortably in the chaise, book in hand, with his big hands on my feet, massaging the tension from them.
He says he will tell me anything, but there is so much I want to learn, and I struggle to find the right words to ask.
Or maybe I don’t exactly grasp what I’m hoping to accomplish by knowing specific details about a future which occurs decades after I die.
I wish to understand what his time is like, but why?
Whatever 2025 turns out to be, it has created this strange man who I can’t help but need to know deeper.
Blaze notices my silence, and his warm hand tightens around my heel, his eyes searching mine. “What are you afraid of?”
The question startles me, and a wave of vulnerability washes over me. How did he recognize my hesitation as fear before I did?
I reply slowly, carefully, fearful that saying it the wrong way might make me seem ungrateful, “I’m worried nothing will change, or maybe that everything will, but not for the better.”
“Better for who?” Blaze asks gently, his eyes locked on mine. He listens to understand, though something in the way his brows arch makes me think he already does.
I withdraw from his touch and sit upright, smoothing the skirt of my nightdress.
I test the question, and try to imagine what exactly I would change if I could, and as I picture a different world in my mind, it feels wicked, like if I were to whisper it as a prayer in church tomorrow, the minister may very well rebuke me.
“You don’t have to watch what you say around me.” It’s as though he knows what I need to hear. “It won’t make me think any differently of you.”
I trust him, and I believe he means that. So I reply, “Better for me—or people like me…”
He’s quiet. Too quiet for a moment, his hazel eyes scanning the space above as if the answer he’s searching for is on the ceiling, and when he speaks, I sense both grief and pride in his voice.
“Women had to work hard for it,” he says with a firm nod.
“There will be something called the women’s suffrage movement.
You’ll see the start of it in your lifetime, but it’ll take about a hundred years to really make much of a difference, and even then, in my time, sometimes people still need reminding.
My great-grandmother was one of the women who fought for the right to vote, hold property, and have her own money. Without being scorned by society.”
My heart stills, and to my horror, the inside of my nose tingles as my vision blurs.
“Without scorn—?” My earnings aren’t much of an issue; being a spinster means I keep what I make.
Granted, if you were to ask my family, my income is now Blaze’s.
But the idea of being a self-made woman without the indignation of my peers, that would be a change.
Blaze nods, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.
“Your great-grandnieces will be empowered to do everything you can’t, Jo.
” His voice trails off, and he turns his eyes from me to the crackling fire.
Gently, he reaches out to place a hand over mine.
“Things aren’t that great in 2025 either, but if a woman doesn’t want to get married, if she doesn’t want to be a mom, if she wants a career, that’s her choice and nobody else’s. ”
The fading glow of the fire slips through the crack in my door.
I can see the outline of the large man on the undersized chaise from where I lie.
He’s snoring, but it’s low and soft. He fell asleep faster than a gentleman I witnessed get knocked senseless by a whiskey bottle a few years ago.
Yet here I lie, caught between thoughts for the future and breathless daydreams inspired by the past few hours.
I am certain beyond all doubt that a scorching path remains on my skin where Blaze’s fingertips explored, and I wonder where they were headed when the bed broke beneath us, interrupting what is quite possibly the most exhilarating experience in all my twenty-six years.
But his words? Those left a trail of fire on my heart.
How can he possibly be asleep right now while I’m here, close but too far in this bed, tortured with desire to touch him more and to be one of the women from his time…for more reasons than one.
A ridiculously stupid desire for more reasons than one. I push the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing the visions of liberated women and a naked man to pass.
“This isn’t real.” And he was right to say so, because it isn’t.
We are simply two lonely people who temporarily need one another to avoid ruination and death. But these feelings? They aren’t real and nothing good can come of giving them an opportunity to grow. Or so I keep telling myself.
I stand, shivering with the cold of the wood floors against my bare feet, tiptoe across the room and firmly close the door.
This isn’t real.
Hair drenched from his now-weekly pond dive to return to his time, Blaze meets me in front of the church. “Are you trying to go home, or avoid another ‘religious waterboarding session’?” I ask as we slip inside to find our pew.
“If I told you I was trying to catch a raw and wriggling snack to tide me over through this miserable sermon, would you believe me?” Blaze shakes his head vigorously as he says raw and wriggling and I stare startled at him, as does everyone else it would seem.
“Lord of the Rings reference,” he chuckles, side-eyeing the aghast woman next to him who lifts a fan as a barrier to obstruct their views of one another.
“You’re too young for it…no wait…too old. Either way, you wouldn’t get it.”
Right about the time the minister said something about raising spirits higher, Blaze, bored out of his mind beside me, let out a ghastly snort, muttering about not needing God to get high.
That’s how we ended up both laughing in the pew, and as we stand outside the church now, I’m about ready to combust into another fit as Blaze whispers in my ear.
“The mushroom debacle, Jo—my mom was high as a kite on funky fungi. I was making a drug joke.”
I press my hands to my mouth and silence my laughter, though I feel the tears forming in my eyes.
“Disgraceful, the both of you!” Mother storms down the steps of the church towards us. “What on earth was so funny?”
Standing close behind her, Georgia glares from beneath severe brows, and Blaze lets out a slow whistle. “Yeesh, I think they need a mushroom debacle of their own.”
“Does it help with disagreeable attitudes?” I ask under my breath, tucking an arm inside his and straightening to answer my mother. “Mama,” I say apologetically. “It was merely a poorly timed—”
Blaze cuts me off, and I watch something akin to panic betray him. “I ripped ass and totally crop-dusted the congregation.”
Mother gasps. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was awful,” he drones on. “Smelled horrible.”
I flash him a brief, sidelong, inquisitive glance, then decide if he wants to take the fall in such a humiliating manner, who am I to stop him. “Truly,” I agree. “I rushed him outside, thinking we might need the doctor.”
It’s Blaze’s turn to glare at me now, and holding a questioning finger in the air, whatever he is about to say is apparently deemed unnecessary, because his mouth clamps shut and he instead strokes his mustache uncomfortably.
“I do not wish to continue this conversation,” Mother says finally, looking from my husband to me with a disturbed grimace. “It will ruin a perfectly wonderful supper. I know how fond of shellfish you are.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, following after my family as they trail up the road towards Dashwood House. “I don’t suppose you’re serving crabs? Lynyrd loves crabs.”
From behind me, Blaze snorts and jogs to catch up with me, placing a hand on my back as he whispers once more. “Oh, wife. Please don’t say that.”
The table is immaculately set. The staff has gone to great lengths to arrange a formal meal. Only when we arrive do I realize this is not just a family dinner, as the Winthrops follow us inside and Eliza sits down beside me.
“And how is married life?” she asks coyly. For an unmarried woman, I can’t imagine why she would be so pink in the face about it.
“I find companionship quite agreeable,” I answer, my attention fixed on the plate before me.
I was ravenous at the church, but now that I am here, all eyes on me awaiting my account of marriage, my stomach is achingly hollow and I am certain anything I eat will simply resurface.
Beside me, Blaze quietly works at finishing his meal.
I can tell he is as much, if not more, uncomfortable than I am. His silence feels loud.
“Companionship,” Grandmother laughs lightly, flashing my mother a knowing look. “The one time we want Josephine to say something improper, and she lets us down. George, pass the salt. These potatoes are almost as flavorless as this conversation.”
Eliza lets slip a demure giggle, presses a napkin to her lips, and then takes a slow sip of wine. I, on the other hand, have learned well from Blaze and swallow my entire glass at once.
“You’ve been married for over a month now,” Mother says, her tone more serious. “Are you with child yet?”
I choke on the port, which is not halfway down my throat before mother welcomes herself into the details of my marriage, which seems far more flooded with confusion than I would like exposed at this very moment.
Beside me, Blaze stiffens and looks from his plate for the first time.
His jaw falls open, and he’s about to speak when Georgia, sweet as ever, interrupts, “I don’t know if women her age can have children. ”
“What a shame.” Father shakes his head, looking at me as though I’ve failed the family in every way humanly possible, then he offers Blaze a sympathetic shrug. “The least you can do for your husband is give him an heir.”
I want to say something—to react—but before I have a chance to comprehend anything, Blaze’s response makes me think the name his mother chose for him was actually quite fitting.
He huffs and shoves himself backwards, his chair screeching and drawing every guest’s attention to where he stands.
He tosses his napkin onto the table and locks eyes with my father.
“The least she can do?!” He spits the words and his hand cups my shoulder in a show of unity.
“She owes me nothing. If anything, I owe her—after all…” Uh oh, here he goes.
His voice picks up speed, and I try not to smile as I realize he’s rambling now.
“A-after all, it’s my damn fault we broke her bed yesterday, so really, I owe her all kinds of things.
Actually, you don’t even know the half of it, so just…
just…” he trails off as my family’s horrified faces save my grandmother’s, who appears oddly proud, pale in his direction, and Blaze looks down at me apologetically.
I, on the other hand, beam up at him.