12. A Combless Rooster
A Combless Rooster
Josephine
The single most anticipated soiree of the season has arrived.
As have I, and my spasming nerves.
With a foreigner from the future who says unpredictable things at unforgivable times. Things that are developing into a habit of making me laugh at unforgivable times.
My heart pounds. With every step closer to the Winthrop estate, my throat tightens as though an invisible noose has already found its place, and this ball will be my ‘short drop with a quick stop’.
Spinsters don’t tend to do well at society gatherings.
We are either the reason for the whispers as we pass, or we are the reason the room goes completely silent as we enter.
This may very well be the most notable occurrence in the history of Josephine Dashwood, for I arrive at a prestigious society event with an escort who is not a brother or my father.
Arm linked with his, I swear I can feel him tremble too as the grand house opens like a gaping mouth, beckoning us into what is undoubtedly—not counting His Majesty’s palace—the most spectacular residence in London.
Fresh garlands of in-season florals in blues, pinks, and yellows adorn every banister, and where they couldn’t find space to hang the flowers, the blooms float in beautiful crystal bowls with candles casting rippling glimmers of light in all directions.
Hand-painted vases serve as floral receptacles as well, bringing a sense of gardened serenity to the indoors.
At the center of the grand entrance, the Winthrops have installed a Venus fountain where, within the shallow waters surrounding the grand shell and goddess, lovely performers in her likeness slowly dance.
Marble bistro tables are thoughtfully arranged around the fountain, and small champagne towers grace each table.
Ladies and gentlemen not quite ready to join the dance have already found seats and are merrily talking and watching the choreographed dance in the dimmer lighting.
“See that tall lady?” I nudge Blaze, who has in a panic grabbed the nearest drink he can find, and offer a discreet nod to guide his attention.
The object of my focus has hair dark as a raven, warm honey-colored skin, and a head held high enough to let everyone know that she knows what she wants.
In this case, I trail her gaze to where my brother, Stanley, stands.
I make a mental note to ask him about her later.
It’s high time he was married, according to Father, that is.
Blaze is oddly quiet despite his nod of acknowledgement, and I think he must be nervous. I take a deep breath despite my own nerves and attempt to calm both of ours. “Well, I made the dress she is wearing.”
At this, he pauses to examine the gown even closer. I am proud of it. It shimmers, iridescent like water. One might consider calling it blue, but the longer you look at it, the colors change as she moves with the light. The fabric is magical.
“Wow,” Blaze offers me an approving nod. “It’s incredible! It reminds me of the sea…”
I am about to ask him where his long rambles have gone when our first trial arrives in the form of the Winthrops themselves.
They stand in a row, greeting their guests one by one, and at last, it is our turn. Knees trembling before our esteemed hosts, I fold into the steadiest curtsy I can manage, and dip my chin, praying to God that Blaze follows my father’s lead with a deep bow.
“Lady Winthrop,” my mother chimes warmly. “What a beautiful affair you have graced us with. How can we ever thank you for your hospitality?”
Lady Winthrop drawls on about being honored enough by our presence, probably the same smoke she has blown at every single person before us, and I think we just might have avoided disaster when Eliza Winthrop speaks.
To me, personally, it seems.
“While our floors are made of the grandest marble in the city, I highly recommend not lying on them, as I know how fond of floors you are.” She shares a not-so-subtle giggle with her sister Marianne, suggesting my earlier fall has been a topic of discussion throughout their day, then she glances back down her long nose at me.
“We have set up tables in the foyer for those who aren’t as steady on their feet.
I would hate for anyone to step on you.”
“Jo?” Blaze speaks, and my stomach tightens and threatens to lose itself on the floor all at once. God, no, he is talking. “Not steady on her feet? My beautiful dove.” I cringe at his attempt to sound like he belongs. “I will always think you are the very picture of grace.”
There is that silence I am so used to.
Anyone within earshot has stopped to get a look at the man with the strange accent whose arm I am gripping for dear life.
My face heats and then his hand lands softly on mine.
I have half a mind to be mad at him for speaking until I see the looks on the faces of those around us.
They judge him. They hide smirks. As always, they are utterly cruel.
My anger is redirected, but not given nearly enough time to take root into anything truly dangerous, for the terrible conversation continues.
“And who might you be, sir?” Lord Winthrop clears his throat in an effort at hospitality, but just as introductions are about to be made, Eliza, clearly bored with my family and I, raises a hand gleefully, signaling to a friend.
I take the opportunity to quickly draw Blaze away from the interrogation.
“Of all the people we do not want to spend too much time talking to,“ I hiss beneath my breath, “The Winthrops are at the very top.”
“Why on earth do you go to parties hosted by people you don’t like, then?” Blaze asks, following my lead as we shuffle our way past dancers, through masses of petticoats, to a safe place along the wall.
“Don’t you?” I finally respond breathlessly, noticing how my skirts itch and my hair feels heavy and sweaty. I would commit murder to be home right now. My home. Not Dashwood House. My quiet flat. With tea.
Blaze chuckles, shoves his hands in his pockets, and shakes his head. “Where I am from, we don’t even talk to our neighbors if we don’t like them.”
“How odd,” I answer, wondering what his social circle looks like. “Well, here, not showing up to the Winthrop ball is almost worse than being a thornback.”
Blaze toys with the word as if he is trying to remember something. “Thornback? What the fuck is that?”
At first, I am stunned by his vulgar language; however, his lack of knowledge regarding my use of slang makes me wonder for a moment if he was telling the truth about when he is from. “What do you mean, ‘What?’ Haven’t you ever heard of a thornback?”
Blaze shrugs. “Tell me what a thornback is, and I will tell you if we have them.”
“Well,” I glance around at the vibrant debutantes surrounding us. “See those young ladies dancing?”
“The gaggle of chicks that clearly plan to get whatever they want just because they’re hot? Yeah, we have those in my time. Why is that a bad thing?”
I observe every woman within view and try to find a single one who looks feverish.
Flushed from exertion, yes, a few, but hot?
None appear unwell to me. “You are strange,” I mumble with a laugh.
“No, not ill; they’re young and beautiful and most are in their first season out.
Most will marry this year. I was them nearly eight years ago. ”
“I’m not tracking, Jo.” Then he stops, and his big hazel eyes widen with understanding.
“Aw shit, you mean spinster like they talk about in the shows!
The curmudgeon old ladies who probably hex their enemies in the woods somewhere cause society shunned them.
You? Are you talking about yourself?“ He looks me over with disbelief, and for a moment, I am uncomfortable at his scrutiny.
Is it judgment? Is it admiration? I have no idea, but he looks too long.
As usual, I am entirely unsure what he is talking about, but I shrug off the confusion, ignore his lingering gaze, and simply jump to the question I can answer. “Yes. I, fiancé, am a spinster. Congratulations, you’re engaged to maybe the least desirable woman in London.”
His brow furrows, and Blaze offers my hand another friendly pat.
“Well Jo, from what I can see, you’re one of the only ladies here who doesn’t have some kind of plumage in her hair so, as far as I am concerned, I am engaged to the only sane woman—which is way better than desirable if you ask me.
Nobody wants a wife at risk of being institutionalized… ”
I gasp. “Do ladies in your time go to Bedlam—or such places—for feathers in their hair?!”
“Once again, and I’m afraid not for the last time, I have no clue what you’re saying. What I am saying is that I’m really, really glad I get to dance with someone who doesn’t look like they are performing some heron mating ritual.”
I snort. It is unbecoming and far too loud, and suddenly, the mysterious brute beside me joins in my laughter. “You sound like one of my mom’s pigs,” he says between chuckles.
“I should’ve been born on a farm,” I whisper, laughing despite my aching belly and the tears forming in my eyes. “I would’ve been more at home there.”
“Hell,” Blaze says jokingly. “When I find out how to get back to my time, you can come with me and visit the farm.”
“Me? Time travel? Imagine how unwell Mother would be then,“ I say with a wistful sigh. “They would be funding a funeral for two then. Though Father may save some shillings on Mother’s smelling salts when she doesn’t have to rely on them to cope with me.” I smile sidelong at him, and for the briefest moment, I find myself admiring the rugged air about him.
Although I tried my best at taming his hair, a single unruly curl still falls across his brow.
He shaved everything but the mustache, which is an odd fashion choice, but I find it endearing.
Of all the bumbling idiots to have fallen through time and smack right into me, at least this one is funny and charming in his own strange way.
I am almost enjoying myself when a face appears in the fog of people.
He is tall, immaculately dressed, and is the absolute bane of my existence.
If my parents have a list regarding my failures and reasons for resenting me, he sits at the top of said list. When one’s floundering daughter turns down the many proposals of a viscount, it tends to cause dissension in the family.
Viscount Edwardson. Handsome enough, but that beard. Intolerable. Not to mention his gambling addiction, which everyone seems to overlook because he is handsome, rich, and has a marvelous countryside estate.
“Miss Dashwood.” His greeting is smooth, warm, and full of agenda as he dips into a slow bow, kissing my hand in the process.
“It has been far too long since last I saw you.” The Viscount flashes a sidelong glance at Blaze before returning his undivided attention to me, no doubt recollecting the many times he has bullied me onto the dance floor.
I am flattered, really. He is the only man who has ever shown an interest in me after my failed coming out.
But something about his want for a decorative wife has always irked me.
If I were to ask him what he wanted in a wife, he would describe someone just like me, but his previous marriage, which ended only because his wife tragically passed due to birthing complications, tells me otherwise.
She was meek, quiet, willing to play the part of an obedient viscountess.
So whatever it is he sees in me, which I still, years into the little game of avoidance play with him, can not possibly imagine.
“I have been otherwise occupied,” I offer politely, gesturing to the fine clothing the ladies around us wear. “Life of a businesswoman rarely allows for such pleasantries.”
“Businesswomen are hot,” Blaze mutters under his breath, and I sidestep slightly to lower my heel on his toe, evoking an awkward yelp.
“Miss Josephine.” The viscount looks to me in concern. “Are you unwell? You appear flushed.”
I nod quickly now, seeing my escape plan unfolding beautifully before me. “Yes, it is rather hot where I stand.” I am ready to pull Blaze along with me, away from Edwardson, when the viscount offers me a solution.
“Yes,” he says with a chivalrous smile and offering his arm to me. “It is quite crowded here. Might I whisk you away to the dance floor and see if some moving air remedies the situation?”
Blaze’s fingers tighten around my elbow, and he leans in to whisper, “What’s wrong with his beard? Looks like he stuck his dick in an outlet.”
Once again, I am laughing, and I have only Blaze to blame. “Stuck his what in an outlet? You mean a shop vendor’s booth?!”
“No darling, I am not talking about a peen-peddler—although that monstrous beard could qualify him for a collaboration with Bad Dragon.“ His cheeks redden and by the way he chokes on a laugh, I can only assume whatever he’s whispering about is not a topic for polite society.
Caught up in our own moment, I neglect to answer Edwardson, leaving the three of us in an awkward standstill. Stupidly, I stare for a moment, feeling Blaze beside me slacken for a reason I cannot comprehend.
My silence is apparently not answer enough.
Edwardson tries again. “Miss Dashwood,” he speaks charismatically as if I haven’t just laughed unbecomingly for no apparent reason. “I would be honored to dance with you. Will you join me?”