by Molly Tanzer
“Is Mr. Cantrell in?” she asked.
“Why yes,” he said, looking intrigued, “but he’s teaching a lesson now. Would you care to wait?”
“Ah, yes, thank you,” said Evadne, relaxing a bit. At least she hadn’t been laughed out the door.
“So you’ve heard of our Mr. Cantrell?” asked the young man. Evadne realized he was fighting a losing battle against his curiosity.
“A good friend recommended I take lessons from him when he heard I would be staying in London for the summer.”
“I see! Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that we don’t get many young women in here.”
“Oh?” Her stomach clenched—nerves again. “Why is that? Are the men very rough?”
“Some of the young ones are . . . enthusiastic,” he said diplomatically, “but not the instructors. Certainly not Cantrell! He’s known as Saint George, and for more than just having attended divinity school.” Evadne smiled, in spite of herself. “That said, we are competition-oriented.”
“Competition is the furthest thing from my mind,” Evadne assured him.
“So you fence for . . .”
“Personal pleasure.”
The young man brightened. “What a wonderful thing to hear! So many of our students want to win ribbons—which is fine, of course, for them and for us. But, at the end of the day, fencing is really about keeping fit. That’s a rare and precious thing in this modern world, where it seems that fewer of us every year must depend on the strength of our arm or the swiftness of our feet to survive.” He grinned. “I must beg your pardon a second time—I don’t mean to go on! It’s only, it’s delightful to meet you, ah . . .”
“Evadne Gray.”
“A pleasure, Miss Gray! And I am Burton, Burton Trawless. I apologize for not introducing myself sooner.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“I see you already have weapons . . .”
“I have everything.”
“Delightful!” said Trawless, and she could see he was trying his best not to look too surprised. “Ah . . . then would you fancy a tour while you wait?”
“I would love one,” she replied, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in . . . she didn’t know how long. The friendly Trawless had put her at ease. Evadne rather liked the way he was trying his best to not make her feel like an anomaly.
Her doubts had left her. She was certain she’d done the right thing by coming.
Trawless had her leave her bag in the changing room, though he took it inside for her as there were young men within. Evadne caught sight of several bare, glistening torsos before she realized where they were going, and turned away, blushing furiously. Trawless apologized—he was not accustomed to giving tours to women—but after that, everything was simply lovely.
The corridor between the practice floor and the changing facilities had several doors that led to “school offices,” and a small kitchen; in between the doors were shelves lining the walls, all full of brightly polished trophies, plates, and other awards. Trawless pointed a few out, mostly international events where Mr. Perkins’s students had overcome Germans and Italians and even, surprisingly, a Japanese prodigy who had traveled all the way from Kyoto just to compete.
The practice floor was a wooden expanse marked with lines of tape. It could have accommodated twelve pair, but only four were out. Evadne watched for a few minutes, Trawless by her side. Only one couple used swords; the others were doing a technique exercise involving pressing fencing gloves between their palms and stepping forward and backwards—anticipating the other’s movements, if Evadne had to guess.
As for the pair with swords, Evadne felt certain the large man in the darker leathers was the instructor. His footwork was immaculate and his strikes were terrifyingly accurate. And yet, even so, Evadne got the distinct impression he was holding back.
“That’s Cantrell there,” said Trawless, confirming her suspicion by nodding at the big man. “He’s not the lead instructor, that’s Mr. Perkins, but Perkins isn’t here right now. He doesn’t teach beginners, just the senior students, so he’s only around in the evenings, or by appointment.”
“I see,” said Evadne, only half listening. She was too mesmerized by the lesson. If the student Mr. Cantrell was teaching was a beginner, she would have quite a bit of catching up to do!
“Mr. Perkins founded the academy,” continued Trawless. “Best damn fencer I ever—oh, I do beg your pardon!”
“I don’t mind,” said Evadne warmly. “Please, go on.”
Trawless was blushing under his mustache. “What I ought to have said was that Perkins learned from Henry William, who was one of Angelo’s children. Angelo was—oh, I see you know him!”
“Yes, of course. I actually have a copy of The School of Fencing in my kit. I’ve read it many times.”
Trawless looked extremely impressed. “You’ll fit right in here, Miss Gray.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. And I see you thriving, especially if you’ve come for Cantrell. Perkins is a fantastic teacher as well as a swordsman, but Cantrell there . . . I’ve never met anyone who can teach like him. He brings out the best in everyone. He’d tell you himself that he’s a better teacher than a fencer, so I’m not insulting him by saying that—after all, as you can see, he’s an astonishing fencer.”
“Yes, he is,” said Evadne. Mr. Cantrell had just fumbled a move, but it was clearly a ruse to draw in his opponent—who did not see the feint for what it was, and got himself jabbed in the thigh for his foolishness.
“That’s ten!” said Cantrell, taking off his mask, and revealing a sandy-haired, ruggedly handsome man of perhaps five and thirty; he gave off such an aura of vibrancy and health it was difficult for her to guess his exact age. A dueling scar marked his cheek, but to her mind that just lent him an air of danger and sophistication.
The two men shook hands, and the loser scuttled off; the victor wiped his brow, and seeing Trawless gesture at him, came over.
“Who’s this?” He eyed Evadne with open curiosity, but she approved of how he stood a respectful distance back so he would not loom over her. He was really very tall, and was possessed of a piercing stare that made her uncomfortable. She got the impression he was looking into her very soul; it took her breath away. She would not break his gaze, however; she lifted her chin defiantly, and she sensed his approval.
“This is Miss Evadne Gray. She’s come to have lessons.”
“Lessons!” Cantrell exclaimed. “How unusual!”
“Is it?” said Evadne, deciding to answer his surprise with a challenge. “My friend who recommended I do so didn’t seem to think there would be anything unusual about it—and he’s a very proper sort of man, respectful of my feelings as a woman.”
Mr. Cantrell sobered immediately. “You were recommended to me? By whom?”
“Freddie Thornton.”
“Freddie Thornton!” Cantrell’s broad, tanned face split into a winning grin. “There’s a name I didn’t expect to hear today. Freddie and I were at Oxford together,” he explained to Trawless, who looked mystified. “Good student, and a good fencer, too. Why, of course!” Mr. Cantrell, abashed, smacked his left palm against his forehead. “Miss Gray! I’ve heard of you, you know.” He turned back to Trawless. “We all marveled how old Thorny didn’t get as badly out of practice as the rest of us over the hols. We always teased him about it, and eventually he revealed his secret—he had a girl at home, fiercer than any opponent we faced at school. Apparently Miss Gray set up the most remarkable gauntlet for herself, to compensate for having no one to practice with.”
“What sort of gauntlet?” Trawless asked.
“I don’t know if I’d call it a gauntlet,” said Evadne, feeling a bit exposed. She couldn’t quite tell if they were laughing at her. “I attached a ball to an indiarubber cord, for example, and would try to poke it as it bounced,” she said, “and I had a few other dummies I’d use for various purposes.”
> “Don’t be so modest,” said Cantrell. Of course, his command just made Evadne blush, but at the same time she enjoyed his frank approval. “Thorny told us about you getting your village blacksmith to hammer an epee point to a heavy spring so you could fence it! Just think of it, Trawless, it would bounce back to center every time!”
“It almost took my eye out the first time I used it. I didn’t anticipate needing a mask to fence with a dummy, but I was wrong.”
“Genius!” said Trawless. “Why, no reason we couldn’t get a few of those for the academy. We’d have to run it by Perkins first, but seems like a good idea, especially as we have their inventor here with us now.” Evadne blushed. She’d never had the pleasure of hearing herself casually included as part of a group. “That is, if the lady will agree to giving us the secrets of her success.”
“They’re not secrets,” she said. “I’d be happy to help.”
“Good, good!” said Cantrell. “But the two of you’d better propose it to Perkins. He’s still sore at me.” Mr. Cantrell did not elaborate, and instead asked, “Did Thorny practice with your dummies, too, Miss Gray?”
“Sometimes . . . when I would let him.” Cantrell’s eyebrow quirked up, and Evadne clarified, “I so rarely had anyone to fence with, I made him practice with me when he was home from school.”
“Good for you. He needed it, poor boy.”
Evadne would have strongly protested that statement just a month before; now, not so much. But, feeling some residual stirrings of loyalty, she replied, “Mr. Thornton made me the fencer I am, rather than the reverse.”
“Shall we put that to the test?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I fenced often enough with Thorny that I’ll be able to tell if you helped him or not,” he said. “We can lend you some gear, and—”
“Oh, she brought everything she’ll need,” said Trawless. “What do you say, Miss Gray? You came prepared!”
Evadne had never fenced anyone but Freddie; the idea of going a few rounds with such a physically imposing man—a man whom Trawless had also described as the best teacher in the school—was more than a little intimidating. Especially as he’d obviously heard so many overinflated tales of her prowess.
“I came for a lesson, not a match,” she protested.
“Oh come now!” urged Cantrell. “I’ve been curious about you for years, Miss Gray. We were all so intrigued by Thorny’s stories. Trawless, go chase all those lazy boys out of the changing room so Miss Gray can slip on her gear, and then we’ll have some fun. If, of course, the lady will oblige me.”
Evadne felt herself nod. “I won’t be but a minute.”
She thanked her lucky stars she’d worn one of her more reasonable ensembles that day; she had relatively little trouble shimmying out of her shirtwaist and skirts, and she’d laced her corset as loosely as she could.
Her hands were shaking as she stripped down. She was very nervous. Well, all her life she’d wanted for partners. Now was her chance.
Her hands steadied once she got on her practice gear: her bloomers and skirt, thick socks, and the special shoes with indiarubber soles she’d ordered through a catalogue; her shirt, leather breastplate, plastron, padded jacket, and gloves. She hadn’t put it all on for far too long, and it was delightful to be back in her comfortable, worn-in clothes. She felt fantastic—and eager to face Mr. Cantrell to show him what she could do.
She grabbed two epees and her mask and headed to the floor. Mr. Cantrell was drinking a cup of water, but when he saw her, he set it down and came over to shake hands.
“Very fetching,” he said, which made her frown, rather than the reverse. He instantly bowed. “My apologies, Miss Gray. Of course, a serious fencer like you will not be looking for compliments on style, but rather skill. It’s only that I see ladies’ fencing gear so rarely, it caught me rather off guard how well it suited you.”
“Thank you,” she said firmly, pleased by his apology—and his compliments, if she was honest with herself. She pushed that thought out of her mind. “What shall we do? Best of ten?”
“Anything you like.”
“Ten, then,” she replied, trying not to let her eyes slip to his broad shoulders, powerful arms, or where his chest tapered pleasingly to a narrow waist.
“I’ll judge,” offered Trawless.
Evadne saluted Mr. Cantrell, then put on her mask. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and she wished she’d thought to ask for some water before they began.
“En garde,” said Trawless. “Allez!” Mr. Cantrell came at her like a charging bull and scored a point on her chest before she had a chance to think. She resisted the urge to rub at the spot; it smarted even through her armor, but she didn’t want to appear weak.
Trawless called it in Mr. Cantrell’s favor. She thought about what she’d seen as she reset—he had a strong attack, naturally, but his poor footwork had simply been him trying to trick her, like he had with his student. Next time Trawless called allez! she tested this hypothesis, challenging him with a tricky maneuver she’d practiced endlessly with her dummy, and managed to confound him into backing up. Unfortunately, her days off had made her slow on her feet, and he scored on her bicep.
When she felt the impact, she resolved she would not be given a lesson—not like this. Their next fight was far more ferocious, and lasted much longer; by the time she tagged him on the thigh—a good one, too—Evadne was sweating. She had won the point, but only barely. It had taken a toll on her physically to mentally shift herself away from her love of technique and into essentially a point-delivery engine.
She narrowed her focus to Mr. Cantrell’s feet and glove; she would not allow herself to look at his other hand, his eyes, or anything beyond of the line of their fencing. Even the sounds of the school receded, save for Trawless’s voice. She tried to see Mr. Cantrell as her dummy, as a bouncing ball, as anything other than a large, strong man with surprising grace and devastating nimbleness, as well as much more experience than she when it came to fencing actual opponents.
It worked fairly well, actually. She scored several more touches in quick succession, and felt Mr. Cantrell’s surprise radiating from him like heat from a fireplace in spite of his earlier statements that she would likely prove to be some sort of protégé.
As she became more aggressive, so did he, and they were both breathing heavily at eight and nine when they scored a double, bringing Mr. Cantrell the win. He tore off his mask as Trawless announced it. His face was red as a strawberry, and his jacket was soaked several inches down his neck.
She was pleased it hadn’t been easy for him. In fact, she was almost certain she was less winded than he as she removed her mask and stepped forward to shake hands, which he did with enthusiasm.
Only then did she realize how loudly the other students were shouting and clapping . . . although they did not seem to be cheering their teacher, but rather the match itself.
“You’re a brutal little monster, aren’t you?” Cantrell panted. “I’ve never had anyone come in off the street and put me through my paces like that.”
“It wasn’t a sure thing at all,” said Trawless, taking their masks. “Good show, Miss Gray. You really had him going.”
“So it would seem,” said Evadne. “I was worried you were going easy on me, but I can see you treated me fairly.”
Mr. Cantrell smiled at her incredulously, and even though he was smiling down at her, she felt as if the distance between them was shrinking. “Why, of course I treated you fairly. How else could I assess your skill?”
The other students had wandered off; only Trawless remained. “And how do you assess it?” she asked.
“Remarkable, given your training. I can’t imagine how dangerous you’ll be after a few lessons. You’re devilish strong . . . strong enough I’d say to put a real rapier in your hand and see how you do with that.”
“George,” said Trawless, in a warning tone that surprised Evadne.
“What’s th
e harm?” said Cantrell.
“You know what Perkins would say.”
“Perkins isn’t here,” said Cantrell, winking at Evadne. “What do you say, Miss Gray? Want to try something new?”
She looked from the frowning Trawless to the smiling Mr. Cantrell, and though she was usually a stickler for rules she found she couldn’t resist the chance to try out a real rapier.
“Why not?” She shrugged.
“I’ll be back,” said Cantrell, and left her with Trawless.
“Am I to understand this is forbidden?” she said. She’d rather know.
“Not forbidden . . . not exactly. Mr. Perkins doesn’t want Westminster Academy students learning how to duel, only to sport fence,” said Trawless. “He feels using real rapiers will encourage recklessness among our students. One of his best students was once involved in a real sword fight, and though he won it, he did not escape . . . unscathed.”
Mr. Cantrell returned, and Evadne noticed that against his still-flushed face his white dueling scar stood out. She told herself not to jump to any conclusions; Mr. Perkins would have had hundreds of students over the years. Mr. Cantrell could not be the only one with a scar.
“I think this will be about the right length for you,” he said, handing her a weapon with a ball on the tip, secured with some kind of sticky tape. She eyed the elaborate basket hilt suspiciously, but it felt good in her hand, even if the grip was a bit thick for her liking.
“Let’s just do some basic drills,” said Cantrell, “to get your arm used to the weight. How about just a step and strike exercise? That way you can see how your footwork might change with a heavier weapon in your hand.”
“All right.”
“Masks, Trawless,” said Cantrell. Trawless reluctantly handed them over, and Evadne slipped hers over her face. She shivered a bit as the clammy neck guard brushed her flesh.
The blunted rapier might not feel so much heavier just holding it in her hand, but after a few minutes of drilling, Evadne was positively soaked with sweat and her arm was trembling. Perhaps, she thought, she would actually use some of Lord Oliver’s swords to train—or just get her own with her pocket money. If she did her exercises with a heavier blade, surely it would help her endurance with her epee.