by Edie Cay
Typically John could outmaneuver her, but today Bess was lightning. She backed him into the corner again with full intention of repeating her performance of uppercuts when John tripped and fell backwards.
“He’s down!” Bess shouted between heavy breaths. “End of round!”
“End of round!” echoed Lydia from the position near the door. Her feet were propped up, and still they were swollen, resembling overripe fruit.
“I tripped! It wasn’t a knockdown!” John protested, rising.
Bess let her torso collapse, her head upside down, stretching her lower back.
“I’m not down,” John protested again, and he pushed her over from the side. “Oh, Bess is down! That’s a knockdown!” He turned to show his wife his fists held high in victory.
Bess grabbed his back foot and kicked his front knee, causing him to buckle. Pulling him down, she tried to get him into a headlock from behind.
“No roughhousing,” Lydia protested, trying to pull her legs down off the couch, moving much more like a large farm hog than an aristocratic lady.
They both went still. “Why not?” croaked John from underneath Bess’s headlock.
“Because you both get to have fun, and I have to be this.” Lydia gestured to her herself as she finally got her feet on the floor with a huff. “I don’t know why they think this is a joy of motherhood. I’m miserable.”
Bess released John’s head and he sat up like a shot.
“Is it too hard?” John asked.
“You try it,” Lydia snapped at him.
Bess shuddered.
“See? Even the Toughest Woman in London doesn’t want to be with child,” Lydia complained.
“Even though you’ve got this new love? Doesn’t love make women get all family-oriented?” John asked, walking over to his wife.
“You don’t get to sit down. You’re covered in sweat,” Lydia said, pushing him away.
“Remember who you’re talking to,” Bess warned John, getting to her feet.
“You’re a woman, still,” John protested. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course she is,” Lydia said, smacking her husband in the belly with the back of her hand.
“I’m not known for my womanly features,” Bess said, rolling her shoulders back and down.
“But you could be,” John said. “Because this fellow, what’s his name?”
“Mr. Os Worley, and no, I doubt he’d make me suddenly desire babies and a stewpot.”
“There’s more to marriage than that,” Lydia said.
“Is there?” Bess asked. The unspoken difference in their situation sat between them.
“Tell us more about your beau,” Lydia said, nestling back like a child being tucked in at bedtime, wanting a story.
“He’s a blacksmith in Paddington, near Marylebone,” Bess said. “And he has an apprentice named Jean.”
“Jean?” Lydia asked, frowning. “Is your blacksmith French?”
Bess shook her head, unable to meet Lydia’s questioning gaze. She wasn’t ashamed of Os, but to talk of a man as if he were truly interested in her, wanting her attentions, not paying her, it felt like cursing the little bit of good luck she had.
John straightened, suddenly on alert, as if he were a dog listening to a distant howl. “Paddington? Do I know him?”
“No, he’s from Manchester.” Os had not told her much about his past, about where he was from, who his people were. He kept most of that to himself on their searches for Violet. She didn’t want to pry, figuring that he would tell her when he wanted her to know.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “We’d love to meet him. Does he also engage in the sweet science?”
Bess shook her head. She was glad he didn’t fight and didn’t want to learn. It kept him separate from the rest of her life, kept him special and hers alone.
“What’s he like?” Lydia prodded.
“Quiet,” Bess said. “He don’t speak unless he’s thought it through a couple of times.”
“Laugh-a-minute,” grumbled John.
“He’s funny when he wants to be,” Bess protested. “But he’s kind, and he’s gentle.”
Lydia’s expression became dreamy while John’s softened to quiet amusement. They stared at Bess for a moment, as if caught in a reverie.
“You’re falling in love with him,” Lydia said.
Bess frowned and shrugged.
“More than anyone else you’ve ever connected yourself to,” John said.
“The likes of you can’t tell,” Bess grumbled.
“We aren’t teasing you,” Lydia said. “Come to dinner next week. We’ll have a small bit of a party, what with James being back.”
“But what about that?” Bess gestured at Lydia’s giant belly. She looked ready to drop the babe any day.
“You’re supposed to be in confinement,” John reminded her.
Lydia let out a frustrated sigh. “Well I won’t be leaving the house, so therefore, I’m still confined. Besides, you aren’t Society, Bess. You’re family.”
A warm blush worked through Bess’s chest. “But Os ain’t. Not yet, anyway. And I doubt if he has clothes fine enough to dine here,” Bess protested. “I certainly don’t.”
“He can borrow a shirt,” John said.
“He ain’t yer size,” Bess said.
Lydia broke into a grin. “Fascinating. Now we must meet him.”
“I suppose,” Bess said. “Os isn’t…”
“What?” John asked.
“Fancy,” Bess said, looking up.
“And I am?” John challenged.
“You are now! Look at this place,” Bess said. “I don’t know if he’ll come.” She looked to them, hoping for understanding to dawn. It wasn’t the same anymore. They had money and power in a world Bess and Os couldn’t even wrap their brains around. It was like hearing French in a pub. Bess knew it was a language, but none of the words made any sense. But tell that to a Frenchman, and he would look at her like she was crazy.
“Just try,” John said. “We’ll be nice, won’t we, dove?”
5
Os was about to call out a greeting to Bess as she walked into the foundry, but her closed, wan expression gave him pause. She circled the workbenches, walking behind the chimney that sat in the center of the building, wringing her hands.
Os glanced at Jean, dismissing him to get some fresh air. The boy thankfully understood, lifting off his leather apron and hanging it on the nail next to the door, his brown eyes wide but not curious. Jean disappeared, closing the foundry doors as he left. Os stowed his tools in their proper place, giving Bess an opportunity to vent her energy and complete her circuit of the foundry. Still, he watched her as she paced, a bicep flexing beneath the strained fabric of her dress. Finally, he removed his apron, hanging it on the nail next to Jean’s.
He waited, leaning against the wooden workbench. After the circuit was finished, she came to stand in front of him. Her brown eyes darted everywhere but his face. Still he waited, ignoring the crushing feelings that were colliding inside of him. Before he could control his thoughts, the worst ideas arrived unbidden. Violet was dead. Or perhaps the girl was fine, but Bess needed to break off their association. It made him shuffle through their last conversations, their last stroll through the neighborhood. What had he done? Had she not wanted to kiss him? Had he somehow misunderstood the situation, even standing in so unromantic a spot as a rubbish pile?
The tension was killing him, but still he waited, patient as he could be. Her mouth opened as if she would speak, but then she closed it again, clearing her throat.
Unable to wait her out, he spoke. “Spit it out, Bess.”
“My friends want to meet you,” she said, the words spilling like nails poured out of a can.
Relief flooded him. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to clear the residue of hurt from his system. Os opened his eyes and gave her the best smile he could manage. If her friends wanted to meet him, it meant she had spoken of him. She ha
dn’t hidden him like a secret, ashamed of herself and of him.
He had not been able to think this far ahead, to think of a time when he might be presented to her friends and family, or the opposite, she to his family. His mind had been occupied by Willrich’s—no, he was Chitley now—Chitley’s letter. Before he made a fool out of himself asking after every seamstress and laundress in London, he would use Chitley’s invitation to look at those ledgers. Just in case. There was no reason to suspect his mother had been enslaved—it didn’t make sense—but he had to tick every box.
Os had hoped they would have found Violet already so that he could take the public coach to Manchester with a clear mind, but it was obvious the girl was back with her father.
He hadn’t had the heart to tell Bess that he was leaving. He’d return soon, but she was the sort that didn’t leave the neighborhood much. He wasn’t sure she’d understand. How to tell her that he needed to make his mother a priority when Bess didn’t have a mother of her own?
“It’s fine. I’ll tell them no,” she said, after waiting out his silence.
“No, I apologize, I was woolgathering. It has been a busy day. I would be honored to meet your friends,” Os said.
“Are you certain?” she asked, still wringing her hands.
“Why? Are they a gang of nyppers?” he asked, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms to calm her. How could he tamp down this need to cuddle her, cradle her, support her, and embrace her? It was like the need to scoop up a kitten and hold it in his hand.
“No, good people.” Bess started to pace again. “You’ll need a shirt,” she explained, as if this piece of clothing were anathema.
Os chuckled. “I own shirts.”
“No, proper ones,” Bess said.
“I swear I own proper shirts. I can show them to you,” Os said, finding he both wanted her to follow him into his cold bedroom, where he stored his wardrobe, and recognizing that if he led her to his bedroom, his workday was over.
“Proper proper shirts,” she repeated.
“Why? Are you friends with the Prince Regent?” he joked.
She threw herself onto the bricks surrounding the fire. It was the warmest place in the building, but it wasn’t much for cleanliness.
“You’re getting soot all over your dress,” Os said.
“They might as well be the King,” Bess whined.
“If they’re friends with you, they must be good folk,” Os said, going over to the fireplace and crouching in front of her. He dared not touch her knees for balance. It would only lead to him pushing her against another wall and guiding her back to his sparse bedroom while Jean paced in the foundry yard. She deserved so much more than that.
“That’s just it—he ain’t folk no more, and his wife never was. They’re proper people,” Bess said, looking down into his eyes. “And I’m afraid you won’t like them.”
“I like most people,” Os said, wondering if that was true. He didn’t consider most people one way or another.
“These people are—” Bess trailed off. “They aren’t always easy to like.”
“Tell me more about them.” Os reached out to steady himself against a brick. Crouching was not a natural position for him.
“Oh, fer heaven’s sake Os, you can touch me. I box all day long, people touch me all the time,” Bess insisted. “I ain’t some young miss who faints at the idea of her own ankles.”
“Is it the same for someone who trains with you to touch you and for me to touch you?” Os hoped she’d say no. His touch should feel different, should spark her the way it sparked him.
She shrugged, her eyes drifting to meet his gaze. He removed his hand from the bricks of the fireplace and instead wrapped his fingers around her ankle.
Her eyelashes fluttered in response but she made no move to reject him. Her ankles were wrapped in thick woolen socks and her shoes serviceable hard leather. This wasn’t a delicate bone he could crush beneath his wide palms. He flexed his hand and gripped tighter, pleased that he didn’t have to worry about crushing her, breaking her. Her breath became shallow and that alone appeased him. He could feel his groin tighten in response, the air thicken as the two of them fought to keep themselves decent in the daylight.
“Too bad we aren’t behind a bakery,” she said, her eyes never wavering from his.
Outside, Jean called to the dog, pulling Os out of his reverie. This could not happen here. Releasing her ankle, he rocked back on his heels and pulled himself upright. The only way to shake off the tension was to turn away from her, so he did, walking off the unpleasant feeling of fading excitement.
“Was it something I said?” Bess asked.
He looked over his shoulder, noting an expression that even he could see was disappointment. “Indeed it was,” he rumbled. “You near slay me and I have a respectable establishment to run.”
She pouted, not believing his pain. So he turned fully then, the bulge in his trousers still awkwardly apparent. Seeing the evidence of his discomfort, her smile returned.
“I’ll find you a shirt,” she said.
He cursed, taking deep breaths to dissipate the urge that was left in his trousers.
As she left the foundry, Jean slipped back inside. “Good visit?” he asked, another smirk on his long French face.
“That woman is going to kill me,” Os said, exhaling a breath that was meant to clear his head.
Jean chuckled and looked after the lady boxer as she crossed the street. “Ardeurs de l’amour,” Jean sighed.
“Don’t speak French at me,” Os said, putting his leather apron back on. “Get back to work.”
Bess had flowers in her hair. Red flowers of a kind she had never seen before, but that fact didn’t bother her. Also, her hair was suddenly the color of honey and flowed just as thick down to her feet. But no matter how she stepped, her hair never got underfoot. It was as if she were in the ocean, but warm and could breathe. Os was there, wearing only a bit of seaweed about his most private area. Bess knew she should be ashamed and embarrassed, but she wasn’t at all. Instead, she took the moment to admire him, muscles thick and corded about his wide shoulders. His legs dark, powerful and shapely, his skin shining like polished rock. She took a step towards him and that was when she understood that all she wore were those strange red flowers, covered in blossoms that felt like silk along her skin. They slid with her as she moved closer. Os lifted his hand to pluck one of the blooms.
The pounding sound of flesh against wood didn’t make sense. She stared at Os, knowing this was where she wanted to be. There was so much promise here of luxury and warmth and satiation that she’d never before known.
But there went that awful sound again. And again. And again.
Finally Bess opened her eyes. It was as she feared. Her room was empty, and she was not underwater, and her hair was the color of dishwater and didn’t extend past her misshapen ears. She was covered in her wool nightgown, not in a hundred red flowers, and of course, Os was nowhere to be found.
“Miss Abbott,” Mrs. Martin called through the door.
“I’m awake, Mrs. Martin,” she called, throwing her covers back. “No need to alert Parliament.”
Mrs. Martin banged on her door one more time for good measure.
“I’m coming,” Bess muttered, trying to ignore the rush of chilly air. She threw a wrapper around her shoulders and answered the bedroom door. “Yes?”
“You’ve a visitor,” Mrs. Martin said, her face drawn, the color of her nightgown.
“What time is it?” Bess asked.
“Half past one,” she said, with no detectable humor in her voice.
“Who would be—?” Bess shivered as the possibilities flooded her mind.
“Just go downstairs. I’ve got her in the sitting room. Fed her a bit of cold soup, and I’ve got a kettle on,” Mrs. Martin said, ushering Bess past her on the stairs.
“Oh, Violet,” Bess said, rushing down the steps, all traces of sleep gone.
The
girl sat in the chair next to the fading embers of the minuscule fireplace, a blanket over her lap. Not known for her beauty on the best days, Violet looked a right horror. Her hair was matted on the side with a substance Bess couldn’t immediately identify. One of her eyes was swelling still, red from impact and shiny as blood pooled under the skin. As Bess got closer, she saw the girl cradling one of her arms in her lap, but her face betrayed no emotion.
“Miss Abbott,” Violet said, attempting to get to her feet but unable to stand fully. One of her legs was clearly hurt. “I do apologize fer waking you and yer landlady up in the middle of this night.”
“It’s fine, Violet.” Bess went and sat next to the girl. Looking at the damage to this young body pushed her to near murderousness. “So he’s back.”
Violet nodded her head once and then closed her eyes as she straightened again.
Bess knew that feeling; brains knocked loose inside a skull. One solid hit and it could feel like there was a ball bearing where a good thinker ought to be. “I looked for you.”
“I know,” Violet said.
“It ain’t much,” Mrs. Martin said, bustling in with a cup of tea, all smiles as if this were a church luncheon. “But it’ll warm yer insides.”
A calm realization settled inside Bess. She would kill Violet’s father. How hard could it be? She could easily inflict this level of damage on the man, sodden as he was with frog’s wine. Get him on the ground and then kick his head until it popped like a chestnut thrown on a fire.
Mrs. Martin sat on the other side of Violet, watching as the girl sipped the weak tea and gnawed on a hunk of cold bread. The girl did her best to hide how much chewing hurt.
“Enough with the bread, Violet,” Bess said.
Relief seemed to wash over the girl’s face as she stowed the bread on the plate balanced on her lap.
“What’s wrong with bread?” Mrs. Martin asked, alarmed. Her nightcap was a bit askew, the lace rim pulling back on her hair, revealing more gray streaks.