“Nonsense!” Barney cried. “Why, you haven’t even clapped eyes on them yet!”
“Doesn’t matter, Barney, my boy. The next one could have arms like tree trunks and I still say Toomes will dispatch him in just the same fashion.”
“I tell you, Toomes is not fresh like he was!” Barney cried. “He goes into this next bout at a distinct disadvantage!”
“Does he look tired to you?” his friend asked laughingly, and glancing up, Lizzie had to admit that Benedict looked just as cool and unruffled as he had at the outset. He tipped back his head to take a drink of beer from a glass bottle, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he drained it. When he lowered the bottle, she could have sworn his gaze met hers again before she looked hurriedly away.
Frank was now parading another contender for the crowd. Lizzie barely listened this time for she found she believed the gentleman with the flowered waistcoat. This must indeed be how these things worked, she thought dazedly. But how many times a day did they repeat this process of filling the tent with both audience and prospective volunteers?
Again, there was the rush toward Jack Toomes and his betting book. Lizzie wondered if they only allowed bets against the house, or else surely Jack would still be trying to sort out who he owed money to from the first fight? She looked about distractedly. More spectators seemed to be drifting in by the minute, and the air, which had been thick enough to slice from the start, was now taking on a distinct odor of beer which she could only suppose was courtesy of The Adam and Eve.
Oh, for a cup of tea, Lizzie thought wistfully and wondered if any of the tents sold the superior beverage. If they did, she had not seen any sign of it so far. She was just pondering this when she felt someone tapping her shoulder.
“Excuse me, madam!” It was the handsome brunette from outside. The rush to place bets meant there was now room enough for her to make her way through the tent. “You owe me a ha’penny!”
Lizzie turned to face her. “That’s my husband in the ring,” she explained.
“I don’t care if he’s King Solomon himself,” the brunette answered in strident tones. “You still got to pay your ha’penny or I’ll sling you out on your ear.” Lizzie found she believed the belligerent young woman and had just opened her mouth to clarify who she was when an arm was slung around her waist, and she was dragged back against a half-naked body.
“Who the hell are you to threaten my wife?” snarled Benedict, and the woman recoiled in alarm.
Lizzie gasped. He must have leaped over the ropes quick as a flash. “It was just a misunderstanding, I’m sure,” she blurted.
“It had bloody better be.”
Frank asked, hurrying over, an alarmed expression on his face. “Daphne, I don’t think I’ve had the chance yet to introduce you properly to my brother Ben and his wife Lizzie.”
Daphne looked stunned by this, but she rallied fast. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said promptly. “And I apologize for not realizing who you was.”
“Not at all,” Lizzie responded.
“Daphne is a sort of stepdaughter of Pa’s, Ben,” Frank explained, not quite meeting his brother’s eye.
Benedict’s lip curled. “I don’t give a damn who she is,” he said in a hard voice. A crowd had started to form around them now, so transferring his grasp from Lizzie’s waist to her wrist, he tugged her behind him down to the front.
“I was perfectly well where I was,” Lizzie attempted to protest. Looking around, she saw Daphne looking after her with an aggrieved look on her face. Frank appeared to be placating her. Lizzie would miss the commentary of the gentleman in the waistcoat she thought, looking about in vain to spot him.
“You were about to be slung out,” Benedict growled at her. “Stand here,” he said depositing her in the front row between two men who looked her up and down in surprise. “If anyone says anything, tell them you’re with me,” he said with a menacing look which had both men quickly facing front again. He stepped back over the rope before she could think of a reply to this.
Lizzie stood glassy eyed through the next two fights, neither of which lasted as long as the first. The crowd seemed even noisier as the morning wore on, and the man stood to her right was smoking a particularly noxious cigar which caused her eyes to water and a tickle in the back of her throat.
When the third man proved unable to get back to his feet, Lizzie went off in a coughing paroxysm and missed Frank’s closing speech altogether as she groped for her handkerchief and wiped her streaming eyes. By the time she had recovered herself, Benedict was stood before her. He thrust his shirt and vest into her arms and started wiping a wet cloth over face and shoulders.
“Have you no towel?” Lizzie asked, raising her voice above the babble of the dispersing crowd. As though in answer to her words, Frank Toomes appeared beside them with one and a heavy frown. He handed the towel wordlessly to Lizzie, and unsure what else to do, she started dabbing at Benedict’s neck with it.
“Finished him off a bit fast, didn’t you?” Frank asked resting his hands on his hips. “What was the rush?”
Feeling his eyes on her, Lizzie looked up. Frank looked away.
Benedict shrugged. “You put them in the wrong order.”
“No, I didn’t,” Frank disagreed. “You just didn’t want to oblige for some reason.”
Benedict lowered his cloth and eyed his brother sardonically. “I was the one trading punches, not you. I say the third was weakest.”
Frank snorted. “You could have drawn it out, Ben. You should have. You know well enough how the game’s played.”
Benedict ignored him, angling his head so Lizzie could reach his wet hair. She rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel, and Frank clicked his tongue but otherwise grew quiet.
Jack came hurrying over, brandishing his book. “Not bad takings,” he said cheerfully and slapped his brother on the back. “That was a strong finish, Ben. I reckon you’ve improved, if anything.”
Frank snorted but was otherwise ignored as Benedict shrugged into his long-sleeved vest and then his shirt.
“I’ll see you at two,” Frank called after them, as Lizzie found herself towed in the direction of the exit.
“What time is it now?” Lizzie asked as they emerged from the tent into a patch of bright sunlight despite the chill in the air.
“About half past twelve. What’s that cloak you’ve got on?” Benedict asked critically.
Lizzie flushed. “It’s your grandmother’s,” she explained.
He stopped in his tracks and reached over to tug back the hood, revealing the red and gold scarf. “Take it off.”
“It’s too cold to go without a cloak,” Lizzie objected.
“I’m not talking about the cloak.”
Catching his meaning, she reached up for the headscarf, but he was already before her, unknotting and tugging it free from her hair. “That’s better,” he pronounced.
“Give it to me,” Lizzie held out her hand. “I’ll tuck it in my pocket so I don’t lose it.”
He handed the headscarf over but narrowed his eyes. “Do I want to know what you’ve been up to this morning?” he asked.
Lizzie considered this. “Attempting to find my place?” she ventured.
This seemed to give him pause. After a moment, he reached for her hand again. “Well, it’s not in the boxing tent,” he said roughly, pulling her alongside him. “I know that much.”
She could not help but be grateful at this pronouncement. “Where are we heading now?”
“For some refreshment,” he answered shortly, but she saw they had eschewed the rowdy Adam and Eve altogether.
Instead, they made for a tea and bun tent called Mother Grimley’s. Lizzie sank into her seat with a sigh of relief. “I would love a cup of tea,” she admitted as a girl came bounding over in an apron.
“Two teas and two buns.”
“What kind?” the girl responded chirpily. “We got currant, saffron, ginger, or lemon or we does a nic
e Banbury cake or there’s our specialty two-penny bun.”
Benedict shot a look of enquiry her way. “A lemon bun, please,” she requested, wondering what could distinguish the two-penny bun so much as to cost twice as much as its fellows.
“Two lemon buns,” he rumbled, sitting back in his seat. As he did so, he rolled his right shoulder as though he might be experiencing some discomfort in it.
“Does it pain you?” she asked, noticing the neat little maid looked back over her shoulder at him as she retreated to fetch their order. He shook his head. “I could pay for these,” she offered, reaching into her pocket and showing him her gold sovereign.
His eyebrows rose. “Dare I ask?” he drawled.
“Your grandmother took me with her to learn how to tell fortunes.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine you’d be well suited for such a thing.”
Lizzie stared down at the faded tablecloth, tracing a tea stain with her finger. “I agree,” she said in a strangled voice. “And yet …” she trailed off miserably. “Why do you say I would not be suited to it?” she asked instead.
“You’re too truthful,” he replied at once, and Lizzie felt the words on her tongue shrivel and her cheeks grow hot.
“Lizzie?” he asked.
“I haven’t anything else to add,” she said in a small voice.
He snorted. “The old lady scolded you, I suppose, but you needn’t attend her.”
“Well, but how am I supposed to keep myself busy all day?” she asked reasonably. “I have to pull my weight somehow. Everyone else seems to have their own role.”
“Don’t lump us together with them,” he said sharply. “We’re separate. Our own entity.”
Lizzie was startled by his vehemence. “So then – ”
“You answer to me and no one else,” he retorted.
She considered this a moment. “I wasn’t bad at the fortune telling, precisely,” she admitted. “It was just that I rather alarmed myself by getting carried away.”
He narrowed his eyes at this. “How do you mean?”
“Well,” Lizzie took a deep breath. “Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop.” He seemed at a loss how to respond to this confession, and finding the silence difficult to bear, Lizzie plunged on. “I – I told some woman that her suitor was a fortune hunter and her nurse not to be trusted.”
“Why?” Benedict asked, as she squirmed with embarrassment.
“Because, that was how they struck me,” she said wretchedly. “It was like – ” she broke off. “Oh, I don’t know how to describe it!”
“Are you saying you were divinely inspired?” Benedict asked with heavy sarcasm.
“Of course not!” Lizzie was profoundly shocked by the idea of such blasphemy. “It was more like someone giving me free rein to say exactly what was on my mind. For one as opinionated as I am,” she admitted, frankly, “I think that might be rather dangerous.”
Benedict laughed suddenly, startling her a good deal. “You may be right,” he conceded. “So then, leave off the fortune telling in future.”
“Really? Your grandmother may not be pleased after she took the time to tutor me in the art.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t sound like you minded her much.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re supposed to tell them what they want to hear,” Benedict pointed out dryly. “It sounds like you did the opposite.”
Lizzie brooded on this a moment.
“Well, then what else can I do?” she asked slowly, remembering how Daphne had paraded up and down the front of the boxing tent, opportuning passers-by. She shuddered. “I – I do not think I am cut out to approach people. I do not have a particularly engaging manner.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “No, you don’t, do you?” he admitted softly, and for some reason, that, too, discomforted her. Luckily, the girl returned at this point with a tea tray and set down their pot of tea, two cups and saucers, and a plate of buns. Benedict paid her but otherwise ignored the admiring looks she was casting at him through her lashes. Finally, the girl retreated with a last wistful glance.
Lizzie found she did not truly wonder at it as she once did. She had judged Betsy harshly, she thought, for being taken in by Benedict Toomes’ flashy good looks. Now she had seen him stripped to the waist, she had to admit he was an admirable male specimen.
Benedict had to be the poorest dressed man in the tent in his black waistcoat and faded shirt. He did not even wear a collar at his neck, let alone a cravat or tie. Instead, he had a loosely tied kerchief completing his workaday outfit. But still, she thought, letting her eye wander around the tent, he was commanding plenty of attention from the female quarters.
“Lizzie,” he said suddenly, and she returned her gaze to his face. “Your tea’s growing cold while you gape at all and sundry.”
“I wasn’t gaping,” she protested as she lifted her cup to her lips.
“What was it?” he said half turning to look over his shoulder. “A hat you admire? A gown?”
“Certainly not! I hope I am not so caught up in worldly things that I sit gawping at another lady’s finery.”
“It better not be a man,” he uttered direly.
Lizzie spluttered on her mouthful of tea. A man! “It is not my habit to sit and s-stare at gentlemen!” she assured him freezingly, but a slight stammer revealed her discomfort.
“You were staring at me earlier. I could feel your eyes burning into me,” he said looking at her over the rim of his teacup.
Lizzie felt her face grow scarlet. “Well, you were on display!” she pointed out hotly. “Everyone was looking at you, not just me!”
“I did not care about anyone else,” he answered smoothly.
“Well, then perhaps you will be so good as to inform me where I should have directed my gaze?” she said smartly, setting her teacup back in its saucer with a rattle.
“Oh, you were looking exactly where you were supposed to,” he assured her. “What did you think?”
Lizzie was momentarily thrown. Surely, he was not expecting her to comment on his physique? She reached for a teaspoon and distractedly added a lump of sugar to her tea. She did not even take sugar usually, just lemon, however they had only been supplied with a small jug of milk. She cleared her throat. “I – er – do not have extensive experience about such matters,” she prevaricated feeling a complete fool. “I once attended a viewing of antiquities that it put me in mind of,” she admitted, desperately groping for some experience to draw on.
“Antiquities?” Now it was Benedict’s turn to look blank. “I don’t think I follow.”
“N-naked statues,” Lizzie blurted. “Classical ones.” Benedict stared at her in seeming bemusement, and she grew even more flustered. “I don’t mean a Greek god or anything of that nature,” she assured him hurriedly. “But they had – er – games and such pursuits even in those ancient times.”
“They had boxing?” he asked lightly, his eyes gleaming in a manner she found deeply disconcerting.
Lizzie took a deep breath. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “They certainly had wrestling and – um, gladiatorial entertainments in arenas and things,” she finished off lamely.
A smile curved his lips, and she found herself remembering, rather inconveniently, his kiss from the previous evening. “Is that so?”
Lizzie forced herself to take a bite of her bun. At least chewing on that gave her an excuse not to enmesh herself even deeper. He must think she had been shamelessly ogling him, she thought feeling mortified. Swallowing, she asked him quickly. “What did your brother Frank mean by his comments at the close of the match?”
He shrugged. “You don’t need to pay that any heed.” She looked at him curiously a minute. “What?” he asked.
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me,” he insisted.
“It’s just, I thought you would want me to pander to your family more,” she admitted. “I called your grandmother a hor
rible old woman earlier.”
He gave a choked laugh at that. “I daresay she asked for it.”
“I’m not so sure, I think I was just in a flat panic.” Lizzie sighed, peering into the teapot. “There’s enough for another cup,” she informed him.
“You have it.” Lizzie poured the last of it into her cup through the strainer. “The boxing tent’s too rough for the likes of you,” he said abruptly. “We’ll find you something else to do.”
“What?” asked Lizzie, gratefully gulping her tea.
“Something,” Benedict answered with the faintest glimmer of a smile playing around his lips. “Where you don’t have to make yourself too agreeable to others. I’ll put my thinking cap on.”
“And what will I do this afternoon?” she asked lowering her cup.
“You can sit inside the entrance and take the ha’penny entrance fee.”
9
In truth, Benedict knew he had given Frank cause for complaint that morning. The first fight had gone to plan, but he had rushed second and the third. His mind had been on other things. Namely, his new wife. For some reason, he had imagined he would feel quite indifferent to Lizzie’s struggles to find her place in his life. But that had been before …
Now he was faced with the reality of Lizzie Anderson as his wife, he felt quite differently about the matter. Frank had clearly recognized as much, for when Benedict had said Lizzie would require a chair, his brother had made no complaint, but merely fetched her one and handed her a jar for the ha’pennies. “Daphne will drum up custom,” Frank announced. “And Lizzie can take the entrance fees. Jack, you keep an eye on her.”
Their younger brother had nodded in agreement, and Daphne had made her way back outside the tent to start hollering. Benedict had found himself hovering a moment until he had seen that Lizzie was settled and then made his way back to the ring.
Even now, as Frank touted the next prospect, Benedict was fighting the impulse to turn and crane for a glimpse of her sat in the doorway. God alone knew why. He knew what he would find. Her neat figure sat ramrod straight. The demure braided head of hair. The lips pressed primly together. He wanted another taste of those lips. Damn Jack for interrupting them last night when he had finally got her where he wanted her. Namely, in his arms.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 11