Page 16 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Decent enough, at least. Do you fish, Mr. Dashwood?”

Jo groans dramatically as her father’s entire countenance lights up.

“George, please. I may have gone easier on you earlier had I known that you were a man with taste, despite your colorful vocabulary.” He claps me on the shoulder. “What kind of fish did you say? I usually bring in a few sprats on the average day, but with the right bait and a little luck it’s shad I bring home. We simply must go out on the Thames together. I’m never too old to learn a few new tricks for the rod.”

“It would be my pleasure, George,” I agree enthusiastically, excited not just for the prospect of a fishing buddy or the taste of fresh caught shad, but for the fact that my future father-in-law doesn’t seem like he wants my head on a pike anymore.

A tug at my elbow pulls my focus to Jo. “Father, might I commandeer my fiancé‘s attention for a moment? I’d quite like to sneak in another dance before the evening ends.”

“Soon, my boy, I’ll clear my schedule.” George calls after us as Jo drags me back among the swirling bodies.

“Sorry, your brain was probably melting out of your ears back there,” I say sheepishly as we begin dancing.

“Oh, no. Actually, I don’t mind—I just…Other than the few instances I’m coerced onto the floor with the Viscount, I don’t usually dance at these events. It’s a nice change, if I’m being honest. And you’re a good dancer—I did not expect that.”

My cheeks flush, which only makes the heat spread more viciously. I’m clearly allergic to compliments. “I took lessons with my mom when I was younger. My dad has a bad knee, so some of the spins are impossible for him, and my mom desperately wanted to learn, so I went with her.” I shrug, because it’s not a big deal—we weren’t the only mother and son group there—but the soft smile and gentle sigh from Jo tell me she thinks differently.

“In that case, I apologize now for the blebs you’ll surely have from those shoes, because we aren’t leaving this floor until the carriage arrives.”

Seven. I have seven blisters—blebs, as Jo keeps calling them—on my feet, but I’m not mad about a single one. I’m sitting in a miserably hard chair in my temporary room, bloody socks discarded on the floor, and I’m staring at the wall, complete dissociation, when a knock sounds from my open door.

Jo stands there, her hair back in its nest on top of her head, contrasting with her fine dress. “How are your feet?”

“Swiss, just like the cheese, but they’ll heel,“ I emphasize the last word while giving a little Vanna White hand wave to my foot.

“You are easily the most unusual human I have ever met,” Jo breathes, rolling her eyes as she steps into the room. “I thought it might be good to discuss…things. We’re going to be married in three weeks, and it’s only wise to have some things figured out beforehand. Would you agree?”

A Spinster, Not An Idiot

Josephine

I know I shouldn’t be alone in this bedroom with him, door shut and voices hushed. But we can’t get any more marriage-bound than we already are. What’s the worst that will happen? Grandmother finds me unchaperoned with him again and bullies him into an awkward proposal? And honestly, everything about the past twelve hours has me questioning right from wrong, so I am not really concerned about what anyone thinks at this point.

Blaze and I need to set a few things straight before the chaos of the next month ensues.

“So you’ve been living all Han Solo in an attic above your store? And you have a room at your parent’s house? I share a bunk space with the rest of the crew during the season, and I work the farm back at Mom and Pop’s the rest of the year, so I still have my childhood bedroom there. Guess we have that in common, no real home.“ He shrugs, flashing me a charming, tired smile.

Sure, we have similar housing situations, but I don’t know what ‘Han Solo’ is. “Han Solo?” I clarify, my brow furrowing, and I cross my arms, warding off the late evening chill.

“Ah, sorry, bad future pun—alone. You live alone.” He chuckles at his own joke, and the way he smiles shows how truly fatigued he is. It isn’t the jovial, lighthearted grin I’ve observed an absurd amount of times today considering he has fallen through time. Finally, his expression reflects what he’s been through.

“Right.” I cringe, wondering how long it will take for us to either return him to his time, or for me to adapt to his curious manner of talking. “Yes. And I think for everyone’s sake, we ought to continue to live there. I have a very comfortable chaise you can make your own until we magic you back to your time.” A fleeting doubt penetrates my mind. What if I am about to marry a lunatic? What if he isn’t strange because he has traveled, but because he has escaped a sanitarium and is taking refuge on my family’s estate?

Bringing me back to the present, Blaze puffs an exhausted sigh and reclines against the down pillows. “Magic. Don’t suppose you have any of that lying around in your shop?”

I offer him a sad, apologetic smile. “Fresh out, I’m afraid.”

“No DeLorean chilling in your garden somewhere?”

“DeLorean?”

“It’s a car, which is basically a carriage with rubber wheels instead of wooden ones, and a motor providing horsepower minus the actual horses.” Blaze flashes two thumbs up, and a proud grin stretches across his face. “The DeLorean is a time-traveling carriage.”

“So, did people in 2025 invent time travel?” I ask, absentmindedly as I cross the floor to peer out the large window overlooking the garden.

“Pretty sure Diana Gabaldon did. Or maybe it was aliens…that would better explain how I got here.”

“Oh, Blaze,” I sigh, looking over my shoulder at him. “You might as well be speaking a foreign language. How did you get here? Can’t we just repeat whatever you did and send you back home?”