Maggie’s disappearance was glossed over, and the rest of the meal passed without too much friction. When they finally took their leave, Lizzie rose with a murmured thanks and goodnight and they started toward their own wagon.
“Well?” he asked, breaking the silence when they were out of earshot of his family.
“I’m not sure they knew what to make of me,” she admitted, pulling her shawl tight about her shoulders.
Her reply surprised him. “And what about you? What did you make of them?” he asked, realizing he actually wanted to know.
She was quiet a moment. “I’m not sure,” she prevaricated. “It’s difficult to get a full picture from just one meal,” she said hesitantly. “It feels incomplete.” At his mocking look, she grew defensive. “After all, you could scarcely have formed much of an opinion on me after dining at Sitwell Place a mere handful of times.”
“Oh, couldn’t I?” he replied dryly and saw her bristle. They walked in silence a moment.
“I collect,” she said after a moment’s silent walking. “By your tone, that you did not form a good impression of me, Mr. Toomes.”
He shrugged. “You made your own feelings about my presence at your table plain by your every disapproving feature, Mrs. Toomes.”
He heard her breathe noisily in and out. “I wonder, then, that you even – ” Whatever she had been about to say, she bit off, clearly thinking the better of voicing it. “That is to say, your grandmother may have had a very salient point,” she said instead bitterly.
It was his turn now to catch his breath. He came to an abrupt halt, seizing her arm and swinging her about to face him. “What did you say?”
Lizzie glared up at him. “Betsy has a vastly pretty face,” she panted. “But if you had set her down on a packing case to eat her supper in the middle of a field, she would have burst into tears and we both know it!”
He stared down at her, her flashing eyes, pink cheeks, and the heaving bosom that even her drab dress could not conceal. “Well then, it’s a damned good job I didn’t marry Betsy, isn’t it?” he pointed out crisply.
“Some might think so!” she flung at him, and he marveled that she could have so little notion of self-preservation.
Maybe it was high time that someone taught Miss Lizzie Anderson – nay, his wife, he amended silently, a cautionary lesson. It seemed one was long overdue. He released her arm only to seize her roughly about the waist and drag her up bodily against him. She huffed and exclaimed but was too stiff with shock to put up much of a struggle.
“What are you – ” His mouth put an abrupt stop to her words. Her indignant squawk was muffled as he explored the shape and taste of those pert lips, which ought to taste tart, but were instead cool and sweet, drawing a low rumble of pleasure from him.
As his one hand tightened at her trim waist, the other slid into the silky pale hair at the nape of her neck, urging her closer still, as his tongue slid into her gasping mouth. The blood pounded in his ears when Lizzie grew pliant in his arms, and he forgot that he was supposed to be teaching her anything other than how to kiss so you forgot where you were.
A cough behind them in the darkness brought him back to earth with a bump. Lizzie gave such a violent start; it was as well he had a firm hold of her. “Who’s there?” he asked gruffly, peering into the shadows .
“It’s me,” his brother Jack held up a lantern. “I came after you – thought you might need a light to see your way.”
Benedict cleared his throat, though he did not let go of Lizzie who was attempting to set herself to rights. With reluctance, he gave her the space, but seized hold of her hand instead, anchoring her to his side. “Good of you,” he growled, anything but thankful.
Jack nodded and came alongside them, though he did not meet Ben’s accusing gaze. “I – er – thought I’d better tell you about Maggie leaving,” he said. “Frank doesn’t like to talk of it.”
Ben was silent a moment. “What happened?” he asked.
Jack shrugged. “Just one of those things. She got quiet and discontented and withdrew more and more each day. Bartholomew Fair it happened, last August.” Jack hesitated. “Pa joined us for a few days with his new doxy and Daphne.” Ben stiffened and Jack plunged on. “A loud-mouthed piece she was, and none of us liked her. Maggie was barely talking to any of us by that point. The third and final day, she just slipped away and disappeared into the night.”
Ben grunted. “She leave any word where she was going?”
“Nope,” Jack said scratching the back of his neck. “I tell you, you could scarce get a word out of her. Even me. Frank was devastated, Ben; it really rocked him. He wasn’t expecting her to walk out on him, however bad things had got between them. Pa tried to tell him to snap out of it and he’d find another woman in the next town, and Frank sent him sprawling, told him to get out of his sight and that he never wanted to see him again. Ma had to get between them, and Pa took off with his tail betwixt his legs after that.”
Slightly mollified by the idea of Frank knocking down their father, Benedict unbent and the three of them started walking again in the direction of their wagon. “She ever get in touch after that?” Benedict prompted.
“She wrote to him two months after that at Weyhill. Said she wasn’t coming back, and he wasn’t to try and find her.” Jack pulled a face. “Poor old Frank hasn’t really bounced back from it all.” Ben said nothing. “It wasn’t Frank’s fault, Ben,” Jack insisted. “It wasn’t like it was with Pa and our own mother.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?” he asked dryly. “So, Maggie wasn’t expected to cook and clean for all her husband’s family, as well as him? She didn’t have to put up with Ma day in, day out, scolding her and telling her she wasn’t good enough for a Toomes and never would be?”
Jack looked away. “You know that’s just the old girl’s way,” he muttered.
“Tell me, has Frank taken up with this Daphne girl?” Benedict pursued coldly.
“Lord no! Nothing of that sort, I’d swear an oath on it.”
Benedict snorted. “Frank’s a fool if he didn’t try to get Maggie out of it years ago. She deserved better than the life he gave her.”
Jack stopped abruptly in his tracks. “Aye well,” he said sharply. “There’s not everyone can turn their backs on their family as readily as you, Benedict,” he said harshly. He held the lamp high. “This is you here, isn’t it?”
Benedict didn’t answer, just towed Lizzie in the direction of the wagon, bundled her up the step, and slammed the door shut behind them.
8
Lizzie woke gradually the next morning to the awful realization that she was pressed against a man’s warm back. Staring with horror at Benedict Toomes’ broad, tanned shoulder blades, she hastily snatched back her arm that had been firmly wrapped about his waist. What was she doing? She shuffled back from him as surreptitiously as possible. Luckily, the sheets were not the crisp cotton she was used to but were instead a soft flannel which did not rustle.
She hoped devoutly Benedict was still fast asleep and unaware of her sleepy embrace. It must have been due to the cold in the night, she told herself firmly. It had certainly had nothing to do with the kissing. That kiss. Her fingers touched her mouth distractedly. If it could be thought of as a kiss. Before last night, Lizzie had thought of kisses as a chaste salute bestowed upon a relative’s cheek. She had, had no notion that men could twist something so simple and wholesome into something … altogether different.
Her cheeks burned when she remembered how she had allowed him to take such wanton liberties with his tongue. She had not protested or even tried to stop him, she thought guiltily. She had simply held still and let him have his wicked way. She pressed her hands to her face. Oh, why had she not pushed him away?
Thank heavens he had not sought to further his acquaintance with her by such methods once they had returned to the wagon. It seemed his brother’s news had dampened his ardor, for he had turned his back while they had mutually undressed an
d they had climbed into the bed alongside each other in perfect silence.
Rolling on her back, Lizzie reached down to untangle the cotton nightgown which had tangled itself about her legs.
“Keep still, can’t you,” rumbled a low voice, startling her considerably. Lizzie froze, catching her breath. He was awake? When she made no response, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. “What are you doing?” he complained. “Get back here.”
Lizzie stared at him. “What do you mean?” she faltered.
He shot her an exasperated look. “I’ve another half hour before I need to get up. Come back and keep my back warm.”
Lizzie was aghast. When he turned his back to her again in wordless expectation, she gazed at him a moment before reflecting it could be a good deal worse. Inching closer, she checked the ribbon ties at her throat were still secure and then stopped before they actually made physical contact.
“And the rest,” he prompted irritably.
Lizzie leaned the rest of the way forward with a protesting murmur, acutely aware of the fact she was naked beneath her long nightgown. The thin, well-worn cotton was the only barrier between them, for though he had kept his long underwear on last night, his upper body was entirely bare.
“You should wear a long-sleeved vest to bed,” she told him, wishing she did not sound so breathless. “Then your back will not be cold.”
He grunted. “This is better.”
Lizzie blinked, but there was really no response she could make to that. At least he wasn’t demanding that she hug him around his middle. Had he drifted back off to sleep? The steady rise and fall of his breath seemed to indicate as much.
Lizzie marveled that he could be so comfortable with a strange bedfellow when she felt most peculiar all over. She was not sure she would ever grow used to sharing a bed with a man, though common sense told her this was now her reality as a married woman. She lay still as possible, barely breathing in the hope Benedict Toomes would forget what was plastered to his back, namely her.
She was just starting to breathe a little easier when he gave a sigh and sat up in the bed. Lizzie rolled back in alarm, blinking up at him. The morning light was barely showing through the covered window, but she guessed it was early. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You may as well stay abed a while,” he said, standing up and scratching his muscular belly.
Lizzie hurriedly averted her eyes. “Are you going into the fair already?”
He murmured some agreement as he washed in the cold-water leftover from the previous evening and dragged on his clothes. “I’ll be back in an hour or so and bring you some breakfast,” he said, glancing at her. “Get some more sleep, but first come and bolt the door after me.”
Lizzie nodded, though she doubted she would sleep so much as a wink. He opened the door and ducked out, slamming it shut after him. Lizzie lay in the still dark interior and breathed out a sigh of relief. She had shared a room with her cousin, but never a bed. The intimacy would take some getting used to. She crawled out of bed and bolted the door before returning to the mattress where she flung out her arms and legs in a full stretch. She had only a single cot in Sitwell Place, not a wide one like this one. She would close her eyes a while and then ponder what to do.
When next she woke, it was to a banging on the door of the wagon. She gasped and cast about her in confusion a moment before remembering where she was. Sitting up, she threw back the covers and stumbled toward the door, pausing only to throw her shawl about her shoulders and conceal the nightgown.
Peering out cautiously, she saw it was old Ma Toomes scowling up at her ferociously. She wore a large coal shovel bonnet this morning to match her shabby black dress. Lizzie could have sworn she had been wearing a man’s cap the previous night, but it had been dark next to the campfire so she could not be sure.
“What?” she squawked catching sight of Lizzie. “Still abed, my fine lady?”
“Benedict told me to sleep in,” Lizzie replied with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Huh!” the old woman snorted. “Well get up, then; you can’t loll there all day. We’ve things to do.”
Lizzie paused a moment before shutting the door again and hurrying to dress. She washed her face in the bowl of cold water, hurriedly donned her navy dress, and brushed her mussed up hair which she had not even braided before bed the previous evening, instead shoving it under her lacy nightcap. As such, it had a few tangles. She had only just managed to roll and pin it to her nape when a scraggy arm banged on the door again.
“Come on, girl! We ain’t got all day!”
Lizzie swung the door open and noticed it struck against a small package left on the step. Stooping down, she found it was a flaky pastry in a twist of paper and a bottle of lemonade. Had her husband returned with something for her to eat and found her still sleeping? The thought warmed her, and she had to give herself a stern talking as she replied to his grandmother. “I just need to don my bonnet and cloak and I’ll be ready.”
“Don’t bother,” Ma told her curtly. “I’ve got one for you. ’Ere,” she said. “Put this on.” She passed Lizzie a hugely enveloping black cloak with a large pointed hood lined in red silk.
“What is it?”
“It’s a cloak, what’s it look like?” was the retort.
Lizzie climbed down from the step and took it from her. “And what am I to do with it, pray?”
“Put it on, didn’t I say so?” asked the older woman sharply.
“Why?” Lizzie asked. “It’s not raining, and I have my own cloak.”
“You needs a costume, if you’re to tell fortunes.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened. “I have never told a fortune in my life. I wouldn’t know where to start,” she spluttered in horror.
“Listen,” Ma snarled, thrusting her withered face close to Lizzie’s. “If yer a part o’ this family you’d best be prepared to earn your way or you’ll be out on yer ear faster’n you can wink an eye!”
Lizzie stared back at her. She had been over-generous in her appraisals of Benedict’s grandmother’s character the night before, partly, she knew, because the old woman had lumped her in with Benedict’s mother and sister-in-law as being useless but pretty.
No one had ever said so much about Lizzie’s rather plain face before. She knew the old woman had meant it as a scathing indictment, but she could not help but be perversely flattered. She knew she was not pretty, but perhaps not being constantly contrasted to her cousin would mean she would no longer suffer from such comparisons.
“I shall certainly speak to my husband about this!” Lizzie said aloud as the old woman continued to glare at her ferociously.
“You do that!” Ma cackled. “But I think you’ll find this preferable to prancin’ around in yer knickers advertising the booth.”
Lizzie stared at her. Prancing about in her knickers? “I don’t know anything about that!” she gasped. “Benedict certainly never asked me to do any such thing!”
“Not yet, he hasn’t,” Ma muttered direly. “But you just wait. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll find another way to earn a penny and sharpish.”
Lizzie swallowed. Was the old woman telling her that her husband would eventually prostitute her out? She stood speechless a moment before swinging the old cloak about her shoulders. Ma Toomes nodded her head in satisfaction.
“There’s buttons on the inside, fasten it tight so it covers you neck to toe,” she was instructed. Lizzie hastily complied. “Now put these gloves on and this headscarf, see?”
Ma Toomes passed her a red silk headscarf edged in small gold discs like coins. When Lizzie fumbled with it inexpertly, it was whipped out of her hands with a muffled curse. “Not like that, you little fool!” the terrible old woman scolded. She wound it about Lizzie’s head like a turban so it covered her pale hair completely and left only her face uncovered. “Yer face looks too young,” she grumbled. “But it will have to do for now.”
Lizzie dragged the fingerless mittens on over her hands. They looked a bit grubby to her and like they could do with a wash. Glancing at Ma’s black fingernails, she shuddered. “Well?” she asked with a slight edge to her voice. “Anything else I can do for you?”
Ma Toomes surveyed her a moment. “It’s a good thing yer not easily cowed,” she said mildly. “But we’ll see if yer still as feisty in six months’ time, my fine young lady.” She gave an evil cackle. “Now you follow me and do everything I tells you, got it?”
Lizzie gave a reluctant nod before remembering her breakfast. “One moment,” she said, hopping back up onto the step and retrieving the pastry and bottle. She offered half to the old woman who pulled a disgusted face and turned abruptly on her in a sprightly march toward the main field. Lizzie trailed along behind her with severe misgivings.
The pastry at least was buttery and delicious and filled with flaked almonds. If she hadn’t been wearing the horrible mittens, she would have licked her fingers. Another coating of grease would hardly affect them, she told herself, uncorking the lemonade and drinking it thirstily. The camping field was now a hive of activity with people bustling about and children running hither and thither.
After they climbed over the stile, Lizzie saw a procession of folk trickling in from the opposite direction. These people weren’t dressed in working clothes but in their Sunday best. She saw frills and flounces and hats covered in flowers as well as pinstripe suits and watch chains and polished leather boots. When the groups of two and three started coming thicker and faster, the trickle of arrivals becoming more of a deluge, Ma seized her arm.
“We stay on the edges for our turn,” she said hanging back. “Ain’t no point us going into the throng. There’s precious little takings there unless yer a pickpocket. Not when you needs to use yer tongue to make yer money.” Instead of proceeding into the field of stalls and booths, Ma drew her to one side. “Over there, see, where they’re taking a breather.”
Lizzie glanced across to see some day-trippers were congregating around a picturesque knot of trees. Ma nodded at two couples who were lingering at the edge of an ornamental pond. Lizzie pursed her lips, for she didn’t like the look of them.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 8