16. An Idiot, Not A Gentleman
An Idiot, Not A Gentleman
Josephine
While I’ve had tea with many drab gentlemen in my life—and while my bumbling fiancé could never be described as drab—I can safely say this is the first time I have ever had tea with a downright idiot.
He’s pushed his sleeves above his elbows, which are resting on the table in a most ungentleman-like manner!
He won’t stop fidgeting with his clothes, and he is clanking every piece of dishware together loudly like a bored child in his first etiquette class.
And everything coming out of his mouth is some reference to the future, and I am utterly lost.
As if this isn’t bad enough, he keeps leaning too far back in his chair, and I’m trying to decide if I will be mortified or delighted when the two rear legs snap and he falls flat on his latter end.
I have a headache.
I’m behind on work.
And for whatever reason, I am still enjoying the idiot’s company.
“Blaze,” I begin.
I wince as he tinks a spoon thrice on the corner of his cup, visibly delighting in its sound.
“Sorry.” He cringes bashfully. “It just seems like you have something important to say, so I thought that was called for.”
I take a steadying breath, trying not to glare too harshly at the fool, then I offer a concessive nod. “Well, I do. Yes. As a matter of fact, I think it is important.”
Blaze gulps his second serving of tea, pours another cup full, then focuses his attention on me.
“I was sorting your clothes—”
“Jo, darling, you don’t have to do my laundry. My mom raised me better than to sit on my nice round ass and make my wife clean up after me.”
“There…is so much I would like to say,” I huff and press fingers to my temples, trying not to envision his nice round ass. “No, I was not going to wash them. They smell horrendous, and I think the hearth is the best place for them. Alas, I was inspecting your sock.”
Blaze lets out a slow, wistful sigh. “Divorce is hard on all socks, and though it is all too common, I hate that it happened to my lucky ones.”
“Blaze, please shut up,” I whisper, taking a soothing draw from my own teacup. The pleasant light flavor with a touch of sugar soothes me. Slightly. “I need to tell you that I saw the date on the bottom of your sock.”
“It has a date?” His expression is pure shock, followed at once by a cheeky smile. “That’s convenient!”
“Indeed,” I blurt. “Needless to say, I am sorry I did not believe you about the…” I lower my voice to just below a whisper, forcing Blaze to lean in. “Well, the time travel thing.”
He smiles and, with a satisfied grin, offers me an accepting nod. “Thanks, Jo.” He then rubs his palms together aggressively, his eyes scanning the table. “I am so hungry. I don’t get why everyone here is just looking at their snack options.”
I stare and sip my tea. I wish I was my brother Stanley, or that carrying a flask was an accepted habit for a lady.
Alas, my beverage offers nothing more than something to hide my face behind as Blaze attempts to twist the knob back on the pastry tray topper, which he accidentally snaps off when twirling the damn thing to inspect his ‘snack options’.
Once he’s sufficiently fixed the unfortunate serving dish, though I am certain it will not hold, Blaze grabs a raspberry tart.
He then plunks the damned treat into his tea before shoveling the entire pastry into his mouth.
One chew.
A single chew is all this man gives his egg-sized tart before he nearly dies trying to swallow it.
A swallow that consequently sounds more like a choke. Maybe it is a choke. He is momentarily red in the face before forcing what appears to be a painful gulp, followed by a raspy gasp for air.
“My God,” he sputters, aggressively scraping the remaining pastry off his tongue with a napkin. “It tastes like actual ass.”
I wish I didn’t. God knows I wish I didn’t.
But as the endearingly oblivious creature across from me makes enough of a scene over his ‘ass tart’ to draw the attention of nearly every eye in the teahouse to our table, I snort quite unbecomingly before spiraling completely into a fit of laughter.
“Mr. Hollows,” I wheeze, offering him a fresh napkin.
“Please, let us go find this so-called Tardis you speak of. I cannot, for the life of me, see how my already failing social status will survive you.”
Sheepishly, Blaze grins at me.
Before I know it, the banns have been read thrice.
While no one objected, they were also not especially eager to offer congratulations either, and at least a dozen times since Blaze’s unfortunate fall into my life, I have had to concoct the strangest excuses for his arrival.
Not to mention his peculiar behavior. Alas, I spend my last evening alone, sequestered away in the loft above the modiste shop.
Father and Stanley begrudgingly agreed, per my pitiful request on Blaze’s behalf, to take him out for a stag celebration.
Georgia is feeling under the weather, mother is coping only with the aid of her smelling salts, and my older sisters could not be spared from the duties of motherhood long enough to celebrate my final evening unwed.
I am left to sit, curled up with a book beside the crackling fire, staring at the words and wishing they would take the form of a story, but my troubled mind cannot still long enough to comprehend any of it.
By the time I realize I am exhausted with worrying over how to help a stranger, who is about to be my husband, defy the laws of time and space, it is too late to sleep.
I have worried the night into the dawn, and the sun rises with brilliant pink and orange splashes above London.
So, I uncurl myself from the chaise. I move towards the breathtaking dress as warm morning light filters through it, and run soft fingers across the beaded bodice.
Twenty-six years, two sisters already married with children, and I with nothing more than a successful business to boast, will now appease all of society in quite possibly the most rebellious manner I ever could.
A smile teases the corners of my mouth.
It is time to get married.
My wedding is a shock to everyone. By the way some members of the ton scowl, I’d guess they wagered a pretty price on my staying a spinster for life.
In spite of the flurry in my belly and the cold sweat sporadically pelting my skin, I am still in awe of the beautiful work my mother, sisters, and I created.
Blue and ivory hydrangeas arch in a floral doorway behind the pulpit where my childhood minister stands now, offering Blaze an encouraging smile.
A beaded silk runner spans the aisle between the pews leading me towards my future… or quite literally the future.
The pianoforte rings cheerfully as Father ushers me into the chapel.
He seems a little too relieved by the transfer of authority from himself to my husband as he escorts me towards Blaze, who is dressed in a fine vest with coattails.
He faces me, wringing his gloved hands. I can not read his expression.
His lips form a thin line and his eyes seem hollow.
That is, until they meet mine. His thick, furrowed brows relax and arch slowly as he focuses on me.
For some odd reason, I hope he likes what he sees.
Or at least hoping that amidst the chaos of this ruse, he isn’t embarrassed to be on the receiving end of this spinster’s final steps in society.
I am grateful, today of all days, for my skill with a needle. I took care to add delicate lace and beading to my gown. Fake marriage or not, it is likely the only one I will ever have, so I refused to skimp on it. By the way Blaze’s lips twitch in a nervous smile, I am certain I have done well.
“Dearly Beloved,” the minister says, and I take Blaze’s hands, finding them steadying.
I even manage a smile despite my nerves when he mouths, “You look beautiful.”
He likes my appearance, my dress, the thin diamond necklace brushing my collarbone, and the blonde ringlets around my ears.
I can see him taking stock, admiring even, and my stomach flutters.
I wish I could find it in me to compliment him about how handsome he looks.
The way he wears clothing so foreign to him, standing in a room an ocean away from his home, and in an era that is not his own, while being so very confident and brave…
it amazes me. That is what I want to tell him.
Instead, I smile and hold his hands tighter.
Every single wedding I have ever attended felt slow and tedious.
I think envy has always been the culprit of that, for this is the quickest exchange of vows I have ever experienced, and I swear I didn’t hear a word of it.
I didn’t notice when the words fell from my own lips, nor did I hear them leave his.
The only part I truly recall is the way his giant hands squeezed mine when he said the words, “‘Til death do us part.” Something about the way his gaze flickered sidelong when reciting those words made my heart still.
We lie before God. Does he feel the guilt the way I do?
Is it even guilt? Or is it sadness? That the only man I’ve felt inclined to join in marriage isn’t even a matter of the heart, let alone from my time. And he will, if everything goes according to plan, be leaving very soon.
Were I not currently surrounded by friends, family, and judgmental spectators, I might actually allow myself the rare moment to cry at the realization that the man I am marrying isn’t truly alive in my time, nor am I in his.
When my mind returns to my body and I find myself living in the present once more, the minister is pronouncing us man and wife and, holding the arm of the man who has just taken my father’s place as my authority, I follow him down the aisle, towards the carriage which will take us to our wedding celebration. I pray I have made the right decision.