A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance

by Alice Coldbreath

  “I think so.” He glanced up at her from his ablutions. “Overton likely kept him in a cage, which would not have been insulated against the cold.”

  “Hateful man!” Lizzie seethed as she fastened a particularly unbecoming cap on top of her head. “I cannot fathom why anyone would give him their patronage. I don’t believe he would treat the rest of his menagerie any better.”

  Privately, Benedict agreed with her, however he did not wish to discuss anything so unpleasant at this point in time. While he did not intend bothering her with amorous attentions the very night after her deflowering, neither did he wish to get into some habit of discussing all and sundry when they took to his bed. He rubbed his wet hair vigorously with a towel.

  “Why are there two lines drawn in the square?” Lizzie asked suddenly as she settled herself back against the pillow. “I noticed it yesterday and forgot to ask you.”

  “What? In the ring you mean?” Benedict asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, and peeling off his braces.

  “Ring? No, I mean the area in which you fight,” Lizzie clarified.

  “The ring,” he corrected her, as he shrugged out of his shirt.

  “How can it be a ring?” Lizzie puzzled. “The ropes mark out a clear square.”

  He was silent a moment as he unbuttoned his breeches and stripped down to his long underwear. “I guess because in the early days, they used to gather round the fighters in a ring,” he said speculated, casting his clothes aside. “But folks were always getting in the way, so they started using ropes to keep them at a distance.” He pulled back the covers and climbed in beside her.

  “And the lines?” Lizzie persisted. “In the center of the square, I mean, the ring.”

  “You have to put your toe to the line at the start of each round,” Ben said. “That’s what qualifies you to continue the fight. If you can’t come up to the scratch, then you forfeit the fight.”

  “Is that where the saying comes from?” Lizzie asked in startled tones. “Come up to scratch?”

  “Aye,” he rumbled, finding her curiosity amusing, despite himself.

  “It’s from boxing terminology? Well, I never knew that.”

  “Why would you?” he asked with a shrug and Lizzie did not answer, just folded her hands across her stomach. He had not meant to snub her, he thought belatedly as she fell silent. “Lizzie?”

  She turned her head. “Yes?”

  He had the absurd notion to ask her what she had thought of his boxing. As if it even mattered! Instead, he eyed the two unbecoming braids on either side of her head. “Why do you plait it like that?” he asked shortly.

  “What?” she looked startled. “My hair? I’ve always worn it like this to bed,” she said simply. “It’s the way my aunt taught me.”

  “You’ve a man in your bed now, Lizzie,” he pointed out.

  She reddened. “Well,” she said lamely. “My aunt never gave me that talk. If I’m supposed to be doing things differently, you’ll have to teach me.”

  He eyed her steadily a moment and was impressed when she didn’t look away. “I don’t like the cap or the braids,” he said finally.

  Lizzie stared. “Oh.” Reluctantly she sat back up and dragged the fussy nightcap off her head. Then she unfastened the end of her braids and ran her fingers through them until the hair hung about her shoulders and down to her waist in a straight fall of pale gold.

  “You’ve a fine head of hair,” he said, and even he could hear the note of warmth in his voice.

  “People always tell me I could sell it,” she agreed. “Once a lady approached my aunt in a book shop. She said there was enough for two wigs, but Aunt Hester said no, for it was my only beauty.”

  He frowned at that. “You’re not to cut it,” he said abruptly. She looked at him consideringly, and when her cheeks filled with color, he asked, “What?”

  “You kept your long underwear on tonight,” she commented. “Last night you slept naked.”

  “Yes,” he agreed shortly. “You’ve had a busy day of it. I don’t mean to make any demands of you tonight, Lizzie.”

  Her lips formed a soundless ‘oh’. “I thought it might be because we’d given a blanket to Sebastian and you were scared you might be cold.”

  That startled a laugh out of him. “No. Come here.” She shuffled toward him on the mattress, and he curled his body about hers. “What do you think of the theatre?” he asked, looping an arm around her waist. “Do you enjoy it?”

  “My uncle took me to see Androcles and the Lion for a birthday treat one year,” Lizzie answered.

  “Never heard of it,” Benedict admitted promptly. Which wasn’t really saying much as he was no theatregoer, but Lizzie wasn’t to know that.

  “It is a play written by George Bernard Shaw about Christian persecution during the Roman empire.”

  “Sounds rather high minded,” he commented doubtfully.

  “Not really, though it illustrates the Christian virtues such as charity and kindness to all.” To Benedict’s mind she was further illustrating his own point. “The only other thing I’ve been to see is the Christmas pantomime at Drury Lane last year, but it was a very rowdy affair, and my Aunt Hester was much shocked and said it had a low moral tone.”

  Benedict suspected The Philmore Players probably had more in common with Drury Lane than George Bernard Shaw and promptly dismissed that idea. “What about dancing?” he asked instead.

  “Country dancing, do you mean?” Lizzie asked. “I have not really had the opportunity in recent years.”

  He thought she sounded a little wistful. “We could go,” he suggested. “Tomorrow night maybe?”

  “Dancing?” Lizzie turned her head to look back at him with startled eyes. “Where?”

  “Fiddlers Green. It’s a ballroom tent with an orchestra and a cold supper provided.”

  “A ballroom in a tent?” Lizzie echoed.

  “Should you like that?”

  Lizzie bit her lip. “I can’t waltz,” she warned him. “Or do any fashionable dances like the polka.”

  “It’s just for fun,” he shrugged. “No one’s there to judge you from the potted palms. Everyone’s just there for a good time.”

  “I’ve nothing to wear beside my green taffeta.”

  “So, wear your green taffeta,” he responded.

  “And will you wear your black suit?”

  “If you want me to,” Ben answered lightly. He didn’t really imagine paying guests got turned away due to any dress code at Fiddlers Green.

  “Then yes, I would like to go.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Good, now go to sleep.” He reached across and turned out the lamp and then settled back against her back. They usually slept the opposite way around, he thought wryly, but Lizzie would not hug his back until she was out cold, so they would need to switch positions later.

  When next he woke, sure enough, she was nestled against his back, her arm wrapped about his waist. He smiled and reached for his pocket watch balanced atop the nearest trunk. He could just about make out the figures in the gray morning light. He’d have to get up, he thought with a grimace. It was too damn tempting to lie like this for another half hour, but he didn’t want her to have to wash in cold water.

  The dog – if that was what they were to call it – looked up when Benedict emerged and started gathering sticks for the campfire. Sebastian remained in his spot under the wagon but watched him assiduously. Once he had the fire crackling, Ben went to relieve himself and then to fetch water.

  By the time he returned with fresh water for both them and the horse, the dog was sat beside the fire eyeing him warily. Benedict crouched beside him and set the water on to boil. When the door to the wagon cracked open, Sebastian wheeled about and darted to the step where Lizzie held her hand out to him.

  “Morning,” she yawned, though whether to the dog or himself he wasn’t sure.

  “Morning,” he responded. “Water will soon be heated. I didn’t fetch enough for tea, tho
ugh. We’ll have to buy some in the arena.”

  Lizzie nodded and stroked the dog’s head. “Have you been getting acquainted?” she asked.

  “Oh, he’s been sizing me up alright,” Benedict replied. “Hopefully, I’ve shown him I’m a decent provider or he’ll be trying to run me off.”

  Lizzie laughed. “If you buy him another meat pie for breakfast, I’m sure he’ll transfer his affections readily enough.”

  Benedict eyed the animal thoughtfully. “I doubt it,” he said without rancor. “He knows his master, and it’s not me.”

  Lizzie looked gratified, though she tried to hide it, pulling her shawl tight about her. “I’ve never had a pet before,” she said eyeing Sebastian fondly as he lapped up water from the bowl Benedict had set down.

  He wasn’t really sure ‘pet’ was the right word, more like guardian. Still, his mind felt easier that she now had a watchdog for those moments when he wasn’t around.

  Half an hour later the three of them were on their way to the main field. Benedict bought them tea and currant cake from a vendor and after perusing what was on offer, two large sausages for the dog. Sebastian made short work of them, and Lizzie had finished her cake by the time they reached Wonderous Females.

  “Don’t forget,” he reminded her. “We’re going dancing tonight.”

  Lizzie nodded, lingering at the entrance to the tent. “Will we still meet for lunch?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Of course. We won’t go to the tea tent today, though. There’s something else I want to show you.”

  She looked up quickly. “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” She returned his smile a little shyly and then slipped into the tent, promptly followed by Sebastian. From the exclamations he could hear within, the large dog had clearly caused quite a stir. Benedict made his way to the boxing tent with a grin on his face.

  When he returned at one o’clock, Lizzie was not awaiting him outside. Pushing past the ‘Gone to luncheon’ sign inside, he found her setting her bonnet on her head while two young women clad in filmy red garments fussed over Sebastian.

  “Come, large dog!” one of them cried. “Come to Zaya!” She held out a gold bangle for his inspection. Sebastian sniffed it with the air of one humoring another. The glance he threw Benedict was distinctly sheepish, as if he knew full well he looked a fool.

  “Oh, I did not mean to keep you waiting,” Lizzie exclaimed, turning and hurrying to his side. “Come, Sebastian!”

  The twins called their farewells to the dog as he followed close on Lizzie’s heels. Benedict offered his arm, and she took it.

  “He behaved himself, I take it?” he asked, glancing at the dog.

  “Oh yes! He was a great hit with Zaya and Ema, and even Connie admitted he lends me some credence as a rule enforcer. Mr. Wurtzel was a little nervous around him, it is true, but I think Sebastian is more trusting of women than of men.”

  “Wurtzel?” Benedict frowned.

  “You remember, I told you about him? He is the Salome’s brother.”

  By great effort, Benedict managed to dredge their conversation to his mind. “I thought you said he was not really her brother.”

  “I never said that!” Lizzie protested, looking around nervously. “That was just something Niamh remarked,” she hissed. “And I do not think she had anything to substantiate her theory.”

  “What does he do, this Wurtzel?”

  “Do?” Lizzie looked surprised. “Squires his sister about, I suppose. I do not know what manner of business he is in. The Wurtzels are quite standoffish from the rest of us and only really speak to Connie.”

  He grunted. That didn’t sound too bad. He did not like the idea of some man hanging about Lizzie all day when he was not there.

  They stopped at a convenient stand to pick up ham sandwiches, which Sebastian ate more than his fair share of, and then headed for a far field where there were less acts and more wares than the ones they generally frequented.

  “I do not think I’ve visited this area before,” Lizzie remarked looking about as they came to a stop before a stall covered in ribbons and lace.

  “Pick whatever you want to spruce up your gown,” Benedict offered.

  “You mean –” Lizzie’s eyes grew wide as she gazed down at the trimmings in seeming confusion. She made no move to choose anything.

  “If you don’t like anything on display here, there’s plenty of others about,” he gestured.

  The stallholder’s ears pricked up at this. “I’m sure there must be something to take the lady’s fancy!” she started up, hurrying to their side. “What about this lovely bit of lace here? Would set you off a treat, that would!”

  “Well – I – er,” Lizzie shot a helpless look at him. “I don’t know. I don’t think frills and furbelows really suit me. I am not in the first flush of youth and –”

  “Nonsense!” the other woman interjected. “Got to make the most of what you’ve got, ain’t you? Why, you’re naught but a girl!”

  Lizzie gazed at her despairingly. “I’m five and twenty,” she corrected her. “And have never been one for ornamentation.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it, love!” the other responded, looking at Lizzie’s severe gown. “A touch of something ain’t gonna do you up like a dog’s dinner, is it? You let the gentleman treat you to something pretty! Would do you some good, put a bit of color in those cheeks!”

  Lizzie allowed herself to agree that some of the silk ribbon work was very pretty. “Well, perhaps something like this for the bodice or neckline,” she agreed, pointing tentatively toward some pink rosette arrangements. “My best gown is of a seafoam green taffeta.”

  “The very thing!” the woman cried approvingly. “And if I might suggest a matching one for your hair arrangement?” Lizzie seemed much struck by this suggestion and the stallholder drew out a box drawer of silk flowers in the manner of a magician revealing a rabbit.

  “Oh, they are very pretty! But surely these ones must be more expensive?” Lizzie hesitated.

  “I’m sure my pockets can stretch to a few silk flowers,” Benedict interrupted. “You can have whatever you like.”

  “There now! He couldn’t say handsomer than that, could he?” the stallholder enthused. By the time Lizzie had managed to extricate herself from that lady’s clutches, she had bought a quantity of lace and embroidered tulle as well as needle, thread, and pins for she had no needlework box as hers had been left behind.

  “I don’t know if I will even have time to sew all of this onto the dress for this evening,” Lizzie confessed as they walked away. “I only hope I have not wasted your money, Benedict.” Her fingers squeezed his arm, and she clutched fitfully at the paper bags in her other hand as though for reassurance.

  “If you don’t manage it for this evening, you can always use it another time,” he shrugged. “Really you need a couple of new gowns, but we don’t have much room in the wagon.”

  “Oh no!” Lizzie protested. “I’ve scarcely worn that taffeta above a dozen times. There’s plenty more wear to be had from it, and besides, I have my enamel brooch to wear and my tortoiseshell hair comb that you redeemed for me from the pawn brokers.”

  “One day, my Lizzie,” he found himself saying. “I will buy you a diamond brooch to rival the one that light-fingered reverend pilfered.”

  She stared at him speechlessly a moment, but before she could speak, they were interrupted. A redhead was hailing them enthusiastically from nearby. “Lizzie!” She beckoned them to where she was stood lolling next to a jellied eel stall. “Over here!”

  “It’s Niamh,” Lizzie explained in an undertone. At Benedict’s blank look, she added, “The – er – tattooed contortionist from Wonderous Females.”

  “Oh? Why is she calling you over?”

  “I think she wants to introduce me to her man,” Lizzie said. “That must be his stall, she told me about it.”

  Benedict looked at her pointedly. “You tell her about
me?”

  “Of course!”

  He dropped his voice. “You tell her I’m your man, Lizzie?”

  “I told her you were my husband,” she responded, primming up her mouth. “I am not entirely sure that Niamh and Colin are – well – married. At least, she does not wear a ring.” She glanced down at her own, and Benedict noticed again what a cheap bit of brass it was. He needed to get her a better one. “Shall we go and say hello?” She was already tugging at his arm. Casting his eyes upward, Benedict allowed himself to be towed in her wake.

  14

  Lizzie was jittery all afternoon. Niamh kept teasing her that she and Colin were going to turn up at The Fiddlers Green to see her in all her finery.

  “We won’t really!” Niamh laughed at Lizzie’s red face. “My old man wouldn’t spend two shillings on an evening’s entertainment, more’s the pity,” she sighed. “We been together too long for that. You make the most of it while you can, darlin’.”

  They were tidying away while Ada disappeared behind the screens to dress, Connie bustling behind carrying her stays and looking wearied. Small wonder, Lizzie thought, as Connie had been parading up and down the tent all day, entreating people to come in and view the wonders within.

  “There she goes to cinch La Wurtzel into her corset,” commented Niamh sotto voce.

  “If only we could grow so nice and round,” Zaya sighed disconsolately. “Then we, too, would have coins falling upon us like rain.”

  “Of a certainty, that is what men desire,” Ema said, nodding her head. “Very fat concubines. Only see the way their eyes stand out on stalks when they behold Salome.”

  “She is not fat precisely,” Lizzie objected. “Her waist is really quite trim. It is just her hips and thighs and …” she trailed off wanting to avoid mentioning anything indelicate.

  “Her mountainous bosom,” Ema supplied helpfully. “When she is in her corset, it juts out like the prow of ship.” She made gestures with her hands in front of her chest that made Lizzie hurriedly avert her eyes.

  “Yes,” her sister concurred. “They bring many food offerings to maintain her abundance. They do not want her to lose one ounce of plentiful flesh.”