26. Secrets That Gerty Keeps #3
“Ah.” The woman quickly returns her shawl to its proper place before bobbing a weak curtsy my way. “I shall return another time then, when I have the…correct number of shillings.” She shuffles out the door, and Blaze grimaces awkwardly.
“I just got Bertha Mae flashbacks.”
We laugh, and as the door closes behind her, I chime in. “She would have given you crabs.”
Blaze claps a proud hand on my shoulder. “Look at you, proper application and all!” At this, he takes a step closer to me, kissing my cheek. “What is in the basket?”
“My weapon, you mean?”
“Weapon?” His lips purse comically.
“Yes,” I offer him a satisfied smile. “I almost battered her over the head with your snack.”
At this, he grins and takes the basket from me, placing it on the counter before turning to grab me firmly behind the thighs.
I squeal in delight as he hoists me onto the counter before coaxing my knees apart and warmly positioning himself between my legs.
“Miss Josephine Hollows, were you jealous?”
“Never,” I whisper playfully, trying not to think too hard on where his body is in relation to mine. “Merely protective.”
With a mouthful of rye, Blaze chuckles, his free hand absently pulsing fingertips into my upper thigh. “You mean possessive,“ he gestures towards the door. “Wait, come back!” he hollers. “I want to see my wife fight!”
“Oh, stop,” I tease as I pluck a berry-dipped bite of bread from between his big fingers, plopping it in my mouth. “Where is Gus?”
Chewing quicker to respond, Blaze swallows. “He is learning to whittle pegs with Albion. Tedious work, perfect for small hands.” He takes another bite, then continues. “Albion said the boy can stay in the apprentice quarters here and learn the trade—insisted, actually—and Gus didn’t argue.”
“Ah!” I exclaim happily. “That is splendid news!”
Blaze nods in agreement before shoving the basket to the far side of the counter just as I am reaching for more of the preserves.
“I want the kid taken care of and all,” he growls against my mouth.
“But I don’t want my wife moaning into pillows again.
” At this, he glances over his shoulder to ensure we are still alone before his hand disappears under my skirt and I am forced to silently moan into his neck.
It is nearly dark by the time we arrive back at the modiste, and by the time we have locked the door, lit a fire, and drawn a bath, flecks of perfectly white snow drift slowly from the black sky.
“An early winter,” I remark, watching from my steaming place in the tub as the snowflakes cascade peacefully past my view out the window.
“A London winter,” Blaze replies, sponging soapy water over my shoulders. “Mom said she always wanted to see it.”
I feel a tinge of guilt settle on my chest. “I know you miss them greatly.”
“Mmmm,” he agrees, and I feel his big hand gently massage the soap across my back. “Every day.”
In the silence, I think of the note I left in the almanac months ago when I thought his departure was imminent.
On any day, he could pick the book back up, read my note, and be reminded that he is never going back.
So, two hours later, Blaze snores from his side of the bed and I slip from the warmth of his embrace, pull my chemise over my head, and exit the bedroom, careful to close the door behind me.
The almanac sits atop the hearth with a few other books which piqued Blaze’s interest. I pluck it from its place and lean towards the dying fire to find the note. I know I left it closer to the back of the book, so I start there, my eyes scanning rapidly as the pages flip between my fingers.
Until a date catches my eye.
December twenty-first.
A month and a half from today.
I mull over the date. The winter festival spans three days, one of those days being the twenty-first, exactly six months to the day from when Blaze tumbled into my life.
As I stare at the date, the words Winter Solstice stand out.
With trembling fingers, I flip towards the middle of the book.
June twenty-first. Summer Solstice. As an avid reader, much to the chagrin of Mama, I had, in previous years, read tales of folklore and legends.
While the topic of time travel was not covered thoroughly in my readings, I do recall the mention of a song in some Scottish retelling.
It was not the sort of song I might find in Georgia’s pianoforte music sheets, so I had to convince Stanley to scour the collection of sheet music at Eaton.
When he procured it, not at Eaton, but through a friend of a professor, he brought it home and told me I was nonsensical.
At the time, I happened to agree with him as I read the ballad account of a gentleman falling through time on the winter solstice.
My body stiffens and I slowly flop the book closed, deciding to leave the note where it is. My heart is heavy with dread, or even the guilt of a secret I have already subconsciously decided to keep.
Perhaps we were right about him jumping back in the pond. We were simply wrong about when he was doing it.