Page 2 of The Spinster & the Sock

Part of me has always kept going just to prove him wrong.

Joke’s on me, I guess.

Somewhere off to my left, a horse whinnies, stealing my attention. Surely if this is a dream, I couldn’t possibly get in trouble for, say, acquiring said horse? Aggressive arts and crafts, plus my impromptu swim, really has me worn the fuck out.

I’m still internally debating the legalities of my soon-to-be transportation upgrade when I’m quite literally hit by ye olde time version of an Amazon delivery person. An apt description, if the half-dozen parcels are anything to judge from—all now air born as we crash backwards. Here I am, left on my ass, surrounded by large boxes, draped in one surprisingly heavy, piglet-pink gown and staring across the carnage at a pair of beautifully perplexed, sea-blue eyes.

A Disappointing Debutante

Josephine

June 1813

“Hell and damnation!” A thick drop of crimson oozes from my smarting fingertip. Discarding the offending needle, I stand too hastily and trip over a basket of various spools at my feet, landing on the hardwood floor with a shocking thud.

It almost resounds louder than my inglorious fall from societal graces.

“Miss Josephine?” Behind a severely pinched nose, Eliza Winthrop’s beady eyes stare down at me from the doorway where the bell, which startled me to begin with, still jangles lightly. “Are you well?” As always, she is the picture of refinement, and while she inquires after my well-being, the slight twitch of her mouth tells me she is anything but concerned.

“Quite,” I muster with a too-sweet tone that might be accurately interpreted as snarky. I stand quickly and smooth my pale-pink satin frock before offering Eliza a friendly smile. “How may I help you, Miss Winthrop?”

Exhaling an indignant sigh, the pouty woman fiddles with her purse tassels. “I expected my gown to be delivered hours ago. I shall not suffer wearing a dress from last season to my mother’s most anticipated ball of the year! Having to track it down has been such an inconvenience.”

My belly lurches. Jonathan Thomas was supposed to handle my deliveries this morning, but as my eyes scan the cluttered backdrop of my shop, I find a pile of parcels sitting where I left them last night and snatch them up. “Forgive me,” I manage, shoving the package labeled ‘E.W.’ into her hands. “It seems my errand boy was delayed, but I have yours right here.” Niceties could be exchanged if I had time for them, but given the stack of deliveries wobbling in my arms with even less stability than my sanity, I offer my annoyed patron a polite curtsy and rush out the front door.

A warm summer breeze greets me. It carries the potent fragrance of blooming hydrangeas and delphiniums from a few buildings up, where the tea house offers a lovely, abundant garden to beckon its customers in. The cobblestone street bustles with tradesmen, wagons, and perusing shoppers in equal proportion. The latter is a most delightful diversion as I move with the ebb and flow of traffic towards my first stop. Ladies all around me inspire me with the fashion of the ton: they wear the finest, vibrant fabrics, trimmed in lace and tulle, along with beautiful gems dangling from delicate fixtures. The bundles I carry each contain no less than a month’s worth of effort in the form of elegant gowns, most of which will make their debut at tonight’s Winthrop ball. I certainly do not have the time to hand-deliver my parcels to each customer, but Jonathan Thomas be damned, I can not afford to not see them delivered.

Alas, my first stop brings me to an all-too-familiar row of terraced houses situated with an appealing view of Regent’s Park.

Dashwood House. It is an elegant property with a cream stucco façade. Intricate iron balconies protrude from overhead doors, which provide each bedroom with their own personal appraisal of the park. Flanking the entryway to Dashwood House are lush gardens bursting with the colors of the season and climbing roses meandering up the exterior of the sophisticated building. With every gentle rustle of the warm breeze, the flourishing green leaves of the garden shudder.

Inside, the grand entrance hall welcomes me with soaring ceilings and a polished blue marble floor, glowing in the warmth of the midday sunlight which spills like liquid gold through tall, arched windows. Upon each windowsill, elegant crystal vases overflow with freshly clipped peonies.

The esteemed residents of Dashwood House include the Earl George Dashwood and his wife, the Countess Helena Dashwood, who are honored by an abundance of well-mannered sons and daughters.

Save one.

Me.

I am neither well mannered, nor am I esteemed. Perhaps that is why, at the ripe age of twenty-six, I occupy myself working as a modiste for a hobby—not out of necessity—to avoid the dangers of the marriage market.

“Mama,” I announce as I pass through the grand entrance and into the drawing room. Glorious sunlight douses the cheerful space, and gentle piano-forte music graces my ears as my sister, Georgia, plays ‘Tis The Last Rose Of Summer, as though she anticipated my late arrival and greets me with a metaphor of my spinsterhood.

“Josephine!” Mother welcomes me with a warm smile, standing to take the top parcel I’m carrying before it slips. “I did not expect to see you until tonight, dear. Aren’t you finishing the last of the Hawthorne dresses?”

“Indeed,” I answer breathlessly. “My delivery boy neglected to deliver, so here I am doing the rounds before I get more angry clients in my shop.”

“Oh dear.” My lovely mother frowns as she sits on a blush chaise, where she puts down the package and reaches for her needlepoint hoop. She shakes her head, and the greying ringlets framing her face sway slightly. “More?” I swear her tone means to say, ‘If only you would marry the Viscount, these burdens would not be yours.’

“Eliza Winthrop paid me a visit this morning,” I say, but my mother interrupts by sharply clearing her throat. I ignore her indignant inflections and continue, motioning for Georgia to stand while I unpack her new evening dress. “Of all the gowns to be delivered late, a Winthrop gown...on the night of the Winthrop Ball.”

Georgia winces. “How disastrous. You are as good as ruined.” Her eyes lower innocently, and she moves closer to examine her new gown. “Perhaps you ought to put aside your foolish ambitions, come home, and marry this season.”

“Georgie,“ our mother chides cooly. “That is unkind.”

Something about Georgia’s latter statement brings a purse to my mother’s lips, as though she would very much enjoy that outcome.

Unfazed, I offer my beautiful younger sister a thin smile. “Oh, darling, haven’t you heard? I have been ruined for years. One must be consistent, you know. People do love predictability. Without it, the ton might fret itself inside out, and then who would host your beloved balls?”