26. Secrets That Gerty Keeps
Secrets That Gerty Keeps
Josephine
The boy’s eyes widen in pure terror as my stocky husband holds him aloft by his coat.
The child’s hands are still sunk deep inside Blaze’s pockets when a panic fills my chest and I glance at our surroundings to discover who might have spied the thief in action.
So far, none seem any wiser, so I seize Blaze’s arm and tug his attention away from the boy.
“Don’t hurt him,” I plead. “He is only a child. You don’t know what they do to children here for stealing!”
Blaze frowns down at me, distracted by the boy’s panicked breathing.
“Jo, I wasn’t going to hurt him.” He gently sets the child down.
“Look at him; he’s clearly starving. Not sure what kind of 19th century, stockade bullshit you’re referring to, but it’s clear both your time and my time share something in common…
” He whispers the latter under his breath, “We don’t treat our less fortunate well either. ”
Too concerned to inquire, I shake my head and pull the child’s hands from empty pockets, warming them in my own. “Here,“ I hiss, wiping a smudge of dirt from the boy’s cheek, “he would be sentenced to seven years’ transportation”
“Seven years what?”
“Basically prison and servitude in one.” I clarify, side-eyeing passersby.
“Fuck this place,” Blaze mutters angrily, looking from the boy to me, and then back again. “Jo, I was going to give him some money for food and send him on his way. You.” He points at the trembling child. “What is your name, kid?”
The child peeks up at Blaze from behind freckled cheeks, which shroud his brown eyes in a wince. “Augustus,” he pants, trying to jerk free of his detainer’s grasp. “I-I-I meant no harm, sir, please don’t w-w-whip me.”
“If I let you go,” Blaze says calmly, and my pulse steadies at his gentle tone. “Do you promise to stick around long enough for my wife and me to offer you a hot meal?”
Augustus’s big brown eyes widen to the approximate size of soup bowls, and I can’t help but smile as his entire body relaxes. He bobs an enthusiastic nod, and Blaze relinquishes his hold on the threadbare jacket the child wears. “Come on, then.”
We walk quickly back towards the modiste, all the while the child trots behind us like a stray dog. I glance over my shoulder every few steps to ensure he is still there. “Thank you for not hurting him,” I whisper as I take Blaze’s hand. “Any other man would have.”
“I’d think you’d know me well enough by now that I’m not cruel.”
My frown melts into a smile, and I unlock the door to my shop. “We have biscuits and ham upstairs.” I gleam down at the still trembling boy. “Perhaps a bath will do you well? Where is your family?”
He shrugs, eagerly eyeing the stairs as if his salvation awaits him just there. “Been on the streets as long as I can remember, ma’am.”
We learn that Augustus, or Gus as Blaze nicknames him, is twelve and ran away from the orphanage several years ago.
He has since been living on the streets with other orphaned children.
Gus knows little of his family and even less about living.
I send over to Dashwood House for a few of my youngest brother’s old clothes, and we ensure the boy takes a proper bath and has a safe place to sleep for the night.
The soft mattress is already lulling me to sleep when I hear Blaze trudge heavily up the staircase, latching the door behind him. “He’s asleep.” He yawns, and I think it won’t be long before my husband is too.
“Add this to the list of reasons people will call me daft,” I answer sleepily. “We should come up with a better plan tomorrow. We certainly can’t keep him.”
Blaze slides into bed beside me and drapes an arm over my belly. “Let’s worry about it tomorrow,” he coos in my ear, nuzzling the soft skin with his mustache. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth, okay?”
“I promise,” I reply, gazing at his serious face only inches from mine.
“What were you thinking about when we were looking at houses today?”
I chew my lip and turn my attention to the wooden rafters overhead, which are painted a soft blue in the moonlight.
“Those houses will be far too big and expensive for me when you have left.” I want to reach out and hold on to him.
And I long to feel his warmth and have the security of his presence now.
The words tremble and crack as they leave my mouth, and I can hardly speak them.
The thought of living them makes me believe that death would be kinder.
Alas, his arm tightens around me, and his body expands with a deep breath. He is tense against me, then he softens, tracing a single finger down my neck and past my sternum, relaxing finally on my stomach. “I don’t think I can leave.”
I sit upright. “We will figure it out!”
“No,” Blaze laughs, pressing palms to his brow.
“I mean, yes—I don’t think I can leave. Whatever brought me here is a bizarre hand of fate, but…
“ He rolls to his knees, crouching in the bed before me. “Jo, I can’t leave you. Even if I found a ‘time travel for dummies’ book and managed to work out exactly how to go back to my time, I don’t think I want to live in any time, mine or yours, without you. ”
A gasp fills my lungs, and my eyes blur at once with tears I didn’t know I was holding back.
Before I can think of anything to say, he has pulled me to his chest and is kissing me.
It is a few pecks at first, slow and intentional, as if every spark of life we breathe into one another might set us both on fire if we move too quickly.
But the promise of forever is not enough.
I want more right now, so when his arms coil around me and his fingers sink into my behind, dragging me onto his lap, I do not resist.
I comply, I melt, I savor. His lips speckle heat down my throat and across my collarbone. “I promised ’til death,” Blaze says.
I gasp as his fingers massage my skin.
“I am a man of my word,” he continues, coaxing the shift off my shoulders until I am naked from the waist up.
He then supports my back as he urges me to lay down.
“And in this case,” he utters in conclusion as he begins reverently pressing his lips lower and lower down my belly.
“I am more than happy to keep my promises.” His hand snakes up my thigh.
“So, it’s real?” I gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair.
“Yes, wife,” he pants close to my skin. “This is real.”
“It is far from done,” I assure a frigid Georgia as she examines herself in her bedroom’s full-length mirror.
I crouch, adjusting the length of her skirts, and I can’t help but admire the way the heavy satin whooshes around her ankles, complimenting the gradual slope of her hips.
One of my great passions is learning my client’s unique body shapes and how materials and patterns best suit their figures.
“Mother ordered this for the winter festival?” I ask, trying to make conversation in the awkward silence.
Her hollow, blue eyes find mine, and she nods with less enthusiasm than a cow being led to slaughter. “I believe so.” Georgia clears her throat and squares her shoulders. “I am surprised to not see Mr. Hollows hauling your packages around for you.”
Snide remarks have always been Georgia’s forte, but today I find myself more irritated by them.
“He is quite busy lately,” I say cooly, standing to attend to the ribbon at her bust. My dual meaning, while known only to me, sends a tint of red to my cheeks. If he isn’t working at the woodshop, he is, in his own words, practicing his woodworking on me.
“Shall you attend the winter festival?“ she inquires, and I assume in the way her brows twitch that she hopes I will not. “A new dress for the occasion would be delightful, don’t you think?” Her tone is haughty and taunting as she nods towards my gown, one she has no doubt seen me in many times.
“Indeed,” I agree, thinking of a deep green satin and festive taffeta I have stored away.
I rarely make myself new gowns, but with business bustling as it has been in recent years, I always try to save something for myself.
“And yes,” I continue. “Mr. Hollows and I will be attending. Though I simply can not allow myself to become excited about it for several more weeks. There is much to be done and, I daresay, not enough time.”
I face her, my shoulders tensing with apprehension. I have seen none of my family since I snubbed my mother’s masquerade. In truth, I was surprised Georgia’s personal fitting appointment was kept at all.
After a moment of terrible silence, Georgia blurts, “Are you blue-deviled?” She eyes me from head to toe for some visual confirmation that I am sick in the head. “For I cannot imagine why else you might have transformed into such a chit since your less than admirable marriage.”
With a sweet smile, I fold my hands at my waist. “Georgia, your concern is touching, but I assure you, my less than admirable marriage has only lifted my spirits.”
Georgia huffs, and her already sharp features point like daggers in my direction.
“The slope on which you stand shall only expedite your fall from society,” she warns.
“Father’s title is the only reason your…
” She motions vaguely at me. “...Delusions have been tolerated. You are ruining prospects for the rest of your sisters, myself included.”
My eyes narrow, and I cross my arms. “I suppose I shall simply unmarry my husband then, and see if some other fine gentleman wants me? Would that satisfy the rest of the Dashwoods?”
“Satisfaction shall be had when you stop giving your title, your good breeding, and your family the cut for frivolities such as a profession!”
I inhale a sharp breath and turn my back to Georgia, returning a spool of thread to my leather bag as I attempt to swallow hateful words. “I am busy,” I murmur after a moment. “Unless your dresses need any more alterations, I have business with Grandmother.”