by Erica Brown
In the second fight a blacksmith from Bedminster was soundly beaten by one of the miners from Kingswood. A warehouseman from Brandon Hill, a lithe and lanky type with long arms and quick feet, brought a thickset man to his knees. And through it all, Cuthbert Stoke smiled and counted money from one hand into the other.
Tom tried to look through the crowd for some sign of Sally. At the sight of a cluster of ostrich feathers or the trill of feminine laughter, he turned his head, fully expecting to see her. Instead his eyes met those of another woman. Of course, she’d have that same quick smile, that pay-me look in her eyes. But there was no sign of Sally.
‘Your turn,’ Stoke shouted above the din.
A big bruiser of a man stepped into the ring. His legs were like tree trunks and his arms matched.
Stoke nudged him. ‘Told you he was built like a bull, didn’t I?’
The monster in the ring cracked his fingers and stood glaring at Tom. His underwear flopped over a thick leather belt like a skirt. And he stank.
Like hounds on the scent of blood, the crowd erupted, their excitement rousing the pigeons in the rafters. Feathers floated down and excrement dropped like rain as the birds left the area above the makeshift ring to find less noisy roosts.
The two men faced each other within the straw ring.
Tom held his fists high and his elbows close to his side. Light on his feet, he circled the other man without blinking. His opponent was heavily built, and therefore slow on his feet. But his fists were like anvils; one blow was likely to take Tom’s head off if he wasn’t careful. But he didn’t watch the man’s fists. He always looked at his opponent’s eyes. A man’s eyes changed just before a blow was delivered. Less than a blink, the change was almost imperceptible, more a quickening of the pupil preceding the movement of the fist.
Tom had heard long ago that you could smell fear, almost taste it. You could also, he thought, smell excitement. He could smell it in the crowd now, hear it in the pregnant silence before the fight started, and taste it on the wave of beer-fuelled breath that tainted the air.
Men thrived on violence in different ways. Some thrived on feeling the crunch of their own bones against the jaw of their opponent. Others thrived on watching violence, the fighters carrying out the spectators’ aggression by proxy.
He circled warily. The crowd erupted with excitement as he jabbed a right to the man’s jaw. His opponent looked surprised.
This was not a man used to being beaten. Fear of losing face among his peers was as bad, if not worse, than losing the fight. He would become obsessed with his need to win, and thus become rash with his fighting strategy.
The big man lunged, arms flailing, fists flying. The stout legs, unused to quick movement, stumbled slightly as he tried to charge, head down and fists lashing. One blow almost hit home, but Tom saw it coming, and danced away. Again and again the man tried the same thing. Sometimes he managed to land a punch, but not in the danger zones. Head, heart and guts, that’s where he needed to hit, but Tom wouldn’t give him the chance. He kept on his toes, dancing away from danger the moment a connection looked likely.
Again and again the big arms ranged outwards, fists swinging and meeting nothing but air. Sweat flew from his stinking body and ran in rivulets into his creased underwear, the sleeves of which flew about his body like broken wings.
Tom landed a right, then a left and a right again on the big man’s chin. His head jerked back. Blood streamed with snot from a cracked nostril, but still the man did not go down.
The crowd were baying for blood and their mood didn’t sound good. The noise was enough to burst eardrums. The men working Temple Meads Meadows had come in force to cheer on their champion and their mood was turning as ugly as their looks.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom spotted Cuthbert Stoke, but could not read his expression. He could guess how many bets he’d taken and could almost recite word for word what Stoke might have told them about the match.
Tom Strong is a gentleman with a gift for a fight, but not a man who toils with pick-axe or shovel. Bound to be softer, but skilled, mark you, skilled!
They would have believed Stoke and decided he was soft, and Stoke would have let them think that. He would not have added that he was a sea captain at the age of twenty-three, had sailed all the oceans of the world by his late twenties and had brawled and broken heads from Marseilles to Madagascar. He also had a habit of changing strategy halfway through a fight once he saw which way the fight was going. Stoke had made the crowd believe that the bull man would win, when in fact he was sure he would lose, which also meant that the majority, who had betted on the navvy to win, would lose their stake. Stoke would have it all.
For the briefest of moments, he dropped his guard and a fist the size of a small anvil sent him reeling – just as he’d wanted it to.
Stoke looked panic stricken. There he stood, clutching the money, money he’d thought would be going straight into his pocket.
Once more a big fist grazed Tom’s chin. He reeled again, legs crumpling under him as he slowly fell back against the bales of straw that would cushion his fall. Satisfied that he’d judged it right, he closed his eyes and let himself drop.
Stoke was livid.
The big bull from the railway gang was not so easily fooled. He sought Tom out where he was washing himself with ice-cold water from the spring at the rear of the premises.
He spoke in an accent that had its roots somewhere in Killarney. ‘There was no call for you to do that, mister. The way you was dancin’ around me, I couldn’t catch you let alone hit you. Why’d ya stop?’
‘I had my reasons.’
The man nodded as if Tom had uttered the wisest statement ever made. ‘Will you let me buy you a beer?’ he asked.
Tom shook his head. ‘No. Thank you anyway, but I’ve got an errand to do.’
The man shrugged and turned away and the small yard that housed the spring smelled relatively fresh once more.
Stoke was waiting for him outside the Fourteen Stars. ‘You lost! You bloody lost!’
Tom grabbed him by the throat. ‘Where is she, Stoke?’
Stoke garbled an explanation, though the words were strangled by the tightness of Tom’s hands around his throat.
Tom loosened his grip and repeated his question.
‘I don’t know!’ Stoke stammered. ‘Unless she’s at home in bed. She is ill, you know.’
He crumpled as Tom landed a heavy fist in his guts.
Tom left him there. At that moment, he never wanted to see the Fourteen Stars again.
The smell of decay was as strong as ever in the small alley leading off the Christmas Steps. Flakes of wattle fallen from the crumbling walls crunched underfoot. Flies rose in a buzzing mass from a pile of human excrement, deposited there by people with no access to a privy and no regard for who might come there after them. For once he was thankful for flies. Rather them warn him of where it was than step in it.
He peered through Sally’s window and saw only darkness. There was no fire in the grate and no sign of life. Perhaps she was already dead, lying in her filthy bed, no one knowing her state. The thought of it panicked him. The door rattled at his assault. He banged and slapped the splintered wood and shouted loud until heads poked out of upstairs windows.
‘What’s all that noise?’ someone shouted.
‘I’m looking for Sally.’
‘She ain’t ’ere.’
‘Go away before I call the watch.’
‘I will not go until I’ve seen Sally.’
‘If you want the strumpet from down there, you’re out of luck. You’ll find more of ’er like down by the docks.’
The sweat of the fight turned cold on Tom’s back. He managed to ask, ‘Is she gone?’ It sounded futile, stupid. Of course she was gone. That was what they were telling him.
‘Oh she’s gone all right. Fished her out of the river this afternoon. Had her throat cut. But there, that’s life, ain’t it?’
A casement slammed shut some way above him and left him frozen to the spot. The years rolled back and again he was that little boy given the news that his mother was dead. History had repeated itself.
He made his way out of the alley and back to Bennett’s where he’d left his horse.
Stoke was in the Fourteen Stars next door, his face red from drink and his voice rising in song with the Irish navvies. Tom grabbed his arm and dragged him into the stables.
‘Did you know Sally was dead?’
For a moment, Tom could almost believe that Stoke was shocked at the news, perhaps even sad at Sally’s passing. He changed his mind when Stoke said, ‘Well, that’s the way most whores go.’ He shrugged resignedly. ‘That’s the way it is.’
Tom couldn’t stop his hands tightening around Stoke’s throat. ‘You bastard! You stinking bastard!’
Not until Stoke’s face had turned purple and he was close to being choked to death, did Tom let go. With one mighty heave, he threw him into a vacant stall – one that hadn’t been mucked out.
Spluttering for breath and holding his throat, Stoke was wise enough to stay put among the horse dung and urine-soaked straw.
‘And that’s where you belong,’ Tom said.
Outside a star-filled sky roofed the city. His head began to clear, but the feeling that he was trapped by circumstance would not go away. Life was harsh at sea, but he’d much rather be there than have to tell Clarence that his mother was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blanche had made up her mind to tell Nelson the truth regarding how she felt about him. True, she dreamed of the incident at the edge of the churchyard, the warmth of his body against hers, the flush of released energy, but then, as she gazed up breathless into his face… she saw Tom.
Why? She watched the children make a new tail for their kite, thanks to their mother’s lap dog. Prince Charles had got out again. Yapping in wild excitement, he had leapt up at the kite tail. For a split second it had looked as though he would take off with it but, stuffed with sweetmeats by his indulgent owner, he’d come heavily down to earth, the kite tail chewed and tattered.
Tom was easy to talk to.
Whatever he said was the truth.
Whatever he did was honourable and he wasn’t afraid to confront Sir Emmanuel Strong if he thought something was wrong.
At that moment Sir Emmanuel was ignoring him, something to do with Conrad Heinkel’s sugar refinery so she’d heard. It was Tom who had suggested she speak to Lady Verity about Grainger’s treatment of the children, including her liberal use of certain homemade remedies.
She promised herself that as soon as she’d seen Lady Verity, she would seek out Nelson and tell him exactly how she felt, that their evenings on the beach were long gone, that they were different people now. Making love at the edge of the churchyard was an event not to be repeated.
Lady Verity sat in the drawing room before midday, reading or attempting to write music, unless a morning soirée was arranged. The mayor’s wife, the sheriff’s wife, and as many titled people as possible, resplendent in silks and lace, and smelling of violets, usually attended.
From what Blanche had heard, they talked mostly about fashion, furnishings and social indiscretions. They rarely, if ever, discussed their children, unless they were of an age to be married off and therefore interesting.
Happily, Blanche had chosen a morning when Lady Verity was alone in the drawing room.
She told Soames, Lady Verity’s personal maid, that she wanted to see Lady Verity about the children’s welfare.
Soames, iron-grey hair ballooning around her face and stuffed into a fat bun at the nape of her neck, had been with Lady Verity’s family for years. When ‘her darling Verity’ had married, Soames had come too. There was nothing else so important in her life as being of service to her mistress. She never gossiped, never socialized with the rest of the household in the servants’ hall and always took her mistress’s part.
‘Wait there,’ she ordered Blanche, when it seemed she might cross the threshold without either permission or introduction.
She came out imperiously, as though she was as important a messenger as Moses bringing the Ten Commandments from on high.
‘She can’t possibly see you at the moment.’
‘Did you tell her the matter concerns her children’s welfare?’
Soames glared. ‘Prince Charles is asleep on her lap and she doesn’t want him disturbed.’
Blanche kept her temper – just. ‘I would have thought her children were more important than a dog.’
Soames pursed her lips, deep hollows forming beneath her cheekbones. ‘You are not here to think, merely to serve.’
It was no use arguing. Soames would be unmoved by allusions to the children. The only thing to unnerve her would be perceived danger to ‘her darling Verity’.
Blanche feigned concern. ‘Goodness!’ she gasped, her hand clapping against her open mouth. ‘Should she really be doing that? The fleas were popping and jumping all over the little creature when I saw him last, and he’s got a dirty backside. It’s those treats she keeps giving him.’
Soames took a sharp intake of breath as her jaw dropped. Hopeful, though not convinced that this piece of information would reach Lady Verity, Blanche went looking for Nelson. She bumped into Edith on the back stairs, a bundle of ironed baby linens in her arms.
‘Blanche,’ she said, her eyes brightening, ‘I thought you might want to know that the Reverend has been asking for you.’
Edith was back to her old self following her visit to Bristol with Tom, his marriage proposal forgotten. It appeared that Tom might have forgotten too. Blanche hadn’t seen him in days. And now Jeb Strong was asking for her, and Edith was allowing her to see him.
‘I’ll be along as soon as I can,’ she said, throwing Edith a friendly smile. Nelson was first on her list of priorities. Asking a servant his whereabouts would only give rise to gossip, but Edith knew her secret.
‘Have you seen Nelson?’ she whispered.
Edith screwed up her face in thought. ‘Might be out in the garden. Bin painting out there a lot lately.’
Marstone Court boasted a rose garden adjacent to the terrace, a water garden, an expanse of lawns, hedges, waterfalls and ponds that vaguely resembled Versailles, besides three separate vegetable gardens, a walled garden enclosing cherries, raspberries, gooseberries and other soft fruits, and an expansive orchard containing apple and plum trees.
Blanche started in the rose garden. The air smelled fresh, untainted as yet by the roses, which were still tightly in bud. She sniffed. Another scent permeated the crisp air. She smelled tobacco, sweeter yet more subtle than that of a pipe or cigar.
A cloud of smoke enticed her to a secluded arbour where yellow points of colour speared through the green of this year’s buds.
Heart pounding as she rehearsed what she had to say, Blanche clenched her fists and told herself to be brave.
‘Nelson…’ she began, then stopped dead.
In pale blue silk with cream collar and cuffs, every inch the wealthy lady with her lily-white hands and creamy complexion, Horatia was sitting, scribbling at a mass of papers. Reddening, she tucked the papers beneath the folds of her skirt and threw the unsmoked cheroot into the bushes.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blanche, backtracking immediately. ‘I was hoping—’
‘To find my brother? You were looking for Nelson?’
Blanche took in the cool beauty of the woman, the strength of her face and the brave look in her eyes. In some odd way, she found herself thinking that something of the way she herself felt was reflected in Horatia’s eyes, as though they were both leading lives to which neither of them was suited.
She couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason she was looking for Nelson. It was too intimate, too likely to attract disdain and condemnation from his sister. Taking an unblemished leaf from Edith’s book, she swiftly concocted a
suitable explanation.
‘I wanted to talk to someone regarding the children.’
Horatia frowned. ‘Why Nelson? What have they got to do with him – or me for that matter?’
Blanche chose her words carefully. ‘Sir Emmanuel is away on business. I have tried to see Lady Verity, but she…’ Blanche decided Horatia might possibly stand the truth. ‘Her maid, Soames, said that the dog was asleep on Lady Verity’s lap. She couldn’t possibly disturb him just to see me.’
Horatia’s face softened. She raised her fingers in front of her mouth and laughed as lightly as the breeze disturbing the tangled briars above her head.
‘The woman’s more fond of that dog than she is of her children. What do you think of that, Blanche?’
For a moment Blanche was taken aback. Only Nelson and Tom had ever called her by her first name. It was almost friendly, but Blanche judged it unwise to be too friendly back or to criticize Verity openly. After all, she was still only regarded as a servant here. ‘I felt it my duty to make someone in this house aware of the damage being done to the children.’
‘And the someone you chose to confide in was Nelson,’ said Horatia, her look a mix of disbelief and cunning. She never let an opportunity pass to demean her stepmother in her father’s eyes. So far as she was concerned, Verity was no different than the host of whores he’d set up as mistresses in houses he owned in Kings Square, Royal York Crescent, and Cornwallis Crescent when her mother was alive. If she could make use of Verity’s neglect to undermine their marriage, she would do so. She had a little time to spare before Josiah Benson arrived that day.
Horatia made room on the bench and invited Blanche to sit down.
‘You have ten minutes,’ she said, reverting to her usual abruptness.
Blanche explained about how Mrs Grainger used the cane, the attic and even composed songs for the children to sing praising their love for her, which never had and never would exist.
If she expected support, Horatia disappointed her. ‘We had the cane when we were children, though I don’t remember being locked up in the attic.’