Her face flushed with anger.
“He’s in danger,” John said.
Clare tried to read his face in the dim light of the gas lamps. “Why?”
“My employer is interested in acquiring something in Patrick’s possession. The man I work for . . . is a determined man. There is a rumor out there that your brother knows where this particular item is.”
“What is it?”
“Clare.” John peered deep into her core. “If you care for him, you need to get your brother as far away from this as possible. He’s a mere child thinking he’s a man.”
“I don’t believe this at all.” Worrying she would start crying, Clare began to cross the street.
“Clare,” John shouted. “Will I see you there tomorrow?”
She didn’t answer. Instead Clare darted through the doors of the tavern, past the blurred faces of revelry spewing cruel laughter that mocked her flailing emotions. Up the stairs she went, her emotions beginning to bleed. She covered her face as she went by two women loitering on the second floor. Finally, inside her flat, she closed the door behind her and let it all burst out.
Numb, she meandered into her room and drifted to the window where she opened the shutters. She longed for the hymns she heard the other night, the songs of the evangelists. Something told her they held an answer from her youth she had long forgotten, buried in the wasteland of her distracted life. There was an aching in her soul and she yearned to rest in a peaceful embrace. Clare desperately wanted the heavy burdens lifted from her shoulders.
Yet instead, in the evening below her window, there were only the relentless echoes of drunken pleasure.
A man wheeled a cart of dung, or night soil as they euphemistically referred to it, slowly down the road and closing behind him was a single horse carriage with a dangling lantern. When it passed, Clare noticed movement against the shadowy walls of the tailor’s store across the way.
Squinting, she tried to discern the shape and stared at it for a while until at last the figure moved into the light of a gas lamp. It was the face of an elderly woman she had never seen before, wearing a once-ornate hat and a shabby coat.
And she was looking directly at Clare.
Clare panicked and pulled her head back, just for a moment, but long enough. When she craned her neck out again and panned the dark, rough-hewn street in all directions, she was dismayed.
Her pursuer was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 29
The Fight
“Shall I pull the clock off the wall for you, dear? That might keep you from staring at it so.” Magdalene’s countenance shined warmly as her gnarled fingers needled the fabric.
“Am I looking at it that much?” Clare asked sheepishly.
“Why don’t you just go to the fight?” Sara folded some trousers on her table.
“I’m not interested in it, that’s all.” Clare didn’t even sound convincing to herself.
They worked in awkward quiet for a spell and then Sara spoke up. “What happened between you and the prizefighter?”
“Sara,” Magdalene huffed. “Where are your manners?”
“I’m just asking what you’re thinking.” Sara mocked a scowl at the older woman.
Another few uncomfortable minutes passed, and this time Magdalene broke the silence. “It’s obvious your mind is elsewhere. Why don’t you go early?”
“I told you, I don’t want to.” Clare pulled out a pair of shears and mashed out a pattern. “Besides. I couldn’t get out of shift anyway.”
“With Carl?” Sara laughed. She whistled and waved to their foreman who was at another row, scribbling in his work journal.
“Sara!” Clare put her head down. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Nonsense,” said the blonde. Sara had caught the attention of the potbellied man and he was strolling toward them. She turned to Clare. “What will it be? Sickness? Tragedy?”
“Tell him the truth, Clare,” Magdalene said calmly.
“What is it, Sara?” Carl slouched up against the back of her workstation.
“Clare needs to leave, that’s all.”
His gaze drifted off of Sara and onto Clare.
“Well, tell him,” Sara prodded.
“She’s taken a liking to John Barden,” Magdalene said.
“She has?” Carl stood up and took a few steps toward Clare’s desk. “I’ve taken a liking to the man myself. Five dollars’ worth. And why should I care about Clare?”
“You should care . . .” Magdalene started. “You should care because he’s never lost with Clare at his side.”
Carl’s eyebrow raised. “Is that true?”
Clare shot Magdalene a sharp glance.
“True as day,” Sara said.
“She won’t take credit for it,” Magdalene said, “but with my money on John Barden myself, I’m not wanting to test superstition.”
He raised his head in doubt.
“Well, you old bramber.” Magdalene planted her hands on her hips. “It’s enough you want to throw my paltry wages to the wind. How much did you put out on the fight?”
“Enough.” He knotted his forehead and pivoted his head in both directions. “All right then. Go that way. It’s not as if we’ll miss your productivity.”
Clare froze.
“Well, girl?” Magdalene waved her hand at Clare. “Get you gone. If you don’t go now, you’ll miss it all.”
“For your own good,” Carl said, “you better be sure about your man.”
Clare gave Magdalene a hug and then slid out the side door into the night.
By the time Clare arrived at the gaping entranceway to the Old Brewery building, she was short of breath and sweaty from her scampering. The crowd had amassed to the point where it seemed hopeless she would be able to nudge her way to the front.
“Wonderful evening for a prizefight, wouldn’t you say?”
Clare turned and was flabbergasted to see the man who had dwelled in her idle musings since she first met gazes with him. It was the blond man who had handed her the tract. Up close, there was no disappointment in his appearance. He seemed taller, more handsome, and even kinder than she had imagined.
“Yes, lovely day.” What? Couldn’t she think of something more dignified to say?
“Of course, it’s interesting to be covering the story of a fight that doesn’t really exist, that is, if you ask the alderman or the constables.”
“Story?”
“Oh yes. I’m Andrew Royce, with the New York Daily.” He held out his hand and she gave him hers and he gripped it.
“I thought you were—”
“Yes. I’m that too. Did you read—?”
“Several times.” There was a shout and Clare saw there was movement in the crowd. What awful timing for this encounter. “I probably . . . should go.”
“I understand. But if you could spare just a moment. I’ve wanted to speak to you, for some time.”
“You have?” Clare fumbled with her wig.
“You’re close to Patrick Feagles, am I right? Would you mind a question or two?”
Clare felt duped. To think he had genuine interest in her! “I would mind and I really must go.”
She watched his face drain. “Right. Terribly sorry about delaying you. None of that matters. Perhaps we could talk about that tract some day?”
“Perhaps.” Clare’s emotions churned. “And another thing.”
“Yes, what’s that?”
“I’m not a prostitute.” With that, she stomped away and blended into the crowd.
Clare climbed up on an oak barrel and craned her head around to find a view through the crowd. There, in a small clearing in the center of the vast room, the two fighters danced anxiously in their la
st preparations for the bout. Her uncle leaned over and spoke into John’s ear.
For Clare, it seemed imprudent for her to see him in the flesh, but even from this distance she could clearly see the sharp definition of his body, which was contoured and firm.
As he shuffled his legs and threw punches in the air, John appeared nervous, almost frightened. Clare watched him under the rabid attention of the hundreds of onlookers and her emotions surprised her. Rather than experiencing a heightened reverence toward him in the brightness of his celebrity, she felt pity for the man.
Something about last night unsettled her spirits. Although his devotion to his daughter was touching, her heart pained for Tara. As broken as the woman was, there was still hope in her eyes and Clare wanted no part in blowing out the dull, flickering flame. She didn’t want to pass judgment on John, but the thought of a deeper relationship between them seemed instinctually wrong.
Opposite John was a man who must be Billy Tunnel. He was not what she had expected. He wasn’t particularly well built, was a bit stooped, and had pale skin, shimmering wet in the light. But he shadowboxed with fluidness and poise.
The audience was rabid with shouts and cheers and the expansive room seemed on edge to break out in fights all through the crowds. A chill from the cool air combined with the morbid enthusiasm for violence in the air and made her ill.
Just outside of the ring, she spotted first Seamus and then Pierce, holding out fists full of currency, taking in final wagers from those who bellowed at them with arms waving wildly.
Clare climbed down and burrowed her way through the interlaced bodies before her. Her efforts were met with curses and shoves. She pressed through it, and though she found her romantic interest in the fighter waning, she still worried about John’s safety. She felt weak for caring for the man but could not resist the seduction of the moment.
Despite her frantic appeal as the time grew short, few were yielding as she progressed. Several pushed her back, while others grinned at her greedily as she went by, groping and clawing. She almost turned back in the face of the fury, but she persevered through the indignity.
As she approached, a bell sounded to gather the attention of the assembly. Seamus noticed her approaching and shouted out, “Let the lady through. Clear the way.”
It did little to coax cooperation from those in her way, but it did encourage Clare to push more forcefully, and at last she broke through close enough to catch the attention of John Barden. He seemed equally surprised and pleased, but in his presence of mind merely winked to acknowledge her.
“Make room for her, or I’ll pummel you.”
Clare spun to see Patrick Feagles with a cigar in his mouth reaching out to her, and she accepted his hand.
“Didn’t expect you here,” he shouted, barely audible above the clamor.
“Neither did I.”
The bell sounded and the two warriors began the clash.
John was resolute as he marched toward his opponent, and with a confident step Billy lurched forward and the place erupted in fury, one raging beast with a thousand flailing arms. Clare felt the weight of the frenzy pressing in on her, and she thought she might get crushed.
“Get ’em, John,” rose one voice above the audience.
“Enough dancing,” came another.
“Give him something, Billy.”
The battle had just begun, but even to her inexperienced eye, Clare could see the inequity. John Barden was sturdy and relentless. But Billy Tunnel glided with an eloquence that was captivating. He dodged, ducked, shifted, and faded with ease to each and every one of John’s angry swings. And then, seeing an opening, Billy would strike with a precise combination. Stomach, cheek, stomach. Jaw, waist, arm.
“Have you been drinking, Johnny?” was just one of many taunts hurled toward the outclassed fighter, and they grew in cruelty and frequency.
Seamus and Pierce wrestled their way to where Clare and Patrick were standing at ringside, and both were displaying strains of concern.
“What’s the matter with him?” Seamus said to Patrick.
“Don’t worry.” Patrick handed each of them a cigar after lighting them from his own. “We’ve got to entertain them first.”
Clare watched as John became more frustrated and his swings grew wilder. It seemed certain no one had told him the fight was fixed. Billy mesmerized him with a flair of mockery, like a bullfighter waving a cape before impaling the bull. This only inflamed the Irishman further.
Soon a trickle of blood streamed from the corner of John’s mouth. Staggering back after a blow by his opponent, John glanced briefly at Clare, and in that flash of a moment, her heart sank with the shame and fear expressed in his eyes. She felt helpless.
Billy’s taunting dance gave way to a seriousness, and sensing an opening he began to pound more furiously. Already winded and abused, John clung to the Southerner in desperation as the crowd booed.
“Can’t they stop it?” Clare asked Patrick, whose confidence had begun to wane.
“Stop it? It hasn’t started.” He pulled out his cigar and cupped his mouth with his hand. “Let’s go, lads!”
Discontent in the audience grew. The insults were hurled by those who wagered their earnings on John, and even those who favored Billy seemed disappointed by the lack of suspense.
Clare glared from face to face to try to answer the vitriol being fired at John, but she was invisible to them and was jostled as they compacted toward the ring. She could only think of one thing to do in the midst of the maelstrom. “Please, God, protect him.”
She must have uttered it loudly because it drew a response from Patrick. “He better start fighting, or he will need God’s protection.”
Somehow through the beating, John gathered his courage and remained determined. Whether through his resolve or through Billy’s lapse of focus, an errant fist met its mark and for the first time, fate shifted in the fight. The Southerner stumbled back and tripped and nearly lost his feet.
John lunged and began to throw whatever last efforts of his arsenal remained. Out of a dozen punches, only two hit, but with enough vehemence it riveted through the room and the audience responded.
Patrick elbowed Seamus. “I told you, lad. Here it is now. C’mon, Johnny.”
Billy staggered and John placed his arm on the fighter’s neck and swung with his free arm. Clare felt sick as she found herself urging John to finish him off, but she just wanted it to be over. Bottles were thrown and shattered on the floor.
In an expression of pure agility, Billy slipped out of John’s grip and danced back as first a gasp of surprise and then exultation came from the gathering. His brow was split, and crimson flowed freely. He wiped it with the back of his hand and examined it, and anger rose in his demeanor.
As John pressed inside, Billy responded with a flurry of blows, executed with skill and force. The Irishman stumbled backward and his knees wobbled.
“No. No. No.” Patrick threw his cigar to the floor and he spun and raised an arm to someone in the back of the room.
John regained his balance, yet Clare could now see his face was bloodied, eyes puffed and his lip swollen. He was dazed yet leaned forward into the fight.
Without hesitation, Billy threw a combination of swings and the third one, an uppercut, sent John backward to the floor in a defenseless flop, his head bouncing violently on the hard floor.
Almost simultaneously, dozens of whistles sounded and Clare looked back to see scores of policemen flowing into the crowd from the main entrance with batons raised and rage in their eyes.
“What’s all this?” she shouted to Patrick.
“Insurance.”
A few scuffles broke out, but most of the onlookers streamed out of whatever doors they could find. Even Billy Tunnel was being whisked away by his manager.
&nb
sp; In the cover of the mayhem, Clare fought her way to John and slid down beside the fallen warrior. His eyes were open and staring vacantly at the ceiling.
“Is he gone?” Seamus asked.
“Is there a doctor?” Clare said.
“If there was, they are running away from the law,” her brother responded. “We’ve got to get him out.” Seamus barked at a couple of men standing near. “You there. Give us a lift. Quickly.”
They lifted up the battered fighter and carried him between them.
“I know a way,” said one of the men. “Follow me.”
Seamus glanced back at Patrick and Pierce who were being hounded by gamblers seeking their payout.
“The fight was ended, without resolution,” Patrick hollered, but he hardly quelled the venom.
“I’ve got to stay back,” Seamus shouted.
“Be careful,” Clare said to her brother.
The men were dragging John Barden away and Clare scampered out after them.
Chapter 30
The Fallen
When is the doctor going to arrive?
Clare found herself alone with John and regretful she had allowed the men who carried him to her bedroom to abandon them. They promised they would fetch a physician, but now she suspected help was never summoned.
She was terrified to leave John’s side for even a moment but was weighing this fear against the dire need to muster assistance.
But who would come? And who could she trust not to give away John’s location? Surely the police would be searching for him as well as the hundreds who had lost money on the Irishman.
Clare was comforted by the rising and falling of his chest, but could see little life in the bludgeoned face of the fighter. Dipping a rag into a tin bowl of water, she stroked away the blood and sweat from his disfigured face. It was hard to imagine this was the same man who, only an hour before, stood before her as if he were carved from granite.
The front door snapped open in the other room and Clare was overjoyed. But this emotion subsided as she heard Pierce’s loud and drunken voice.
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