Just when had he started hankering after Betsy’s correct cousin? he wondered with a quick shake of his head. Desire had crept up on him and taken him unawares. She had spent the night in his bed since then and, what’s more, had left it as innocent as she had entered it, more’s the pity.
It had been a pleasant awakening that morning, though. She wasn’t so starched up when she was sleeping. Lizzie Anderson had been sweet and clinging in the early hours when her arm had stolen around his waist and her breath had tickled the back of his neck. Her trim figure had felt womanly enough, though in truth, he had always thought her on the skinny side at Sitwell Place, stood next to her comely cousin.
Frank sauntered Benedict’s way and, still beaming at the audience, clasped his shoulder in a tight grip. Had he noticed Benedict’s abstraction? “Our first volunteer has boxed a bit before, so watch your step,” he murmured, before turning back to the crowd. “Gentlemen, we have a treat for you! A veritable treat! Can we get another volunteer or two before we start this afternoon? Come! There must be some hot-blooded bruisers among you, keen to prove your mettle to your fellows!”
Benedict let the patter wash over him. He had heard it all so many times, after all. He’d never heard anyone compare him to a Greek statue before, though. That had been a new one. He found he liked to think of Lizzie’s stunned gaze running over him, comparing him to the only example of masculinity she had heretofore been exposed to. A statue. A smile tugged at his lips as he rolled his shoulders.
He wanted her eyes on him now, he realized, though in truth, it was probably just as well they weren’t. Otherwise he might feel inclined to impress her by dispatching his challengers as speedily as possible. Again. And he had a livelihood to earn, he reminded himself, especially with a wife to support.
Irresistibly, his gaze returned to the entrance. Was someone arguing the fee with her? he wondered straightening up. Two men hovered there, talking with boisterous loudness. Nay, they were coming into the tent now, all smiles and jocularity. What the fuck were they smiling about? he scowled. He’d like to see one of them climb in the ring with him, and he’d wipe that smile off their faces.
Benedict decided he would take particular satisfaction in pummeling the bastard in the stovepipe hat. He turned a hard stare on his brother Jack. What the fuck was his brother going to do about it? If he wanted to make himself useful, he could try turning his eye on his new sister-in-law and making sure she wasn’t being harangued by all-comers. He watched his brother cast a bewildered look about him. Bloody young idiot was less than useless.
The afternoon crawled along. It didn’t matter how many times he glanced at the doorway, Lizzie’s attention was either trained outside the tent, or on the person handing her their fee. Only once did he catch her looking his way, and on that occasion, she looked away so fast he barely had time to register the fact. It vastly improved his mood, though.
There was a break between the early and late afternoon show, but Benedict dared not distract himself by going to her. If he had, he would not want to return to the ring at all. Instead, he stayed where he was and accepted the bottle of beer Jack fetched him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lizzie sat alone with her lemonade. That Daphne had not approached her once, and after fetching her drink, Jack gave her a wide berth.
In truth, they did not need two women working the outside of the tent. It probably deterred as many customers as it attracted. He would need to find some other occupation for Lizzie. But what? What was she fit for in this world so outside of the one she knew? He ran through the list of prospects, but nothing seemed a likely fit. The theatre tent, such as it was, was full of hecklers and revelers that would no doubt shock the living hell out of her.
The acrobats would have no use for her, and even the food stalls would expect her to share a laugh and joke with their customers. Something he just could not imagine Lizzie doing. If anyone told her a bawdy jest, he had no doubt it would likely be met with disapproval and outrage. Though why that should make him smile, he had no notion.
It was between the eighth and ninth crowd volunteer that inspiration struck. Connie and her Wonderous Females of the World. Had Connie not told him herself that Alfred, her muscle, had run off and left her in the lurch this season?
Though Connie’s booth relied on titillation, she fostered a strictly ‘hands off’ policy and cultivated at least a surface appearance of heavy respectability. Partly, this was to circumvent decency laws, and partly, because outright touch would expose the fact that most of her ‘wonders’ were out and out frauds.
In the past, Alfred’s hulking presence with his cauliflower ears and broken nose had been intended as a deterrent to those that would seek to either opportune Connie’s girls or expose them outright. What if Lizzie were to patrol the tent instead? She could freeze a man at twenty paces with one of her looks, and it wasn’t as though she would shrink from ticking anyone off that crossed a line.
Alfred, for all his bulk, had been awkward and bashful when it came to telling young ladies to stand back or to prevent them from peering behind the curtains. Benedict could not imagine Lizzie showing a similar reluctance. She would wade right in given half the chance.
Again, he found himself inclined to smile at the thought, greatly startling Frank who he realized had just given the chilling ‘he’ll seal your doom’ speech of introduction for him. Hastily, he rearranged his features into a fearsome scowl. It only occurred to him as they were clearing away that he had spent most of the afternoon thinking about Lizzie.
She appeared silently by his side as he fastened the last of his shirt buttons. “Do we tidy away the roped off area too or leave that up for tomorrow?”
“Leave it up,” he answered. “No one will disturb it.”
She held up her jar of ha’pennies. “What shall I do with this?”
“Frank will sort the takings for the day,” he said looking around for his older brother who was already looking through Jack’s betting book with a frown of concentration on his face. Lizzie carried it over to him. Benedict watched his brother take it with a nod, and Lizzie returned to his side.
“I don’t think Daphne really needed me on the door with her, you know,” she commented without rancor.
He grunted, knotting his kerchief about his throat. “I’ve thought of something else for you to do on the morrow.”
“Oh?” she sounded wary.
“I need to speak to someone first tomorrow morning, but I think it will suit.”
“Not now?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not now.” He let his eyes wander over her as Lizzie frowned distractedly.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with my legs, does it?”
“Your legs?” he frowned. “I don’t think I – ”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said hurriedly. “Forget I said it. So what happens now?” she asked. “Does the fair shut down for the night?”
He gave a short laugh. “Far from it. Come on. Let’s go find something to eat.” He offered her his arm and Lizzie took it. He was pleased to see she took less time to pause each time. Heading for the exit, he called a brief goodbye to his brothers.
“You coming back later?” Jack called after them. “You can watch me in the ring, see how I’ve improved.”
“We’ve got better things to do,” Benedict replied as they passed outside into the milling crowd. They had walked to the end of the row and turned into the next before either one of them spoke.
Lizzie cleared her throat. “You don’t need to return to the tent this evening, then?” she asked.
“No, I’ve taken my turn in the ring for the day.”
“How will they manage without you? Who will take over the betting book if Jack is boxing?”
He shrugged. “Frank probably.”
“Does Frank never box himself?”
Benedict felt a twinge of irritation. “Do you want to talk about my brothers all night?” he asked and even he heard the edge to his voic
e. Damn it.
She was quiet a moment, then asked, “Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“Us,” he answered gruffly and heard her indrawn breath. Perhaps that had been a bit too direct. “What do you fancy for supper?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the stalls they were passing.
Lizzie glanced that way, looking grateful for the change of subject. At that moment they were passing a coffee stall that also sold hot eels and pea soup as a sideline. “The Napps were very fond of pea soup,” she commented. “It was a good deal cheaper in the East End,” she added critically, noticing the scrawled sign. “And those cups look rather small. Mrs. Napp used to buy a whole pint for a ha’penny and thought it very nutritious.”
“They hike the prices up at the fairs,” he answered. “But I refuse to buy you pea soup for supper when there’s fried fish to be had.”
“Fried fish? Is that your favorite, then?” she asked looking at the bewildering array of stalls on offer.
“It is,” he replied promptly. “They fry it in a batter made with beer.”
“It sounds … interesting,” Lizzie conceded.
They ate their fried fish out of newspaper sat on wooden crates. It was served with a buttery baked potato on the side and sprinkled with salt.
“Good?” he asked curiously, watching her lean back with a sigh.
“Very good,” she conceded. “I haven’t had fish cooked this way before.” Having finished her food, she gazed around in bemusement at the teeming crowds. “Is it always this busy?” she asked after a moment.
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “Always. Greenwich is one of the biggest fairs in the country.”
Lizzie dabbed the corners of her mouth delicately before handing it back. “I collect that you and your family tour the fairs all year long.”
He nodded. “Though in truth it’s nine months in all, not twelve.”
“Have you always lived like this?” she asked curiously.
“Since I was a lad. My grandfather started the act, but me and Frank took over as soon as Frank turned eighteen.” He could see her suppress further questions only with an effort. “I don’t get along with my father,” he said shortly.
She drummed her heels against the crate softly. “I’m an orphan,” she volunteered.
He already knew this but made no comment. “I went to prison for public affray. Did you know that already?”
His words seemed to take her aback. “Betsy did say something of that nature,” she admitted after a moment. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “Someone insulted me, it was just my bad luck the peelers happened to be around at the time.”
“Peelers?”
“Police,” he explained. Her lips formed a soundless ‘oh’. “It won’t happen again,” he found himself adding, though he was blessed if he could say why.
After a moment, she asked, “So, we will be touring now until November?”
He gave her a keen look, but her expression was guarded, giving nothing away. “How does that prospect strike you?” he asked keeping his own tone impassive.
“A little daunting,” she admitted. “But I am sure I will find my way.” To his surprise he found he believed her. “With time,” she added conscientiously.
He grunted, taking the newspaper from her and scrunching it up with his own and throwing it into a crate nearby that was being used to collect rubbish. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get something to drink.”
Naturally, Lizzie chose ginger beer.
“What do you want to want to do now?” he asked casually. “Walk around the fair some more or go back to the wagon?”
Lizzie lowered her drink. “Go back to the wagon,” she admitted thankfully. “It feels like it’s been a long day.”
Benedict frowned. “You’re tired, then?” he asked.
She must have caught something in his tone, for she glanced at him in surprise. “Well, I would have thought that you must be exhausted after all those fights.”
“Not especially. I’m used to it.”
“Then,” she ventured hesitantly. “You wish to view more of the attractions?” He shook his head. “So, you also want to return to the wagon, then?”
He nodded his head. “Aye, but not to sleep,” he said gruffly. “I think it’s about time we got to know each other a little better, don’t you?”
Lizzie’s frown deepened. “I thought that was what we had been doing.”
He pulled a face. “Well, there’s getting acquainted and there’s getting acquainted.”
She exhaled noisily, coming to a complete halt where she stood. “You mean – ” She broke off to suck in a deep breath, glancing around her furtively before she spoke. “Do I take it you mean in the biblical sense, Mr. Toomes?”
“Call me Benedict,” he said catching hold of her arm and tugging her alongside him. There wasn’t enough room to spare for her to come to a complete stop. Not without causing a traffic jam.
“Is that what you mean?” She sounded so uncertain it was almost laughable.
“Of course, that’s what I mean.” He glanced her way and saw the stunned look on her face. “This surprises you?” he asked carefully.
“Well, yes, quite frankly!” she answered roundly. “I had no notion- that is, you have given no indication that you found the prospect even a remotely attractive one!”
“The prospect of bedding you?” he asked with raised brows. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“Well,” she spluttered. “I spent our wedding night on Mrs. Napp’s floor!”
He tipped his head to one side to regard her frankly. “That was a result of circumstances, nothing more.”
“But you – you always made your dislike of me quite plain when you called at Sitwell Place!” she rallied hotly.
“As did you of me,” he pointed out, narrowing his eyes.
“Precisely!”
“Things change,” he said, his gaze wandering over what he could see of her beneath that enveloping black cloak.
“Not that quickly!”
“Oh yes they do, Lizzie Toomes,” he said lowering his voice. “I’m attracted to you, alright. You need have no doubts on that score.”
“Since when?” she flung at him. “I don’t believe you!”
“I’ve wanted you since you faced down that parson at your uncle’s table,” he retorted, surprising himself as much as her.
Lizzie stared at him. “Since – ” she repeated blankly before swallowing her words. “But …” Again her words led nowhere. He waited impatiently. “But that’s preposterous! I mean, it makes no earthly sense!” she persevered, clearly struggling for words at this point.
“I can make you want me too, given the chance,” he said in a low voice. Lizzie gasped and turned to stare straight ahead. He felt her arm tremble where he touched her and it encouraged him, for he did not think it was with fear precisely. At least he hoped it was not.
“Well, it is your right, of course,” she admitted jerkily. “I just never imagined you would claim it.”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “You never imagined I would want to bed my own wife?” he asked skeptically.
“Not when I was simply a last minute substitute you felt forced to take.”
“Forced?” he repeated, blinking. “And just who do you imagine forced me?”
“Your own sense of chivalry, I suppose,” a clearly flustered Lizzie responded.
“My sense of what?” He was so startled by this he actually laughed out loud. Lizzie clenched her fists, a spark entering her eye, but just then a rowdy bunch of young men came barging past them, waving paper flags and singing loudly.
The song was a bawdy one, and their voices raucously upraised. Benedict reached out and drew Lizzie close against him until they had surged past. She did not struggle to break free, and he kept his arms about her as the song faded into the jostling crowd.
“The way you put it, as I recall,” s
he said against his top shirt button. “Was that we were both backed into a tight corner and could use each other to our mutual advantage.”
He frowned. “Was that how I put it?” He could scarcely remember now as he felt her breath tickling his throat. He just knew he had been determined to pursue her. His vehemence had struck him, even at the time, as a little odd. When the crowd had dispersed a little, he released her, retaining a firm hold of her arm.
“You recall yesterday when you said I possessed certain qualities you admired,” Lizzie asked in a stifled voice.
“Yes.”
“Did you speak the truth?”
He stole a sideways glance at her, but her gaze was trained straight ahead. “I did.”
“What were they?”
“You don’t back down from a fight,” he answered promptly.
She looked at him then but almost immediately turned away again. “I see,” she said, though he had to concentrate to hear her voice against all the shouted laughter and background noise. Suddenly, she came to an abrupt stop. “Very well, then,” she said. “Let’s return to the wagon.”
She didn’t need to tell him twice. Immediately on their return he set about building a small fire to heat the water for washing. Wordlessly, Lizzie joined him in collecting nearby branches and twigs. Once it was lit and he’d encouraged the flames to take, he collected the pail from the wagon to fetch more water.
“Don’t stray far,” he warned, and she nodded. Perhaps, he pondered as he walked the five minutes to the well, he should have put their wagon closer to those of his family. There was safety in numbers, and he did not like to think of Lizzie left alone and unprotected at the wagon. Then again, proximity to his family had its own drawbacks.
This business of campfires seemed, for the first time in his life, an onerous task when he had better things to do. Perhaps a small stove, such as the ones circus performers used, would serve better. He had never considered purchasing one before, and a chimney would have to be installed, he thought with disfavor. Still, it was an option.
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 12