by Edie Cay
He felt ridiculous for inviting her to visit. Why would she stop by a foundry? Maybe she had a horse that needed a shoe. Or a weapon? Os knew those were improbable possibilities. If she graced his great, sooty doors, it would be because she was interested in him, and that seemed damned unlikely. Yet. She had blushed.
Os shook his head to keep himself from grinning. A blacksmith didn’t grin. He hated the remarks he’d heard in the workshop up in Manchester, where he’d apprenticed, about how the only things glowing were the forge and his teeth.
Miss Abbott hadn’t trusted him while he wielded his hammer, but that seemed understandable. Once he’d set it down, she seemed to trust him. Indeed, had approached him. Blushed when he complimented her ears.
Which was likely a bloody stupid thing to say. What woman wants to hear praises sung about her ears? But it was true, he liked them. He liked the way her ears were pouched out and shiny with scar tissue, smooth like river rocks. He liked what it said about her, adding another piece to the picture of her strength. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it. But it was true—he’d always thought he would tell her if he met her on the street, and then he had, and so he’d said it. A silly compliment, but a true one.
He still needed to finish cleaning the workshop for the next day, put away the tools, inventory the precious few resources, and double-check that his projects would be completed on time.
The soft chuffing of the chickens welcomed him back to the yard. He had inherited an arthritic dog and a few stray cats when he bought the business a year ago from old Barnsworth’s people. The cats stalked the perimeter, their eyes glinting when the light caught. The dog lifted his head, gave a single lukewarm tail wag, and settled back to his slumber with a sigh.
The large stable door was still ajar from when he’d left. Os slipped between the double wooden panels and set the heavy bar across to lock them in for the night.
The fire in the forge was still burning, though it had dwindled to little more than coals now that the work of the day was done. It illuminated a form the size of a man, with strong arms highlighted through thin shirtsleeves, working at the anvil, silhouetted by the embers. Though it was only a moment of disorientation, Os was almost surprised that the man working the forge was his apprentice, Jean.
“Still working?” Os asked, striding over to the workbench to scoop up his leather apron, which he’d discarded as he rushed out.
“Just practicing,” Jean said, looking up.
Os knew that Jean was quickly becoming a man, but he couldn’t help but still see him as the gangly child he’d first met. Jean’s curly hair was getting long, falling in his eyes. Os had mentioned the need for a haircut, but Jean had yet to act on it. The embers made the boy’s eyes look almost brown, not the inky black they often appeared.
“I’m trying to get the bend correct,” Jean said, frowning down at his project.
“Metal’s too cold,” Os said. “You can tell by the color.”
Jean gave a frustrated sigh. “But I’ve seen you bend when the metal isn’t red.”
“I only bend when it’s red.”
“But I’ve seen you,” Jean protested. He picked up the piece with his tongs and threw it in the basket of scrap. “Bollocks.”
Os chuckled at the boy’s frustration. He was all heat and no temper. “You’ll get it. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Jean watched as Os went about his nightly routine of stowing tools and straightening up. “What’s got you so talkative?”
Os furrowed his brow. He was known to be a man of few words. In the past twenty minutes, he’d spoken more than he typically did in a matter of days. What gurgling mess would spew out if Miss Abbott actually graced his doors? His pulse sped up, but he’d be damned if he let Jean see. “Good mood.”
Jean folded his arms, still suspicious. “I’ll say.” Finally the boy gave in and started on his nightly clean-up. “How’d the fight go?”
“What fight?”
“The one you went to break up,” Jean said, looking up from his sweeping.
Os grunted. “Over before I got there. No one was hurt.”
They finished at the foundry and went next door to the small cottage that came with the workshop. There was soup in a cast iron pot that hung in the fireplace. Os ladled out two bowls for them while Jean cut bread and some hunks of cheese.
As always, they ate in silence, but tonight Os allowed himself time to think about Miss Abbott. She was more attractive now, meeting her like that, in the street. He wanted to call her beautiful, and she was, in this other way he couldn’t name. To say she was beautiful was wrong, though, because she wasn’t, not like a flower was beautiful or a piece of jewelry. She was beautiful like his forge was beautiful: powerful, productive, useful.
“What’s got you so starry-eyed?” Jean asked, a slight French accent coloring his speech. It was the way Os could tell Jean was tired. “Something’s off about you.”
Os turned his heavy gaze to the boy. “I met the fighter.”
“Which one?” Jean asked, his eyes brightening. They usually went to the fights together, Jean practically jumping at his side, hollering for his favorites.
“Bess Abbott,” Os said, turning his attention back to the bowl. His sense of smell was no longer keen, but he could swear this was rabbit.
“The lady boxer?” Jean asked, leaning away from his food. “She was the one causing that bit of ruckus?”
Os shook his head. “Not causing. Dispatching.”
Jean crowed, leaning back in his chair, pushing the forelegs off the ground. “I would have loved to have seen that. Bet those bastards didn’t know what hit ’em!”
Os grinned—the second time in one evening. If he had a record book, he’d have written it down.
“Oh, wait. Oh, no. Oh, Os.” Jean rocked his chair back to the ground, hard. “You’re smitten, aren’t you? The smithy’s smitten.”
“Say that again and I’ll dock your pay,” Os said, not looking up from his bowl.
Jean stood and danced his way to the cupboard to bring out the rest of the bread, crowing and jigging as he did. “Dock away, my friend! Finally! Some good cheer in this sooty little warren!”
Os focused on his soup, ignoring his young striker’s jubilance.
“I bet she liked you. Is she coming to the foundry, or are you meeting her? Where do you take a woman like that? Do you still go walking at Covent Garden with a lady boxer? Is she still a woman, or is she something else?”
Os gave him a long stare. How would Bess Abbott not be a woman? Jean was chattering like a songbird, but Os wanted to let his own thoughts run. “Stop talking.”
Jean broke out into another set of crowing. “Not a chance!”
2
The crowd surged forward, choking the ring. Basil, the announcer, held them back, his thin skeleton hardly enough to restrain a child, let alone twenty drunken churls. Bess scowled at them all, daring them to challenge her. The smug’s question echoed in her mind. Why not fight men? She’d gladly take one or two of these carbuncle-faced cheesers.
They shouted, red-faced and entitled, angry at what they saw as injustice. Bess had stripped to her waist, the breast bindings in place and secure underneath her onion-skin-thin chemise. She stretched out her arms behind her, loosening up her back. Once again, she was up here without an opponent.
“Coves, coves! Hear me out,” Basil said, his hands up, trying to wrest their attention.
The men wanted to see tits, and they were fresh out of luck. They ought to send runners to the closest bawds, let them know their cullies would be the bullying sort tonight. A few in the audience shouted names of women Bess had fought before, all of whom refused to fight her again.
Bess didn’t fight dirty, but she fought, which was what put off the other female bruisers. Many of them were in it for the easy money. They waggled about for a minute, let their dugs sway, hiked their skirts a little higher, and pretended to tussle. The men hooted and hollered, the lady got paid, and it was safe
r than being out in the alleyways.
But that’s not who Bess was. She was a fighter first, a woman second. It wasn’t fair that she had to deal with play-matches. If there was a woman boxer out there who could truly fight, Bess would love every minute of a real set-to.
“If there’s a man among you that would try your hand against our dear Bess Abbott, please step forward,” Basil entreated. Bess arched an eyebrow, not realizing how dire it was if even Basil was asking for a male opponent.
No man stepped forward. Some tried to push their mates to the fore, but it was clear none of them came willingly. Basil looked at her to see if he should press the matter. She shook her head. No money tonight.
“Once again, our undefeated, undisputed Miss Bess Abbott!” Basil called into the crowd.
She stalked out of the ring over to Tony, her manager, and pulled up her shirtsleeves. Tony Farrow was a big man, both physically and in her life. He hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years they’d known each other, with a belly still round as a berry and hair dark as ink.
“Lean days, Tony,” she said.
“Don’t I know it,” Tony said, folding his arms. “Yer too good for yer own good.”
“I won’t be any less than I am on the account of these ding boys,” Bess growled.
A man with fiery red hair elbowed his way through the crowd. He was thin in the way some people stayed all bony shoulders and knees, regardless of how much food they had to eat. His clothes were decent, similar to Tony’s. Doffing his hat out of respect, the man assessed her with dark-brown eyes. “Pardon me, friends. I’m Mr. O’Rourke, lately of Kildare.” When neither made a comment, the man added, “That would be Kildare, Ireland.”
Tony eyed the man, measuring him out. Bess watched as Mr. O’Rourke made a half-circle around her, as if he were sizing up a racehorse. “Never heard of it,” she said.
“It’s Ireland,” Tony said, folding his arms. “Who cares?”
“Are you not Irish yourself, then?” O’Rourke asked, his question aimed at Bess.
Bess squirmed. Much of Paddington had Irish in their blood, if not still in their speech. But walk out of Paddington and the rest of London would have their fun, berating them for being nothing but the lowliest of rats. “I was born in these gutters here,” she snarled.
“Yer tall,” Mr. O’Rourke said instead.
“Are you the smartest man in Ireland or the dumbest?” Bess asked, folding her arms across her chest. “Or do they just count themselves lucky you ain’t there no more?”
“I’ve come to arrange a fight for my own lady boxer,” O’Rourke said, grinning. He had most of his teeth, but not all. The cant of his nose was off, so he himself had seen the blunt end of a fist before.
“You’ve come all this way for an arrangement?” Bess asked, looking to Tony for confirmation. What fool would travel to London, only to have to go back and fetch his pugilist?
“She’s a few days behind me, pickin’ up extra blunt on the road, fightin’ in villages on the way here.” O’Rourke stepped back to keep Tony in his view.
Bess wondered if O’Rourke did so to be polite, or if it was old fighter’s instincts to never have a back turned to an opponent. “Who is this bruiser?” she asked.
“Miss Bridget Kelly,” O’Rourke answered. “She’s about yer size.”
“What’s her fight record?” Tony asked, beating Bess to the punch.
“She’s won some and lost some,” O’Rourke said, still smiling.
“That’s a weasel-way to put it,” Bess said. “Haven’t you kept track?”
“Bridget manages to get into more fights than I can observe.” O’Rourke’s pleasantness wore thin.
“We aren’t talking about bar brawling. I mean proper mills with kneemen,” Tony insisted.
O’Rourke twitched his eyebrow in a way that he probably imagined women thought was charming. It wasn’t.
“If you can’t provide a record, real statistics, or a boxer, I won’t commit to a mill.” Bess turned away from him, knowing it would not just end the conversation but also signal that she did not consider him to be a threat.
“Bridget will be here,” O’Rourke promised. “And we can put it in the papers, write some of that name-callin’ insultin’ advertisement, make lots of money for both of us.”
“Maybe it’s different on your island, but on this one, lady boxing ain’t the most lucrative,” Bess said, sliding a wrap over her shoulders, tying it in the front.
O’Rourke ran around and grabbed her arms. “But it could be!”
Bess flung her arms wide, causing O’Rourke’s grip to drop.
“Listen, we talk it up, we get some of the local brothels to run specials, have a few of the ladies make an appearance in the ring for pre-fight entertainment before the main event, get the gentlemen in a right lather, and then they’ll be willin’ to put down some hard coin,” O’Rourke said.
Bess looked over at Tony, who shrugged. It was easy to guess Tony’s opinions. He wanted to make money. If this unknown Irish fighter could make him money, he was in favor, whatever it took. There was no risk for him if Bridget never showed. Bess set her jaw. “Listen, I ain’t part of any hedge whore show, and I ain’t fighting after one, and I ain’t fighting so the nugging houses get more cullies. I fight to fight, same as any other pugilist. If you don’t like that, gitcherself back up to your own goddamned island and leave mine alone.”
O’Rourke gave her another irritating smile and an eyebrow twitch to match. She was going to smack his brows off his fool head if he kept at it.
“I respect the integrity of a professional match,” he said. “We’ll set it for two months from now?”
Tony nodded, his hands on his hips. “Winner’s purse?”
“Split the door, winner takes seventy percent of wagers,” O’Rourke said.
“Split third of the door, as I’ve got other matches, already planned, which can be arranged as the pre-fight,” Tony said.
“Done.” O’Rourke stuck his hand out.
Tony eyed him for a moment before shaking it. “I run The Pig and Thistle off Edgeware and Harrow. I’m easy to find when you return with your pugilist.”
O’Rourke set his hat back on his head and tipped it to both of them, pulling himself up proper. “I’m still searching for lodging, but I will keep you informed of my own whereabouts.” He winked at Bess and made his way out of the pub.
“I don’t care much about this Bridget woman, but I’m ready to take a crack at Mr. O’Rourke himself,” Bess said.
“There’s something I don’t like,” Tony said. “He was too easy to badger into terms. And for how far they’ve traveled?”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Bess agreed. “But I’m glad to have an opponent finally.”
“Yer back to beef broth in the morning,” Tony said. “We’ve got to get your wind back. You don’t know what’s coming. Could be O’Rourke’s brother in a dress.”
“If he winks like his brother, I’d be happy to show him my fives,” Bess said. The mill was winding down. The men in the crowd were trickling down to nothing but those desperate to gamble. The whole place felt deflated.
“Go git you a bite in the pub.” Tony rocked back and forth on his heels. “No reason for you to take your hunger out on the innocents. And no pork, no matter what Miz Penny offers you.”
Bess took another glance at the ring, where the match between the younger boys was setting up. It wasn’t fair. If she were a man, she would be rolling in coin. If she were a man, she and John, her sparring partner, would have been lockstep growing up, going to school, getting good jobs, climbing the ladder up to the sophisticates, like he and Caulie had. Instead, John had his fancy britches and his fancy bride while she had a drafty rented room. There wasn’t a chance for more. And training at John’s fancy boxing gymnasium inside his house had become a painful reminder as his wife, and Bess’s former student, grew large with child. It was a special sort of damnation to watch so closely a hap
piness that she could never hope to have.
A short man whose eyes were glued to the ring crab-walked around the crowd for a better view. He bumped into her at full speed. It did no impact to her, but he stumbled back.
“No fair bullyin’ us reg’lar folk,” he spat at her.
“Life’s not fair,” Bess said, moving past him.
It had been a hard year, and the melancholy dogged her. She had hoped that by spring she would have shaken the worst of last year, but she hadn’t. The part of her life dominated by her former patron, the less-than-honorable Lord Denby, was short in time, but she feared the effects would linger.
At least there was something to look forward to now, this unknown bout with an unknown boxer. Something to train for. She hoped it didn’t fall out from underneath her, like everything else had.
She heard a single set of footsteps behind her, always the same distance, even if she paused at corners. Growing up in the neighborhood, she knew which alleys connected and which ones didn’t. It was easy to evade if she wanted. But tonight she was geared up to fight.
This wouldn’t be the first time a disgruntled spectator wanted to have a turn in private. Some men couldn’t handle the idea of a woman fighter and had a few things to say, as if their opinions mattered. Those were the ones she relished the most, watching their eyes go wide when they realized she was better than they were and she would have no trouble knocking them flat on their arses.
Those cases she tried to hold back and be merciful, as her friend Corinthian John would have done. Tempting as it would be to drop her knees onto the downed man’s shoulders and indulge in a ground and pound, she refrained. A little blood and she would back off. It was a lesson, a warning. Some returned with friends, but most went on their way.