24. The Johnson Says, “Hello”
The Johnson Says, “Hello”
Josephine
I have been a married woman for three months now, but this morning is the first time I feel like one.
As I drifted off to sleep, I thought Blaze’s arms curling around me was nothing more than dreaming.
Yet, in the glow of very real dawn’s light, I slip into a blissful state of consciousness to find him still holding me close.
I am acutely aware as his breath caresses the back of my neck, tickling my loose hair over my shoulder’s bare skin of my arm.
His belly rises and falls against my back.
His cold wedding ring slides up my arm as he fully awakens, and he kisses my shoulder.
“Good morning, wife.” His voice is muddled with sleep, and he inhales deeply, rolling onto his back to stretch. “Are we ready to go home?”
I follow his body, turning with him and pressing a gentle palm against his coarse chest hair before nuzzling into the crook of his arm. “Yes,” I agree. “Home.”
Home for how long? I imagine the loft without Blaze, which was my home far before I started to realize that Blaze feels very much like where I belong.
While I could dwell on this depressing thought, instead, I’m melting into his warmth for one last peaceful moment before our journey back to London.
I drag my knee up his leg, intending to curl my thigh around him, and I come into contact with something frightfully stiff.
It throbs against my touch, and I let out an unexpected shriek, which causes Blaze to mimic my same bird-like exclamation.
In a flash, he is sitting upright on the opposite side of the bed, gripping the sheets to his chest, smashing a pillow across his lap, and staring at me as though I have betrayed him.
“I rolled over for a reason, Jo!”
My pulse batters against the skin at my throat, and I am certain he can see it, except he’s already fixated on the grimace glued to my face. “What was that?!”
Blaze chuckles nervously and sinks lower into the mattress. “That was my Johnson, wife! He says, ‘Rise and shine and leave the bed!’ I should get dressed with whatever dignity I still have...”
It is the evening of the end-of-season masquerade, hosted by none other than my mother, Countess Dashwood, when we arrive in London.
We are road weary and when we finally drag ourselves up the stairs of the modiste, into the loft, wash the day’s dirt off, and warm ourselves beside a fire, Blaze and I agree my parents can spare us.
In the last decade, I have attended every single one of the Dashwood masquerades and while the allure of the mysterious, fashionable event could almost persuade me from the comfort of my place in this over-stuffed high-back chair, the realization that I only care to see the dresses—which I made—convinces me not to go.
Seeing ladies model their gowns for the fifth occasion is not half as interesting as watching Blaze ink value amounts onto thin discs he’d trimmed off a thick branch… apparently for fun?
“I anticipated sources of entertainment improving with time,” I mutter, leaning forward in my seat to scrutinize a dried disc. “You play this game in the future?”
Blaze chuckles, marks a round with $25, and lays it aside to dry. “Usually with real chips, but yeah. My dad has had me playing poker with him and my uncles since I was old enough to fan my own cards.”
“Poker?” I hate the name and imagine all his hard work being tossed into the hearth and burning whilst we prod the coals with iron rods. “What a horrible title for a card game.”
“Sometimes when Dad loses, he calls it ‘skewer’,” Blaze retorts with a childish grin as he continues labeling.
“He says it seems to poke a hole in his wallet. I personally have never played with money because who the fuck wants to risk rent on a game? Anyway, I’ve always used chips.
” He holds up one of the discs. “They symbolize fake money. It’s a much safer option for people who aren’t reckless and rollin’ in the dough. ”
My face flattens into a puzzled expression. “Rolling in the dough? What dough? You mean…biscuit dough? What sort of profession is that?”
“No.” A comical, slightly joyous grin takes over Blaze’s countenance, and his eyes glimmer as he falls into a fit of laughter. “No, that’s just another way to say ‘rich’ in my time.”
I shake my head and snuggle back into my chair. “This ape leader learns something new every day with you,” I murmur sarcastically.
Blaze now appears perplexed. “Ape leader? Wait, Planet of the Apes isn’t published yet, is it?
” His big fingers count backwards as he works out some math figure, and before I can ask about a planet filled with apes, he continues.
“No, no, that isn’t for another hundred-and-fifty years. Jo, what the fuck is an ‘ape leader’?”
“Oh, that. It’s slang for ‘spinster’. Particularly one who is likely to lead other young ladies straight to hell,” I reply absent-mindedly, dangling a threaded needle between my fingers and contemplating the pile of orders I have to finish.
I lean over the arm of the chair to a basket where a half-sewn bodice is folded neatly, awaiting my attention, when a bang on the door to the modiste sounds muffled up the loft stairs.
“Who could that be?” Before I can rise to go see, Blaze trots down the steps and reappears a moment later with a sealed letter, which he hands to me.
“It’s from Mama,” I groan, breaking the seal and unfolding the message.
Josephine,
Any excuse you might have for missing your own family’s masquerade is no doubt trivial compared to the shame we shall endure should we be forced to explain your absence with apologies for your ‘mountains of work’.
’It is a tribulation indeed for one’s daughter to have been a spinster, but must we bring attention to your deficiencies—so graciously excused thanks to your father’s title and money—by reminding the ton that you and your husband have chosen the life of the working class?
You are expected within the hour, or your father has bidden that your allowance shall be reduced to reflect the needs of the lifestyle you are so eager to make your reality.
Hopefully,
Mama
I crumple the letter between my fists and toss it towards the hearth, missing the flames entirely. The pitiful note bounces and lands by Blaze’s foot. He leans forward, retrieves it, and looks at me. “May I?”
I flicker a sidelong glance and nod my approval before pacing the floor, vigorously smoothing the front of my skirt. Blaze steps across the room to grasp my shoulders, and I center my gaze upon him.
“We don’t need their money—Jo, look at me.
” He tips my chin upwards and I see a genuine smile on his face.
“She can huff and puff; she can withdraw your allowance; but she can’t take away your accomplishments.
And frankly, if your mom wants to have a tantrum over a party, let her. She is only embarrassing herself.”
I release a shaky sigh, and the tension dissolves from my body.
He is right. These little threats have always come.
They have been my mother’s way of controlling me, and I usually ignore them.
This time should be no different. If anything, I wish to attend her party even less, and desire to protect myself and Blaze from their judgments.
“Very well,” I agree. “Her feathers are ruffled now, but I am sure she will come-to before they depart for the country.”
My haze of anger has not yet settled as Blaze moves back across the living area, fills two glasses with port, and motions for me to sit.
“Josephine.” His use of my full name, paired with the haughty tone in his voice makes me pause, and I hesitantly lower to my chair.
“What you need is a good dose of rebellion.”
“Don’t you think I have had my fill?” I gesture vaguely to the room, to the modiste below, and consequently, my entire existence.
“Not by a long shot.” He smirks wickedly and begins dividing the wooden chips, as he calls them, into two piles. “Bottoms up, darlin’. We’re playing strip poker.”
Blaze is shirtless before I realize he was serious about the ‘remove an article of clothing’ part of the game.
I wonder if this is a strategy in his time, people in a state of undress distracting their opponents from the cards, for as hard as I try to focus on playing the right hand, I can’t seem to avert my gaze from his hairy chest long enough to make an educated decision on a game I am truly not skilled in enough to be risking nakedness.
“Hah!” Blaze presents what he calls a full house compared to my three of a kind consisting of sixes. My mind, clouded with port, buzzes as he gestures eagerly. “Take it off.”
With a nervous shake of my head, I say with a breathless laugh, “I don’t think I care to play any more. I thought you were being facetious about the taking-off-clothes part.”
Blaze’s grin softens, and he leans back in his chaise.
“Okay, if you don’t wanna strip, that’s fine.
How about this? If you beat me, I’ll still remove something, and if I win, you tell me a story.
I’m eager to win so that you’ll spill the beans about the incident at the Winthrop ball, and you’re eager to win so you can see what big boys are made of—strictly from a professional standpoint, of course.
” He winks, then rambles on about the benefits of nakedness and the disadvantages of booze, and I watch as he deftly deals another round.
“Winthrop ball?” I clarify, and he grins up at me.
“Yeah, you said you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself at a Winthrop ball again. I would bet my lucky socks that it’s a good story.”