“For a price, I’ll wager,” he answered, stooping down to pick up her bag. When she held her hand out for it, he ignored it. “I’ll accompany you,” he said shortly.
“That’s really not necessary,” Lizzie replied without conviction. In truth, she would like nothing less than to be left alone at present. She fell in step beside him and steadfastly ignored the knowing look he cast her. They stepped around the fallen man and made their way towards the corner.
“Mrs. Napp is a widow and has to support five children,” Lizzie told him, rallying her spirits. “At least I do not have any dependents and must only feed and clothe myself.”
He inclined his head slightly as though conceding the truth of this before asking silkily, “What makes you think Mrs. Napp will stick her neck out to help you when doing so will only provoke her church benefactors?”
Lizzie hesitated, wondering how to admit that Mrs. Napp was not exactly a fan of her Aunt Hester. “Mrs. Napp and my aunt are not always in perfect accord with one another,” she admitted delicately.
Benedict smirked at her choice of words. “You mean she would not object to spitting in your aunt’s eye, if the opportunity arose.”
Lizzie winced. “Most likely not,” she confided. “Aunt Hester says Mrs. Napp is a low, vulgar creature and would be struck off the charity register if she had her way. She suspects Mrs. Napp takes a drop of gin when the opportunity arises and that – ” Lizzie broke off aghast at what she had been about to repeat.
“And that, what?”
“I – er, oh, I forget now,” Lizzie lied, casting about in confusion for something, anything else other than the awful thing she had been about to repeat. That her children did not all share the same father. She was talking too much. Why was she doing that? Likely her nerves were quite overset.
Benedict gave a short laugh. “There’s nothing so nasty as that which a narrow mind can conjure up,” he said softly.
Lizzie darted a surprised look at him. Did he think Aunt Hester was narrow-minded, then? Her heart was beating fast by the time they entered the narrow passageway and started the climb up the rickety staircase. What would she do if Mrs. Napp turned her away from the door? Even worse, what if she answered the door and someone else had been there before her to poison Mrs. Napp’s mind against her?
They reached the scratched, scruffy door, and Lizzie rapped upon it. “It’s Monday,” she said nervously. “So, she won’t be expecting my visit.”
They heard voices from within. “Susan, answer that door!” Mrs. Napp’s strident tones rang out. “Do stop your dallying!”
The door stepped open and six-year-old Susan stood bare-footed in the doorway. “Mam, it’s that Miss Anderson!” she bawled back over her shoulder.
“On a Monday?” replied Mrs. Napp. “Well, let her in! Don’t keep her stood out there in the draught.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie murmured as she stepped over the threshold. “Good morning, good morning,” she greeted the assembled company of young women who were sat around on the bare floorboards industriously sewing. There were only three chairs in the room. Mrs. Napp sat in one and her eldest daughter, Lucinda, on another. Seeing Lizzie had brought a guest with her, Lucinda rose from her seat and sank down between two of her younger sisters on the bare floorboards.
“Sit and welcome,” Mrs. Napp said, eyeing Benedict with interest. “I didn’t expect to see you till Wednesday. You’ve not got your cousin with you today, I see, nor that aunt of yours,” she added pursing her lips.
“This is Mr. Toomes,” Lizzie said with an awkward gesture toward him as she removed her bonnet and cloak. “He is betrothed to my cousin.” She sat in a chair which immediately pitched her forward. Looking down, she saw one leg was clearly shorter than the other. By the time she had righted herself, she found Benedict Toomes lolling back in his own chair with an easy athletic grace she could only envy. He looked entirely unruffled by the fact he had thrust himself into a roomful of strangers.
Lizzie smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. “I was hoping to ask your advice this morning and enquire about your terms for taking on apprentices,” she started rather breathlessly. “You see, my circumstances have changed, and I must now fend for myself and earn a living.”
Mrs. Napp drew in a sharp breath. “They’ve never tossed you out on your ear!” she exclaimed. “And them purporting to be fine Christian folk!”
Lizzie sent her a pained look. “I’m afraid there’s been a difference of opinion between myself and my family,” she said lamely.
The other woman looked at her hard a minute before sucking in her cheeks. “I don’t doubt you’ve got a neat hand with a needle, Miss Anderson,” she said shaking her head. “But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll seek employment elsewhere. We’re at it from eight in the morning till ten at night here, and it’s as much as I can do to keep body and soul together. A nicely spoken girl like you could get shop work if you put your mind to it. You got to have better prospects open to you than this life, I’m sure.”
Lizzie fidgeted in her seat. It seemed only the brutal truth would work in this instance. “I have no money and lack even a roof over my head at this minute,” she admitted hoarsely. “Moreover, I have no one that would recommend me or stand witness to my good character. That bag there contains all I own in the world.”
Mrs. Napp narrowed her eyes a moment as though assessing her words. After a moment, she sighed. “You got anything in there you can pawn?” she asked nodding at the carpet bag.
It was five minutes later that they had separated her meagre possessions into two piles. The first had a change of clothes, her nightgown, bible, and woolen shawl. The second comprised of her best dress of green taffeta, her decorated wooden hairbrush, a tortoiseshell hair comb, and a small enamel brooch.
“I don’t say as you’ll get much for ’em,” Mrs. Napp said doubtfully, pushing the second pile toward Benedict Toomes. Lizzie flushed as he rolled the items inside her dress. She had been wearing that dress at supper last night. It seemed very wrong watching him put his hands all over it now.
“I won’t be long,” he said bundling it under his arm, for he had been nominated to take the items to the pawn shop. Lizzie wondered how he’d find his way, for he asked no directions of Mrs. Napp. Was he familiar with the East End, then? If he had been raised here, she could detect no accent.
He shut the door behind him, and Mrs. Napp turned immediately to her middle daughter. “Liza, go and fetch what’s left of that jug of beer,” she instructed. “And two mugs. You’ll take a drop with me now, Miss Anderson.” When Lizzie went to object, for she never accepted refreshment from any of her charity cases, she was summarily overruled. “Nonsense,” the older woman said briskly. “I’d offer you water, but it’s not safe to drink round these parts.”
Lizzie took the mug Eliza solemnly handed her and watched as it was half filled with flat looking beer.
“Your health,” Mrs. Napp said and drained her own cup.
Lizzie took a cautious sip. “And yours,” she replied feebly. Strange to say, she did feel fortified after she drank a little more. “I must warn you, Mrs. Napp,” she said forthrightly. “If you do offer me shelter, you would not be advised to admit as much to any of my former acquaintances.”
“Cast you off and all, have they?” Mrs. Napp snorted. “Well,” she said comfortably. “If we gets a knock on the door, you’ll have to slip into the back room and make yourself scarce. And mind,” she said raising her voice and looking about at her children and apprentices. “You’re not to breathe a word about Miss Anderson when we gets any callers from St. Joseph’s.”
Before anyone could make a reply, she turned back to Lizzie. “Now quick, come and tell me before ’e returns,” she said. “What you been up to, blackening your name so deep?”
Lizzie flushed and darted her eyes at the younger occupants of the room. “I’d rather not say in front of current company,” she said primly. The thought of even repeating her tale made
her heart quail. Mrs. Napp looked more intrigued than ever.
Luckily, it was not long before they heard a sharp rap on the door. Lizzie was half out of her chair to fly into the other room, but it was Benedict Toomes returned already. He held his hand out to her and dropped a bunch of coins into her hand.
“Thank you.” She turned immediately to Mrs. Napp with them. “Is this enough?” she said spreading her hands wide.
Mrs. Napp’s eyes widened, and she shot a speculative glance at Benedict. “Just give me this for now for your food and lodging for a week, and we’ll see how we go on from there,” she said taking a silver sixpence. “Tuck the rest of it away,” she recommended, and Lizzie made haste to do so, buttoning into an inner pocket in her carpet bag.
“I’ll be getting along now,” Benedict Toomes said. “I’ve got to see a man across town at eleven, then I thought I’d call in at Sitwell Place.”
Lizzie flushed at the mention of her late home. “Of course,” she said holding out her hand to him. “Thank you for your aid this morning. It was very good of you,” she said, wishing she sounded less stiff and awkward.
He glanced at her hand but made no move to take it. “I’ll be back later,” he said, astounding her.
“Oh.” It trembled on her tongue to demand why, but she didn’t quite have the nerve to ask. Did he mean to act as intermediary then between herself and her family? She regarded him doubtfully a moment. Quite frankly, she could not imagine a less likely peacemaker.
He nodded at Mrs. Napp and made his way out of the door, his progress closely followed by the eyes of all ten occupants of the room.
“Quite the gent, ain’t he?” Mrs. Napp commented, sticking her tongue in her cheek. “Wouldn’t kick him out in the cold, would you?” One of her daughters giggled and was nudged by another. Lizzie, who had never considered him a gentleman in even the loosest sense, folded her lips. “Said he was engaged to that pretty little cousin of yours, didn’t you?”
“Yes, he and Betsy are to be married in three days’ time,” Lizzie answered repressively. She did not want to encourage this topic of conversation if she could help it.
“What’s his trade, if I might make so bold as to ask?” Mrs. Napp continued, drawing a pile of shirts toward them. Lizzie noticed the way all the apprentice’s gazes swiveled curiously to her. Why were they so intrigued about Mr. Toomes? she wondered in bewilderment.
Lizzie cleared her throat. “He is a prizefighter,” she admitted. “Or rather, I should say he was. I believe he is currently looking about for a more settled living, in anticipation of his marriage.”
“Prizefighter?” Mrs. Napp looked impressed. “Never say so! And him so handsome! I always thought they had cauliflower ears and broken noses.”
“Like that Mr. Chapman, Mam,” chimed up Susan. “What lives above the grocers.”
“Yes, him, luv,” agreed Mrs. Napp absently. “They say he made a powerful amount of money back when he was in his prime. Lost it all of course,” she sniffed. “And none of those pretty gals what flocked around him when he was plump in the pocket stuck around once it was spent.”
Lizzie drew her chair closer as Mrs. Napp passed her a needle and thread. She was glad to see the subject of prizefighters seemed closed for now.
“Now, the girls here has cut out the shirt pieces,” Mrs. Napp explained, gesturing. “Aggie is sewing the cuffs and Jessie is on the yokes. I’ll put you to setting the sleeves into the shoulders. It’s fiddly work, and you can’t be taking an age over it,” she cautioned. “Not if we’re to make our daily quota.” Lizzie nodded and watched painstakingly as Mrs. Napp demonstrated the technique she must employ.
4
Benedict felt restless. It had been two whole days since the disastrous meal at Sitwell Place, and it had not been as straightforward to wind up affairs as he had initially imagined. He had been with his legal man for a full morning giving his new instructions. The house on Winchester street was now viewable by appointment to prospective tenants. Edwards thought he already had someone lined up who might be interested in taking it for a twelvemonth.
Then, and only then, had he devoted his energies to breaking off his betrothal. He had called at Sitwell Place directly after lunch the next day and then spent all afternoon needling its inhabitants into a state of self-righteous ire. The inevitable explosion did not take place until almost supper time.
In truth, he had enjoyed prodding their sore spot and had informed them with malicious amusement that he knew the whereabouts of their cast-off niece. The rigid displeasure they displayed at this information alone would have informed him they thought the subject off limits, but ignoring all social cues, he forged ahead regardless, disparaging Reverend Milson’s character at every opportunity.
Finally, old Josiah had not been able to stand it any longer and had informed him stiffly that unless he could guarantee such sensitive topics would remain off his lips, then he would not be welcome to join them. Benedict had paused at this. “Not welcome at your supper table or as a member of your family, Mr. Anderson?” he had asked deliberately.
Josiah had bristled up at this lack of tact. “Why, as to that, sir, I must answer to either or both as you may choose to take it!” he had responded wrathfully.
Benedict had glanced then at Betsy, who had raised her chin in defiance. “And you, Betsy?” he asked thoughtfully. “Do you agree with your father’s sentiments?”
“You have been most offensive all afternoon, Benedict,” she had answered crossly, and he wasn’t sure she didn’t stamp her foot. Her ringlets jiggled with agitation. “How dare you lecture my parents on their duty! I declare the words you have spoken about Reverend Milson this day have wounded me quite beyond repair!”
Her mother had patted her hand indulgently. “There now, daughter. I am sure Mr. Toomes needs only a little nudge in the right direction to modify his behavior to that which would please you. He surely did not mean to cause us all such grievous offence.”
“Beyond repair?” Benedict repeated loudly as though Hester Anderson had not spoken. “I am inclined to believe you are right about that. Indeed, I am starting to think things are beyond repair myself.”
Betsy stared at him, open-mouthed. “You mean – ” The dawning comprehension in her eyes as he levelly met hers caused a spark of anger to ignite in their blue depths. Wrenching her hand from her mother’s, she groped at her finger for the engagement sapphire cluster ring he had given her. “Then, sir, I must return this to you forthwith!” she cried in a high dudgeon.
Calmly, Benedict had held out his hand, and she dropped it into his palm. He had closed his fingers around the ring and dropped it into his inner breast pocket before she could change her mind. Then with a brisk bow, he had turned on his heel and headed for the door.
Behind him, all had dissolved into chaos as Mrs. Anderson announced in a shrill voice that quivered. “Josiah, the invitations have all gone out! The disgrace!” There was the sound of a wail and a crash as the small occasional table was overturned. Josiah bellowed, but whether it was his wife or his daughter that had gone off in a swoon, Benedict found he neither knew nor cared.
He had wrenched the door open and found the maid crouched down listening at the keyhole. She straightened up and took a hasty step back to make way for him. Benedict grabbed his hat and coat and got outside of the house as fast as his legs could carry him. When he got to the top of the road, he thought he heard running footsteps, and someone call out ‘wait’. He did not even hesitate but had sharply turned right and not looked back.
Benedict slept soundly that night for the first time in a long while. The next morning, strangely enough, his thoughts had turned to Lizzie Anderson and wondering how she was faring under Mrs. Napps’ roof. He smiled grimly, doubting a shared room and likely a bedroll on the floor would be suiting her somehow. How the mighty had fallen!
After breakfast, he headed on impulse to an auctioneer house and spent the rest of the day viewing horses and wagons. He felt
restless. The idea of upping sticks appealed to him. More and more his thoughts turned to Greenwich Fair and the red and white boxing booth that would stand proudly among the fluttering tents. Why should he not join his brothers there? What was to stop him?
One last season under the canvas would give him time enough to ponder his next move and find a buyer for his third of the business. He could hardly consider himself out until he had sold his share. As he walked around the wagons and carts, with a keen eye for a bargain, he found himself making his mind up. He would go to Greenwich. He would settle things with his brothers, and he would complete one last season on the fairs.
His shoulders felt all the lighter now he had made his decision, shed his fine house, and cut loose his fiancée. He was footloose and fancy-free. He was his own man again. He had sold the engagement ring that morning and wound up purchasing a sturdy Irish cob and a wagon with the proceeds. It had been lived in by farm laborers while travelling for work and was a bit beat up and tatty looking, but Benedict didn’t want anything showy or new for his last season. What was the point? He had no one to impress, and besides, it did not do to encourage folk to think you might have something valuable inside when you were leaving it unattended all day to work the booth. The previous owners even threw in some cast iron cooking utensils and pots, and he was satisfied he’d got himself a good buy.
The wagon had two large fixed wooden trunks to store everything away inside and a wooden bed frame of decent size. That afternoon, he bought a sprung mattress, new bedding, a basin and jug, a hurricane lamp, and a box of candles and thought himself well-equipped. Why then, did something niggle away in his mind telling him he had forgotten something?
It wasn’t until he lay abed that evening that he realized what nature the unfinished business was that tugged at his memory. Tomorrow was to be his wedding day. He doubted very much that anyone at Sitwell Place had thought to let the parson at St. Mary’s know the ceremony was no longer required. The Andersons had very much looked down on that humble church of red brick, so different to the austere gray stone of their beloved St. Joseph’s. At eleven o’clock, it was likely the vicar would don his cassock and look in vain for the bride and groom.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 3