Rachel could only see Colin from about the waist up, as the men in front of her were taller than she. It was infuriating, she found, because all she could see were the jabs and upper movements, when she felt drawn to see the entire fight. Blood pounded in her ears, and the huzzahs and cheering of the crowd of men for their favorite—most appeared to have money on Sam—were deafening. Rachel pushed through the crowd and found a spot near the stage, by Belinda.
Colin, deadly intent, was holding his own quite well against the bigger man, since he was faster, his feints and parries much like his expertise with a sword, which was no mean accomplishment. He landed a blow, and his opponent roared with pain, his lip curling in a snarl like a cornered beast. Rachel was petrified. She clutched Belinda to her side, and felt the girl shiver too. Or was that herself?
Sussex Sam landed a telling blow on Colin’s chin, and he staggered, reeling backward. Rachel gasped, but Colin surged forward again, sending his fist into the other man’s taut stomach muscles. It must have been a hard blow, for the man doubled over. Colin delivered another, but his opponent was not done yet. Perhaps he had underestimated the newcomer to the ring, for a look of more concentrated fury hardened his ugly, scarred face, and he redoubled his efforts to beat Colin.
Rachel could see Sir Parnell at the other side of the ring, his dark face intent, flinching with every blow landed on his pupil. He shouted commands, telling Colin to tuck, to feint, to parry, to jab. As blow after blow landed, sweat began to splatter the crowd and a fleck of blood appeared at the corner of Sussex Sam’s cut mouth.
A pause was called; Sir Parnell and Sam’s squat second leaped into the ring with cloths and water. They wiped down their fighters and talked to them. Colin listened and glanced at the other man, then listened again and nodded.
Rachel’s heartbeat was just returning to normal as she tried to conceal her and Belinda’s presence by turning their backs to the ring and hunching over, but the pause was over in a second, it seemed, and the bout started again. She turned, unable to keep her gaze from the fight, and watched. Colin, unbelievably, appeared to be winning. He was relentless; no blow fazed him. She found herself cheering, and clamped her mouth shut, knowing her feminine voice would give her away even among men who were staring only at the fighters. She pressed a fist to her mouth to keep herself silent, but was unable to restrain her exuberance and stop from jumping up and down, clutching Belinda.
But then he took a blow to the head and staggered sideways, caught off balance. He steadied himself, but another blow followed. Rachel screamed, and in that one second, as Colin’s head whipped around and his gaze found her in the crowd, Sam took advantage of his opponent’s wandering attention and hit him so hard strings of spittle and blood flew out and hit the spectators. Colin reeled and fell to his knees, and then backward.
Colin! He was hurt!
Sam stepped back and waited for the arbitrator to jump into the ring, but he was not as quick as Rachel. Ducking under the loose rope that delineated the edge of the ring, feeling her hat fly off but not caring, Rachel scrambled across the sweat-slicked surface of the ring floor and bent over Colin, shrieking his name as she saw blood stream from his mouth. “Colin,” she sobbed, her tears falling onto his cheeks. His eyes fluttered open, and their gaze met for one brief moment as the crowd yelled and pounded on the stage.
She was about to pull him to her but felt herself abruptly hauled to her feet and shoved out of the ring. With no ceremony she was grasped under her arms and dragged out of the room; her immediate reaction was to kick and scream, but as though at a distance she heard Andromeda say, “Rachel, shut up! It is Sir Parnell who has you. We must get out of here. You have given us away!”
The next few moments were a blur, but soon she was sitting in a carriage with Andromeda and Belinda, on their way back to the Strongwycke London house where the Varens and Belinda were staying. Her men’s jacket was in disarray, her carefully tied mathematical loose and her hair tumbled out of its tight coiffure, which had been hidden under a curl-brimmed beaver.
She was a mess.
And she didn’t care.
“Colin . . . how is he?” She sat up straight.
“Wasn’t that a bully fight?” Belinda said, eagerly sitting on the edge of the carriage seat.
Andromeda, seated across from them, shook her head with a mournful expression on her handsome face. “You would think at my age I would know better. I should have done this alone.”
“I am sorry for spoiling your adventure, Andromeda,” Rachel said, “but . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not angry at you,” she replied, her tone rueful, “but at myself. What I was thinking to take a beautiful young lady and a girl child, when I could clearly see that neither of you were the faintest bit convincing, whereas I, unfortunately, can very easily pass as a gentleman.”
“We would have gotten away with it if Rachel hadn’t shrieked and leaped on Sir Colin!” Belinda was giggling, and sat back against the squabs roaring with laughter, holding her stomach. “That was so funny! The rope knocked your hat off, Miss Neville, and your hair came loose and streamed down your back and . . .”
Andromeda put up one ungloved hand and said, “Belinda, you needn’t repeat the whole—”
“No, let her,” Rachel said wearily. “I remember nothing from the time I leaped into the ring, except poor Colin’s battered face, and that was my own fault! He heard me cry out, looked over at me, and that brute sunk his fist into his chin. It was horrible.”
Andromeda was watching her, curiosity lighting up her dark eyes. “So that’s what made him lose his concentration. I wondered. I thought he might win before that.”
“So did I,” Rachel answered, and set about tidying herself.
Thinking back over the evening, from the moment Colin first stepped into the ring and stripped off his shirt, Rachel reflected it was as if some strange spirit had taken her over. She had felt hot and cold in turn, and her stomach had never ceased an unladylike rumbling, just as her whole body shivered. It had been as if she was possessed, her physical reactions were so unexpected.
What was wrong with her? Why had she reacted as she did? The fight, with Colin performing so magnificently, his muscular frame taut with brute force and his fists flailing, had excited her in some odd way that she was not particularly keen to explore. She feared it reflected poorly on her ladylike demeanor.
But when she had seen Colin go down, toppling like a stone, it had felt like a piece of her was being torn into shreds. The only explanation she could come up with was that all of the anticipation had made her the shivering muddle she had been, and that seeing her friend hurt had been all she could take, making her break out in her emotional outburst.
That had to be the explanation.
She said that to Andromeda, and the other woman nodded. “That must be it,” she said, smiling. “Yes, indeed, you have most certainly offered a logical explanation for your behavior.” There was an inscrutable expression on her gaunt face, though, as if she had a secret.
“I hope Colin is all right,” Rachel said, trying to ignore Andromeda’s odd behavior. “Please tell him to come see me tomorrow. I need to know that he has suffered no ill effects from my poorly timed outburst.”
“I will most certainly tell him to come and see you tomorrow,” Andromeda said, again with that odd smile.
“Good.” She frowned at the other woman’s intent gaze, and then looked away disconcerted. “I will feel immensely better knowing that he is all right.”
Chapter Sixteen
Back at Haven House, safe in her own room overlooking the confined back garden, sleep did not come easy to Rachel. She twisted and turned under the covers, restless and hot, the room feeling suffocating. She wanted to go outside, wanted to feel the patter of rain that she could hear tapping against her window on her bare skin.
She wanted to be free.
But a well-bred young lady did not wander outside in the middle of the night. It j
ust wasn’t done. Of course, well-bred young ladies did not attend boxing matches where half-naked young men—
She abandoned that disturbing line of thought. When she finally did sleep it was an uneasy rest that was agitated by dreams. She dreamed of home, Haven Court. She flew, oddly at peace, her arms spread and leaning into the wind, above the fells of Yorkshire, swooping like a bird over rounded peaks and down slopes. It was a strange sensation, and yet felt natural and right.
But then the dreams changed. She knew she was unhappy. She longed for something. For someone. What was it? Who was it? Amorphous spirits and wild imaginings plagued her, and she awoke often to the sound of the rain, pelting stronger, the wind scraping a branch on her windowpane. Finally the wind died down and the rain stopped, and despite her restless tossing and turning, she felt herself drift, the precursor to deeper sleep.
And her father came to her. His face was seamed with the worry lines that had always, as long as she could remember, dressed his weary face. But he opened his arms and she was a little girl again, running to him in the garden at Haven Court. And he held her. “Trust your heart, Rose-red,” he murmured, using his pet name for her.
She opened her mouth but her voice was not that of her as a child, but her as a woman. “How, Papa? How do I trust?” She looked into his tired, defeated eyes and experienced a rush of longing so powerful it was like a fist in her stomach. Why had he died and left her alone?
“Let go of worry; let go of fear. Believe in your heart. You will find a way.”
Hands grasped her and dragged her away from him. “Papa!” she cried out; she could see blood on his bruised face and she screamed, awakening to the silence of her dim room, her heart pounding, her head aching miserably.
When she lay back down on her pillow, damp from her tears, she still did not know the answer. How did she learn to trust herself or anyone else?
• • •
Morning finally came and it found Rachel agitated and restless still, feeling adrift after her frightening experience of the night before and the wild dreams that inevitably followed. She picked at breakfast, never her favorite meal anyway, and her day was only brightened by finding that her grandmother was much improved in spirits and health, though still weak and tired.
After that she could settle to nothing, and after a miserable walk in the tiny walled garden, the leaden sky reflecting her grim mood, she returned to the house. Finally, she paced in the dark hallway and waited. Would Andromeda remember to tell Colin to come see her? Would he come?
Details of the dreams of her restless night came back to haunt her. She only realized after that she and her father were not in the garden, as she had thought at first, but in a boxing ring. That explained the blood on his brow as she was pulled away from him, she supposed. But she had not been thinking of her father; why had he shown up in her dreams? Why had she not just dreamt of the fight she had seen?
None of it made any sense.
There was a tap at the door and Rachel waved the butler away impatiently, answering it herself. He would complain in the servants’ hall, no doubt, but she was past caring about such petty concerns.
“Colin, you came!” She would have reached out to him, so happy was she to see him upright and conscious, but there was a stiff look on his face and his jaw was bruised, a colorful welt marring the clean line. Dark whiskers sprouted where it was clearly too painful for his valet to shave.
“Miss Neville. Could we talk someplace private?”
Alerted by his tone and formal manner of addressing her, she calmed herself and escorted him into the parlor, leaving the door ajar. At the far end a fire was blazing in the grate against the dampness of the day, Rachel supposed, after the steady rain of the night before, but she was too warm already so she chose, instead of the big chairs near the fireplace, a seating group near the window.
“Are you all right,” she said, examining his face. There was a small cut near his eye and his lip was split and swollen. Other than that and the bruised jaw, he appeared to be fine. But who knew what bruises he had on other parts of him, parts that could not be seen? She blushed at the direction of her thoughts, and the sight of him in just his breeches intruded again on her wandering wits. She sternly harnessed them in, like wayward ponies, and looked at him expectantly.
“I’m just fine.” His voice was tight with tension. “How is your grandmother? I hear she has been unwell.”
“She’s getting better. Yesterday she was up for a while, and today we expect her to join us for luncheon. I saw her just this morning and she seems to me to be much improved. I would be happy if you would tell your sister that Grandmother thanks her for the jelly, and says it was delicious.”
“You may send her a note yourself. I doubt if she will speak to me right now.”
“Oh?”
“We had a dust-up this morning and have not spoken to each other since.”
Rachel frowned at the news. Andromeda and Colin fighting? Though they often sniped at each other, they never fought. She had always thought that beneath the casual affection lay a greater reliance upon each other than even among her own siblings.
“I must say,” he continued, “that I was shocked and displeased at your attendance last evening at the fight.”
She had expected that, and nodded, about to launch into the set speech she had planned to explain and apologize, but he was not done.
“I am especially shocked,” he said, standing and pacing, his homely country jacket flapping about him, “that it was you. You! I always thought you were sensible. Pamela was the one prey to all kinds of freakish behavior and odd starts. And even Andy; I have known her on occasion to do things that are out of the ordinary, to say the least. And Belinda . . . well, we know how wild she is. But you! Sensible, ladylike Rachel, to dress in men’s clothes and . . .”
His disgust was so deep he could not even find words to express it, it seemed to Rachel. She felt the beginning itch of anger, and could not say it was unwelcome. It was an agreeable alternative to the strange tumultuous longings she had been experiencing. She was about to respond, when he planted himself on the carpet in front of her and continued yet again.
“You risked your reputation . . . nay, even your life going to such a place!” His voice vibrated with anger. “How could you do it? How could you justify dressing as a man and venturing out to a boxing match? I am asking you plainly, how do you rationalize such . . . such freakish, ill-timed, ill-considered, wild, unconscionably unnatural—”
“Then shut up so I can tell you!”
Colin clamped his mouth shut. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet planted apart on the carpet, mouth set in a grim line. “Then tell me,” he said in a resentful tone.
Given the opportunity Rachel did not know what to say, or even why she should speak at all. She looked up at him, his hard masculinity and angry demeanor a new side to Colin, one she did not at all like to see in the previously indulgent friend and neighbor. He was not her father, nor her brother, nor even her husband that she need justify her behavior to him. Anger flared once again, welcome for the protection from weepiness it offered her. Her whole life since she was a child, since the death of her dear father, had been spent protecting herself: her clothes, her skin, her feelings, her reputation. And what had it gained her? She didn’t even know herself.
Nor did she trust herself. She overthought every decision and had become narrow in her focus. Which was how she had ended up affianced to Yarnell, an eminently safe, sensible, supremely rational choice as a husband. And all wrong for her. The first right thing she had done in an age was to trust her instincts and free him to be with the woman who loved him, and whom he loved.
“No,” she said with sudden decisiveness. “I am not going to justify or rationalize myself to you or anyone. I am a grown woman. When I marry, I will have to be obedient to my hus . . . though, why should I? Am I not capable of making decisions for myself?”
“Evidently not, since you decided to go
to a boxing match dressed as a man. Was not that the height of ill thinking?” His tone was of wounded male sensibility.
“We had a very good reason for being there. Andromeda was worried—”
“Keep Andy out of this. She will have to answer to me for her own behavior—”
“You impossible, arrogant, idiotic boor!” Rachel stood and faced her angry friend, glaring into his dark eyes. “Andromeda is a grown woman and her only concern was for your safety. She is your sister and your elder, not your child. I, too, will determine my own path, and you have no right to criticize or—”
“I have every right, the right of every proper-thinking, intelligent—”
“Do not interrupt me again,” Rachel said, deadly calm now, “or I will walk out of this room and not come back.”
His brows furrowed. “This is not like you, Rachel,” he said, his tone wounded. “You have always been so calm and ladylike, so perfectly behaved.”
“And now I have been shrieking like a fishwife. My perfect behavior made it easier for everyone, didn’t it? When I was perfectly behaved, afraid if I stepped outside the prison walls for one minute everyone would stop approving me, would stop liking me, would stop caring, I made life much easier for everyone else, didn’t I? But this is me, Colin. I am as you see me.”
“I do not believe you. You aren’t one way your whole life and then suddenly overnight change into someone else.”
She gave up. How could she explain to him the revolution within her? She squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. “Colin, I’m deeply sorry that my outcry at the fight caused you to lose the bout. I am sincerely sorry, and you can wager it will not happen again. In fact,” she continued resentfully, “if you want to go out and get pummeled and battered every night of your life for the rest of your life, then it is all the same to me.” She turned and walked to the door, but looked over her shoulder. “I trust you can find your own way out. Good day, Colin.”
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