It wasn’t enough, he realized dimly, to avoid Frank’s mistakes with Maggie. He needed to actually make his interest known to Lizzie. Clearly, she viewed their marriage as some kind of agreement they had struck up between them to make the best of a bad bargain. And why wouldn’t she? he reflected irritably. That was how he had presented it to her, but he felt somehow quite differently now.
Laughter and music spilled out of the large ballroom tent, the aptly named Fiddlers Green. Should he try to take her dancing of an evening? he wondered idly. At night it was a shilling entrance, but there was an orchestra of sorts, a cold supper to be had, and country dancing. In such a tight squeeze, he could slip his arm about her and no one be any the wiser.
Did Lizzie dance? He had no notion. Betsy certainly had, but she had been happy enough to sit out when he had declared himself an unenthusiastic partner. He would grit his teeth and fling Lizzie about the floor if it was something she enjoyed though, he reflected. The next tent along was the The Philmore Players. Ben eyed the banner boasting of its touring successes. Would she prefer a play? he wondered. At that point, Jack came sauntering out of the theatre tent and the two brothers eyed each other warily.
“What you doing here?” Jack asked, taken aback. “Not hanging out after an actress, are you?”
“Course not!” Benedict found himself snapping. “I was just looking to see what they’re performing.”
Jack regarded him with surprise. “What for?” Patronage of the arts was not precisely a Toomes trait.
“Just thinking of bringing Lizzie to see a show,” Benedict admitted. Even to his own ear, he sounded a little sheepish.
Jack’s eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his head. “I swear if I didn’t know better, I’d think you hadn’t yet tied the knot.”
“I didn’t get much chance to court her beforehand,” Benedict admitted grudgingly.
His brother scratched his ear. “So that’s why you’re doing it now, so late in the day?”
Benedict grunted. He didn’t exactly want to encourage his brother’s line of questioning.
“I’ve just been to see Cora,” Jack said with a grin. “That actress I mentioned at supper the other night.”
Benedict ignored this. Jack had always had an eye for the pretty girls. They all had, even Frank before he’d settled down. None of them were ever in the picture for long. “What play are they putting on presently?” he asked, glancing back at the tent. He hoped to God it wasn’t Shakespeare.
“Damned if I know,” Jack shrugged. “I’ve never actually sat through a show.”
They started back toward the boxing tent together.
“You got any fights lined up?” Jack asked conversationally. “Real fights, I mean.”
Benedict shot him a glance. “No.”
“I guess you and Nat Jones didn’t exactly part on speaking terms,” Jack continued. “He contacted you at all since you got out?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well,” Jack finally seemed to pick up on his brother’s pointed silence. He cleared his throat. “Me and Frank boxed a few times for him this past year,” he said casually. “Early on in the evening of course, not as headliners.” Benedict grunted. “He always rated you highly, though.”
“Not enough to give me a shot at a title,” Ben pointed out bitterly.
“Frank always figured he was working up to it.”
“Frank was ever an optimist,” Benedict said dryly.
“I ain’t so sure he is anymore,” Jack commented frankly. “He takes a drop too much of an evening now. Turns in early with a bottle most nights.”
Benedict shot his brother an incredulous look. “Frank? He’s no drinker.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” Jack corrected him. “But that was before. Before Maggie left him, I mean.”
Benedict turned this over, remembering Frank’s untidy appearance that morning. “He seems to be holding things together,” he said with a frown.
Jack looked unconvinced. “I thought so too at first. He – er – went out a bit. Squired a few women about for a while, but I think it was just bravado.”
Benedict’s eyebrows snapped together. “He’s still a married man,” he heard himself point out like some kind of puritan.
Jack snorted. “So is Pa, it’s never stopped him picking up a new woman every year or so.”
“Frank’s not like Pa, and don’t you ever think it.”
“Damn it, I know that, Ben. None of us are!”
They continued silently a moment before Jack broke it with a cheerful, “You’ll never guess who has got leg-shackled this past year. Will Nye, to some schoolteacher and properly gone over the edge about her, he has too. Froths at the mouth if anyone so much as looks at her too long. He nearly planted me a facer for passing the time of day with her last spring. It was touch and go for a minute, and you know what a nasty left hook he has.”
“Nye, married?” Benedict asked with a flicker of interest. “I thought he’d buried himself in the wilds of Devon somewhere.”
“Cornwall,” Jack corrected him. “He took over his father’s inn. They host an evening of bouts there once a month. Mayhap you’ll get a spot at some point.”
“Doubtful.” He cast a look at Jack. “I’ve seen a bit of Clem since I got out,” he admitted.
“Clem Dabney?”
“Aye.”
“What’s he up to?” Jack asked. “I’ve not seen him since last November.”
“When last I saw him, he was on the brink of buying a theatre. Tried to get me to go in with him as a matter of fact.”
“Clem’s bought a theatre. What the devil for?” Jack asked, sounding astonished.
“He doesn’t want to end up in the workhouse,” Benedict answered dryly. “You know as well as I do, how most of our profession end up, Jack. You’ve got to play the long game.”
His brother gave him a hard look. “You’ve not blown it all, then? Your winnings. Only Frank and Ma thought you must have, and that’s why you’re back here.”
“With my tail between my legs?” Benedict interrupted him sarcastically. “Well, then they’re dead wrong. That’s not why I’m back.”
Jack fell silent a moment. “You say Nat wouldn’t give you a title shot, but he got you a lot of top-paying gigs, Ben. You must have been getting top dollar for some of those fights. That one against Meaks, and that Frenchie, Pfeifer.”
“He did,” Benedict agreed. “And yes, I got good money. Enough to retire on.”
His brother gave him a quick look. “Nat never got those kinds of fights for Frank,” Jack said, raising his chin pugnaciously. “He never got the chance to earn those kinds of purses. Yet you don’t see him getting into brawls about it or burning his bridges with Nat.”
Benedict came to a standstill. His brother halted a couple of steps away. “No, Frank didn’t,” Benedict agreed harshly. “And you know why, don’t you, Jack?”
Jack flushed and looked away. “He ain’t good enough,” he admitted tightly. “Neither am I. Not for top of the roster.”
“But I was good enough, Jack. I was damned good, and deep down, you and Frank know it and so does Nat. But I wasn’t given my shot because my face doesn’t fit.”
His brother gazed at him. “Is that really what you think, Ben?” he asked, shaking his head.
“What else?” Benedict snarled.
“It’s not your face, Ben, but your stinking attitude that’s the problem. So, Nat expected you to show off for a few of his rich backers. Would it have killed you to show willing? To turn up at a few dinner parties and smile?” Benedict glared at his brother, but Jack didn’t even pause to draw breath. “As for Frank, he may not be as talented with his fists as you, but by God! He has other strengths you’ll never possess! Loyalty for one thing! Unwavering loyalty to his family!”
“Maybe,” Benedict conceded through gritted teeth. “But it cost him his wife, Jack. Not a mistake I’ll be making any time soon, I assure you!”
The two broth
ers stood facing each other with rigid faces and clenched fists as the crowds drifted past them. Finally, Benedict relaxed his stance. After all, what was the point in falling out with Jack? “Come on,” he said grimly. “Frank will be expecting us for the afternoon bouts.”
Jack followed suit and they made their way wordlessly back to the booth.
12
The last of the stragglers left the tent, and Niamh let out a great sigh of relief, hopping down from her plinth. “Well, thank gawd for that, I’m stiff as a post.”
“I’m famished,” complained one of the twins from behind her sister. As ‘the living goddess’ one of them had to stand obscured behind the other, only showing as an extra pair of slim brown arms adorned in golden bangles. Her sister turned around and started unfastening the obscuring black curtain to free her.
Ada Wurtzel’s brother hurried across the tent to help her up from the couch she was draped across with only her long hair for a covering. At least, Lizzie had thought it was only her long light brown hair that preserved her modesty, but as she caught a glimpse of Ada straightening up, she did seem to be wearing some flesh-colored fabric over more crucial parts of her anatomy.
Lizzie hurriedly looked away from the abundance of naked pink skin as Jakob Wurtzel covered his sister in a frothy wrapper. Ada yawned. “I almost went off into a nap,” she declared ingeniously, sweeping her hair over her shoulder.
“You were not cold, my Ada?” Jakob asked anxiously.
“Ach no,” she replied heartily, and Lizzie wondered at it. She could feel a definite nip in the air herself for it was early March and the weather frigid. As though guessing the reason for Lizzie’s expression, Niamh nudged her.
“You haven’t got Salome’s padding,” she said slyly with a wink. Lizzie cleared her throat and went to store her parasol and bonnet in the trunk, retrieving her own hat in exchange.
“Not a bad day’s work,” Connie said, looking her over critically. “You can come back tomorrow after all.”
“Such grudging praise!” fired up Niamh. “Lizzie was wonderful! Didn’t you see the way she challenged that fellow with the red nose who tried to pull Zaya off her stand? Escorted him right out the tent she did and gave him a fine scolding to boot!”
“Yes, that is so,” the first twin said, clambering down from their display. She turned back to help her twin down before joining them. “Miss Lizzie was magnificent!”
“And I nearly burst out laughing,” Niamh put in. “When you prodded that corpulent gent in the side and then said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I thought you were a chesterfield. Could you please move along.’”
“Please, what is a chesterfield?” asked the second twin.
“It’s a kind of sofa,” Niamh told her. “Like Salome’s couch over there.” The twins went off into peals of mirth.
“He did look like a couch!” exclaimed the one in delight.
“And his eyes were two deep set buttons!” chimed in her sister.
Mr. Wurtzel turned from the screens he had folded around his sister for her to dress. “You are to be commended, Mrs. Toomes,” he said curtly. “I will confess, I was much impressed with your manner and work ethic.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wurtzel,” she answered, feeling pleased in spite of herself to receive such universal praise. He gave a quaint little bow and returned to fussing over his sister’s gloves and hat.
Setting her hat on her head, Lizzie bade them all farewell and made her way toward the boxing tent. Just for an instant, she thought she caught sight of Ma Toomes on the edge of the crowd, but when she looked again, the wizened old woman was nowhere to be seen. She would have to go and see Ma soon, Lizzie thought uneasily. To return that headscarf for one thing, then too she needed to ask if she could keep a hold of the black cloak.
Lizzie noted the attractions as she walked past them. The next tent along from Wonderous Females was a tent which boasted the world’s finest wax work show, ‘Bluebeard’s Chamber’. The painted advertisement hanging on the side of the tent looked so hideous with its array of grisly female bodies that Lizzie gave a violent start when she heard a blood-curdling scream from within. As she clasped a hand to her thudding breast, a gentleman came hurrying outside, carrying a swooning young woman in his arms.
“She needs air!” he cried, depositing his fair burden onto the grass. “Make way, make way! The horrors within are not fit for the eyes of any gently bred female!” As he assiduously fanned the stricken woman with his hat, more and more people came hurrying over with their pennies to queue for the attraction.
“Ohhhh,” moaned the woman. “Do not leave me, Harold! I declare, I shall not sleep a wink tonight!”
“I ’ope it scares me to ’igh ’eaven!” one young woman said turning excitedly to her companion, who stuck his thumbs into his braces.
“Never fear, Polly old girl. If you gets too afear’d, you can cling onto me arm!” he offered obligingly.
“It’s Pauline to you, Gerald ’Awkins, don’t you get so familiar,” she reproached him, though Lizzie noticed she seized hold of him and clung on for dear life as they approached the entrance.
Lizzie passed on by The Farini Family Acrobats. A mournful looking clown in a multi-colored suit stood next to the entrance holding a hat for the entrance fee. When he saw Lizzie, he gave her a terrifying grimace which she could only hope was his approximation of a smile.
Lizzie carried on her way, narrowly avoiding a barrow painted a bright yellow and piled high with little white saucers containing an array of pickled salmon, whelks, cockles, and mussels swimming in a greenish liquid. The smell quite turned her stomach, and Lizzie hastily swerved aside to escape the stench. How anyone could merrily tuck into such things she could not fathom.
The crowd seemed to be getting thicker here, so Lizzie put her head down and marched, not even noting the next few tents and whatever spectacles they might contain. Then suddenly, the crowd thinned again leaving her ample room to maneuver between the strolling visitors.
Lizzie had just sighed with relief at this reprieve when she spied a tall bony man dart in front of her bellowing with rage and raising a whip high above his head to bring down on a dark gray shaggy creature he had cornered against a stand selling spiced nuts.
“Stop that at once!” Lizzie cried out in swift reaction, for she could never stand by and see one of God’s creatures abused. The man didn’t even glance at her as he brought his whip hand smartly down, but the animal was too fast for him. It wheeled about, snapping its huge jaws and catching the whip squarely between its sharp teeth. The rapid movement of its huge body overset the cart and the stallholder howled with rage as a pile of his nuts went cascading over the side of his stand.
“Look out!” someone cried as the creature violently shook its head and flung the bony man from side to side like a rag doll.
“Let go of that whip!” Lizzie shouted. “He’ll have you over in a minute!” She knew a moment’s fear that if the animal got him on the floor, he might tear out the man’s throat, so viciously did the creature regard its attacker.
With a yell of anger, the tall, thin man relinquished his grasp on the handle and backed away, cradling his wrist in his other hand, his features contorted with rage.
“Halt!” Lizzie cried imperiously at the animal, she hardly knew what it was, so outlandish was its appearance. It had crouched down as if to spring at its enemy, but by some miracle, her words seem to stay the beast. Its large ferocious head swung in Lizzie’s direction, and its savage gaze fixed on her intently.
“Is this your dog, madam?” the stallholder huffed, clearly incensed. “I’ll have an action against you for reckless endangerment! Look at me nuts!” he cried indignantly. “All over the floor in a heap! How am I ‘sposed to sell ’em now?”
Lizzie opened her mouth to deny any claim of ownership, but at that instant the stallholder seemed to catch sight of some officials passing in a crowd. “Hie!” he called, summoning him. “Officers! Over ’ere, good sirs! Help!”
>
Lizzie kept her eyes fixed on the unfortunate creature a moment, before turning back to the tall, thin man. He was wearing a faded red coat and dirty buckskins, and she wondered now if he was one of the entertainers. Glancing over in the direction he had appeared from, she saw a small tent with a faded banner proclaiming ‘Overton’s Menagerie’. “Have you taken hurt?” she asked, for though she did not like the look of him, it was no more than her Christian duty to enquire.
He scowled back at her. “Mind your own business, woman!” he seethed through a mouth of crooked and yellowing teeth. He glanced furtively first at the stallholder and then toward the approaching officials. Lizzie saw his eyes dart from side to side and perceived he was looking to make good his escape.
“Is this your beast?” she asked him.
A look of fury sprung to face. “You – ” he choked, before seeming to get control of himself with some effort. “So that’s your game, is it?” He spat and gestured about him. “These folk will testify the animal responds only to your command, and yet you try to hold me responsible for it!” he blustered. “You will not succeed!”
“Don’t look like no dog what I ever saw,” someone in the crowd murmured, and Lizzie was forced to agree. Turning back toward the animal, she saw to her surprise that it was now slinking toward her.
Lizzie stiffened, but no sooner had the beast reached her side than it dropped to its haunches, its tongue lolling out harmlessly to one side. She eyed it doubtfully. Was it really a dog? In truth, it looked more wolf than dog with its long muzzle and light eyes, but everyone knew there had not been wolves in England for hundreds of years.
“See!” the tall man howled triumphantly. “See how the vicious beast returns to its rightful owner?”
“What seems to be the trouble?” asked a black-suited man with large mutton-chop sideburns. He was flanked on both sides by other men dressed neatly in sensible tweeds. One held a large leather journal and seemed to be scribbling in it industriously with a pencil. “Write this up, Jones,” the first said irritably, pulling out a gold pocket watch. “Well, be quick about it, man,” he said with a contemptuous twist of his lips. “I haven’t got all day to stand dallying with the likes of you. I’ve got miles to patrol, crammed full to the brim with incidents that need writing up! What’s your name? And what seems to be the trouble?”
A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 16