by Edie Cay
The Boxer and the Blacksmith
When the Blood Is Up Book II
Edie Cay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Katie Stine
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].
First paperback edition February 2021
First digital edition February 2021
Cover design by Fiona Jayde Media
ISBN 978-1-7344397-3-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7344397-2-4 (ebook)
Published by ScarabSkin Books
www.scarabskinbooks.com
For all those who have nurtured a person, a pet, or a plant—you have brought good into the world as if by magic.
Contents
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Regency Slang
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Edie Cay
Cast of Characters
Paddington
* * *
Miss Bess Abbott, the best female boxer in London.
Tony Farrow, manager of Bess Abbott, owner of boxing training facility, the public house The Pig and Thistle
Miz Penny, commonlaw wife of Tony Farrow
Mrs. Martin, Bess Abbott’s landlady
Mr. Jeffers, a sometime day-laborer, sometimes thief, father of Violet.
Violet Jeffers, a boxing student, whose father is a drunk
Jane, a boxing student who has a wobbly tooth
Lucy, the smallest of the boxing girls
Prinny, a boxing student who has both parents
Nell, a gentle warm-hearted boxing student
Mary, a boxing student
Caulie, a prizefighter who became a jobber in the London Stock Exchange. No longer fights.
Basil, boxing announcer
Perry, a young boy in the pugilists’ world
Mr. Crawford, a boarder at Mrs. Martin’s house
Mr. Gregory, a boarder at Mrs. Martin’s house
Jack About Town, a finder in London, former student of Bess Abbott
* * *
Marylebone
* * *
Mr. John Arthur, her sparring partner, a former prizefighter now turned stockbroker
Mrs. John Arthur/Lady Lydia, an aspiring boxer, and new mother
Lady Agnes Somerset, younger sister of Lady Lydia
James Wallingford, Lord Andrepont, viscount, cousin to Ladies Lydia and Agnes
Henry Parks, Lord Kinsley, marquis, married to Rose
Lady Kinsley, née Rose Dorchester, marchioness and wife of Lord Kinsley
Mrs. Thomasina Franklin, mother of Bernard and Mary Franklin
Mr. Bernard Franklin, son of Thomasina Franklin
Miss Mary Franklin, daughter of Thomasina Franklin
* * *
Travelers
* * *
Bridget Kelly, an Irish boxer
Mr. O’Rourke, Bridget Kelly’s manager, also from Ireland
* * *
Manchester
* * *
Os Worley, a blacksmith from Manchester, now moved to London
Jean Fabron, blacksmith’s apprentice
Willrich, Lord Chitley, an aristocrat whose estate is near Manchester. Owns a plantation in Barbados.
Jane Lawrence, Lady Chitley, wife of Willrich, Lord Chitley
Mr. Gravestock, solicitor of the Chitley estate
Sophia, a lady’s maid and former lover of Os
Horace, an old friend in Manchester who runs a boarding house
Miss Mary Reed, Horace’s common law wife who also runs the boarding house
Master Hawthorne, master blacksmith in Manchester
Mrs. Reese, cook at the Chitley estate
Mr. Stratton, a vicar at a church in Freetown, Barbados
1
London, 1818
Bess swung her arms as she walked, an empty bottle in one hand, stretching out tight shoulders as she sidestepped piles of frozen horse dung in the not-quite-icy spring air. Her muscles were still warm, the sweat of her back causing her dress and cloak to cling, and she enjoyed the feeling of looseness in her body.
The narrow roads snuck between buildings, cramped and crowded, with occasional midden piles dotting the maze. The smell of humanity wasn’t masked by perfumes in this neighborhood. Strange maybe, that these odors made Bess feel at home, just like the uneven street and occasional squawk of a chicken put her shoulders at ease.
The promise of a meal quickened her step. Her landlady, Mrs. Martin, had put some kind of herb in that big pot, and it required a bit of ale to enhance the flavor. When Bess had arrived home after sparring practice with John Arthur, Mrs. Martin had sent her out to fetch some more.
Darkness fell fast in this part of London. The lamplighters came late to the streets of Paddington, which were not near so important as those in Mayfair or Marylebone. Mrs. Martin preferred Tuck’s ale to Tony’s, though Tuck’s was a bit further of a walk in the twilight. Perhaps Bess would grab a small beer while she waited for him to fill the bottle, and hopefully the gas lamps would be lit soon so she could better watch her step.
“’Ello, lovie, yer a two-handed cat,” a man crooned from a drunken perch in front of a now-closed market. He sat on empty apple boxes piled up and awaiting the next days’ fare, shrouded in shadow. Three other men lounged with him, the glass bottle glinting as they passed it amongst themselves.
Bess ignored them, continuing on her way.
“Awful big, ain’t ya? A right whapper,” another called. Their dockyard speech wasn’t slurred, but rather thick with gin. If they were from Paddington, they would have recognized her and known to leave her be.
“Off it, lads,” she warned them, never breaking stride. Their jeers didn’t bother her, but something in their tone made her prickle like she did just before a bout. She was glad she was still wearing her boxing costume, a gift from her late sponsor, Lord Denby. He had designed it for her alone: wide-legged trousers that looked like a skirt, with extra fabric in the shoulders to allow better range of motion. It was a terrible bother when relieving herself, but far better to fight in, especially in a moment like this. When a woman was outnumbered, hands could still scrabble up underneath skirts.
The empty apple boxes clattered as the men shifted their weight and stood, their boots heavy as they hit the ground.
The lamplighters were still some way off. Bess sighed and turned, hoping the men would see her better as the meager gaslight spilled down the thoroughfare. This usually put off any would-be brawlers. “I said, go home, lads.” Bess planted her feet and put down the bottle.
“Cor, not a beaut by any measure,” one of them said as he stalked closer.
“What’s with yer nose, pretty?” The men chuckled.
Bess took the insults without blinking. These jabs d
idn’t hurt, but she steadied her breathing, readying for the moment to come.
“Jeezus, Harry, look at her ears!” another said.
Bess had tried to take pride in the uneven scarring of her cauliflower ears. Male pugilists were proud of this physical sign of their profession, but somehow, Bess didn’t care for it, despite her status as a fighter being apparent in so many other ways.
“Eh,” said the one who was probably Harry. “Put a sack over ’er head.”
“You should be grateful some blokes want to have a bit o’ fun with you,” one insisted.
“Such a compliment,” another said, daring to pluck at her sleeve.
It was the sleeve that pushed her over the edge. She kicked the man closest to her and went after the one who had touched her. A quick right cross followed by a left uppercut and right kidney shot put him on the ground.
She pivoted to survey the other three. The man she’d kicked had stumbled but was on his feet. “Go home, lads,” she said, her hands still ready. She wasn’t above running, but with a group like this, it would be easy for them to overcome her if her back was turned.
They didn’t speak for a moment, still unable to understand how their chum had ended up on the ground.
“Let’s go, Mickey,” urged the one who had been kicked.
The man on the ground slowly got to his feet, clutching his side. It was Harry who stood his ground before capitulating to the others.
“But I’m taking yer bottle,” Harry cried, darting forward to snatch it up.
Bess took two quick strides forward. “You won’t,” she said.
“Come get it,” Harry sneered.
She took another step forward and the man dropped the bottle, hurrying off behind his friends.
The silhouettes faded into the darkness of the streets. Bess sighed and scooped up the bottle, inspecting it for damage. There was a chip on the lip now, which no doubt Mrs. Martin would ask about. She was careful about her things and didn’t care for scuff marks.
Suddenly, Bess heard clapping from behind her. She spun towards the noise, her heart ticking faster just as it had begun to slow down.
“Well done,” a low voice boomed.
Searching the dark shadows of the storefronts, Bess felt the voice almost in her bones. “Show yourself,” she said.
A large man with dark skin stepped out of the shadows and into the light. He was at least two hands taller than Bess, and twice as wide. In his hand, he carried a blacksmith’s hammer.
“I’d prefer if you put down the weapon,” Bess said. Again her nerves prickled, but this time in a way she could not identify. The man was powerfully built, but likely slow on his feet. If nothing else, she could slide in a few hits and then run. The hammer swing would be slow enough to dodge, but a mistake would be fatal.
He chuckled, another low noise that sounded more like the shifting starts of an iron locomotive. She felt it in her ribs, and it made an ache bloom almost as if she had been knocked by a belly-go-firster.
He put up one of his massive paws as a show of peace. “I’d not raise a weapon to the great Bess Abbott,” he said, lowering the hammer to rest on the ground.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” she said, still not abandoning her defensive stance but no longer thinking about running. The ache in her chest eased, and she was distracted by the roping power in his bare forearms, the low light etching him in silver and gold.
The man shook his head. He had no hair, and the dark skin of his bare pate gleamed. “I don’t believe you could have a disadvantage. You’re too quick.”
She watched him a minute more, waiting for something else to happen: an insult, a shout, or even for him to slide back into the shadows. Instead he smiled at her, which made her suspicious.
“I’ve watched your fights,” he said.
Bess harrumphed, relaxing. “Hard to get a set-to going.”
“So fight men. I’ve wondered why you didn’t. I’m glad I got the opportunity to ask.” His accent was strange. The lilting sounds of the West Indies came through, tempered by what sounded Northern, maybe a Manchester accent. The odd mix was pleasing to hear.
Bess put her hands on her hips. “That a compliment?”
“You’re my favorite fighter,” he said, leaning back against the building. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”
It sounded so wrong to hear, it almost struck her as a joke. She shook her head and walked over to where he stood. The hammer leaned against the wall next to him, the handle coming near to her waist. It was no ordinary tool. Suddenly, she forgot how to breathe, being this close to a man that wasn’t trying to train with her. “Then I thank you,” she said, gasping for no reason. “You a smug?”
“My foundry is up there,” he said, gesturing with his chin back toward Edgeware Road.
Bess frowned. “Isn’t that Barnsworth’s?”
“Took it over when he died. It’s been mine for a little over a year now,” the blacksmith said, shifting his weight to better look at her.
“I didn’t hear.” So many people from her childhood were passing that she could barely keep track of the old neighborhood anymore. The foundry was a landmark in everyone’s mind, a place of perpetual fire, the sound of metal on metal at all hours.
He lifted his massive shoulder and let it fall. The motion only showed how much power was poised inside of him. If he’d an inclination, there’d be plenty of money to be found in the ring.
The lamplighters approached, giving them both more light to see by. Bess was glad to get a better glimpse of him but embarrassed that he might see her in such disarray. The cuffs of her boxing costume were frayed, and he’d undoubtedly figured out that her skirt was in fact trousers. She liked the costume but knew how the rest of the world saw her when she wore it. She tired abruptly, wishing for sleep.
“So why don’t you fight men if you want to have more matches?” he asked.
Bess looked up at him. It was so strange to lift her chin to speak. “What man would agree to fight me? What if he lost?”
He chuckled again, the rumbling deep. It made her breath catch and finally start to regulate on its own. In this bit of shadow, on this bit of street, she felt as if she knew this stranger, as if they got to skip past all of the formal speech, all of the dances people did, and could go straight to speaking truth.
“It’s a risk,” he said. Could be he felt that she wasn’t a stranger in this bit of light, either.
She felt him weighing her, taking in all these odd pieces. It was only a matter of time before he ran away, having identified her for what she was. Unnatural. Strange. She braced for the impact of his judgment.
“I’ve always wanted to tell you that I like your ears,” he said. “I thought if I met you someday, on the street, I would tell you that.”
Heat flushed Bess’s face. Without thinking, her hand went to cover the telltale scarring. “It makes me ugly.” She pulled her cap down lower, covering the dirty-dishwater color of her unwomanly short hair.
He lifted his dark eyebrows, the whites of his eyes near glowing. “It makes you powerful,” he said, picking up the heavy blacksmith’s hammer with ease.
“I never got your name,” Bess said, reaching out with her hand before she thought better of it.
“Come by the shop and I’ll tell you,” he said before he slung the hammer over his shoulder and sauntered away.
Bess stared at his receding figure before remembering the empty bottle in her hand. The glass was warm from where she clutched it. Talking to the blacksmith had been so distracting she had almost forgotten if she was coming or going.
Turning to finally head down to Tuck’s, Bess kept looking back at him, this blacksmith who liked her ears.
Os couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t had to crane his neck to talk to someone. He had been almost giddy to meet the famous Bess Abbott but hoped his demeanor had not betrayed him. He’d seen her fight countless times, every performance faster than the last, as if each bout fed her
speed and power.
Most of her opponents lacked talent—the other women had little to no training, and if they did, it was no match for Miss Abbott. Because women fought stripped to the waist like their male counterparts, most of the men watched the opponent because Miss Abbott bound her breasts with a piece of heavy cloth. But how could he watch some pair of heavy, flopping dugs, veiled beneath a thin chemise, when he could watch the rolling of Miss Abbott’s shoulders, muscle coiled thick and strong?
He’d meant to explain that he’d come to rescue her. He’d heard the noises, the men’s insults, and had come out with his hammer to protect the woman who was the target. But he had recognized her almost as soon as he saw her—how could he not? Her height, her stance, and of course, her ears, were all signatures of this unusual woman.
That was what he’d meant to tell her—he had been ready to save her but was happy to see her delivering precision blows far better and faster than most fighters he’d seen, male or female. Instead, he’d told her that he liked her ears.
He adjusted the heavy long-handled hammer on his shoulder as he walked back to his workshop. He glanced back to watch Miss Abbott make her way down the street. She glanced back at him, too, giving him a thrill he dared not acknowledge. It had been too long of a time since he’d felt that.
He knew she could no longer see his form in the darkness, so he took a moment to stop and watch her openly. Her dress was tattered but made of fine cloth, so she had wealthy patrons. He didn’t know how fighters made their money, but she didn’t seem to fight often enough to live off those winnings alone. Her blue-clad form receded into the distance. There was a part of him that wanted to wait for her to return, to try another conversation. He forced himself back to his shop.