22. Sinners and Liars
Sinners and Liars
Josephine
“Would you be horribly scandalized if I…took my shirt off?” he courteously asks as if I wasn’t hoping—no, praying like the scandalous, impious scorn to society I am—that he would take off more.
I am not sure if it’s the end of summer’s heat, or the man in my bed, or…
my reaction to said man, but I am glad we left the window cracked open overnight.
The predawn breeze wafting over my shoulders is the only thing cooling me to a bearable temperature.
As full consciousness descends upon me, I realize that sometime in the night, the pillow barrier evaded us, and my body lies flush against Blaze’s back, my legs tangled with his, and I’ve wrapped an arm firmly around his middle.
Every single one of my fingertips press into his skin, sinking a little further into his heated body.
He is so close, and my impulses take over.
I want to be here, like this, feeling him.
A cool breeze flutters the drapes in our direction, and an earthy fragrance wafts off Blaze’s skin.
With a deep breath, I savor him, pulling myself closer and snuggling into his back.
I should let him go. Or perhaps I should move away before he wakes and realizes I failed to honor the barrier one night into our arrangement.
The poor man should be able to sleep in peace without a desperate spinster sniffing him.
I roll onto my back with a frustrated sigh, and again, his words haunt my memory.
This isn’t real. I hate those words. I hate that I have found someone I am beginning to imagine a life with, and he’s leaving any day now.
After the promenade this afternoon, we are traveling to Stonehenge.
Blaze insists the circle of stones may be his door to home.
I could lie in this bed alone very soon.
Lonely.
Widowed.
The thought brings a heavy weight to my chest, and I rest my hands there, feeling the way my heartbeat thrums like the wings of a hummingbird.
I turn to look at him, his back to me and slowly heaving with the breath of sleep. Tonight, he could be gone. Will I regret rolling away from him?
I regret it already, and my body responds before I can talk myself out of it.
I turn once more and press myself flat against his back, wrapping my arm around him to drape a hand over his chest. There is no thought to it, no logic, no restraint, only desire pulsing through me until I nuzzle into his neck and press my lips to his hot skin, savoring the way his warmth seems to bleed into me.
Then he moans, still stuck in the trance of sleep.
He melds into me further, pressing firmly against me, melting into my arms, leaning into my lips.
I want nothing more than to live in this moment, to linger in the precious silence of his sleep—where my craving doesn’t torment me like a sin.
What would God say if I told him I long for this man?
Dream of him? Though we are married, we know it is not real, so what does that make me if not a sinner and a liar?
“Jo,” he hums my name in his sleep, and for a glorious second, his heavy hand drapes across my forearm, pulling me as close to him as I can possibly be, and then he flinches.
“God, Jo!” He sits up in bed, a horrified look on his face.
“I am so sorry. The one night you let me in your bed and I can’t even honor the pillow barrier.
I am a total ass. I am really, really sorry.
” His eyes, heavy with sleep, find mine and I can’t decide if I am entertained or disappointed.
“No, Blaze,” I assure him, slipping out from beneath the blanket, nodding towards him. “I think it was I who broke the rules.” Simultaneously, we both look to where Blaze lies, nearly clinging to the edge of the bed on his side. During the night, I pushed and pushed my way to where he was.
I swallow hard, avoiding his eyes as he looks back to me with a coy grin stealing over his face. “There’s a naughty girl in there somewhere, isn’t there, Jo?”
Blaze leaves just as the sun is rising to make some deliveries for Albion, which allows me time to dress before my first customer arrives.
It is the last promenade of the season, and likely the last time I get to engage in any social interactions of true substance with a husband by my side before they all return to calling me a bluestocker, thus I decide on a more striking gown than I would usually care to fuss with.
I sewed this garment from a fine, lightweight, cream-colored muslin.
Embroidered delicately across the dress’ entirety are pink and red poppies with dull green leafy vines and stems swirling throughout the fabric.
A bronze-colored ribbon is ruched at the bust of the empire waist and ties at the back.
More bronze ribbon trims the square neckline as well as the cuffs of my bishop sleeves.
Mechlin lace at the hem creates a playful flounce, and I finish the look off with a matching sawyer’s jacket, a ruffled bonnet, and lace gloves.
I am just tucking a few final curls into place to frame my face when I think of the farmer’s almanac Blaze has left sitting open on the table before the hearth.
He mentioned last night that he plans on taking it back to his time—a souvenir of sorts.
An idea takes form, and I carry the almanac to my desk. I have written many letters at this very seat before. I have watched the carriages roll by and the ladies of fashion converse in the street below. And words have never seemed to flow as easily as they do now.
Dearest Blaze,
When you read this, I am certain you will have successfully found your way home.
There is much I could say about our time together; however, I can think of nothing more important than expressing my gratitude.
My prayers have never felt truly reverent, but when you are gone, I am certain I will eternally thank God for the kindness He showed in bringing you to me.
While I wish our time could have been forever, I know you are where you truly belong.
Eternally Yours,
Jo
I set the quill in its inkwell and watch as the gleaming black ink dries before I tuck the letter near the back of the almanac and return it to its place on the table.
One of the season’s debutantes, now engaged and on the prestigious path to becoming a duchess, has come to have her wedding wardrobe fitted.
“Miss Barring,” I welcome the glowing young lady cheerfully, offering her well-to-do mother a polite curtsy before bustling around behind the stunning bride-to-be. “What will we be measuring for, today?”
“Of course, all of the delicates,” the proud mother says with a rosy smile. “We must have her looking and feeling her best on her wedding night.”
I nod as though I have experience. While I am starting to piece together what bits of information I have, I know I’m still missing something significant, so as a married-on-paper only wife, I keep my mouth shut and take notes of each item they order.
I’ve made many sets for brides, but it is only now that I wish I had true use for any of it myself.
“A new pelisse is essential. I hear Chatsworth House becomes chilly in the cold season.”
“Mama,” Jane Barring speaks at last, flashing her mother a chiding glare. “Must we be so boastful?”
I take Jane’s measurements from bust to floor and smile up at her.
“Boast away, Miss Barring. You’re to wed the Duke of Devonshire in a fortnight!
” At this, a previously restrained grin stretches across the girl’s face, and with a bolstering breath inward, she examines herself in the mirror.
“It is everything we hoped for, is it not, Mama?”
Something inside me pities Jane. In all her glory, her fabricated joy built entirely on a title, I can’t help but question if she’s lacking something.
“And are you happy?” I ask, smiling softly at her, wondering if simply accepting the viscount’s proposal years ago would have brought some level of contentment for myself and my mother.
Jane glances down at me, and for a second, her eyes flicker with uncertainty.
I wonder if she examines me and imagines the life of freedom I have made for myself.
However fleeting her doubts are, I swear I see them just as her white teeth are put on display and she exclaims, “I’ve never been happier!
” A response her proud mother accepts with an approving nod.
“Rightly so,” Mrs. Barring encourages her daughter. “There is no greater joy in life than to marry well in the name of progress.”
‘Progress’ is the Barring’s favorite word. They own the most influential bank in all of London. Progress supports their ever-increasing interest rates.
I think of progress how Blaze described it: women holding titles of land and masters of their own purse—and bodies. That sounds like my kind of progress.
It’s midday by the time we make our way towards what Blaze refers to as the ‘fashion and title pissing competition’.
The sun is smoldering and families have set up colorful tents all over the park.
Children float paper boats on the pond while vying young ladies strut here and there, fanning their bosoms and swishing their skirts.
I watch Blaze’s lip twitch and his brows furrow.
He glances from one spectacle to the next before landing his attention on me.
“It’s a pompous parade of peacocks, Jo.”
I giggle and nod in agreement. “How else are we supposed to show off our wealth than with excessively large hats and flaunting our gems in the daylight?”
“I have a nice watch at home. Nobody would catch me walking through a park on any random day shaking my wrist at the sun. Why on earth do you come to these things?” he asks, and I realize he is sincere.
“Well, what do you do on hot summer days?” I inquire, thinking of all the days one would have to spend cooped indoors with a griping mama were it not for promenades.
“Barbecues, tailgating,” Blaze blurts. “Or wet T-shirt competitions. On a good day, all three. Cold beer, baby back ribs, and bodacious babes.”
“I would ask. But honestly, at this point, I am afraid to.” I gesture vaguely at the passing ladies while we slowly make our way along the path around the park.
“At least a quarter of these ladies are wearing my designs, and I enjoy seeing my handiwork in action.” I pause, giving the pond a wary glance.
“I also enjoy the drama. It isn’t a proper promenade if someone doesn’t make a fool of themselves. ”
Blaze takes his hat off, and I see sweat forming on his brow. “Let’s just hope I am not the fool today,” he murmurs nervously as we both clamp eyes on Viscount Edwardson making his way in our direction.
“Good God,” I squeak, wondering if it would be terribly obvious for us to spiral in the opposite direction and walk away really fast. Before I can form any sort of escape plan, he speaks. Loudly.
“Mrs. Hollows.” The greeting is cool and condescending. “I have had the most interesting conversation with Miss Eliza Winthrop just now.”
“Good God,” Blaze imitates me, and we exchange miserable glances.
“I find it rather remarkable that Miss Winthrop has anything interesting to say.” Moments like these remind me why I’ve never quite felt at home in polite society. My husband, grunting to avoid laughing out loud beside me, is the only reason I don’t feel so out of place.
“It’s the feathers,” he chimes to the visible confusion of the viscount. “I recently heard rumors that plumage on one’s head significantly reduces your IQ.”
I want to ask, but I don’t. I shake my head and smile feebly at Edwardson, hoping our mindless chatter has convinced him to find a new subject to prey on.
Unfortunately for myself, the gossip is delicious, and he announces far too loudly, “In this case, I was hanging on Miss Winthrop’s every word.
” He takes a step closer to Blaze. “Tell me, sir, how does one break a bed? Spare no details, I insist.”
Blaze lands two flat palms on his belly and makes some grotesque gurgling sound I surmise he intends to communicate pride with. “Being overweight tends to help.”
“Lynyrd, darling,” I squeak through my shocked giggle, taking far too much enjoyment in Edwardson’s stupid stare.
“Don’t tease the Viscount. What if he’s looking for technical guidance?
” I lean closer to my husband and whisper, but not quietly enough, for some wicked little part of me wants Edwardson to hear, “He is still on the marriage market, dear. Perhaps he’s doing something wrong. ”
“Josephine,” Blaze chortles, taking hold of my arm to move past the stunned Viscount with an awkward and courteous nod.
Once out of earshot, he glances down at me, and I am certain he’s torn between pride and shock.
“What did that poor fool of a man ever do to you?” He grins and continues along the path leading away from the pond while muttering something about the damn useless thing.
“He doesn’t take no for an answer,” I say pointedly. “I imagine something must be truly wrong with him if he spent seasons unmarried and surrounded by eligible women and he still pursued me.”
At this, Blaze absent-mindedly chews his lower lip for a moment before shaking his auburn head. “No,” he disagrees. “That’s probably the only intelligent thing I’ve heard of anyone here doing.”
“Blaze Lynyrd Hollows,” I say stoically. “You should not be flirting with me. You’re as good as gone.” I allude to our impending journey. “I’m optimistic about this trip. I think it will work. You’ll be seeing your mother and father soon.”
His arm tightens around my hand, and Blaze appears to walk a bit taller. “As much fun as I have had with you here, darling little wife, I do miss my home.”
My heart stills, and I purse my lips into a weak smile.
If I am honest with myself, though I’ll miss him, I am ready for him to go.
It is time. It is what is best for both of us, and the longer he is here, the longer I dread the inevitable, which means the kindest thing to be done is for his time-travel attempts to finally be successful.
“Yes,” I agree at last. “You shall return home with an amazing story, and I shall be a widow, which is far more socially acceptable than spinsterhood.”
A group of peacocks in petticoats strut past and offer brief salutations before continuing on, at which point Blaze replies, “I likely won’t tell anyone about this.
” He speaks as if it is a confession. While the idea of disappearing out of his life, his story—even his memory—is painful, it is perfectly reasonable.
“It is preposterous,” I sigh. “We don’t need them thinking you’re out of your wits.”
“Darlin’,” he reminds me. “They already think that.”