5. Fuck
Fuck
Blaze
“You, sir, will make this right!” Gertude screeches.
My elation disappears.
I’m alive. Which means this is real, and I’ve somehow Outlandered myself into Regency Era London.
My stupid joke about marriage is suddenly a little too legitimate.
Not only that, but this whole fucking thing is real.
A looming marriage to a perfect stranger over a misunderstanding is actually only the cherry on top of the shit-storm I realize I’m in.
How did I get here, and better yet, how the fuck do I get home?
What I guess to be eighteen years later, after a carriage ride that was absolutely not the most awkward I’ve felt in my entire life, we pull up to a quaint estate.
Gerty was kind enough to let me put clothes on before leaving Jo’s shop, and thank fuck Jo had more than dresses in stock.
If I wasn’t so busy freaking the hell out over Magic Treehousing myself, I would be over the moon to be wearing authentic period pieces like these trousers, button-down shirt and overcoat.
The just-barely too-big and stiff-as-the-dead shoes can piss off though.
Slightly nauseous either from the ride or the imminent danger of meeting “The esteemed Mr. Dashwood,”—who really knows—I spring out of the little door the second the wheels stop turning.
I can’t quite read the look on Jo’s face when I turn back to help her down the step, but as I assist Gerty down after her, Jo speaks.
“Grandmother, this has all been a misunderstanding. We don’t really need to bring Father into this, if you would just let me explain!” Gerty, Jo’s grandma, it turns out, holds her hand up.
“You were alone with a man, and he was entirely unclothed. I do not see how there is anything to misunderstand, Josephine,” she says before, quite literally, turning up her nose and stalking off towards the door leaving Jo and me shoulder-to-shoulder at the gate.
“So on a scale of shit to fuck, how bad is this? Would it be better or worse if I just bolted?” I whispered, throwing a thumb over my shoulder.
“We have absolutely reached fuck at this point, and it would most definitely be worse if you bolted,” she huffs, clearly not impressed with my almost serious attempt at lightening the mood. Then a thought occurs to me.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You must think I was raised in a barn. Where the hell did I leave my manners—I never introduced myself!”
“No, I suppose you didn’t—though I assure you that is not why I believe you to have been raised among animals.” She crosses her arms and gives me a pointed once-over.
“Blaze.”
“Pardon?” Josephine spins in a circle, clearly panicked. “Fire? Where?”
“N-no! My name—it’s Blaze, Blaze Hollows. That’s my name. Blaze is my name.”
Her incredulous stare tells me the same thing all those kids did back in grade school. She thinks it’s ridiculous.
“Should we catch up to Gerty?” I sigh, nodding my head in the direction of the now-open door.
“My grandmother’s name is Marjorie. Will you please stop calling her Gerty?” Jo shakes her head and grabs my hand, dragging me behind her as she makes her way to our mutual doom—clearly fearing I may hold true to my joke and run.
I know I’m way past fucked when we step into the house and turn into the parlor.
A handful of women, obviously related to Jo if their hair color is any indication, are sitting on various couches and whispering to each other.
But it’s the older man pacing in the back of the room in front of the fireplace that makes me want to tuck tail.
He’s chewing at his thumbnail, and his face is red with anger.
Gerty—it’s too late to let the name go—is standing by the mantle, arms crossed.
“I wish it was not true, George, but I was there! I saw everything—and I do mean everything—with my very own eyes!” The elderly woman shudders, her jowls dangling like a hound dog while glancing between my legs. “I saw it. There is no mistaking what was happening.”
I sigh.
He looks up, right at me. Jo has his eyes, though where hers are gentle—even when she’s spitting like a viper—her father’s are harsh.
Fuck.
He clears the gap in four strides, jerks Jo to his side by her wrist and shoves an open palm at my chest, which I think makes him angrier, but I’m used to being pushed around by angry heifers. It doesn’t matter that he’s a whole hand taller than me.
“My daughter’s character has suffered enough damage without her virtue also being questioned. You may marry Josephine, or you may die. Make your choice, sir.”
Well, that’s a little dramatic.