The Bareknuckle Groom: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Bush, Holly

  MacAvoy opened the door. “It’s time, James.”

  * * *

  She paced from one end of her parlor to the other, occasionally stopping to sit down and try and convince herself to glance at a fashion sheet or read a few pages of a book. But she could not do it. Laurent had confirmed that his cousin Michael would pick her up tonight in time to see the entire bout. She did not want to arrive late or have to fight her way through crowds, although she might have to.

  Brandleford opened the door to the drawing room just then. “Mr. Vermeal has arrived.”

  “Oh,” she said, wondering how she would get her father out the door before Michael showed up.

  “Come along, Lucinda,” Henri Vermeal said from the doorway. “Laurent’s cousin is outside with that rickety contraption he calls a carriage.”

  “Papa?”

  “Yes, Daughter. I will not allow you to go alone. I am coming with you. Where is your cape?”

  * * *

  “Chambliss has a full house tonight,” MacAvoy said to Alexander. They were waiting for the rest of the crowd to file in, as Chambliss had agreed to close the doors once all the ticket holders were inside. It would have been too dangerous if standing spectators were allowed in. Chambliss would be shouting through a speaking trumpet when announcing the fighters and still might not be heard at the back of the crowd.

  “My father put five hundred dollars on James tonight,” Alexander said.

  MacAvoy looked at him. “That’s a hefty sum.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to win?”

  “I absolutely think he’s going to win. It will be even at first, but Jackson is going to wear down before James. I guarantee it.”

  “Can’t guarantee an outcome. One lucky punch . . .” Alexander began.

  “He’s going to win.”

  Alexander smiled up at MacAvoy. “You’re absolutely right. He’s going to win.”

  Chambliss went to the center of the ring to make his announcements, and the crowd quieted, as he encouraged late comers to place additional bets. MacAvoy and Alexander crouched down at their corner. Seating had been built farther away from the ring than was Chambliss’s usual, leaving a ten-foot-wide space between the ropes and the first row of spectators.

  “The rematch of the century begins tonight,” Chambliss shouted through the horn as he turned in a circle, and the crowd surged to their feet.

  “First, our challenger, Johnny Jackson!”

  The crowd cheered wildly as Jackson came toward his corner through the gap between the elevated stands. He tied his colors at his corner, and Chambliss waited until the room quieted.

  “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting for, our Philadelphia champion, none other than James Thompson!”

  MacAvoy and Alexander jumped to their feet, cheering and whistling. James was staring straight ahead at the face of his opponent, without even seeming to hear the deafening roar of the crowd. He rolled his neck once and bent to step between the ropes. He held a piece of fabric, kissed it once, and tied it to the corner stake.

  “That doesn’t look like the Thompson plaid,” Alexander shouted to MacAvoy.

  “No, it doesn’t. It looks like something from some woman’s fancy nightie.”

  “Lingerie?” Alexander asked and then scanned the crowd behind him. “There, MacAvoy. She’s here, and she’s looking like she recognizes that strip of fabric.”

  MacAvoy turned and spotted Lucinda Vermeal, her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth. Her father sat beside her, staring at her. MacAvoy looked at Alexander, and both men laughed before turning to their fighter.

  “Take a drink, James,” MacAvoy said as Alexander held up a ladle of water. “Then put in your mouthpiece.”

  James drank and took the cloth from MacAvoy’s hand, fitting it over his teeth.

  “When I tell you to take a knee, you’re going to take a knee,” MacAvoy said and looked at Alexander. “Got your watch? Tell me at two minutes.”

  James turned to face the opposite corner. Chambliss rang the bell, and James charged. Both men landed furious and powerful combinations of punches to their opponent’s face and midsection. Neither man stopped, both staying in the middle of the ring, throwing fists and grunting.

  “One minute forty-five,” Alexander shouted as Jackson caught James on the chin, spinning him around. He recovered his feet quicker than expected by Jackson and doubled the man over with two hard punches right above his navel.

  “Knee, James. Take a knee,” MacAvoy shouted and James dropped to one knee. He jumped up quickly and came to his corner. Alexander pulled the fabric out of his mouth and held the ladle to him. James drank while MacAvoy wiped the sweat from his face and chest.

  “Dance, James. Make Jackson come after you.”

  James went to the scratch in the center of the ring, bouncing on the balls of his feet. When the bell rang, James threw less punches and kept himself just out of Jackson’s reach, stopping occasionally to spar and then dancing away again.

  “Six minutes,” Alexander shouted.

  “We’re going to hold off another two minutes or so! James looks fine, and I think Jackson is starting to get winded.”

  At nine minutes, MacAvoy shouted. “Take a knee, James.”

  He took a knee, jumped to his feet, and headed to his corner. He drank water, and Alexander wiped the blood from his eye that was quickly swelling.

  “Just another minute or so, James,” MacAvoy shouted. “When I call ‘now,’ go after him with everything you have.”

  The bell rang, and James stayed light on his feet, dancing in and out of range while Jackson chased him from corner to corner. Both men landed a few punches. Jackson’s mouth was bleeding heavily, and James’s eye was nearly swollen shut.

  “Now!” MacAvoy shouted.

  And then the crowd was on their feet as James rained blows on Jackson, crowding him and punishing him with fast and cruel punches to the chin and to his midsection when Jackson raised his fists to cover his face.

  “You can barely see his fists, they’re flying so fast,” Alexander shouted over the roar of the crowd stamping their feet and chanting, ‘Thompson.’ “Thirteen minutes.”

  “Go, James, go,” MacAvoy shouted again. “Fin. Ish It.”

  James, sensing his opponent’s weakened state, doubled the speed and power of his fists. This would be all he could give if Jackson did not go down.

  James hit him hard with a left uppercut, Jackson’s head bouncing back on impact, followed by a roundhouse right to the jaw. Jackson spun on his heel and dropped. Chambliss hurried to the center of the ring and counted off, waiting for Jackson to stand. He managed to get to his knees but dropped back to ground within moments.

  Chambliss held up his trumpet with one hand and James’s arm with the other. “Your champion, the bareknuckle champ of Philadelphia and all these United States, James Thompson!”

  MacAvoy dropped to his haunches, wiping his eyes with his sleeve while Alexander shouted and danced, slapping MacAvoy on the back. The crowd stood and cheered for five long minutes while Chambliss held James’s arm above his head, turning to each section of stands.

  Lucinda watched as James was turned to her section, her hands over her mouth, tears running down her face. Her father was still shouting and cheering and, strangely, shaking hands with all the men around them. James was alive! He was on his feet, and he was the victor! Nothing like that horrific night from months ago.

  James spoke to Chambliss, and the promoter handed James the trumpet. He pulled a wad of fabric from his mouth and lifted the speaker.

  “Tonight,” he said, and the crowd cheered wildly again. “Tonight is a special night for me.”

  MacAvoy was signaling the crowd to quiet down, and amazingly they did. “Tonight is the last time you’ll see me in the ring. This was my last bout,” he said to boos from the crowd. “I’m retired now after defeating Johnny Jackson, surely the best fighter I’ve ever faced. I’m fortunate to have always had the best
cornerman in the business, Malcolm MacAvoy, at my side, and tonight was no different.”

  The crowd screamed louder still, and James shook his head. “It’s time. It’s time for me to move on to a new career. But you’ll see me soon at the Thompson Gymnasium and Athletic Studio. With my partners, we intend to build the finest arena on the East Coast for training and matches. Watch your newspapers for the opening!”

  He looked at her then. She knew he was looking at her. She stepped out of her seat, between the two men seated in front of her, and walked toward the ring. She could not help herself.

  The crowd was cheering wildly again, but she could tell what he was saying to her even though no words passed his lips. “I love you,” she said. “I love you.”

  He smiled that half smile that always gave her butterflies in her stomach, even with a bleeding lip. She walked to where the sash of her robe was tied to a stake.

  “Have you been looking for that, love?” he asked over the din.

  She nodded and reached her hand toward his outstretched ones. He kissed her knuckles, and the roar was deafening.

  Chapter 17

  “Pass the potatoes, please, Miss Vermeal,” Payden said.

  “She is Mrs. Thompson now, you little troublemaker. You should know since you stood up with Malcom and Alexander at our wedding,” James said.

  “I still think you should have set the date right after the Jackson match. That black eye of yours would have been perfect with your kilt,” Payden said.

  “Payden,” Muireall said. “Wipe your chin and mind your manners.”

  “But I don’t see what the problem would be for me going to Scotland. Surely, those terrible men who kidnapped Elspeth are in prison. And how would they even know I was going?” Kirsty asked, leaning forward and looking around the table.

  “Absolutely not,” James said.

  “We’ve discussed this, Kirsty,” Muireall said and cut her roast beef. “Cameron Plowman is still a threat. My letter from Scotland, from just a few months ago, said he was ignoring the court’s orders and showed no intention of leaving Dunacres.”

  Lucinda watched and listened to the interactions during the meal. She was still a bit overwhelmed with the number of conversations and how each and every one of them sitting at the table managed to have an opinion on every subject possible, including those that didn’t sit at the table, as the Thompson housekeeper, Mrs. McClintok, made her feelings known by withholding extra dumplings or dessert for Payden when she thought necessary.

  Sometimes she missed the regularity of the quiet and politely boring meals with her father. But she would admit to herself that she loved the conversation and the laughter and even the occasional argument to be found at the Thompson table. She loved it, and she loved the man beside her. They’d only been back in Philadelphia for a few days after a two-week honeymoon, and it felt very good to be home, even though her time with James at a remote lodge in New York for a week and then a second week in New York City had been an eye-opening experience. Lovemaking was not confined to after dark or even to a bedroom.

  James picked up her hand where it lay beside her plate and kissed her fingers, even as he argued with Kirsty. She glanced at Elspeth, who was smiling at her shyly, likely recognizing the depth of her brother’s feelings, even as her own husband’s arm lay across the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder. Lucinda had come to accept that her alone state, that she’d always believed was her preference, was only a result of not yet meeting a man she could love and who could love her.

  They rose to leave after this lengthy Sunday meal and began the family’s ritual of hugging and kissing each other. It was extraordinary, in Lucinda’s opinion. Even if they would see each other the following day, they kissed and hugged their good-byes, and her husband did not miss any of his sisters, kissing Aunt Murdoch with a loud smacking sound and grabbing his brother from behind, Payden’s arms pinned down beneath his, and picking him up. Muireall was shouting to put Payden down before he knocked something over or put his foot through one of the dining room windows. She was laughing along with Kirsty and Elspeth. All of them kissed her as well, and even though she could not bring herself to initiate it, she hugged them back. It didn’t feel natural yet, but she thought perhaps it would someday.

  James was helping her with her coat in the foyer while Alexander was helping his wife. Payden stared at Elspeth’s stomach.

  “Your coat’s not going to fit much longer,” he said with a grin.

  “I believe you’re right, Payden. I’ve got three more months to go until your niece or nephew arrives. And don’t think I won’t be making you and Robert come play with him or her when they’re older, and when I have afternoon plans.”

  “I cannot wait to see you like that,” James whispered in Lucinda’s ear.

  “Behave,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Don’t forget our meeting tomorrow, James. I’ll be by your house at eight,” Alexander said as he guided his wife down the steps.

  “I’ll see you then,” he said.

  “Is this the meeting with Alexander’s father and uncle?” she asked as he handed her into the carriage.

  “It is. We’re to meet with a man who has been scouting locations to purchase.”

  “My father is interested in investing.”

  “I already live in his house and ride in his carriage; I’ll not work for him too, Lucinda,” he said.

  Once home, she found him in his dressing room, pulling off his coat. “We should hire a valet for you, dearest. You’ll be far too busy to manage your wardrobe,” she said.

  “No. I can hang up my own clothes in my father-in-law’s house.”

  “You are a sight when you are on your dignity, James Thompson.” She handed him a thick envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s the deed to this house,” she said. “My father told me he would have preferred to hand it directly to you, as he believes the husband in any marriage should manage those types of documents, but he was certain you would—now what exactly did he say? You would be an ‘unpleasant ass,’ and he did not want to argue with you.”

  His wife—by God, he had a wife—was laughing at him without even the slightest hint of a smile. He opened the envelope and saw that it really was the deed to the house that she’d been living in, that he’d moved into after returning from their honeymoon. He had a butler. Brandleford. And maids. And more than likely, he’d have a valet before long. He blew out a breath.

  “He meant it as a wedding gift,” she said. “Your salary will easily pay the staff, and we’ll be getting our share of Vermeal stock if I am to begin working with Father. And we’ll need space to entertain.”

  “I suppose you’d like to stay here.”

  “I would. I like the neighborhood and the size of the house and garden and carriage house, although we may have to look for something larger when we have children. It will be convenient for me to begin work at the Vermeal offices. It will most likely be convenient for you once you’ve chosen a property for the gymnasium. It is close to your sister and to Malcolm. But I would live happily with you anywhere, James.”

  “Even in a two-room flat?” he asked her, knowing it was his own insecurities that made him challenge her.

  She pulled the pins from her hat. “Even in a two-room flat. I love you, not where we live.”

  He caught her around the waist when she turned to leave and pulled her tight, her back against his chest, his free hand working the clasps on her jacket. He slid his hand inside, working the pearl buttons of her blouse frantically until he finally touched her breasts. It should have been more familiar, more normal to him when he touched her intimately, as they’d spent much of their honeymoon naked and in each other’s arms, but every time he ran his fingers over her nipples or lifted the weight of her breasts in his hand, his breath caught, his mind blank other than the driving force to get between her legs.

  “James,” she moaned and dropped her
head back onto his shoulder, allowing him to kiss her neck at his leisure.

  He released her and she turned, dropping her jacket from her arms and slipping her blouse down. She worked the buttons on her skirt until it was loose enough to fall and take her petticoat with it. He undid his trouser placket, picked her up by her bottom, leaned her against the door to their bedroom, and wrapped her legs around his hips. He felt for the slit in her drawers.

  “This is why I don’t want a valet,” he whispered, running his tongue around her ear.

  “What?”

  He smiled, knowing that Lucinda in a passioned state was not quite lucid. “A valet, love. I don’t want one. He might walk in here just as I do this,” he said and shoved himself inside her wet heat.

  “Oh God, James,” she said on a groan and pulled his mouth toward her, her hips bracing against his. “Harder.”

  And that was the last rational thought he had as he drove into her, her climax coming fast, bringing a shiver to her shoulders and a moan from her lips. He followed soon after, shouting his release and breathing heavily against her hair as he recovered.

  He kissed her deeply. “I love you. I will try very hard to not be an ‘unpleasant ass’ to your father, but I can make no guarantees. I’ll have to thank him, which will be difficult enough.”

  “Don’t ever change, James,” she said softly, smiling and looking into his eyes, brushing his hair away from his face. “I love you just as you are, even when you are, on occasion, an unpleasant ass.”

  He grinned his lopsided smile. “What a lucky man I am, Mrs. Thompson.”

  Afterword

  I hope you have enjoyed James and Lucinda’s story, the second in the new Thompsons of Locust Street series. Please follow me on FaceBook, Twitter, or on my website hollybushbooks.com, for announcements about the next book in this series, Kirsty’s story, due out in the fall of 2021.