Page 3 of The Spinster & the Sock

“You shouldn’t make light of it.” Georgia chastises, though a pleased expression takes over her usually demure features as she looks over the royal blue silk trimmed with ivory lace. I took extra care while beading the peacock across the bodice, so the tiny, colorful gems catch in the candlelight. It mimics the stunning iridescence of the living bird.

“Do you like it?” I whisper, drawing her attention to the hem of the full gown where I have embroidered little scenes of fowl along the waterside in a darker blue thread.

“Oh, Josephine,” she says with a gasp. “It is magnificent. You are a wonder. Isn’t she just wonderful, Mama?”

Our mother smiles, looking at me with a nod of approval. “Well done, darling. It is just as she envisioned it.”

“If only you were married,” Georgia says wistfully. “Then you could sew dresses for fun and not to pretend you can support yourself.”

At this, my brow furrows, and I gather the remaining deliveries into my arms. It is no secret that my mother and father have ‘indulged my delusions’ in hopes that once my ‘rebellious dream’ has been lived out, I will settle down in a proper marriage and the whole affair will be behind the Dashwood family. I am absolutely certain that is the only reason my parents insist on a monthly allowance.

Clearing my throat, I smile sweetly at my younger sister.

“You see, Georgia, some of us like supporting ourselves. While you must come and go as you are told, I can scandalize the ton at all hours of the day with no one to tell me I should or should not.“ I hesitate, envisioning pompous lords and stuffy ladies glowering at my barefoot promenade last season. “At least, no one I must heed.”

Mother interjects. “Well, you should heed me, Josephine, and scandalize the ton you should not—“

“Really, Mama, I don’t. But still, having a choice is delightful. I hope more of my sisters become spinsters. Perhaps you, Georgia.” I glance at my now horrified sister, her expression a stark contrast to the sunlight transforming her golden hair into an angelic halo. “This season may be a disappointment to you as it was for me. Do not despair; I have room for you at the modiste.”

I depart, listening to Georgia’s hysterical rambling as she begs our mother to help her find a handsome husband this very night.

I am used to the snide remarks, the small woes over my marital status. What never ceases to amaze me is for all of my achievements, such as a successful business in the wake of being a most disappointing debutante, it is the latter that I am most remembered for. They come to my shop, pay me well, admire my work, rely on my prompt follow-through, and still think my most grand—or scandalous—achievement is being unwed.

These are the thoughts running through my head quicker than my disgracefully late messenger boy when, vision slightly impaired by my parcels, I collide with an absolute brute of a man. Not just a brute, but perhaps he’s also delusional. Sprawled on the ground, a pile of petticoats and strewn packages, I glance over my splayed limbs, muddy dress, and upturned parcels to the hyperventilating man. The look of confusion etched on his crude face is undeniable, but something about his manner of dress and speech is foreign. He wears the strangest, ugliest clothing I have ever seen in my life, and the words which fall from his gaping mouth as he crawls across the carnage and grips my shoulders in a panic…are disgraceful.

“For the love of a good combine driver, can you please explain to me how I ended up in…what is this, Pemberly? And please tell me I am not dead! Shit—look at you! I must be dead…I’ve killed thousands of fish and now Mother Nature is gonna be a bitch and feed me to them as payback.”

He continues to ramble, his speech growing faster and the tone more high-pitched as I struggle to understand his strange accent. “All while I am stuck in Bridgerton Purgatory!” He grips his hair by the roots, hyperventilating, and squeaks: “Toto, we’re not in Nebraska anymore!”

I shake my head fervently and scramble to my feet, putting a modest distance between myself and this madman. “I am not sure where Bridgerton is, nor do I know a Toto, sir, but I assure you, you are in no purgatory. This is only Regent’s Park and…you look like you need to sit down.”

The Cold Does Bother Me, Actually

Blaze

“You look like you need to sit down,” the woman says in a placating tone, her hands held out in front of her like I’m a feral animal. I suppose I may have come on a little strong there, and I probably do look like a sewer rat right now, still dripping wet from my ‘swim’. She doesn’t look like a rat, though. On the contrary, she’s stunning in that soft pink, very Bridgerton-esque dress—more evidence of this being a dream.

“Technically, lady, I am sitting.” I’m not wrong. I’m sitting on my heels right where she left me. “Listen, I’m sorry for running into you, and I’m sorry for grabbing you. That was rude, even if you are a fever-dream induced hallucination or some variation of a damn reaper…”

“Yes, I am quite aware that you are currently sitting, sir. I meant you should probably sit down, ideally in a proper chair and with a glass of water, though your clothes seem to be doing a fine job of holding water on their own.”

I frown as she looks me up and down, her blonde hair threatening to slip free of her messy bun. I should be glad she has a sense of humor about all of this, I guess. “You really should get dry; your lips are turning blue.”

“Can’t you just, like, poof me dry or something? Or is that only in dreams? No, of course you can’t. This must be purgatory. It wouldn’t make sense if I could just will myself to be in clean clothes in purgatory—right?“ The longer this conversation goes on, the more ridiculous it feels. If I’m dead, why can’t I just be dead? Why the hell am I being forced to work for dry pants here too?

“As I said, you are in no purgatory. You’re in London,“ she says, speaking slower and drawing out the last word.

Great. Now she thinks I’m an idiot.

Maybe I am.

“Lady—“

“Josephine Dashwood,” she supplies. I think she is about to laugh. The Jane Austen Reaper is laughing at me. It may be internal; she may be trying to be polite about it, but she is, in fact, laughing.

“Josephine,” I say as I force my aching limbs to stand, “can we cut the bullshit? If this is heaven or hell or all in my head, I can handle it. Just be straight with me and drop the act. I’m tired, I’m cold, I’ve gotta piss like a racehorse, and I would like to know what my options are here.”

She—Josephine—sighs, looks at the sky for a breath, and when she lowers her ocean-blue gaze back to mine, I swear even Stevie Wonder would be able to see every ounce of patience leave her body.