The Bareknuckle Groom: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Bush, Holly

  “Thank God,” Aunt Murdoch murmured.

  “As to if his brain is ‘scrambled,’ we’ll have to wait and see how he is when he wakes up fully. I know he’s in pain, but I do not recommend anything other than willow bark tea. Apply ice to his eyes and face three times a day to reduce the swelling and keep him in bed. He’s got to give his body time to heal. Now let’s get that finger set. He’s going to howl when I straighten the bone, so if anyone cares to leave the room, do so now. Mrs. Murdoch, what have you decided we should use as a splint?”

  Aunt Murdoch and the doctor moved to her side of James’s bed, as they talked and examined what Aunt Murdoch had pulled out of her apron pocket.

  “Can you step to the other side of the bed, Miss Vermeal?”

  She stood and laid James’s hand down beside him. He began to move on the bed, trying to sit up or roll over. MacAvoy held him down by the shoulders as the doctor was trying to hold his hand still.

  “My God, this man is strong,” he said.

  “Don’t ever get hit by him, Doc,” MacAvoy said. “My jaw hurt for a month.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” Doctor Gibson said, watching James struggle.

  “He was fine while I held his hand,” she said. “Let me hold his hand while you set it.”

  “You could try holding his other hand.”

  Lucinda shook her head. “No. I’d prefer to hold his hand while you straighten that finger.”

  “Are you sure?” the doctor asked.

  She nodded. “Tell me what to do.”

  The doctor had MacAvoy squeeze beside her to hold James’s shoulder while she held his hand in place and talked softly to him. James moaned and quivered as the doctor probed his finger.

  “Three, two, one.”

  Lucinda doubted she would ever forget the sounds the bones made as the doctor wedged them into place. James shouted once and then fainted, something she was in danger of doing herself. But she could not. She could not stop supporting his hand and holding it still so the doctor and Aunt Murdoch could continue. She let out a held breath when the doctor stepped back after tying off the strips of linen holding the wooden supports together. She was suddenly exhausted.

  “I’ll sit with him,” MacAvoy said.

  Muireall handed him a blanket and a pillow and turned to Lucinda. “Would you like to stay here?”

  She shook her head. “No. I must get home, but I can wait until Michael takes the doctor home.”

  “I came in my own gig. Take the carriage home and get some sleep,” the doctor said as he pulled on his coat. “Does your father know you are here?”

  She shook her head. “He does not.”

  “And you would prefer I keep this between the two of us, I imagine.”

  “Do as you must, Dr. Gibson. Your actions are not in my control.”

  He smiled at her. “No, they are not. But I’m feeling a lapse of memory coming on. Good night all. I’ll send my bill to this address.”

  Muireall led the doctor out the door, and Lucinda turned to MacAvoy. “You will watch over him?”

  “I will.”

  “You will get a message to me if he worsens?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Now go home and get some rest.”

  “Thank you for stopping that match. You saved his life, I think.”

  “We’ve saved each other’s over the years. But I’m glad the fight stopped when it did.”

  Chapter 12

  James woke up slowly, licking his lip where the skin was split. He could feel a scab forming and tasted the foul salve that Aunt Murdoch made for his cuts. He was home, in his room; he could see through the slit available to him on his right eye. He bent his elbow, bringing his hand into view, touching his face gingerly. Swollen lips and a long row of neat stitches above his left eye.

  “Awake, are you?” he heard from the side of his bed. It was Muireall’s voice.

  “Thirsty.”

  She leaned over him, holding up his head, which pounded like the devil, and touching his lips to a glass. He took a long, steady drink and laid his head back on the pillow.

  “Do you know your name?”

  “What?”

  “Your name. Do you know your name and where you are?”

  “Hell, Muireall,” he stuttered, slobbering down his chin. “If I’m not in my own bed on Locust Street, I’ve gone to hell, where elder sisters jab at a man when he’s down.”

  He took a breath and closed his eye, as that muttering had exhausted him.

  “Your name?”

  “James Bryan Burns Thompson,” he whispered.

  “Aunt Murdoch will be glad to hear your brains aren’t scrambled.”

  He rumbled a laugh but immediately winced in pain and clutched his side. “Jesus, Mary, and all the Saints. That hurts.”

  “Nothing less than you deserve,” she said and walked out of the room.

  Aunt Murdoch tapped his shoulder. “Probably the only thing on you that doesn’t hurt.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you after you’ve let go of your water. Payden’s going to help you,” she said.

  Payden came into view. “Aunt Murdoch told me to help you sit up, get to the edge of the bed, and take a piss. But I ain’t touching your peter.”

  James eyed his brother, who was grimacing. “Just get me to the edge of the bed, boy. Far enough I don’t piss down the quilt, or Aunt Murdoch will be in here watching me.”

  Payden shook his head. “A piss is a man’s private business. Can you wrap your arms around my neck?”

  James did as he was told and groaned when Payden jerked him up. “Easy!”

  Payden swung James’s legs over the side of the bed and tucked the blanket and sheets under the mattress. “Can you get your ass forward?”

  James inched forward, feeling dizzy and nauseous. “Don’t let me fall. Don’t have my bearings.”

  Payden held his shoulders while he fumbled with his drawers, eventually leaning his head against Payden’s chest.

  “Your piss is bloody, and there’s three day’s worth in that pot.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “When did I fight Jackson?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Did I win?”

  Payden laughed. “Not quite.”

  James closed his eye and tried to remember what had happened, but all he saw were flashes. Flickers of light and color and MacAvoy’s face. He could see Jackson’s fist coming at him, feel himself block the punch or shift out of the way, and it made him a little sick suddenly remembering the connection of knuckles to chin and the snap of his neck as he withstood the blow. And there was a scent that remained in his head aside from the stink of sweat and sawdust. Roses. He’d smelled roses.

  “Payden? Is he decent?”

  “Aunt Murdoch is calling,” Payden said and looked down. “Are you done?”

  James nodded and let Payden ease him back onto the pillows. He’d been laid up for a day or two from a fight before, a few days when Padino had punched him in the throat with coins wrapped in his palm. But never like this. He’d never been . . . incapacitated.

  * * *

  “Carlton Young and his papa are due to arrive day after tomorrow,” Lucinda’s father said as the first course of their luncheon was served.

  A servant placed a warm yeast roll on her plate. It made her think of that sweet roll she’d had in the Thompsons’ kitchen the night of James’s bout. She wondered how he was doing, if he’d recovered from his injuries. She’d not slept that night after tapping on the wall of Aunt Louisa’s room. She could not stop envisioning his battered face, the pull of the thread as Aunt Murdoch stitched him, and that sound, oh dear, that sound when the doctor straightened his finger.

  “How lovely,” she said and tasted her soup.

  “You’d best be on good behavior, Daughter. Carlton is a perfect match for this family.”

  “But he may not be a perfect match for Lucinda, Henri,” Aunt
Louisa said.

  The meal continued, her father’s edicts becoming more strident and Aunt’s objections more vocal. She was glad to not be involved. She had no intentions of marrying Carlton Young, but she did not care to discuss that decision just now. Aunt had just stood when Laurent came into the dining room.

  “Pardon me,” he said with a deferential nod to her father. “There are callers here for Miss Lucinda and Miss Vermeal. Would you like me to show them to the yellow salon?”

  “Callers?” Father asked.

  “Yes, Henri. Callers,” Aunt Louisa said. “We do occasionally have guests. The yellow salon is fine, Laurent. Please send a tray with coffee and tea.”

  Lucinda and her aunt made their way to the salon, and a servant opened the door as the tea cart was being wheeled inside.

  “Miss Thompson and Mrs. Pendergast! How delightful. I have not seen you since your lovely party at the Pendergasts’ last month,” Aunt Louisa said.

  Lucinda’s heart began to race. Why were they here? Had they come to deliver terrible news? She was rooted to the entrance of the room and felt the blood drain from her face. Mrs. Pendergast hurried toward her.

  “Do not make yourself uneasy. James is recovering,” she said quietly.

  Lucinda let out a held breath and fought for composure. She closed her eyes briefly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pendergast.”

  “What a lovely tea service,” she said and led Lucinda to a chair.

  Aunt Louisa poured tea for everyone, and Lucinda was glad to see she could accept the china without her hand shaking noticeably. They talked for several minutes about inconsequential everyday things. Lucinda wondered if they’d not said anything more about James because her aunt was in the room.

  “The real reason we’ve come to see you, other than enjoying this chat and this fine tea,” Mrs. Pendergast said, “is to invite you to a luncheon.”

  “I do some charity work for a catholic orphanage in our neighborhood,” Muireall Thompson said. “We’ll be having our annual bazaar next month, and one of the items for sale will be a handmade quilt we’ve been working on. Because of some excitement in our family, we’ve fallen behind. We thought we might enlist you to join us to help quilt and to have a meal.”

  Lucinda looked up as her father came into the room. “Ladies.” He nodded. “Welcome to our home.”

  “We were just asking the Misses Vermeal if they would join us for a charitable undertaking,” Mrs. Pendergast said.

  “A charitable undertaking? Will a donation be helpful?”

  “Donations are always appreciated at the Sisters of Charity Orphanage. But this is more a request for their skilled labor,” Miss Thompson said.

  “Of course, of course. Get the address, Louisa. We’ll send something within the month. Afternoon, ladies,” he said as he turned to leave.

  Lucinda waited until she heard the door close. “I would be happy to help.”

  “Where will we be stitching this quilt?” Aunt Louisa asked. “At the orphanage?”

  Muireall Thompson looked directly at Lucinda. “75 Locust Street. We hope you both could join us in the afternoon and plan on staying for your evening meal.”

  Aunt glanced at her. “We would be delighted. What day were you planning?”

  “Tomorrow, if your schedules suit. The quilt is . . . impatiently waiting,” Mrs. Pendergast said.

  “That would be best,” Aunt said. “My brother has invited guests to stay for a few days, and Lucinda and I are to entertain the son of that family. They are to arrive day after tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Pendergast glanced her way. “Then tomorrow it is. And I do think we should do away with all the formality. I am Elspeth. My sisters are Muireall and Kirsty, and my brothers are James and Payden.”

  “Of course,” Aunt said. “I am Louisa, and my niece is Lucinda.”

  “We must be going. Thank you very much for the tea and conversation. We will see you tomorrow, then?” Elspeth asked as she and her sister rose.

  “Yes,” Lucinda said. “I am very much looking forward to it.”

  They watched the two women climb into the Pendergast carriage with help from their coachman. “What lovely ladies,” Aunt said. “And I am very happy to be involved in some more charitable work, having left behind all of my committees in Virginia.”

  “It will be an enjoyable afternoon.”

  “Will it, Lucinda?” Aunt said with a wry smile. “And what part will be the most enjoyable?”

  “I’m sure it will all be quite lovely.”

  * * *

  James leaned heavily on Payden as he made his way down the steps of the Thompson house. “My God. I feel as if I’m a hundred years old.”

  “Then why are you leaving your bed, James? You’ve got everyone fussing over you and waiting on you. Even Muireall hurries to get the next thing you need.”

  “I’m going out of my mind laying up there in bed. Got to see some walls that aren’t the ones I’ve been staring at for a week.”

  James was in plain pants and a homespun shirt, his thick robe over it all. He couldn’t bring himself to bend down to pull on a boot or a shoe, as his head pounded when he leaned over. He made his way into the parlor and found all but two chairs in front of the wide front window.

  “Redecorating, are we?” he said to no one in particular as Payden led him to the large chair still in its place close to the fire that was roaring. He sat and propped his stocking feet up on the hassock that Payden was pushing his way.

  Elspeth looked up from what she was working on. “We’re quilting and need the light.”

  “And all the chairs?” he asked. Not that he cared, but it was good to be discussing something other than the thickness of his scabs and the color of his piss.

  “We’re having company,” Muireall said, glancing at the mantel clock. “They should be here any moment.”

  “Damn it to hell, Muireall. Why didn’t you tell me? Come here, Payden. Help me into the kitchen.”

  The knock on the front door got James to his feet without help. He had no intention of allowing anyone other than family to see his pitiful self. He was holding on to the back of his chair, readying himself to walk through the dining room, when he heard her voice.

  “How kind you are to invite us. I’ve been so looking forward to it.”

  “To quilting?” Kirsty asked.

  “Yes. Yes, to quilting and to renewing friendships.”

  He turned then and saw her at the door. Her dress a pale blue with some intricate lace collar the color of her hair, which was piled loosely on her head. She was neither smiling nor frowning, as was her usual serene look, her posture erect. She looked like a princess or a queen, and she was walking straight toward him. Every other thing around him fell away from his vision, leaving him to focus on her until she was just a few feet away.

  “Sit down, James,” she said. “You’re swaying on your feet. Didn’t your sisters tell you I would be visiting with my aunt?”

  He limped around the side of the chair, holding the arm, until he was in front of the chair. He looked up at her, hoping she would seat herself before he fell over and hit his head on the hearth. She sat while his sisters enveloped her aunt, guiding her to the settee facing the window. It was then he noticed the quilting frame in the middle of the seats.

  He eased himself into the chair and leaned back, winded with just that small amount of movement. Why was she here? “Lucinda?”

  “Yes, James?”

  He licked his lips and pulled out his handkerchief to dab his lip. Even though the swelling was mostly down, the cuts there were still healing. “Why have you come here?” he asked and stared into the fire.

  “Perhaps I am waiting to hear your thanks for awakening you while you lay on that filthy floor of the boxing ring or for wiping the blood from your face while your aunt sewed your skin together. Maybe I’m hoping to hear how your hand is healing after holding it still so the doctor could set the bone. Maybe that is why I am here.”
/>   She was spitting mad, but another person would not know that from the tone of her voice or the expression on her face. She sounded as serene as if thanking a servant for a glass of wine. But he could tell she was furious. Her eyes gave it away. And then he thought about what she’d said. He leaned forward in his chair.

  “Are you saying you were at the match?”

  “Yes. I was at the match. At the end . . . at the end, when MacAvoy could not wake you, I held your hand and called your name.”

  “What is the matter with you? A fight is no place for a gentlewoman. Good Lord! There are drunks and rowdy—”

  “I was there. I went home safely.”

  She had been at the Jackson fight; she had seen him humiliated. She had seen him beaten. “And you’re waiting for my thanks? You’ll be sitting there for a long time.”

  “You are on your dignity, are you not?”

  “On my dignity! Good God, woman. I have no dignity. Look at me, just look at me,” he whispered furiously.

  “I am looking at you, James.”

  “I’m nothing. I’ve got nothing. I’ll never be anything.”

  He could have cried, having voiced those fears, especially to her. The most beautiful, desirable woman he’d ever met. He looked away so that she would not see the pain in his eyes. She reached down and picked up her little bag and opened it. Peering inside, she pulled out a book.

  “I thought I’d read a bit to you from Pride and Prejudice. It’s a favorite book of mine.”

  “You’re going to read to me?”

  “Yes. Please get comfortable and put your feet up here,” she said and pushed the hassock under his legs.

  She began reading, and to his dismay, he could not stop her. Did not want to stop her. Listening to her soft, aristocratic voice let him relax. He laid his head back against the chair and stared at the fire.

  Lucinda read the first chapter and glanced up to see James had fallen asleep. She took the plaid blanket from the back of her chair and laid it across him. His eyes were no longer swollen shut, but the skin around them was bruised and turning various shades of yellow. The stitched cut seemed to be healing nicely. She turned and went to the window where the women were stitching at a large quilt.