A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance

by Alice Coldbreath

  Lizzie’s eye wandered over the vast quantities of chocolate boxes and cream cakes in beribboned boxes left as daily tribute to Miss Wurtzel. Every day her brother was forced to gather them up and carry them back to their quarters.

  “She really does look like a classical Venus,” Lizzie murmured more to herself than anyone else. Whereas Zaya and Ema were very much like delicate nymphs.

  “Where is brother Wurtzel?” Niamh asked humorously. “You noticed how neither one of them stick around to help us tidy away?” She pulled a face. “Must be nice,” she added sourly, “to be the star turn.”

  “Or the star turn’s brother,” Ema pointed out.

  “Or not!” Zaya put in spiritedly. “One time, I see him pinch her buttock, like this,” she said making a pincer gesture and nipping Lizzie’s backside.

  “Zaya!” Lizzie protested scooting out of the way. The twins laughed heartily.

  “But he could just be checking she is not losing flesh,” Ema pointed out once she had wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “If she were to lose her mighty thighs and buttocks, then they will lose many coins.”

  Her sister nodded in solemn agreement. Lizzie coughed, thinking she should steer the conversation away from the subject of mighty buttocks.

  “Apparently, in her last act, she emerged from a chrysalis like a great big butterfly in the Turkish tent at Vauxhall Gardens,” said Niamh. “Nude of course. At that time, her protector was a royal duke, they say.”

  “Protector?” Lizzie repeated.

  “She was warming his bed,” Niamh explained.

  Lizzie tried not to look as scandalized as she felt. “But surely her brother Mr. Wurtzel would have objected to such an arrangement?”

  “Lord, he ain’t preserving her morals, Lizzie. Even if he is her brother, which I don’t believe for one minute, he lives off her immoral earnings! Course he does!”

  They all fell silent as the tent flap drew back and Mr. Wurtzel stalked in and started gathering up his sister’s bags and boxes of treats. He looked to be in something of a bad mood.

  “Probably he been gambling,” Ema whispered as Lizzie slammed the trunk shut and pulled her own bonnet over her head. “I know that look!”

  Lizzie donned the black cloak and looked around for Sebastian. The dog was sat aloof in one corner. Lizzie called him and he came toward her, carefully skirting the twins’ clinging embraces. Sebastian was no lapdog and seemed to endure acts of affection rather than enjoying them. For the most part, he was happy merely to be in Lizzie’s vicinity and keep a watchful eye on her.

  She touched a hand fleetingly to his head. “Come, Sebastian.”

  “Enjoy yourself tonight, Lizzie!” Niamh called after her.

  “Make sure you stand up for all the dances!” cried Ema.

  “Goodbye, Sebastian darling!” chimed in Zaya.

  Lizzie gave them a wave and hurried out, thinking of how long it would take her to sew her new finery onto her green gown. Now she had Sebastian to accompany her, Benedict had agreed she could make her way back to the entertainer’s camp field by herself and he would meet her there when he was ready.

  Lizzie did not bother with a fire, but instead shook out her best dress and sat on the step to the wagon pinning the lace and embellishments to the neckline and bodice. Sebastian settled beneath her dangling feet and did not stir until nearly an hour later when Benedict appeared with a bagful of meat bones for him.

  He leaned down and kissed Lizzie briefly on the lips, startling her greatly.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, glancing at her dress.

  “Fine,” Lizzie answered, ducking her head to hide her reaction to his spontaneous affection. “Where did you get the bones?”

  “The fella that runs the meat pie stall.” He handed the largest of the bones to Sebastian who promptly disappeared with it beneath the wagon. “I’d better sort the water for washing.”

  Lizzie nodded and he set about building a small fire and fetching the pail for water. Lizzie’s fingers flew. The fact she had so little time meant she did not have the opportunity to debate if the trimmings were too elaborate for her tastes. Instead, she simply kept her head down and sewed like a fiend until all the little paper bags were empty. Even Mrs. Knapp and Lucinda would be impressed, she thought, seeing how her needle flew.

  At some point, Benedict wordlessly placed a cup of black tea at her side. When she sipped it, she was surprised. “Lemon!” she said aloud.

  “That’s how you preferred it you said.”

  “I do,” she agreed, cradling her cup. “This is lovely.”

  “This must be taking you back to your days with the Napps,” he commented, nodding toward her dress.

  Lizzie grimaced. “It’s a bit different, prettifying a dress for your own pleasure and trying to sew thirty waistcoats from scratch by the end of a week.”

  Benedict grunted, peering under the lid of the water pot. “This is getting hot. You nearly finished?”

  Lizzie shook out her dress. “What do you think?” she asked, holding it aloft. Looking at the fancy ribbon work and lace at the bodice and neck she felt a sudden misgiving. “Is it too much?”

  “Not a bit,” Benedict replied promptly. “Here, let’s carry this pail of water inside for you to wash and dress.”

  She jumped down off the step, and he lifted the water off the fire and poured it into the bucket to carry it inside.

  “I’ll try not to be long. I can dress my hair out here while you wash,” she said, thinking of the cramped confines.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, placing the bucket inside the door. “We’ve plenty of time. I’ll pour you another cup of tea to drink while you get ready.”

  He was as good as his word, and Lizzie felt rather spoiled as she stepped into her best stiffened petticoat and then her taffeta gown. She had no looking glass to take in the full effect, still, she thought it must be the fanciest it had ever looked. She glanced down at the adorned bodice and scarcely recognized it as her rather plain Sunday best.

  Pinning her enamel brooch to the frothy lace at her neckline, she suddenly wished she had a pair of white gloves to complete the look. Her black ankle boots would be hidden underneath her skirts, so they would not signify. Perhaps if she dressed her hair prettily with the silk flowers the stallholder had insisted she purchased, she could get away with her lack of accessories?

  How should she dress her hair? she wondered. Lizzie had always rolled her hair very sensibly at her nape. She had never worried about trying to achieve any kind of elaborate hairstyle. Betsy used a hot poker to achieve her own sausage curls, but Lizzie had always thought them rather frivolous and certainly too girlish a look for a plain-faced woman such as herself.

  She had always felt the two years separating herself and Betsy very keenly. When she had joined her aunt and uncle’s household, she had been a shy child of four, recently orphaned. Their own daughter had been a chubby toddler of two who was still addressed at that point as ‘Baby’. Lizzie had felt like an assistant to the nursemaid for several years, and then after that, her aunt’s companion. There had been precious little time for parties or amusements in her life.

  Picking up her hairbrush, she ran it through the length of her blonde locks and swept her hair back into a softer chignon effect. Driving in her hairpins, she skewered the silk flowers around the edges of the arrangement and hoped for the best. For the first time in her life, she wished she owned a small pair of drop earrings, such as the ones her aunt wore on Sundays. Aunt Hester’s were garnets, but Lizzie would rather have pearl drop earrings, then she caught her breath at the direction her thoughts were rattling in. What was she thinking of?

  Setting down her hairbrush, Lizzie told herself sternly she was growing sadly vain and covetous. She stood up with sudden decision, and retrieving her empty teacup, made her way out of the little door and onto the step. “What do you think?” she asked self-consciously and then turned her head so he could see the effect of her hair. �
�Does my hair look tidy at the back? I had no way of telling.”

  “It does,” he told her, clearing his throat. He approached and reached up for her, lifting her down. He cupped her cheek and gazed down at her steadily. “I prefer it down about your shoulders,” he confessed huskily. “But it looks good this way too.”

  “Down?” Lizzie echoed. “I’m long past my girlhood when I could wear it so.”

  “There is one place you can still wear it loose,” he pointed out, running his thumb along her jaw.

  Lizzie fidgeted. He must mean in bed when he did not like her to wear it braided. “Isn’t it about time you washed and dressed?”

  Benedict released her with a laugh and clambered inside the wagon. “I won’t be long,” he flung over his shoulder. “Don’t get distracting any passers-by with your finery.”

  Lizzie sat on the upturned packing case and squeezed a last rather stewed half-cup from the pot. She was just sipping it when Sebastian came out from under the wagon to rest his head on her knee.

  “Hello, boy,” she murmured in surprise and carefully stroked his ears. His pale gaze flickered to her face and away again, but he remained still, allowing her caress. Knowing he was not much of a one for physical affection, Lizzie felt profoundly touched by his gesture. He remained standing on all fours as though ready to take off again, but he kept his head resting where it was.

  When Benedict emerged from the wagon a few moments later in his black suit, he found them in the same pose and lifted an eyebrow. As though breaking the spell, Sebastian lifted his head and settled in front of the fire instead.

  “I do hope Sebastian will not feel abandoned when we go out and leave him here tonight,” Lizzie said eyeing the large dog anxiously.

  Benedict cocked his head to one side. “We’ve plenty of bones to keep him busy. You’ll just have to be firm.”

  Lizzie bit her lip. “What if someone was to try and steal him from us?”

  Benedict gave a short laugh. “We won’t tie him up. I defy anyone to try and steal this dog.”

  He reached for the bag and picked out several large meaty bones which he threw under the wagon. Sebastian watched him, though he kept his head resting on his paws.

  “Sebastian, you’re to remain here, do you understand?” Lizzie said sternly. The animal looked at her fleetingly, then away again. “Stay. Do you understand?” Benedict drew on his jacket, and Sebastian climbed to his feet. “He doesn’t understand,” she said.

  “Here, take this,” Benedict drew a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it and he fetched the sack of bones. “Take another bone and show it to him.“

  Lizzie took his meaning and wrapped her hand in the handkerchief before gingerly retrieving a bone and calling the dog. “Sebastian, here!” She held the bone before him and then led him over to the wagon. “Now sit, Sebastian! Sit!” Reluctantly, he parked himself in front of the step and took the bone from her with careful jaws.

  “Good dog, Sebastian,” she praised him. He gazed at her a moment before settling down to mouth the bone. “I think he understands,” she said turning back to Benedict. He nodded and held out a hand to her. Lizzie hurried to his side and took it.

  “Don’t look back at him. Just keep walking,” he instructed. Lizzie followed his lead, and soon they were at the stile at the end of the field. Lizzie took a surreptitious glance back and saw Sebastian’s looming form still guarding the wagon. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “He really is a very good sort of dog,” she asserted. Benedict accepted this without comment. “You look very smart this evening,” Lizzie told him, as she raised her skirts to negotiate the stile. His suit was of uniform and unrelenting black matched with a black satin tie and white shirt.

  The silhouette was a good deal sleeker than the black woolen breeches and waistcoat he wore by day, but there was not even a suggestion of color even at the waistcoat. Even his tie pin was of blackest jet. On his head, instead of the top hat you might have expected, he wore a black felt derby.

  “Well, we need to match,” he answered lightly, handing her up onto the step. Lizzie hopped down the other side.

  “Did you tell your brothers we were going dancing?”

  “I may have mentioned it to Jack,” he answered swinging himself over to land beside her. “He’s stepping out with some actress, by all accounts.”

  “Do you think we might see them there?”

  He paused before shaking his head. “You don’t tend to find the entertainers at the amusement tents.”

  “Oh. So, it will all be visitors to the fair?”

  He nodded. “More than likely.”

  Even if there had been someone in the tent she knew, Lizzie acknowledged as they entered the Fiddlers Green a few moments later, it was unlikely she would be able to spot them. The place was in full swing, and Lizzie felt slightly dazed as Benedict towed her through the crush, a protective arm about her waist.

  “Do you want to dance now, or shall I fetch us some refreshment?” he asked, raising his voice against the babble and merriment of the crowd. Lizzie gazed about in bewilderment. She had thought she would be embarrassed to take to the dance floor in a public place, but now she was here, she did not think anyone would notice her in such a tight squeeze.

  Going up on her tiptoes, she suggested, “Let us have some punch first and then a dance before taking our supper.”

  He gave a nod. “Stay here and do not stir an inch.”

  She nodded, grateful for a chance to take stock and get her bearings. Benedict made off in the direction she presumed of a punchbowl, and Lizzie stared at the heaving dance floor where couples bobbed and capered madly to the tunes the musicians played. Some dancers seemed to be performing prescribed steps, she noticed, and even forming country dancing formations where they swapped partners and whirled about. A good many of the couples, however, seemed to be simply doing their own thing. Some drifted about clasped scandalously close in each other’s arms, though their footwork did not remotely resemble a waltz. Others simply faced one another and jigged about with more enthusiasm than skill.

  There seemed to be no segregation of either party groupings or social classes. Some were dressed in silks and satins, feathers and plumes, and even face masks for anonymity. Lizzie could only suppose they must be people of fashion with reputations to uphold.

  Others seemed togged out in their shabby-genteel Sunday best, gazing about them with round eyes and cheeks red with excitement. There were some fringe characters who appeared a little less reputable, with painted and rouged faces and loud, raucous laughs, but as Benedict had said, all present seemed determined to have a good time.

  Lizzie was just watching a spindle-shanked gentlemen leaping and whooping with merry abandon when Benedict reappeared at her side bearing cups of fruit punch. He handed one to her, and they silently toasted one another before sipping the concoction.

  “Oh, it’s actually quite nice,” Lizzie said brightening as Benedict winced.

  “It’s very sweet,” he commented before tossing his back like medicine. He discarded his cup and eyed her expectantly.

  Lizzie took another cautious sip. “There is surely something alcoholic in this,” she said nervously.

  “Apparently, it’s a champagne cocktail,” he answered dryly. “But I very much doubt it contains so much as a thimbleful of champagne.”

  “Oh really?” Lizzie took a larger gulp. “It’s delicious.” She finished her cup and turned about to set it down.

  Benedict laughed. “I was about to say it is more than likely laced with gin.”

  “Gin?” She did not have time to be alarmed, for he was already leading her out onto the dance floor. “I do not think I know this one,” Lizzie said craning to hear the tune above the noise of spirited conversation all about them.

  Benedict looked unconcerned. “It doesn’t really matter.” He drew her firmly into his arms. “We can just dance our own steps.”

  Involuntarily, Lizzie stiffened, feeling his hand a
t her waist. Shaking off the unfamiliarity of it all, she set one hand on his shoulder as the other was enfolded in his own much larger hand.

  “You ready?” he asked, with a lurking twinkle in his eye.

  She nodded and they started to move. Lizzie concentrated on following his lead as they glided about the bustling floor. Benedict moved easily and so assuredly he seemed almost graceful. Lizzie felt rather wooden in comparison, but after a while she found herself starting to loosen up to the flow of the music. She was just starting to enjoy herself when the next tune started up at a breakneck speed.

  Around them, the couples starting galloping about the floor.

  “Shall we sit this one out?” Benedict suggested.

  “Yes please,” Lizzie replied hastily, and they forced their way out of the throng toward the trestle tables.

  “It might be as well to get some supper now,” he said angling his head toward her ear so she could hear him.

  Lizzie nodded and they went toward the cold collation laid out on the head table. Waiting staff periodically refilled the dishes with cold meats, tongue, cheese, pickles, and buttered bread.

  Lizzie selected a savory tart and some slices of cold turkey and waited for Benedict to finish loading his plate. Then they made their way to one of the more empty looking tables and selected seats at the opposite end to another couple who were quietly conversing but looked up to nod politely when they saw them.

  “I’ll fetch us another drink,” Benedict said after seeing her seated. He was soon back, and they both tucked into their cold supper with gusto.

  Lizzie could not help but gaze about at the assorted clientele of The Fiddlers Green. She had never moved in such company in her life. It was somehow rather thrilling. When she had socialized, it had been with fellow members of St. Joseph’s church who were sober folk much like her aunt and uncle.

  She had not been to a dance party since she had grown too old for the church Christmas parties at thirteen and she had advanced to more sedate and civilized social pursuits such as attending formal evening dinners instead. Prior to this evening, it had never once occurred to her that she might have been missing out when Betsy went off on pleasure bent with the Stocktons. Now, she reappraised her previous disdain. She had been missing out after all.