11. Lynyrd The Barn Cat
Lynyrd: The Barn Cat
Blaze
I’m only two lines into my impromptu acapella performance before I’m forced to stop.
Maintaining that high of a falsetto any longer isn’t possible.
It’s not just that though, I can tell without even unfolding them that the clothes Jo picked out for me are nice.
And I don’t mean nice like the clothes I just destroyed wrestling her father, I mean nice as in ‘looks like you’re going to a fucking ball tonight, Blaze’.
I was on the verge of a full-fledged mental breakdown when I saw her expression.
She was freaking out the same way I was—am—and for whatever reason, calming her down took priority.
But now I’m alone, standing here with a fistful of fancy britches and coat tails.
Throwing up would only make this whole situation worse, but I still might do it anyway.
If there was ever a time to have lucky footwear, this would be it. I really hope Jo didn’t throw out my clothes; one lucky sock is probably better than none.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lynyrd Hollows.” I test the introduction in the mirror and sigh.
My hair’s a mess—and still feels salt-soaked—the five o’clock shadow and dark bags under my eyes make it obvious I need sleep, and my lower lip is split and scabbing over.
I don’t know how long I have to get ready, but I refuse to make Jo’s life any more difficult than I already have by escorting her looking like this. She’s my only chance of getting home.
It takes me a minute to figure out how the boiler works, and I still end up standing in the empty tub and dumping not-quite-hot water on myself, but it will have to do.
Either George uses this washroom as well, or they just keep the room stocked for guests, because I find everything I need to shave in the cabinet. I’m grateful now that my dad took the time to teach me how to shave with a straight razor.
Finally dressed, I step back into the hall.
“What do you think? Can I pull off the look? Or do I look like a pretentious a—” My question dies on my lips when I glance up and see Jo sitting on a butler bench across the hall.
Her blonde hair is half up with gentle curls swept over her shoulder and far longer than I expected.
The dress she’s wearing is dark green with short sleeves and is cut lower than I thought possible for this day and age—not that I’m complaining.
“Whoa, you look good,” I sputter when I realize I’m staring.
“Thank you. You almost appear presentable yourself.”
I balk at her, and she giggles—giggles—before standing and dragging me by the hand back into the washroom.
She quickly shuts the door behind her before procuring a small container from the depths of the cabinet and motions for me to sit on the edge of the tub.
With deft hands, she swipes a glob of what I assume to be gel or wax and starts running it through my hair.
“That feels good,” I moan, melting into her touch. I’m like a damn barn cat for some good head scratches.
“Quiet down, you feral animal! Do you have any idea how hard it was to sneak away from my attendant?” She laughs, returning to the cabinet once more.
“Are you going to give me a comb-over?” I eye the brush in her grip warily. Mom couldn’t even persuade me to gel my hair down for prom.
“I think I am just going to slick it all back a little. This red hair will make you stand out enough as is, and I’d rather not draw any more unwanted attention to us. I actually do not like talking to most people.”
I nod in agreement, earning me a smack with the brush.
“Ouch! Sorry, I’m not very good at sitting still. For the record, I’m not a big fan of talking to people either.” I glance up at her, careful not to move my head again, and this time her smile is genuine.
I was wrong earlier when I said that was the most awkward carriage ride in the history of ever.
Dead wrong, because this? I’m squished in between Gerty and Mr. Dashwood while Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters sit across from us.
Everyone is staring at me, and I haven’t failed to notice the elderly hand that keeps ‘accidentally’brushing my thigh.
I’m already carsick from bouncing around in this damn pumpkin.
“So…are we there yet?” I ask just as my stomach growls loud enough to echo off the damn walls. “Any chance the Windrops will have food? I haven’t eaten anything since last night.” A side effect of waking up late this morning and missing breakfast, I guess. Fucking Carter.
“I believe the Winthrops intended on having a medley of seafood as hors d’oeuvres. Not much further now,” Mrs. Dashwood tells me.
I immediately sit straighter. It wasn’t a coincidence that I worked on a fishing ship. Yes, the money was good, but for as long as I could remember, any kind of seafood or shellfish had been my favorite. Maybe this ball wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“There!” Georgia exclaims, pointing out the window just as the coachman calls out and the carriage rolls to a stop.
The door opens and I rush out, mostly to be free of the sardine can on wheels, but also to give myself a second to gawk while I help the Dashwood women—and Gerty—down the narrow steps.
Whoever these Winthrop people are, it is obvious they are sitting pretty high up on the metaphorical ladder. The estate is massive, and the line of richly dressed guests pouring in the front door is instantly overwhelming.
“Breathe, Lynyrd,” Jo whispers, squeezing my hand as she steps down. “It will be alright as long as you know how to dance.” Her playful smirk and sparkling eyes are enough for me to realize she doesn’t expect any dancing from me. She’s teasing me.
I lean over her shoulder to whisper back, “I suppose we’ll be alright then, Josephine.”
Her cheeks flush when I pull away and she allows me to tuck her gloved hand on my arm.
I had dogged my mom for weeks when she made me take those ballroom dance lessons with her, but now I owe her the world for it.
“Shall we go inside, Miss Dashwood?” I ask in my best British accent. Jo rolls her eyes with a smile, and we walk to the manor.