by Bush, Holly
“My schedule is quite—” Aunt Louisa began.
“I’m sure you’ll find the time to help your beloved niece entertain a guest. What do you say, young man?”
He gulped. “I . . . I am honored, sir.”
Lucinda let out a breath. There would be no escaping this association unless she took matters into her own hands. And what did that mean exactly?
* * *
“I haven’t seen much of you, James,” Muireall said from where she sat behind the desk in her small office. “Won’t you come in? I was just finishing the bookkeeping.”
The very last thing James wanted was to have a conversation with his older sister. He had hoped to walk by her open door without her notice. But even with her eyes firmly on the large open account book with the pale green pages and the tiny, tiny numbers she’d written, she knew he’d been hurrying past and aimed to stop him.
“I’ve got some things to prepare for tonight. Don’t have much time.”
“This will only take a few minutes.” She looked up after she blew on a page to dry the ink. “Won’t you sit down?”
He was hoping she’d not make him angry, even knowing it was in his control to get up and leave her office if she did. MacAvoy had told him countless times that anger was detrimental to his abilities in the ring, and he was right. He wanted—no, he needed a clear, calm head tonight as he’d be virtually on his own since Billy Pettigrew was as worthless as a cornerman as he was in the ring.
“I heard that you and MacAvoy had a falling out,” Muireall said.
“We have.”
“Probably for the best, James. He was never the caliber of individual the Thompsons should surround themselves with.”
“That’s rubbish, Muireall. He’s been completely loyal to this family. He would lay his life down for any one of us.”
Muireall shrugged. “Even so, his mother was nothing more than a drunk and perhaps loose with her favors when she was a young woman. He doesn’t know who his father was.”
“He worked hard, paid attention in school when he could go, and copied the manners and mannerisms of us so he would be able to better himself. Who are you to condemn a man for hard work and perseverance?”
“I don’t know, James,” she said and looked at him steadily. “Why did you have a falling out if you are so convinced of his value?”
James could feel himself get angry. He could feel his shoulders tense and his jaw clench. “You needn’t goad me, Muireall. I know that’s what you’re doing, and I won’t fall for it.”
She rested her chin on her fisted hand, elbow on her desk. “What am I doing? I assume a cornerman is an important element in this boxing business that you insist on doing. What has happened for you to dismiss him from this and from your life?”
Muireall was the least emotional woman he’d ever encountered. Even when there’d been all the danger nearly two years ago with Elspeth and Payden, she’d maintained her dignity when she was, on that singular occasion, tearful. There was never a hint of false female emotion, like Kirsty was wont to do occasionally with some well-timed tears. At twelve years of age, Muireall had managed Aunt Murdoch and him and the girls, and wee Payden as well, as if she were a forty-year-old matron.
“I’ll tell you about it after tonight. I promise. But thinking about it all upsets me, and I don’t want to be upset going into this match. Jackson is good, maybe the best I’ve ever fought. I need to keep my head clear.”
“Then by all means, go let this Jackson fellow plow his fist into your nose. I have complete faith in you to acquit yourself well. Aunt Murdoch and I will stay up in case you need a stitch or three. Best of luck, James.”
She turned her attention back to her open account book, and James stood. It was time to get ready.
* * *
James laid down on the floor of the room where he’d get changed for the fight. It was cold stone and smelled musty, but he’d had Billy sweep it clean and mop it the day before. Billy was standing outside the door now with strict orders to not allow anyone inside. James closed his eyes and let his mind quiet until all he could picture was a heavy leather bag swinging on chains from the rafters. He watched the bag, moved his mind’s eye over each stitch and every imperfection in the leather, as it swung gradually left to right. His breathing slowed and his hands lay on the floor, his fingers neither stretched flat nor curled into a fist. Street sounds and noise from the arena, where workmen were setting up seating, faded away until all he heard was a distant hum.
In his head, he looked down at his hands, his fists clenched, his nails as short as he could trim them. He drew back his fist, feeling the power in his shoulder and arm and back, and moved toward its target. But then his arm dropped to his side, floating slowly down. He looked up, behind his closed eyes, looking for the heavy bag. But it was not there. There was a face instead. Lucinda Vermeal’s face looking at him with sultry eyes and parted lips, as if he had just kissed her. Or more.
He sat straight up. Eyes open wide. The damn woman had invaded his quiet time. He stood, giving up on clearing his head, and opened the box that Aunt Murdoch had sent with him, full of thin strips of linen covered in a mixture of starch and cornmeal, something he’d never bothered with before. He dampened the strips and molded them to his upper teeth, one atop the other, until he had a thick pad. He held his jaw open as long as he could, letting them dry in their shape. James pulled the linen packing out and sat down to wait until it was time to dress for his match and stuff the foul-tasting fabric back in his mouth.
Chapter 10
Aunt Louisa stepped into her room and slowly closed the door. “What are you doing, Lucinda?” she whispered.
“I’m going to watch Mr. Thompson box. I’m going to talk to him if I can.”
“You can hardly go alone, dear. There’ll be hundreds of men, drinking liquor and in high spirits. It is far too dangerous for a young woman.”
Lucinda laced up her flat-heeled boots. “I will keep to the edge of the room and mind my own business. Mrs. Pendergast said a few women attend. They like to place bets, from what I understand. I will be one of them.”
“I shall send a note to Renaldo. He will escort you. I already told him that you may be asking this of him, and he said he would take you where you wanted to go.”
“No. We will not involve Mr. Delgado. As kind as his offer is, I’ll not ask him. It will only make matters worse between him and Papa. I’ve spoken to Laurent. His cousin has a carriage for hire. This cousin will take me and wait for me for however long I am there.”
“Laurent is sure?”
“He is. He says Michael is a large fellow and would see that I am safe, would even go inside with me, if I should feel it necessary.”
“You will knock on the wall between our dressing rooms the moment you are back.”
“I will, Aunt,” she said and kissed her on the cheek. “I promise.”
Louisa grabbed her hands and held them tight. “I am so dreadfully worried about you, Lucinda. I am so concerned that I seriously considered going to your father and telling him what I suspected of your plans.”
“You must do as you think best. But I am going to him. I fear that I’ll soon be forced to choose between him and Papa. I don’t know what has led me to this conclusion or why I’m willing to sacrifice my papa’s good opinion, and maybe his love, but I am.”
“You love him? This Mr. Thompson?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think. But I do know that he intrudes on my thoughts at the strangest moments during the day and the night. I’m not sure I wish to kiss any man other than him. Ever.”
“Then you must go. You must understand your feelings and if they are fleeting or if you think you will always feel the same. I wish I had been more courageous,” she said. “And you must, you absolutely must, be very careful. I love you, dear.”
“I love you too, Aunt. I will be very careful.”
* * *
Alexander and MacAvoy waited with Alex
ander’s father, Andrew, and his Uncle Nathan to enter the warehouse where James’s match would be held. The line was long and rowdy, some men holding bottles of whiskey in their hands, and some occasionally shouting, although it was impossible to know what they were saying.
A young man staggered toward Nathan and held his half-full bottle at arm’s length. “Want a drink, then, mate?” he said and hiccoughed.
“No. No, but thank you,” Nathan said.
Alexander laughed as the two older men were enveloped into a group of young men.
“Will they get their pockets picked?” Alexander asked.
“Doubt it. I know some of those boys. They just like to carouse,” MacAvoy said. “And we were never going to find four seats together anyway.”
“Dear Lord!” Alexander said. “Father just took a swig out of that bottle.”
“We’re next,” MacAvoy said as he nodded to the door of the warehouse. He pulled bills out of his trouser pockets, fumbling with the papers and dropping coins.
Alexander picked up the money. “Have you already been into those fellows’ gin?” he said with a laugh and looked up. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking well.”
MacAvoy blew out a breath. “I’m worried. It makes me sick thinking about James taking on Jackson without me in his corner. I’m not being proud or bragging, but I’m skilled at what I do for a boxer. Jackson is as good as James—and younger too. It’s going to be brutal, and if I know James, he’ll stay on his feet out of sheer stubbornness.”
“Elspeth will never forgive me if something happens to him,” Alexander said. “Is there anything you can do?”
“Not really, but I’d like to be in floor seats close to the ring. I’ll be able to see what’s going on.”
Alexander and MacAvoy shouldered their way inside and headed to the betting tables, both laying down cash and taking their chits. MacAvoy found two young men in the second row near James’s corner. He bodily picked them up and deposited them in a back row while Alexander eyed off anyone looking to try to take their seats.
“Have you seen your father and uncle?” MacAvoy asked.
“Over there. Uncle Nathan’s the one struggling to climb up to the tiered seating. Good Lord. Father’s pulling him up by his coat.”
“That’s what cheap gin does to you.”
The crowd quieted when Red Chambliss, the promoter, in his purple jacket and green plaid pants, stepped into the ring.
“This match will go until one of the men is knocked out or doesn’t make it back to the scratch, marked right here in the very center of the ring. No head butting, no spiked shoes, and no hitting a downed man at a Chambliss match. A round ends when a man’s knee touches the floor, or he gets caught up in the ropes. Them corner men can carry him to his corner, and he’s got thirty seconds, then I ring the bell, and he’s got to get hisself to the scratch in eight seconds. We follow the London Prize Ring Rules,” Chambliss said to hooting and hollering. “Except the ones we don’t want to follow!”
The crowd roared when Jackson entered the warehouse. MacAvoy and Alexander stood with the rest of the men to see him as he made his way to the ring.
“Impressive specimen,” Alexander shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“I saw him fight in New York a few months ago. Other than James, he’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen.”
The throng turned in their seats, and the noise increased three-fold. James Thompson had entered, and MacAvoy and Alexander were yelling and whistling along with the rest of the crowd. James was completely focused on his opponent, his eyes never leaving Jackson as he walked down an aisle created by shouting men, waving their hats and pumping their fists. His skin glistened in the glow of the gas lamps, his hair pushed back from his head, and the sash around his waist swaying as he walked. He went to the ring’s stake closest to his corner and tied the strip of red-and-black plaid silk to the post.
“Both men have tied their colors! To your corners!” Chambliss shouted.
Thompson walked briskly to the man holding a jar of water beside Billy Pettigrew and took a drink. He turned with a flourish, making the crowd shout their approval, and stalked to the scratch, meeting Jackson in the middle of the ring. Chambliss rang a bell, and James threw a powerful punch into the chin of his opponent. But Jackson did not hesitate in his reply, knocking James back with punches to his midsection.
“You will wait here for me, Michael?” Lucinda asked the tall, heavy-set man helping her from the carriage near the warehouse where James was to fight. She’d been concerned she’d have to supply an address, but Laurent had assured her that Michael would know where the fight would be held. Every man in the city knew where the fight would be held, according to her butler.
“I’ll be right here, miss. Unless you’ll allow me to escort you inside. These matches attract a rowdy crowd.”
“No. But thank you, Michael. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll come back out and get you.”
“Just come out the door and wave my way. I’ll keep an eye out for you. The whole thing shouldn’t have you inside more than an hour.”
“They fight for an hour?” she asked.
“No. But the fellow that runs these matches, Chambliss, he likes to build up the crowd to get them betting and liking the entertainment enough to come back. Usually, the fight itself only lasts but a quarter of an hour, but with Thompson fighting, sometimes it’s over in minutes!”
“He is that good?”
“His fists fly so fast you can barely see them. It’s a sight, miss, a real sight.”
Lucinda held her bag against her waist and walked to the entrance of the warehouse. She’d dressed in dark blue, a plain dress with the same color satin belt, a dark blue cloak—the only one she had without a fur collar—and a small hat covering her coiled blond hair with dark netting attached in the front, which she pulled down as she approached a huge man at the door.
“Fight’s gonna be done soon, miss. You sure you want in? There be no returning any gate money.”
Lucinda paid what he asked for and entered the room. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before, and she was glad she was dressed as she was, hoping to blend into the throng of men ahead of her. The room was warm and smelled of liquor and sweat; the noise was overwhelming and the crowd chaotic. She inched her way through men who were not paying any attention to her in the least. In fact, even when shouting and guzzling from a bottle, they pulled on the brims of their hats and caps as she maneuvered toward the ring. She could hear the sounds of flesh cracking against flesh and smell the sawdust, but she still could not see the fighting.
Lucinda tapped on a man’s shoulder, hemmed in as she was on all sides by the surging crowd, and waited until he glanced at her. As he turned, she slipped in front of him and found herself at the end of long rows of benches. She looked up just in time to see James take a cruel blow from his opponent, sending blood and sweat from his mouth raining on the men in the front row. James returned the punches to the other man, drawing blood over his eye. The violence took her breath away. But there was something else that she could not draw her eyes from. It was James Thompson’s bare chest, flexing as his fist flew at his opponent, his arms thick with roped, bulging muscle. His hands had blood on them, and she did not know if it was from the other man’s nose or cuts on his knuckles. She glanced across the ring and saw MacAvoy pointing at her and nudging Alexander Pendergast beside him.
“Is that Miss Vermeal?” MacAvoy said and pointed.
“Good God! It is her! What is she doing here? We’ve got to get to her and escort her out of here. This is not a place for a woman.”
“Like your wife?”
“At least Elspeth had the good sense to wear pants and hide her hair.” Alexander stood. “I’ll go for her.”
MacAvoy pulled him back down to his seat. “Look at her, damn it!”
Lucinda Vermeal had stepped in front of the first row of the seated men, pardoning herself in the narrow space between them and the edge
of the ring as the men pulled in their feet or stood, her arm and skirts brushing the ropes on the other side.
“If James catches sight of her, the match is over,” MacAvoy said. “What’s your clock saying?”
“Eighteen minutes. They’ve been fighting eighteen minutes,” Alexander said and tucked his watch back in his pocket. “Without a bell.”
“James is getting winded,” MacAvoy said and screamed at Billy Pettigrew. “Tell him to take a knee!”
Miss Vermeal slipped behind the cornerman and made her way to them. Alexander took her outstretched hand and seated her beside MacAvoy. He knelt in the aisle close to her.
“What are you doing here, Miss Vermeal?” MacAvoy asked. “You’d best not let James see you here.”
“It could be dangerous, Miss Vermeal,” Alexander said. “Why don’t you let me see you home?”
“There’s no chance that Mr. Thompson could see me, MacAvoy. Both of his eyes are nearly swollen shut,” she said. She was perched on the edge of the bench, her back straight, holding a little silk bag on her lap in gloved hands.
“He can see, miss.”
“I was told these matches rarely last more than fifteen minutes. How long has this one been going on?” she asked.
Alexander pulled out his watch. “Twenty-two minutes.”
The crowd quieted as the match drug on, making the sounds of fists hitting soft flesh magnified and making Lucinda feel nauseous. Both men were slowing down, in her opinion, and MacAvoy and Mr. Pendergast leaned in to talk to each other in front of her. She was pressed up to MacAvoy’s side, and Mr. Pendergast’s arm was against her hip.
“Trade places with me,” MacAvoy finally said to Mr. Pendergast just as James took a swing at Jackson and missed completely, his opponent leaning out of the way and grabbing the rope. Jackson’s knee barely grazed the floor, but a large man in a dreadfully colored suit who seemed to be in charge rang a bell. He must be the Chambliss fellow that Michael had mentioned. A young man ran into the ring at the sound of the bell and walked James back to the corner.