Once again, his thoughts turned to Lizzie Anderson. He would go and see her on the morrow and see how she was bearing up, he thought with cruel amusement. He smiled to himself, and it was not a particularly nice smile. She would likely be fit to drop by now, as the true hopelessness of her situation dawned on her. Or maybe not, he thought with a twinge of interest. She was no coward, to give her, her due. She would fight alright, and go down fighting to the death sooner than admitting defeat.
She was a scrawny, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou know-it-all, but craven was one thing Lizzie Anderson was not. He recalled how gamely she’d swung that tatty carpet bag of hers at her attacker’s head. She had not shrunk from confrontation as so many with her upbringing would. If he hadn’t been there, she would have suffered a nasty blow for her pains, but he doubted even that would have daunted her for long. No, she was not faint-hearted, he thought with a flicker of something he could not quite identify, as the clock struck midnight in the quiet house.
In fact, if she’d only agreed to take back her testimony against Reverend Milson, she could have remained in the familiar comfort of Sitwell Place. She must know that as well as anyone, but Lizzie Anderson would never retract a statement she knew to be true. Even on their slight acquaintance and despite the fact he did not like her, he knew this for a fact. She had faced down that table full of detractors and hypocrites with a stout heart, even though her face had been red and her expression dismayed.
Even under duress, she would not alter her story. Though it cost her, her home and her family and every friend she’d ever possessed, Lizzie Anderson would not tell a convenient lie. Unlike Betsy, who must know deep down that the precious reverend was guilty as sin and her flesh and blood quite blameless. Placing his hands behind his head, he pondered that two first cousins could be so unalike. One so full of grace and charm, the other full of piss and vinegar. They could not be more dissimilar.
Betsy and Lizzie. Lizzie and Betsy. Despite the obvious differences, their names were, in fact, the same, Elizabeth Anderson. He remembered once that Bets had told him both were named in memory of their shared paternal grandmother. A cog somewhere turned slowly in his brain. Elizabeth Anderson. The banns that had been read at St. Mary’s the last three weeks had been for Benedict Toomes and Elizabeth Anderson.
He sat up in bed, frowning into the dark. Why did that thought now strike him as significant? He was breathing hard, his brain racing as he let his mind run amok over the crazy scenario that now occurred to him. After all, why should he not substitute one bride for another? The vicar would likely not notice, especially if Lizzie wore a veil. She was a little taller than Bets, two years older, and her figure decidedly sparer, but again, in a dimly lit church, would the vicar make that distinction? Neither one of them were members of his regular congregation.
Benedict ran over the details they had given the clergyman at the time of their registering. Elizabeth Anderson, spinster of Sitwell Place, Pimlico, to marry one Benedict Toomes, bachelor of Winchester street, Clapham. That much would still be entirely factual, and none could say different. He doubted very much that any of the Andersons friends and acquaintances would turn up now. In fact, he was damn sure that among their circles precious little else would have been discussed for the past three days.
The church would likely be empty, and it would not be until signing the register that things such as their date of birth and parent’s names would be recorded. Ben fell back on his pillows. Had he gone stark raving mad? Or was he seriously considering suggesting Lizzie Anderson take her cousin’s place by his side at the altar?
His heart thudded in his chest at the prospect, though why that should be, he had not the faintest notion. He frowned. Having a wife in tow would fend off unwelcome questions from his brothers about what he had been doing with himself since he had been out of jail. He could use a new wife as a welcome deflection. Given what a thorn in his side Lizzie Anderson had been for the past couple of months, it would serve her right if he used her now for his own ends.
Didn’t she deserve some retribution for the many freezing looks and cold blasts of disapproval she had directed his way? An unholy gleam entered his eye. He wouldn’t be bored while he extracted his pound of flesh from her, that was for certain. If he meant to get her up the aisle, he would not have to mention how he intended to spend the next nine months. She would not like the wagon nor the noisy fairs, he reflected. Nor being the wife of a common fairground bruiser. He contemplated the prospect of her humiliation with some relish. But after all, what choice did she have left? Her own stiff-necked principles had left her wholly without future or prospects.
He stared up at the shadowy ceiling anticipating her reaction to his proposal and how he would counter every argument she might make. Because for some reason, it now seemed he was set on taking Lizzie Anderson to wife.
When he finally dropped off to sleep, he did so with a smile playing about his lips.
Next morning, he rose early, dressed in his black suit, and set off for Mrs. Napps’ rooms. To his surprise, his knock on the door was answered by a harassed looking Lizzie. She was pale and drawn, and her hair was not yet neatly pinned in a coil at the nape of her neck. Instead, it hung loose about her shoulders, thick and waving like pale gold.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, Lizzie colored and stepped back to allow him to enter. “I’m afraid you find me at sixes and sevens this morning, Mr. Toomes. I’ve been up all night finishing my share of the dress shirts,” she said wearily. “They had to be finished for this morning.”
Benedict entered the room, glancing about. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“Mrs. Napp has taken the shirts to her supplier, and the other girls are still sleeping,” she told him, glancing at the door to the next room. “I was going to try and join them and get my head down for an hour or so, but I suspect they’ll be rising soon.”
“I doubt you’d sleep now the sun’s up in any case.”
Lizzie gave an unladylike snort. “I could sleep on a window ledge right now!” she retorted. “If I ever see another shirt, I swear I’ll scream.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “You’re not finding it to your tastes, then? The slop work?”
Lizzie’s face went blank. “I daresay I shall get to grips with it eventually,” she told him bravely, but he could see at least a dozen tells that she was scared out of her wits at the prospect. From the nervous way her fingers curled into her palms to her red-rimmed eyes, she was a mass of nervous agitation.
“How’s your money lasting?” he asked with a faintly malicious edge as he walked over to the window and gazed out onto the street below. People were just starting to appear on the cobbles, scurrying off to their places of work.
Lizzie swallowed. “Not terribly well,” she admitted. “I had to buy my share of the candles to work by and coal for the fire. Then there’s jugs of beer for everyone to drink and my share of the food … It all adds up,” her words trailed off despairingly. “I was wondering,” she asked awkwardly. “If you would be willing to take my spare dress along to the pawn shop for me. Just to tide me over.”
“You’ll end up with just the clothes on your back at this rate,” he said coolly, glancing her over.
Lizzie bridled a moment before her shoulders slumped. “After all, what does it signify?” she said hopelessly. “I have more pressing needs right now than a change of clothes.” He shrugged as though acknowledging the truth of this statement. “How – how do you find everyone at Sitwell Place?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice.
“As firm in their belief of Reverend Milson’s innocence as ever,” he replied dryly. “They are immovable on that subject.”
Lizzie nodded, but her gaze skittered away. “I see,” she whispered, her eyes gazing blindly over his shoulder.
“Betsy and I have broken our engagement off,” he said without expression.
Lizzie started at his words and stared at him. Her lips moved for a second before she fou
nd her voice. “Over Reverend Milson?” she asked faintly.
He shrugged. “I refuse to join my lot in life with someone whose mind is so closed; they cannot accept plain truth when they hear it.”
Lizzie gaped. “But – but – ”
“Which brings me to my next point, he said ignoring her interruption. “You’re someone who doesn’t flinch from hard facts.” For once, Miss Anderson seemed lost for words. When his interrogative stare told her he wanted a response, she nodded dumbly. “How do you fancy the job, then?” he asked softly. “Think yourself equal to it?”
“Job?” she looked bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken.
As well she might, he acknowledged to himself wryly. “In short, I have need of a wife,” he said briskly. “You have shown yourself to have a backbone, and believe me, any wife of mine will need one.”
She blinked. “Am I to understand – ” She raised a hand waveringly to her forehead and pressed it there. “I think I must be sleeping right now,” she muttered.
“Is it such a dream of yours to receive an offer of marriage from me?” he asked.
That was a step too far, even for a Lizzie Anderson who was quite crushed in spirit. She dropped her hand smartly. “Hardly!”
He smirked. “You’re in a fix and so am I,” he responded. “Why not help one another out, to our mutual benefit?”
“Just what kind of a fix are you in, Mr. Toomes?” she asked with a flash of her old suspicion.
Benedict shrugged. “My family expect me to show up with a new bride in tow. I’ve avoided them since my release. A fresh marriage will ward off unwanted questions and spare me any embarrassment over wasting two months in fruitless courtship.”
“So, you have need of a wife?” she repeated slowly and gave her head a quick shake as if trying to dispel a fog.
“I do,” he agreed smoothly. “And you have dire need of a paying occupation and a roof over your head. I think you’re honest enough to admit this situation isn’t really working out for you.” He glanced around the shabby, overcrowded room.
Lizzie looked down at her hands. “I – yes,” she agreed with that innate honesty he was starting to admire. “I’m not even sure how long Mrs. Napp can afford to keep me on.”
“The church is already booked for eleven o’clock,” he pointed out. “I don’t think we should let it go to waste, do you?”
5
Lizzie tugged at the skirt of her green taffeta dress, so recently reclaimed from the pawn shop, and wished there had been time to properly get the creases out. A strange odor clung to it, a sort of vague mustiness which filled her with distaste. She did not like to think where it must have lain this past four days and in what company. Suddenly, she remembered the silly rhyme Betsy had pored over for days before picking out her own wedding gown. “Married in green, ashamed to be seen,” Lizzie bit her lip. Of course, Betsy had chosen a very pretty ice blue for her own dress. “Married in blue, he’ll always be true,” her cousin had recited smugly as she had primped herself in the looking glass.
Not that Lizzie believed in such nonsensical superstitions, she reminded herself. And just as well, for the past week had been filled with nothing but ill omens. When he had returned her best dress to her, Benedict Toomes had also handed her a heavy veil of ivory lace. She had not liked to ask him where he had got it, though she suspected it was probably from the same pawn shop.
It could have belonged to some jilted bride for all she knew. It was nothing like Betsy’s pretty mantilla veil; she knew that much. Then again, she had none of her cousin’s accessories, the wrist-length white kid gloves, the silk stockings, or the necklace with a drop pearl. In truth, she was surprised that Benedict Tomes had thought to get her a veil. Their marriage was a business transaction, nothing more. He had described it to her in terms of a way to pay her way in life. In truth, many marriages operated along similar lines, so she had little to feel uneasy about on that score.
It just felt so unreal, she thought distractedly as Mrs. Napp’s apprentices helped her drape and pin the veil in place over her bonnet. They did so with many exclamations and nudges to one another. They had all been agog at the news that she was to be married that day. Mrs. Napp had called her a ‘sly puss’, pinched her chin, and declared it was little wonder that the Andersons had thrown her out of their home if she had stolen their daughter’s bridegroom!
When Lizzie had tried to protest, Mrs. Napp had laughed heartily. “Don’t waste your breath, my girl,” she’d recommended. “I don’t blame you. If I was a few years younger, I’d have a go at stealing him meself!” This had been greeted with giggles and whispers, and Lizzie glanced uneasily at Benedict. Mercifully, he did not appear to be paying attention. “Me and Lucinda will come with you to the church and act as your witnesses, and I can’t say handsomer than that,” Mrs. Napp had continued with satisfaction.
When Lizzie had tried to say that this was not necessary, Mrs. Napp had turned insistent. “Isn’t the bride being married out of me own home?” she had asked belligerently. Benedict Toomes’ eyebrows had risen, but it seemed he had taken the hint and duly sent for some celebratory refreshments which had greatly impressed the girls. They fluttered around in excitement at the sight of the jellied eels, fried pig’s trotters, and pickled whelks from the street vendors. Lizzie’s stomach had turned, though she had tried a cup of ‘rice milk’ which seemed to be extremely thin rice pudding with sugar and spices added to it.
Eliza had run down to buy more beer and returned with a very large pink rose which had become detached from its stalk. “Let me ’ave it for a ha’penny, the flower seller did,” Eliza announced proudly as she presented it to Lizzie. “On account of it’s snapped clean off, but it was still the biggest flower she ’ad.” Lucinda snatched the bloom from her sister and pinned it to Lizzie’s bonnet. “I wanted her to have it for a bouquet!” Eliza objected with spirit.
“She can’t carry a single rose head down the aisle,” her older sister told her witheringly. “Have some sense, do!”
“Now, girls,” Mrs. Napp said from where she was mixing a rum punch with fruit peelings, treacle, and nutmeg. “You stop that squabbling. Today is Miss Lizzie’s wedding day, and we’ll not have any quarreling. Susan, you fetch that poker from the fire and mind you don’t burn yourself.”
Susan wrapped her petticoat around the handle gingerly and withdrew the poker before carrying it to her mother. No sooner had Mrs. Napp taken it, then she plunged it determinedly into the jug of rum punch. The beverage bubbled and hissed, and all the girls clapped with delight.
“Now fetch the cups. Some of you younger ’uns will have to wait your turn, but we must all toast the health of the bride and groom,” Mrs. Napp announced.
Lizzie glanced at Benedict, but his face gave nothing away. He accepted the cup proffered to him and paused for the toast. Lizzie found herself doing likewise, as though there was nothing irregular about it. She knew for a fact the bridegroom was not usually permitted so much as a glimpse of a bride before the wedding, let alone to sit in the same room and watch her prepared for church. As for the toast, Lizzie was sure that was supposed to happen after the wedding, not before.
Still, they would have no wedding breakfast celebration like the one so carefully planned at Sitwell Place, with an iced plum cake, cold pheasant, and oysters. She really ought to make the most of her current fare, she thought, remembering belatedly that she had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day when she had partaken of stale bread and a rather hard cheese. She had felt too sick with worry to join the others in a bowl of stew at suppertime.
“Long life and happiness,” Mrs. Napp said solemnly once the amber colored contents of the jug had been sloshed into every cup.
“The bride and groom,” Lucinda said loudly, and everyone took a swig. The smaller children were then given the dregs, which they enthusiastically downed. Lizzie wet her lips and then handed hers surreptitiously to Eliza who was quick to swallow it before anyone else co
uld lay a claim to it.
Benedict reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his watch. “We’d better be setting off,” he commented. He turned to Lizzie. “You ready?”
Lizzie nodded and looked about her. There was no spray of lilies for her to hold. It seemed strange to have no reticule to carry, but he was returning her here straight afterward to finish off her week with Mrs. Napp while he wound up his business affairs, whatever they were.
He was far too handsome for her, she thought distractedly as she eyed his upright figure, which looked so well in his understated dark suit. She was surprised Betsy had not insisted he wore a dress coat and top hat for the ceremony, but then again, he had never seemed the sort that could be bossed around.
Married 'neath April's changeful skies,
A checkered path before you lies.
She felt a shiver run down her spine. She’d never longed for orange blossoms or a bridegroom, yet here she was stepping into her cousin’s place as a last-minute substitute. For a moment, her head seemed to reel at the sheer improbability of it. Then Benedict Toomes offered her his arm. She hesitated an instant, then took it. After all, it wasn’t like she had a whole array of options open to her.
Scarcely an hour later, they were married in an empty church. Lizzie had been profoundly grateful that none of the St. Joseph’s congregation had turned up, either through ignorance or to denounce her for a husband stealer. Benedict Toomes slipped a brass ring on her finger and promptly returned her to Mrs. Napp’s lodgings with an assurance he would be back to fetch her early on Easter Sunday.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 4