Page 9 of The Spinster & the Sock

If Father wins, I’ll just be scolded for the rest of my life. Zero change.

If Blaze wins, something tells me I will be laughed at for the rest of my life. Zero change.

Neither option seems to improve nor reduce my current situation to begin with. Loyalty would beg me to cheer for my father, but something about the man with a strange accent and a hellish name makes me pause. At least he is funny. Oh no, I just called him funny. Even now, as a duel for my honor takes place in our family garden, I can not seem to unearth enough decency to fake a proper response in such a moment of crisis.

“See what you have done!” Georgia wails, gripping her skirts to her face as she sinks to the ground, eyes wide as fists fly. “You are a disaster, Josephine, a disaster—”

Groaning and pulling himself from the ground, Blaze chimes in, “No, Bertha Mae, she was my college sweetheart. Gave me crabs, she was a disast—oomph!” My father plants a fist in Blaze’s jaw, sending him stumbling several steps backwards. He steadies himself on the tree trunk before plummeting forward, wrapping his arms around my father’s middle and tackling him back to the ground.

College? Crabs? What an odd gift to offer someone you’re courting…

“Why did she give you crabs?!” I ask without any expectation of a response, watching as the men fly mid-air. Somehow, I am not surprised at this man’s multitasking when he actually offers me an airborne answer.

“I guess she wanted to pass them along, and the roly-poly redhead seemed like a good caretaker—ack!”

They land on the packed soil with a crack.

“Good God,” I gasp, rushing to where Blaze now kneels over the reeling man who gave me life, fisting a handful of his hair in one hand and his throat in the other. “Don’t kill him! Father, be reasonable. I am sure Blaze is willing to make this right!” My plea immediately loosens Blaze’s grip, and he glances up at me like he’s waiting for my next command. I feel like the general of a hodgepodge army with this curious fellow looking up at me, awaiting direction.

“Blaze?” Georgia scoffs from the sidelines. “What a ridiculous name.”

“Hey!” Blaze wags a finger incredulously at my sister, conceding as I pull him up. “My mom gave me that name! Don’t shit on it or I’ll go into great detail as to why Georgia reminds me of sweaty testicles and rotten peaches. You!” He points at my father, who still lies choking on the ground. “I would like to ask for your blessing to get hitched to your daughter—or whatever formality is required of me. There, can we stop fighting now?” The imbecile glances over at me, offering me a proud, childish grin. “Did I ask right? Was that good?”

He truly is an idiot.

Letting out an exasperated groan, I almost want to tell him to go back to fighting. Maybe I can slip father his sword and this can all be over by supper. Then again, hiding a body of this man’s size may be difficult, and dueling is illegal, so the slash marks would be impossible to explain.

“Father.” I kneel beside my panting parent and take his hand in mine. “I have erred tremendously.” I decide groveling is a lady’s only recourse in cases such as these. Innocent or not, my error was indulging the stranger in the first place. “Please do not see yourself harmed further. I shall remedy my own mistake and marry this man. I swear, I will never do another indecent thing in my life. No more dishonor to the Dashwood name.”

From behind me, Georgia scoffs. “Darling, dishonor is your middle name.”

“What is with you guys and names?” Blaze blurts, pointing a finger at Grandmother. “Your name should be Gerty and yet it’s—what was it again? Majority?”

In unison, my entire family responds, “Marjorie!”

Blaze looks at me now, still wagging that damned index finger. “And you! I couldn’t possibly marry a woman who swears off indecency. Where in the name of God is your fun side?” He grumbles something about a temporary fix, then shrugs. “Alright, no indecency. Fine. But can a man get a proper introduction to his in-laws, at least?”

The silence which ensues after Blaze’s declaration is nearly unbearable.

Classic Dashwood glares, our own form of communication, are exchanged.

Nobody moves.

A bird chirps peacefully.

A single rose petal falls from a well-pruned bush, drifting past Father’s face.

He stands at last. “I am George Dashwood, Earl of Huntington. My wife, the Countess Helena Dashwood, her mother, Marjorie, our youngest daughter, Georgia, my eldest son, Stanley Dashwood…” As he continues down the line of family members, begrudgingly introducing each one, Father’s finger finally points at me and I stiffen, feeling instantly self-conscious as every pair of eyes, Blaze’s included, lands on me. “My daughter, Josephine, who you are already acquainted with…you will refrain from dishonoring her or any of us further. Lest you wish for our next encounter to end with my blade in your belly.”

Blaze nods stoically at me, and for a brief moment, I feel like I can sigh in relief. Then he speaks, “Damn! This thing is shredded.” He grins sheepishly, holding his arms at his sides, modeling his ruined shirt. “I might as well be naked again, eh?”

I press flat palms to my eyes, sucking in a calming breath. Father huffs, his voice crawling with irritation. “Just—off with you, you rake. A room will be made up for you for the night and I’ll get the solicitor to draw up the papers, and don’t for a moment think you’re getting a single pound of her dowry.” He looks to mother with a frustrated shake of his head. “Make the arrangements for the banns of marriage to be read. We have a wedding to plan.”

As if I could expect anything less of myself, while my insides urge me to burst into tears, I instead slip into a hysterical laugh. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts; I laugh until my cheeks are sore and tears run down them. I laugh because in three weeks, I will marry the man with one sock and something called a Johnson, which actually terrifies me.

Lobotomies & Opiate Naps

Blaze