by Janet Woods
‘As for Miss Goodman, she has forgiven the baron for his part in the affair. He’s not a bad fellow, just weak and easily led. His mother was a bit of a termagant, so he’s used to being managed by a woman. Miss Goodman has taken her cousin’s side, and has berated her mother over her attitude. The woman was quite taken aback. I think Miss Goodman will demand that the baron drops Simon Mortimer from their circle when they’re married. She is eager to go up in the world.’
Alex grinned. ‘You’re a mine of information, Matthew.’
John offered the man his hand and smiled.
‘I shall enjoy relieving you of your purse, Mr Howard,’ Matthew said.
The atmosphere of the crowd changed. It fell quiet, except for a couple of catcalls.
‘Coward,’ someone called out. ‘Call yourself a gentleman, Mortimer.’
John Howard patted Matthew’s well-padded shoulder. ‘Good luck, Scarlet Fury. Whatever the outcome, you will be looked after.’
Alex paraded him to rousing cheers. It seemed that a lady’s honour was a very popular subject with the crowd.
Like Matthew, Simon wore long white breeches and his trunk was bare. Matthew was imposing in his swirling red cloak and the silk hood that ended in a mask for eyes. There was another outburst of cheering when he threw aside his cloak and shadow-boxed at the air to keep his muscles warm.
Simon’s efforts brought some more name-calling and hisses. Somebody threw a dead rat at his feet. The referee threw it into the crowd and sent the opponents to their respective corners.
‘Go easy on him, Matthew. I don’t want his death on my hands.’
‘I’ll just bloody him a bit, sir.’
At first glance the men were ill-matched. Matthew was shorter and stockier than Simon, who had the longer reach to his advantage. Both were well muscled, especially across the stomach. Matthew’s shoulders and arms supported more muscle, and his hands were thick, tough and callused.
The crowd parted as a closed carriage edged through and found a place to stand. It bore the royal crest. A cheer went up from the crowd when two soldiers took up duty.
The promoter drew the fighters together and related the rules. There were not many. No grabbing below the waist was allowed. No wrestling holds. If one of the contestants fell and couldn’t square up – which meant being able to get up and stand upright unaided, and no more than a yard from his foe – he’d lose the match. If he stayed down he lost, whether alive or dead.
Both men bowed towards the carriage.
‘Scarlet Fury! Scarlet Fury!’ the crowd began to chant.
Simon stuck his fists in the air in the pose of a boxing stance.
‘Very pretty,’ John Howard muttered.
The referee lowered his handkerchief.
Simon had left himself wide open. Matthew drove a fist up under him. The first punch made a solid, meaty contact with Simon’s stomach.
Alex winced when the air huffed from Simon’s mouth and he bent over. Another punch from Matthew set him upright again.
‘Scarlet Fury!’ was shouted from several hundred mouths.
It was obvious who was going to win the match right from the beginning. Simon got in a few good punches to the body, but Matthew was methodical and seemed to be working to a plan. He allowed enough punches to land and bruise him a little, staggering now and again to give his opponent confidence. In his turn he inflicted real punishment on Simon, punch for punch and every one landing where it counted, so the man knew he wasn’t going to get off lightly.
After an hour the crowd was crying out for blood.
Breathing heavily, Simon staggered, as if his legs were too weak to support him for much longer. Blood streamed from his nose and his eyes were puffy and swollen. He lifted his arm to ward off a blow and there was a sharp crack when a punch landed on it.
Simon screamed and staggered backwards, clutching his broken arm with the other. Colour drained from his face, leaving it waxen.
A hand shoved him back into the middle … Freddie’s, Alex thought.
Matthew smiled at the swaying Simon. ‘That one was for Miss Fox. The next one is for the maid, Maria. It might teach you not to hit women again. So far I’ve just tickled you.’ The stomach punch had some weight behind it and sent Simon flying backwards on to the canvas. He lay there, his body doubled over his good arm, and retching. He wasn’t moving and groaned loudly.
After a while the referee climbed into the ring and began to count. When he’d finished he nudged Simon with his foot, and getting no response he took Matthew’s arm and held it up in the air. ‘I declare this bout to have been a fair fight, and the winner is the Scarlet Fury.’
The occupant of the coach lowered the window a little. An arm clad in a dark blue sleeve with a buttoned cuff and immaculate frill slid through the gap. A purse was dropped into the palm of one of the soldiers, and then the arm withdrawn. It was passed on to Matthew. The soldier took his place on the back of the carriage.
Slick with sweat, Matthew indicated his thanks by giving a short bow before the coach made its way out of the park.
The crowd erupted into cheering.
Alex handed Matthew a towel. ‘Well done, Matthew. Are you still in one piece?’
He nodded as they gazed at the body of Simon being carried off through the crowd towards the doctor’s tent by Statham and Freddie. The mood of the crowd was unsympathetic, especially from those who had wagered their all on him.
Matthew shrugged. ‘I hope that will be the last I see of him. I won’t be so kind next time.’
The hat was passed round the crowd. John Howard took charge of the nobbins and their share of anything else they were entitled to, making sure Matthew got his. The servant had bet all he had on the fight.
Covered again in his flamboyant red satin cloak and with the hooded mask still in place, Matthew’s departure was as spectacular as his appearance had been. He swaggered a little, arms flung far and wide, like a triumphant hero in an opera. The crowd screamed and shouted when he stood on the carriage step, then tore off the mask and threw it into the crowd. A scuffle for the prize began.
The program moved on with two females taking the crowd’s attention. A cheer went up when a buxom woman clouted an equally buxom opponent. She screeched like a cat and then shouted some foul vulgarity as she raked long fingernails down her protagonist’s face.
‘This will be a no-holds-barred affair,’ Alex observed.
Matthew began to scramble into his shirt and trousers in the swaying carriage. ‘I’m glad to be rid of that mask. I never did like that fancy dress stuff. Besides, the colour doesn’t suit me.’
Alex asked, because he knew there must be a point, ‘Why wear it then?’
John laughed as he directed the carriage to Mrs Crawford’s address. ‘The crowd will remember the match more for its theatrical touches than the purpose of it. The Scarlet Fury will be a legend for several days … or even longer. The effect should be to minimize my niece’s part in the affair. If we can keep her out of sight until her injuries heal, in a few days they won’t even remember her name.’
Vivienne was too pretty a name to forget, and it suited her, he thought.
‘The punters will dislike Mortimer, because they lost a lot of money backing him. He also lost a great deal of money on himself. He could end up in debtors’ prison unless his colleagues stand to cover his debts. Statham might, now he’s going to wed the sister.’
‘He’ll lose even more money when he learns that Vivienne isn’t as well off as he imagined. I put a shilling on a negative result.’
John said with a grin, ‘A whole shilling?’
‘Don’t mock. That’s just about the extent of my fortune.’
‘If you win you’ll be able to buy me a tankard of ale.’
‘With pleasure. Personally, I’ll be glad to get home. My guess is that nothing more will come of this, and the whole pack of them will leave town with their tails between their legs, and as soon as possible. Will you be returni
ng to your place of employment, Matthew?’
‘Yes, My Lord, Mrs Goodman can’t dismiss me, only the agency can, and they will if they find out about the fight. Then again, with the contract due to end in a week they probably won’t bother.’
‘Won’t they have missed you?’
‘The ladies sleep till noon, and will still be in bed, I imagine. No doubt they will have me running back and forth, and the agency will keep me on until after they’ve gone, if only to set the place to rights. Then I’ll look around for some premises to rent, big enough to start my academy, and with some rooms to settle down in if Maria will have me.’
‘I’ll put the word out amongst my colleagues,’ John offered.
‘And I’ll put in a word for you with Maria.’ Alex held out a hand. ‘Good luck, Matthew, and many thanks.’
‘Thank you, My Lord. Miss Fox is a lovely young lady with a good heart, and it was a privilege to act as her champion on your behalf, as well as Maria’s. It would be a shame to lose her to another man.’
As if he would … There was no doubt in Alex’s mind now. He was going to marry Vivienne Fox.
The carriage dropped them off at John Howard’s club. ‘Join me for dinner later, My Lord. By then I will have sorted out the proceeds of today’s little monetary exercise,’ John said, and he handed over a purse. ‘Here’s an advance of your winnings today. Would it be an insult if I suggested you buy a new suit of clothes? Those dittos are looking rather shabby. I’ll deduct the amount from your share.’
At least he had that as salve for his pride.
Which reminded Alex about Howard’s offer for the King’s Mile. When he returned to his lodging from his shopping expedition he inserted a thumbnail under the edge of the wax seal and applied a little pressure.
He hesitated. John Howard was tricky.
It’s too late! You’ve made a counter offer and you’ve shaken the man’s hand on it.
I know, but what the hell have I agreed to?
There is only one way to find out.
He pushed his nail a little further and the edges of the paper sprang apart. He laughed. The man certainly had a twisted sense of humour.
Twenty-Three
The day came when Vivienne looked in the mirror and discovered the last of her bruises had disappeared.
Alex had told her she was beautiful and now she felt it, like a warm glow had spread from her heart into her body. She saw it reflected in her eyes too, something bright and shining and filled with love.
August turned. September became a riot of autumn hues that painted the landscape with the glow of warm honey. With each breeze the leaves shook free from their winter bones and the air was filled with a swirl of bronze, gold and red that danced like gypsies, and then settled to be crunched underfoot.
Vivienne’s mind began to heal. She no longer jumped at shadows or feared the worst at every snap of a twig. She no longer cried without reason.
Vivienne enjoyed being with her father again. He was a calm man – a good man without being self-righteous. She was proud to be his daughter, but there was a restlessness inside her … a marking of time and the need to free herself of his influence.
He called her into his study one day. Jane was there and the pair looked so happy that she guessed what he wanted to tell her.
She hugged them both. ‘So tell me, Papa, when is the wedding to be?’
‘The weekend after next; it will be conducted by the bishop.’
She experienced a momentary shock. ‘So soon?’
‘Who was it that chided me not so long ago that I’d kept Jane waiting for too long? We saw no reason to wait any longer, and we want you to know that nothing will change, and it will make no difference to the household arrangements.’
‘You mean you won’t throw me out into the street? That’s a relief.’
Alarm filled his eyes. ‘Oh … my dear child … I didn’t mean … of course we wouldn’t. You will always have a home with us and I’m sure Jane will act as a wonderful mentor to you, should you need any advice.’
Us. The word hung there provocatively. Even while she understood it, the use of the word had raised a barrier. It hurt her, for it changed things. She’d been demoted into second place … an unmarried daughter, a guest in the home she’d grown up in. As an infant her mother had nurtured her here. As a child her grandmother had taken over. She’d been loved in this house, and had given her love in return when it had been her turn to be the carer. Now it was being taken from her.
Her inner voice was stern. If you regard yourself as an adult then act like one, Vivienne. Your father deserves to be happy.
Drawing in a breath, she said, ‘I’m sure Jane would make a wonderful mentor had I the need for one. However, no doubt she’ll be pleased to know that I’m old enough to manage my own affairs.’
She exchanged a glance with Jane and they both laughed, but there was something in the woman’s eyes … a challenge perhaps, and they both knew that change was inevitable … that Jane would not expect, or accept, being placed second place to his daughter. She would take over responsibility for the household, and she would run it her way. Vivienne would have to defer to her. She conceded that it was how it should be, but she didn’t have to like it.
She needed her own home – her own husband and children. So why didn’t she have them now she was sitting on a fortune? Not even the ubiquitous Simon Mortimer had followed up his terrible assault with a proposal, so she could have the satisfaction of turning him down.
When the earl came she would tell him about her fortune … and tell him that she loved him. Yes, the next time she saw him she definitely would tell him, she promised herself. After all, how hard was it to say out loud. ‘I love you,’ she murmured, and she smiled. There, it wasn’t hard at all.
She waited patiently for Alex to come, counting the seconds as she wove the needle in and out of her embroidery, building up the stitches like moments of her life. When she tired of that she took up a pencil and pad. When she tired of sketching the cottage that had always been her home, and tired of sketching the inside of the church when she should have been praying … then she sketched her father in the pulpit and the congregation in their best Sunday dresses. Next came Jane, looking demure and in training for her upcoming role as a clergyman’s wife, accepting the interest of the parishioners gracefully.
The Reverend Fox was married to Jane Bessant without fuss. Half the population of the village turned up to watch them take their vows.
Vivienne cried a little, for even while she wished them much happiness there was a deep sense of loss in her. She felt abandoned and alone, and it seemed as if summer had slid into a quiet autumn and had taken her with it.
The following week, Vivienne learned that Jane disliked dust. She was efficient, almost ruthless. The house was cleaned from top to bottom and what was deemed as rubbish was thrown out to make room for Jane’s things.
There was a silent struggle between the two women. Into a box went the offerings of childhood, paintings dedicated to a beloved father’s various birthdays by his daughters. They were relegated to the attic.
There was a grand bonfire, as if Jane was seeking to wipe away her father’s past. Vivienne was forced to rescue several items that had belonged to her mother: a small landscape she’d painted, a tortoiseshell box. The furniture was repositioned to the taste of the new mistress.
Her father and his new wife belonged together. When he came home from work his eyes sought out Jane’s first, and they’d exchange a smile that spoke of an intimacy that shut her out. It was embarrassing to see him in love. He was her papa. Jane was his wife … his help-meet.
Vivienne had not expected her life to change. She had adored him first. Jane offered him a different kind of adoration.
Jane helped him with his sermon … something he’d never allowed Vivienne to do.
Vivienne began to feel like an outsider. People could no longer wander into the cottage to pass the day with him over a glass
of cider. She could not argue with him over some point lest Jane frown on her. In fact, she could no longer consult with her father on a whim. She discovered something ruthless about Jane. She liked to organize people.
‘Alex has forgotten about me too,’ Vivienne said to her reflection one day, in a slightly surprised voice.
The cat appeared out of the point of her pencil as she quickly sketched memories before Jane changed them. He was lying on the windowsill and still following the sun, which now had a mellow September glow to it. Soon it would be winter and he’d swap his position for a human lap or the armchair, to roast in front of the fire. He was already practising his charms on the new mistress, cozying up to her with little mews. He knew where his comfort would be best served.
A dead mouse was dropped at Jane’s feet as an offering. Jane didn’t turn a hair, just picked the mouse up by its tail and cooed to the cat, ‘There’s a good boy,’ before throwing it out of the window into the shrubbery.
Vivienne was dying of boredom. She felt herself beginning to dry up from doing things by habit. She dusted places that no longer needed dusting. She absorbed the uselessness of it since the dust hadn’t settled from its last dusting. She fought the boredom, still waiting, for she had not yet given up. Inside her was a creature waiting to be loved … waiting for the demons in her body to be sated. She wanted that disorder of body and soul – needed it. Needed Alex. Why hadn’t he sent word?
Jane’s industriousness made her feel guilty.
Maria was tight-lipped, so she carried an atmosphere around with her like a swarm of disturbed bees. ‘I’m a lady’s maid not a housemaid,’ she said to Jane one day, to which Jane replied, ‘We don’t need a lady’s maid, but we do need a maid of all work. I’ve never seen such a dusty, unkempt house.’
Mrs Tilly was resentful, and looked magnificent with her hands planted firmly on her hips as she informed Vivienne, ‘Ten years I’ve been working here and this is the first time anyone has said my work isn’t good enough. The new mistress has wrote something called a schedule and pinned it to the wall. No good putting that there, I told her, since I can’t read all them fancy words.