“You’ll see tomorrow when the gates are opened,” he said dismissively, catching her arm and drawing her toward a nearby stall. “What will you have?” he nodded toward the array of pies and buns on display. She opened her mouth as though to decline.
“You’ve not eaten since this morning,” he pointed out. “I’ll take two,” he said nodding toward the pies.
“Mutton or beef?” asked the vendor.
“I would like a currant bun, please,” Lizzie interrupted him.
He amended his order and passed her the glazed bun. They walked the rest of the length of the field in silence as they ate in companionable silence. Then he bought a bottle of beer for himself, though Lizzie insisted she would rather have orange juice. He looked skeptical and she pointed out the many orange stalls littered about the field.
“You’d get precious little juice out of most of them. They boil them to make them look them fresh.”
“Boil them?”
“Just one of the tricks to spruce them up. How about a lemonade?” She looked relieved and accepted this offer gratefully. He bought her a cup of the cloudy stuff and they carried on their way. “You know where we are yet?”
She glanced about and shook her head. “No,” she admitted regretfully. “It just looks like a sea of tents in all directions to me.”
“It’ll be ten times worse tomorrow. All you’ll see then will be people as far as the eye can see.” Her eyes widened and he pointed into the distance. “The camp field is that way.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” she said, and at this point, he was hailed by an old acquaintance.
“Ben! That you, love?” The woman who had been sauntering past them halted so abruptly that the large decorated hat perched atop her burnished curls quivered violently.
“Connie, aye it’s me.”
She clasped his arm and beamed up at him, touching his cheek with a lilac glove. “Frank said he hoped you’d be joining them this season. How are you, love?”
“Good, yourself?”
“Oh, I’m grand,” she said heartily. “I wintered at Brighton. Took the air like a proper lady and now I’m back better than ever.”
“Frank tell you I’m married?” he asked casually, knowing full well he wouldn’t have had the chance.
Connie’s painted mouth fell open. “I was just wondering who this must be!” she exclaimed archly, turning to survey Lizzie appraisingly.
“Connie, this is Lizzie, my wife. Lizzie, this is Connie, an old family friend.”
“How do you do?” Lizzie asked with scrupulous politeness.
“Pleased to meet the woman who got him up the aisle,” Connie said humorously. “So, you stood by your man in his time of need, did you?” the older woman carried on, casting Lizzie a puzzled look. She might as well have said ‘you don’t look the type’.
Benedict watched Lizzie’s face redden. “We’ve only been wed four days,” he said, to cover her confusion
“Why, you’re still a bride,” Connie said with a laugh. “Small wonder you’re so covered in blushes!” She prodded her parasol into Lizzie’s side and laughing uproariously at her obvious discomfort. “Wish I could still blush like that,” she said with a twist of her lips. “Mine comes out of a rouge-pot these days. You’ll have to stop by our tent. I’ve got a couple of new girls, but Niamh’s still with me and I’ve got a new girl for Salome. I’m expecting her to really draw the crowds.” She lowered her voice. “Her last keeper was a lord of the realm, no less.”
Benedict cast a quick look at Lizzie. “How about Alfred?” he said, steering conversation into safer waters by asking after Connie’s hired muscle.
“Oh, Alfred,” she answered with a spasm of irritation. “That great lummox ran off with my Amazonian she-warrior at the end of last season. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of them since.”
Ben grinned. “Well, he deserved some luck. Always unlucky with the ladies was Alfred,” he reminisced.
“I hope she robs him blind!” Connie snapped, forgetting her benevolence a moment. “Properly left me in the suds he has! Anyway,” she said, “I can’t stand here gossiping all day. Got to get back to my girls. Without me there to keep an eye on them, they’ll be sitting around on their arses, the lazy mares!”
“See you, Connie.”
“Cheerio!” she waved an airy farewell and moved away in a cloud of perfume.
Lizzie stared after Connie, and he wondered idly what she’d made of her. He could almost see the words trembling on her lips.
“Wonderous Females of the World,” he said in answer to her unspoken question.
Her head swung around. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were wondering what her attraction was.”
Lizzie frowned. “And just what are Wonderous Females?” she asked after a moment.
“Last time I looked, a snake charmer, a spotted woman, and a giantess.”
Lizzie was struck speechless for a full moment. “And people pay to see those things?” she asked in a faint voice.
They were approaching a gate at the end of a field, and Benedict held it open for her. “They do,” he said briskly as she passed through. He followed and they proceeded along the track until they reached a hedge leading to the camping field. He held out his hand, and Lizzie took it before clambering over the stile. She delicately averted her eyes when she had to lift her navy cotton skirts, revealing her petticoats.
As those garments looked to be more practical than decorous, he lifted an eyebrow at her excessive modesty. Still, he had to admit, she was taking things in her stride. Not many women of her station would still be standing after the week she’d had. She’d seen so many changes, it was a wonder she didn’t have whiplash.
He knew damned well she had not known of his fairground connections, for he had never told Betsy of them even. His previous fiancée had claimed she wasn’t interested in his past, but only his future, and in light of his recent custodial sentence, he had been glad of the fact.
He knew Betsy had tried to draw a discreet veil over his background wherever possible. She’d once described him as a ‘man of business’ in his hearing, and he’d had to pull her up sharply about it. If prizefighting was a social embarrassment, then he suspected fairgrounds would mean utter disgrace.
On the whole, he reflected, he thought it for the best that he had taken Lizzie to wife instead. He watched her marching her way through the next field resolutely. Her social ruin had been complete the moment she had been thrown out by the Andersons. Left to fend for herself, she would have been in dire straits, so she could hardly complain at the situation she now found herself in. In fairness to her, she hadn’t even tried.
By the time they had reached the camp field she was looking about with interest. “Is it this way?” she asked, pointing in one direction. He nodded and she looked pleased. “Yes, I thought I recognized it,” she said with satisfaction.
“You think you could find your way back to the main arena?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she answered with assurance.
“Good.” She cast him a quick glance, though she said nothing. “Likely you won’t want to hang about the boxing tent all day,” he added. Her lips formed a wordless ‘oh’. Sure enough, she seemed to be struggling how to put something into words.
“What will I be doing?” she asked as they made their way past a cluster of gaily painted caravans such as circus performers used. “While you’re pummeling day trippers?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.” She fell silent at that a moment, but he had the feeling she was biding her time.
“Frank is the oldest of you three brothers, I think,” she ventured.
He shot her a look. “That’s right,” he said shortly.
“And Jack the youngest?”
“Also correct.”
She hesitated. “I don’t recall my cousin mentioning that you had brothers.” He said nothing and she tried again. “Did – ”
“The subject never came up,” he interrupted her.
She pursed her lips. “I see,” she murmured. “And if we go to supper with your family tonight, they mentioned I would meet your mother, I think?”
“My grandmother,” he corrected her. “Ma Toomes.”
“And she lives with your brothers?”
“I don’t know the current arrangement,” he said dismissively. “This is our wagon,” he pointed, and she gave up whatever question had been hovering on her lips.
After that, he made himself busy gleaning flat stones and branches and building a small campfire nearby while Lizzie went inside to ‘tidy herself’. Then he went and fetched water both for washing and for boiling and set the pans down next to the fire. He was in two minds about that evening, but it might be best to get it over and done with, he thought grimly, though God only knew what Lizzie would make of Ma!
If they stayed here, Lizzie wasn’t the type to sit meekly by, he thought. She’d start poking and prying and want his whole damn life story. He glanced up, seeing her emerging from the wagon, her hair now neatly braided and looped under her ears and twisted up into that neat arrangement at the back. She looked so bloody respectable he almost winced.
Still, at least she didn’t look fit to drop anymore. The sleep she’d caught up on had taken that unnatural pallor away, and her eyes weren’t red-rimmed or dull like they’d been when he’d married her in that empty church.
He’d caught the puzzled glances his brothers had sent her way. They didn’t understand how he’d ended up leg-shackled to a prim miss like Lizzie Anderson, but that didn’t bother him overmuch. He’d never worried about the opinion of others, and he wasn’t about to start now. He adjusted the chain suspending the water over the flames.
“The water will be hot enough for you to wash in a bit,” he said as she jumped down from the footboard. He should probably get some steps, he reflected as she righted herself self-consciously.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You’ll need to share my blanket,” he said. “The ground’s damp.”
“Oh.” She advanced toward him and gingerly lowered herself onto the blanket. “This looks a very neat set-up,” she commented, looking curiously at the fire and assorted pots and pans. He made no comment. “I noticed some of those other wagons had chimneys. Would they be for fireplaces?”
“Stoves,” he answered briefly.
“They have stoves inside?”
He turned to look over his shoulder at her. “Yes,” he said heavily.
She seemed to pick up on this cue and fell into silence. Strangely enough, he did not find it a companionable one. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “We’ll go to supper with my family tonight,” he said grudgingly.
“Very well.”
“I’m not – ” He wasn’t sure how to continue. “Close with my family,” he finished. Then again, he wouldn’t say he was exactly close to anyone.
“I see.” She paused. “I thought I was,” she said, surprising him. “But I was wrong.”
What reply could he make to that? He glanced back at her again. She was leaning forward toward the fire, her arms wrapped around her knees. “Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not on the outside,” she said quietly, making him frown.
“What does that mean?” As soon as he uttered the words, he realized his mistake. The last thing he wanted was for her to tell him. She shook her head again and lowered her chin to her knees. Feeling sorry for herself, he supposed. For just a moment, he considered telling her he could always take her back to Mrs. Napp, but something stopped him. He wasn’t sure what.
“What will we tell them?” she asked in a low voice, turning her face toward him. “About how we met, I mean.” At his blank look, she added. “They’re sure to ask.”
“The easiest thing is to tell the truth and just omit the tricky parts. Try it,” he said when he saw her frown. “How did we meet, Lizzie?”
She hesitated. “A- a mutual acquaintance introduced us?” she asked in a strangled voice.
He nodded. “Good. Now you ask me a question.”
She lifted her head, coloring faintly. “How did you know I was the woman you wanted to marry?” she asked with more than a hint of challenge in her voice.
He considered this a moment. “You had certain qualities I admire.”
“Really?” she sounded skeptical.
He nodded. “Now, I’ll ask you. How did you know?”
She swallowed. “How did I know I should marry you?” she asked looking nervous. “I- well, you seemed to me the best prospect under the circumstances,” she said scrupulously.
Against all odds, a smile twitched on his lips. “They’ll likely guess your back was to a wall,” he commented, and Lizzie’s face flamed bright red. “Don’t worry, they won’t ask you that.” He reached over and dipped a fingertip into the pan of water. “It’s warm enough. You wash first.”
Not long after, they made their way into the next field where his brothers had two covered wagons parked next to each other and a pair of large piebald cart horses tethered. Frank hailed them both heartily and led them to the campfire which already had a large pot of stew bubbling away for supper.
Some packing cases had been set around the fire, and Frank even dusted off a cushion for Lizzie. She thanked him and arranged her skirts about her demurely. One of the tarpaulins was jerked back and his grandmother clambered down, eyeing Benedict sardonically.
“So, you’re back, are you?” she commented, squatting her straggly figure down next to the fire and stirring the pot with a large ladle.
“As you see,” Benedict answered coolly. “This is Lizzie. Lizzie, this is my grandmother, Ma Toomes.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lizzie said promptly, though God alone knew what she made of the old woman, he thought, watching Ma pull a pipe out of her pocket and demand a light. Jack obliged, rolling his eyes as he struck a match and leaned forward.
Ma puffed furiously on the clay pipe and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction when smoke began to rise from the bowl. “What?” she demanded when she noticed all eyes on her. “She’ll have to get used to our ways if she plans on sticking around.” She eyed Lizzie malevolently and looked disappointed to evoke no answer.
“Her bark’s worse than her bite,” Frank said with an awkward laugh. He started pouring a concoction which looked like a gin punch into cups and passing them round. Lizzie took hers with polite thanks.
“Here’s to cheating the devil,” Jack proposed with a grin, holding his cup aloft. “May we never arrive, but always be on our way.”
Benedict’s gaze flickered to Lizzie who blinked at the toast but took a cautious sip of the brew all the same.
“You’ll arrive alright!” their grandmother cackled as she tossed back her drink in three gulps. “Never doubt it, you young imp.” She started ladling out the thick stew into bowls, and Benedict wondered idly where Frank’s wife, Maggie, was. She had done all the cooking in recent years, and Ma happily retired from such duties to swig her gin and smoke her pipe.
He cast a sidelong look at the wagon, but it seemed they were all assembled already.
“Daphne made the stew,” Jack said as though in answer to his unspoken question.
“Daphne?” Benedict repeated blankly.
“Aye, Daphne.”
“And who the hell is Daphne?”
Frank coughed. “Her mother’s the one Pa’s taken up with at the moment. He left Daphne behind when they cleared out last summer.”
Benedict narrowed his eyes. “Why should he leave her behind with you?” he asked sharply.
“You know what he’s like, Ben,” Frank said wearily. “He didn’t ask permission.”
“And where is Daphne this evening?” asked Lizzie suddenly.
“Oh, Daphne’s taking her supper with a couple of those actresses from The Philmore Players tonight. They’re old acquaintances of hers by all account.”
“Actresses!” spat Ma with disgust. “That’s a different name for it!”
“Ma,” Frank cautioned.
“One of those actresses is uncommon pretty,” Jack said thoughtfully as he took his bowl of stew. “Lips like a cupid’s bow and hair that gleams as gold as a guinea.”
Frank gave a short laugh. “Careful, Jack, you’ll be following Ben here into the parson’s trap.”
Benedict took a mouthful of stew, refusing to rise to the bait. When he’d swallowed it and still no one spoke a word, he asked. “Where’s Maggie anyway?”
If anything, the silence grew more pronounced. Ben had never been much affected by mood, so he listened to the crackle of the logs unconcerned as Frank replied in a low voice.
“She up and left me.”
“When?”
“Must be some eight months ago now,” Frank said gruffly.
Benedict’s eyebrows rose. “You make any effort to retrieve her?” he asked.
“Where’s the sense in that?” Ma interrupted sharply, as Frank ducked his head.
“She’s his wife,” Benedict answered. He gave his brother a hard stare. Frank’s face was averted and mostly in shadow. “You seemed happy enough last time I saw you. What happened?” His brother stiffened, but still did not speak.
“Drop it, Ben,” Jack urged.
“She made her choice,” Ma scowled. “She couldn’t hack the life, there’s not many that can. Your own mother turned tail and Maggie was the same. Quitters with soft hands and heads full of dreams,” she jeered. “This one of yours is no different, I’ll warrant,” she said nodding toward Lizzie with a scornful twist of her lips. “I could tell as soon as I clapped eyes on her! You Toomes men are all the same. Too fond of a pretty face to pick wisely.”
Benedict glanced at Lizzie who was tucking into her stew. “I’m not much of a one for dreams,” she said mildly. “As for my hands, they’re toughening up by the day.”
He laughed. He had to give it to her, she had plenty of self-possession. Betsy would have fallen apart at the seams confronted by a malevolent old hag like Ma. Realizing his brothers were looking at him curiously, he cleared his throat and held out his bowl for a refill. “How about another drink,” he suggested.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 7