26. Secrets That Gerty Keeps #2
“Grandmother is just as cross with you and your husband as the rest of us are,” Georgia goads.
“Perhaps Lynyrd needs more lessons in etiquette, for what respectable man allows his wife to shirk her social duties? Where is he? I should like to give him a few instructions before we leave for the season.”
I spin on my heel, glaring coldly at my tall, young sister. “I am afraid he is far too busy fraternizing with orphans, Georgia!”
It is true. He took Gus to help him and Albion at the shop, but my delivery is far more satisfying than intended, for Georgia’s eyebrows rise more than the high tide during a devastating tempest.
I giggle as I exit her bedchamber, but stop short by the sight of Grandmother standing further down the hall at the head of the stairs, her hands clasped before her and her eyes drooping.
I think for a moment that she has fallen asleep standing, so I carefully approach her, somewhat unnerved by her peculiar choice of location.
“Grandmother?” I whisper, nearly shrieking the very life out of myself when her eyes fly open and I am met with a senile grin.
“Josephine,” she greets warmly. “Have you ever just closed your eyes and listened for a good rumor? They populate in houses like these at an alarming rate.”
I hesitate before answering, gripping my bag’s leather handle. “Grandmother,” I say skeptically, “you do realize this is our house…what rumors would you be hoping to hear?”
She takes an inquisitive step closer before waving her cane at me. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hollows. You tell me. I overheard you tell Georgia we had business. Shall we take it somewhere private?”
“As a matter of fact,” I squeak awkwardly, hating that I truly have nowhere else I could possibly take this question.
While Grandmother is a stickler for maintaining the public appearance of a well-bred family, behind closed doors, I also know she has a great fondness for breaking the rules.
I suppose this understanding of my mother’s mother is the only reason I find myself sitting in her private chambers, face to face with the wrinkled old matron, shuddering as I hear the question leave my own mouth.
“Suppose a lady would like to delay…motherhood.”
Her brows lift as though she has just enjoyed the first interesting thing to reach her ears in a decade. “Josephine!” she exclaims. “And rob me of the joys of being a great-grandmother a fourth time over?”
“Surely three great-grandchildren are enough to satisfy for the time being?”
“And why do you wish to delay your natural calling?“ Grandmother bends forward, eyes squinting and lips pursed in question.
“I do not wish to discuss it!” My answer is shriller than expected, and the standstill which commences is awkward indeed. With a defeated sigh, I lean closer while wringing my hands. “Perhaps I am…enjoying life as it is and do not wish for my enjoyment to be inhibited for a time…”
“Ah,” Grandmother chimes. “Bed breaking. Really, Josephine. I can’t say I’ve ever been more proud.”
“Grandmother!”
“No, no. Embarrassment is not necessary.” She goes on to mention something of a mid-life dalliance after her late husband, my grandfather, passed, and I cringe to think of my mother or sisters standing outside the door listening.
Sensing my apprehension, at last, Grandmother sighs, sits straighter in her chair, and nods.
“I know a place.”
I returned to the modiste to collect a few parcels for delivery and my coin purse.
Jonathan left this morning with a cart full of deliveries, but I intend to personally distribute the remaining few, so I tuck them beneath my arm, wrap a basket of fruit and bread, and duck into the brisk afternoon air.
Apparently, the merchant Grandmother directed me to visit was not only not within the fashionable side of town, he was also operating illegally, given the nature of his products and their contradictions to the church.
Thus, I found myself in a less than suitable alleyway with my cloak pulled low over my head.
Walking into the shop is an education all on its own, and I wish I had accepted Grandmother’s offer to send her lady’s maid on this particular errand.
I leave after a quarter of an hour of questioning, scrutinizing looks, and a miserable explanation regarding how the contraption functions.
I can’t wait to tell Blaze about the ribbons we will tie “firmly” around his bollocks to keep the “guts” in place.
My next stop is delivering Miss Elizabeth’s finished gown.
The ton bustles with preparation for their departures.
While a few of society’s elite remain in London the entire year, many will retreat to their country homes in the coming week.
This is the season when my sense of belonging shifts ever so slightly.
Although I usually visit Donington Hall—my parent’s winter estate—once or twice during the colder months, I am, for the most part, left to my own devices.
I continue to outfit London with fine fashion, though I primarily live off what I saved during the social season.
With Blaze working, this winter should prove a more leisurely one for myself.
We may receive an invitation here or there, but I expect a very quiet season indeed. An idea that is not at all displeasing, and my thoughts are intruded by the memory of grandmother blurting, ‘bed breaking’. Yes, please.
By the time I finish my deliveries, the sun sinks lower in the sky, bringing the temperature down with it.
My husband still has an hour or two before his workday is up, and since the woodshop is on my route home, I make a stop to purchase a loaf of bread and a jar of jam.
My sweet smile to the baker is a farce when I catch his judgmental side-eye.
It’s not my fault Blaze’s favorite snack consists of what society deems fit only for the poor.
With my basket freshly laden with a quartern of rye and a jar of strawberry preserves, I hurry to close the distance to Albion’s quaint little shop. It is alive with the sound of sawing and hammering as I turn a corner into the storeroom.
A cheerful, feminine laugh startles me, and as I slow my step to peer past the door, I see Blaze hunched over a table, measuring a length of wood, and beside him, a woman with a dainty hand on my husband’s shoulder.
“You must be weary, sir.” Her manner of speech and her fashion tells me she is not of polite society. “You lift a great many heavy things.” Her fingers tighten around his arm, testing his strength with a satisfied smile. He is turned away from me, so I can not see his face, but my stomach twists.
“I am grateful for my work.” His tone is unreadable. “How many inches did you say?”
Again, she laughs, and I can not for the life of me think what is funny about measurements, but her warmth and her posture makes me want to rip the cheap bonnet off her head and stomp on it. “However many inches you can give me, sir.”
I have heard enough of Blaze’s wood jokes at this point to now infer her meaning.
Blaze straightens, clears his throat, and turns towards the woman.
His cheeks are flushed, and I wonder if it’s working in the hot shop, or if it’s the woman’s pursuit of him.
“As you see, we are well-stocked.” He gestures towards the shelves, his tone professional.
“An exact measurement would be helpful.”
Gripping the handle of the basket before me, I imagine clocking her with it and watching the glass jar of jam and loaf of bread tumble around her head.
“The Madame didn’t give me an exact measurement.
” Her shawl droops from her shoulder, revealing bare skin, and I realize this is not simply a common woman, but a lightskirt.
“She did, however, impress upon me the importance of paying you well.” Her shawl slips further, and her protruding bosom heaves with a deep, intentional breath.
Blaze’s brow furrows, and he takes a step back.
Concern, which I was unaware of until this exact moment, melts away as he speaks.
“Ma’am,” he chuckles nervously before continuing, “I am afraid I can not help you unless you have brought money to pay with. My employer does not accept…erm…goods as payment and…” He smooths his mustache.
“I am happily married to a woman who, if I had to take a guess, I am certain would not take kindly to another lady propositioning me—“
I decide now is as good a time as any to reveal myself, mostly because I can not wait for the prostitute to leave so I can kiss my husband.
“Speak of the devil!” he exclaims, his face lighting up. “I wasn’t expecting you.”