by Edie Cay
“You’re not going to read it?” Jean asked, hefting the hammer.
“There’s work to be done,” Os answered.
They worked the metal again, Jean concentrating as Os turned the tool. Taking it up, Os inspected it and deemed it finished. He dunked it in cool water and set it aside. Jean put down the hammer and went for the broom. It pleased Os that Jean knew to keep busy, that even a good sweep was something that needed doing regularly.
“So what do you think the letter says?” Jean asked.
Os shrugged, not looking up from Mr. Hayes’s collection of roofing tools.
Jean shook his head, a lock of brown hair falling in his eyes as he leaned on the broom handle.
“You need a haircut,” Os said. “Blacksmiths got to keep clean.”
Later in the day, with Jean sorting scrap, Os stole away into his room to tear open the letter. Os experienced a visceral sickness seeing Willrich’s handwriting, largely unchanged from the schoolroom where they had sat shoulder to shoulder.
* * *
Dear Mr. Worley,
Despite the closeness of our childhood, I would not dare to use a familiar address. We no longer harbor the intimacy of our younger years. In fact, I wonder how you will hear my words, given our last parting. As you no doubt know, I have inherited and am now the newest Lord Chitley, with all the responsibilities and heartache it entails.
To get to the point, I have made the inquiries my father would not, regarding your mother. Unfortunately, after the uprising in 1816, there has been nothing but chaos. The plantation’s ledgers prior to that have been burned, so on the chance she had been enslaved at the Chitley plantation, I would not know. Rest assured, I am divesting our estate from the enterprise.
My solicitor in Manchester assures me he has copies of these records, but he has yet to contact me regarding those contents. He claims the ledgers are quite buried. He does not have the same fear of me as he did of my father.
To this date, I have not yet found the time to visit Barbados myself to investigate. The uprising was indeed bloody, but by accounts, Thomasina the seamstress does not exist on the property held by the Chitley title.
I will continue to pursue this line of questioning and will send word. I’m doing my best to right the wrongs of my ancestors, but the list is long and I am but one man.
I hope you are doing well in London. Mrs. Reese in the kitchen still sighs after you when there is leftover food and Mr. Pickett in the stable says he cannot find a boy that can compare. Though I suppose your profession is rewarding now, the estate misses you still. I picture you with a family, knowing you would be an excellent father. Your gentle nature, despite my own sire, was always an inspiration. I am recently married and will soon have a child of my own. I only hope I can live up to the standards you have shown me by example.
Should you ever find yourself near Manchester again, I implore you to visit.
Your friend,
Chitley
Bess felt oddly naked, standing in front of the foundry, waiting for the blacksmith to appear. The chickens shuffled and clucked, softly cooing as they scratched around her, hoping for crumbs. Jean had run in to fetch Os, but as she shivered under her thin woolen shawl, waiting for the blacksmith to appear, she wondered if she was being ridiculous. It would be just as easy to search for Violet on her own.
The last few days of training had taken flesh from her, and the dress hung loosely. She knew that by next week, the regimes of plain food and morning work would invigorate her, but today she felt tired and sluggish. Her plain skirts and kerchief felt like she was swimming in fabric, but she hoped they would entice Violet back. Convince the neighborhood that their resident female boxer wasn’t unnatural. But she was only what she’d always been. And here she was, presenting herself as some kind of maiden at this smithy. She was a fool.
Just as she was about to turn around and leave, he appeared, pulling on his coat. It made her happy to think he would treat her like a lady, putting on a proper coat, just like everyone else. “Miss Abbott,” he greeted her.
“Blacksmith,” she said.
“Lovely evening,” he said as he approached her, still fussing with the lapels. His hat looked smart and new.
“Just a drizzle.” She ought to get on with it. Ask for help. Clearly, he was patient, standing there waiting for her to speak her peace. She shifted her weight. “I’ve, er…there’s a girl wot’s need finding—”
“Your Miss Violet is still missing?” The chickens cooed around them. Even the man’s voice had a calming effect.
Bess nodded, feeling a total fool. She’d not been struck dumb since…well, never, actually. And she liked that he’d called the girl her Miss Violet.
“Would you accept my help in looking for her?” Os looked tired.
Instead of making the polite excuses she should— let him get his rest—she said, “Yes.”
Once outside the fence that surrounded the front of the foundry, Os offered her his arm. It was a simple gesture, polite and distant, but still a touch.
“Do you have an idea of where she’d be?” Os asked.
Bess explained about the bakery and the tavern with a lion—Tuck’s place.
“Children are clever,” Os said, an odd look on his face. Something was clearly bothering the man, but Bess didn’t feel she ought to pry.
As they made their way down the winding streets, they became a team, both looking down alleyways, peering around buildings. They didn’t speak much as they searched. Bess wasn’t sure what to say, and he seemed lost in thought.
“How did you end up with a French apprentice?” she asked.
“His parents were among the first ardent Republicans in France, liberté, égalité, fraternité.”
Bess nodded her understanding. The evening was growing darker and cooler.
“But when neighbor turned on neighbor, the family fled to relatives here. Jean was born on English soil, but the family speaks nothing but French at their home. He’ll make an excellent blacksmith someday, as long as we last.”
“As long as blacksmiths last?”
“We’re a dying breed. The factories have already started making nails and spring coils. I do more farrier work and repairs now than I ever did as an apprentice or a journeyman. There will come a day when every forge goes cold.”
“Makes me shiver to hear such talk,” Bess said.
“Don’t mourn for me, Miss Abbott. The world is changing apace. I’m looking forward to it.” Os gave her a reassuring look. His eyes locked on hers, and she couldn’t tear herself away. He was talking about something else, but her mind was fog when she looked directly at him.
Their amble slowed further, and her arm tightened around his. She wanted to pull him towards her, even here on the street like a common doxy. She shook away the spell.
“I looked in at Newgate for Violet’s father today, and he’d just gotten out.” Bess needed to keep herself focused. “I need to find her before her father does.”
They were almost to the bakery, where she thought she might find Violet. “So if Old Mr. Grim is coming for the smithies, why’d you move to London?”
Os glanced at her and then back down an alleyway. It seemed as if he were considering what to tell her. Finally, after Bess thought he was going to ignore her question entirely, he said, “I’m looking for my mother.”
“And she’s here?”
“Either her, or a woman with her same first name and profession. Though I find that now that I’m here, I’m reluctant to look for her.”
“Sometimes we’re afraid of the answers to our questions,” Bess said, slowing.
“Exactly.” Os stopped as she stopped, turning to her, taking her by both elbows. She could feel a pull towards him, as if he were the ground and she’d just got knocked in the domino box. Her guts fluttered, causing her to stumble back, shaking free of his loose grip.
“Here we are. It’s closed, but Violet might be in back.” Bess charged around the corner buildin
g into the alleyway. Behind her, she heard the blacksmith take a steadying breath.
Bess peered into the rubbish pile, kicking muck about. “There’s no burnt bread, so she may have already been here.” There was so much Bess wanted, so much she thought was in her grasp, but whenever she tried to close her fist, it evaporated like smoke.
“To the tavern?” he asked.
She nodded and began to make her way out of the deep, scattered rubbish pile. Rodents rustled under soiled newspapers. Bess picked her way through, each movement careful. Still, her foot came down on a rat, which squealed, knocking Bess off balance.
The lady boxer was quick jumping back, but Os was fast, too. He moved to catch her. Miss Abbott landed on her feet but crashed into him, his chest breaking her fall. He put his arms up to steady them both. She stiffened but didn’t move to break away as his arms gently encircled her.
“Are you well?” Suddenly it felt as if the entire evening were still and quiet.
“Just stepped on a rat.”
On a chance, he looked down at her, hoping to read her intentions. Was she as nervous as he, heart pounding away, the fastest striker he’d ever known? He shifted his arms, urging her to turn around and face him.
Her brown eyes were wide and her brow furrowed, her expression full of questions. As if he was holding far more than just her body in his arms. Strange, but all he could think of was a sheep. Like the wool of the sheep was not the actual animal itself, but made it appear larger than it was. Here, his arms cut through all of the hopes and desires and wants that surrounded the woman, and he held just the core of her.
He wondered if he was not exactly the same.
“I would like to kiss you,” he said, trying to keep his words soft and tame, not at all like the riot inside of him.
“I—I—” she stammered.
To be fair, she looked terrified. Doubt clouded his mind. So he waited. He watched as she swallowed hard and wrested control of her emotions.
“Yes please,” she said, as if he were offering her half of a meat pie.
He bent his head to meet hers. She watched him with wide eyes, as if at any moment, something unexpected might happen. But then their lips touched, a softness he had not expected. The desire that he had kept so well-contained threatened to spill over, but Os tamped it down. There was so much inside of him—his mother, Chitley, the whole bloody world—but here, it was just her and him. And it was a thing as delicate as goldsmithing, and it was theirs.
Her arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer, further into her. Her strength surprised him, even though he should have expected it. He matched her intensity, exploring her mouth with his tongue. His hands dropped to her waist, kneading the flesh of her hips.
Perhaps the kiss would have lasted longer had the rats not protested. Os pulled away after one bit his shoe.
“I should have picked a better place for our first kiss,” he said, picking his way out of the rubbish heap. “I apologize.”
“I think on the mouth is perfectly acceptable,” she said.
He chuckled. “I can’t wait to see where the second kiss is, then.”
She seemed lighter, suddenly. And so did he. Perhaps they had both needed that more than they realized.
“Come on. Let’s go see if we can find Violet at Tuck’s,” she said. “Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”
“More luck?” he quipped. “Any more luck and I won’t be a bachelor any longer.”
Bess put her hands on her hips, waiting for him to pick his way out. “Well, look at that. The blacksmith makes jokes.”
It was the smile on those lips, that look of flirtation, the ease with which she leaned against the wall of the bakery. He took her by the hips and pushed her up against the bricks, kissing her again.
Her hands came to his face, cradling him as they kissed, softening, deepening a connection between them, as if every piece of him was now attuned to her. She sighed into him, and he felt as if he could gather her up and carry her off to someplace safe. Instead, she let her hands drift to his chest and gently pushed him away.
“Violet,” she said. Her brown eyes were shining, full of something he didn’t know how to name.
Os stepped away, letting both the heat and the magic of their bodies dissipate into the evening air. Bess straightened her skirts and brushed the brick dust off her back.
“Once again, then?” Os asked, offering his arm. There was a whirling in his mind but there was no way to straighten out those thoughts. The best thing he could do was put one foot in front of the other and help someone else. Bess needed to search for Violet, and so he would help her until they both dropped from exhaustion.
“Bess!” Lydia yelled from the corner. “Bess!”
The yelling didn’t make it into her brain, just her ears. There was a joy in pummeling John Arthur with uppercut after uppercut. It felt good in her back, twisting with each movement, power shots delivered at rapid speed.
John blocked each one, twisting his body to mirror hers, catching the blows with his forearms instead of soft belly. He was waiting for her to tire, she knew, to uncover a chink in her armor and land a solid uppercut himself.
As her speed began to flag, she danced backwards, dodging out of his reach. Retribution for that sort of display would be fierce. But instead, Lydia waddled in between them.
“Stop it!” Lydia cried, both arms outstretched. Her pregnant belly was so wide it was a miracle she could even walk. Still, her dark-blue eyes flashed with the vigor she’d always shown. Pregnancy had not eased her temper.
“Wot?” Bess asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
John stood with rivulets pouring down his face, his bare chest heaving and damp with sweat. “Love, what do you need?”
“That’s too much for sparring, and you know it,” Lydia accused Bess.
Bess looked over her head to John. “Is it?”
John shook his head but stopped when Lydia turned to glare at him. He said, “I’ve a mill next week and I need to be prepared.”
“You were going too hard,” Lydia said to Bess. “Just because you haven’t had a proper set-to in months doesn’t mean this is a substitution.”
“That’s not what we’re doing here,” Bess sputtered between breaths.
“John, you need to find a mill for Bess so that she doesn’t take all of her aggression out on you.” Lydia’s chin jutted out in some form of strange defiance.
John threw his hands up in frustration. “Fine! Can we get on with it, please?”
“No,” Lydia said. “Five-minute break.”
“I’ve got a match, thank you,” Bess grumbled.
Both Bess and John paced the ring as they regained their breath, trying not to let warm muscles go cold.
“Who is it?” John grabbed a rope and began jumping to keep himself ready.
“Some Irish lass named Bridget Kelly. Man named O’Rourke showed up at the mill last week and asked for a proper prizefight. Build-up, advertisement in the papers, the whole bit.”
“Is that where this new vigor is coming from?” Lydia asked Bess.
Bess leaned over to stretch the backs of her legs. “Don’t know what you mean.”
Lydia attempted to cross her arms but couldn’t, given the swollen nature of her entire body. She settled them on her ever-widening hips. “Don’t you lie to me, Bess Abbott.”
“Life is grand,” Bess said, straightening. “Why wouldn’t I have vigor?”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “No vague promise of a fight would get you this…spritely.”
Bess snorted. “I ain’t been spritely in many a year.”
“I think you’ve met someone,” Lydia said.
When Bess witnessed this exchange amongst other women, there was a great deal of squealing and giggling and merriment. Somehow, between the peculiar person of herself and the odd person of her ladyship, Lydia Arthur, the conversation verged on accusatory.
“Are you upset?” Bess asked.
/> “Of course not, but that doesn’t give you the right to pound on my husband.”
“First off, yer husband has asked me to pound on him, as we’ve done weekly since we were snot-nosed kerchief thieves.” Bess put her hands on her hips to match Lydia. Bess glanced over at John, who was madly skipping, sweat flying off him in a small circle. “This is a big fight. He has to train hard. I have a big fight, and I need to train hard.”
Lydia sighed, leaning over a little, hand to her lower back, her massive belly hanging down to her knees. It gave Bess the willies. “I know.”
“Go sit down and put your feet up again,” Bess said, trying to push Lydia back to the sofa near the door. Bess signaled to John, who stopped jumping and hung his rope on the nail on the back wall.
“She’s got a suitor, John,” Lydia called. “Careful of her face now.”
John laughed. “You didn’t tell me you had special instructions to save your moneymaker.”
“You know damn well where my moneymakers are, John. You’ve felt them in your breadbasket too many times today,” Bess taunted back.
“Does your one-legged sailor have a name?” John asked.
“He’s a blacksmith, not a sailor,” Bess said, as they both toed the line in the middle of the ring.
“How terribly respectable of you to catch a blacksmith,” John said.
She threw a quick testing jab to knock him off balance. He blocked it with ease. “He’s a good man,” she said.
“I believe you.” John threw his own jab back at her, which she likewise blocked. She threw back another, which he also blocked.
“Are you going to just trade jabs with me?” Bess asked. Predictably, John tossed another jab her way, so she knocked it down and followed up with a jab-cross in quick succession. The jab glanced off his face, but he countered her cross in time.
John finally started in earnest and they worked quickly. These rounds weren’t about power, they were about speed. John’s opponent was reportedly a giant, with arms the size of trees. A man like John, of normal height but strong and capable, could run a larger man through punches just by shifting away from them. John needed to be fast, and if necessary, win by the accrual of a thousand punches, not a single heavy-handed blow.