by Edie Cay
“Nothing, it’s what’s wrong with Violet’s jaw,” Bess said. She leaned forward, letting her elbows rest on her knees. She breathed deeply and exhaled as she scrubbed her hands across her face. “Yer staying here.”
“Yes,” Violet said, her tone as meek as Bess had ever heard it.
“And you’ll not be going back to that man,” she said.
The girl said nothing, taking a sip of tea.
“I’ll not do this again,” Bess said. “For if you knew my anger now—”
Violet’s eyes went wide. Mrs. Martin put a protective arm around the girl, jostling her grip of the teacup.
“Not at her,” Bess said, getting to her feet. “But if I see her father, I’ll kill him. And while I might be able to control myself enough to not kill him one time, I can’t promise I can do it two times, or even three. So if you stay here, Violet, you’re with me and that’s that.”
All three women were quiet then as Violet stared at Bess.
“I’ll get the tub,” Mrs. Martin said, hustling off to the kitchen.
Bess rolled her eyes. “Too late now,” she said to Violet. “You’ve no choice. Mrs. Martin just made up yer mind for ye.”
The girl remained frozen on the worn settee. She made a noise, a sound not like a sniffle, but not like a moan. It was a noise of an animal, the range where human words and experience didn’t translate. Bess set her jaw. She was once this animal, too, beaten and thrown away, the refuse of so many. To ward off the tears, Bess turned to help Mrs. Martin haul water to the stove.
“I’ll stay,” Violet squeaked.
Bess stopped in her tracks, but she didn’t turn towards the girl.
“I’ll not go back to him,” the girl promised. “I’m with you.”
The best lady boxer in London nodded her head, hoping a lock of her short hair would fall in her face to obscure how hard the girl’s words had hit. “Good,” Bess said, struggling to keep her voice even. “Stay there and we’ll get a bath set.”
The sun was near risen when Violet curled up in Bess’s bed. It had taken a good fifteen minutes to scrub the matting out of Violet’s hair, sticky with what looked like half of a decent meal mixed with blood from where her father had struck her. The girl’s hair was still wet, so they wrapped a towel around her head so she wouldn’t catch her death. Bess made sure to take the right half of the bed so that Violet could lay on the side of her body without injury. Bess remembered those days, having to sleep on her side because her nose was swollen and filled with blood.
They settled in under the extra blankets Mrs. Martin had found, not touching, for which Bess was glad. Thinking the girl would whimper or cry, Bess whispered, “You’re safe now.”
Instead of a response, all that came from Violet was the even breathing of heavy sleep. The girl had fallen under almost instantly. Bess closed her eyes and listened to the slow rhythm, allowing it to lull the ache in her chest.
“You should get a new shirt,” Jean said, leaning his broadening shoulders against the doorframe.
They had both taken a turn in the weekly bath, being as clean as they would get before the next workday brought more coal dust. In the light of two tallow candles perched on his bedroom wash table, Os tried on his best shirt. It was tight across the his back yoke, and the sleeves were too short. He’d managed to increase in size again, through the labor of his profession. They did more in a single workday here than in three back in Manchester. Much of the business was made up of smaller chores, shoeing horses, repairing carriage springs, but it kept him swinging a hammer. Every swing showed in the definition of his chest and back. There was pride of a job well done in those shoulders, and he rolled them in response. When he heard the sound of stitches pulling out, Jean laughed.
Os shrugged out of the now-too-small garment. “I’ve not the time to get a new one tailored.”
Os tried on his second-best shirt, to the same effect.
“These people must be bleedin’ important,” Jean said.
“They’re her friends,” Os said, pulling on his best waistcoat. It was a serviceable fabric, solid brown in color, with no décor.
“You could get it embroidered,” Jean suggested.
“Like some dandy? No. I like it the way it is.”
Jean pushed himself off the door frame. “It’s fashionable.” The boy scooped up his candle and wandered back to his own room, leaving Os with half the light he’d used to examine his foggy reflection.
There was a knock on the door downstairs, loud enough for him to wonder who could be so demanding. Pulling on a coat, he took the candle downstairs and answered the rarely used cottage door.
Bess and a little girl stood on his doorstep, the little girl holding a package wrapped in brown paper.
Jean appeared behind Os. “Who is it?” he called.
“Visitors,” Bess answered, a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“You must be Violet,” Os said, taking in the girl’s uncertain countenance. She was tall and gangly, not unlike a yearling doe. The dress she wore was clean but clearly far too big for her. Not big enough to be one of Bess’s, but perhaps it belonged to another woman of a more average size.
The girl nodded, allowing Os to discern that the discoloration on her pale face was not caused by shadows but was in fact a fading bruise across her jaw and under her eye. Os glanced up to Bess, who had a new bearing, the kind of proud mama he had seen in mother ducks leading ducklings to water.
“Come in, ladies,” Os said.
“Thank you.” Bess stepped across the threshold.
It was not lost on Os that Bess had to push the girl into the sparse front room.
Jean crouched down to be level with Violet. His expression was examining, judging, which set Os ill at ease. Was he going to have to beat the boy into being a decent human being?
“I don’t have any friends who are little girls,” Jean said, looking at Violet as if she were a horse. “But I think you’d be a good one. My name’s Jean.” He stuck out his hand.
To his surprise, Violet took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m Violet,” she said. Her movement was bold, but her voice was reedy and high like any other child’s.
Bess met Os’s gaze over the girl’s head, clearly proud.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Jean released her hand.
“Miss Violet Jeffers, may I introduce Mr. Os Worley, the blacksmith, and his apprentice, Mr. Jean Fabron.” Bess made formal introductions, no doubt hoping to teach the girl some proper manners.
Violet executed a clumsy curtsy in response, almost tripping over her own feet. Jean gallantly caught her hand so she didn’t fall.
Os stifled a chuckle. “May I offer you ladies some refreshment?”
“Thank you, but we’re here only to drop off a shirt. Mrs. Martin has supper ready for us back at the house, doesn’t she, Violet?” Bess said.
Violet kept her eyes on Jean and Bess. “Yes ma’am.”
Os stepped closer, but Violet slid back behind Jean.
“Violet!” Bess admonished.
There was only one thing Os could think to do. He retrieved some thin copper wire that had not made it out to the foundry yet. He snipped off a length and squatted down on his heels. Without looking at the girl, Os began to bend the thin copper wire, warming it as he manipulated it.
“I like to make things with metal and wire and all sorts of bits. But this is my favorite thing to make,” Os said, speaking as quietly as he could. He wrapped the wire around itself, paying attention only to the project in his hands. “I have so many of these now, I might just have to give this one away.”
Out of his periphery, Violet edged closer to see what he was doing.
“I make new friends because they don’t mind if I’m different,” he continued. The wire was forming into a cat standing on its four paws. “I’m very tall, which makes some people scared of me.” He addressed his sculpture. “But Puss, I think you won’t mind that I’m tall.” He finished working
the cat sculpture, looking up to meet Violet’s wide eyes. She startled, stepping backwards before catching herself.
“Would you be my friend?” Os asked, still addressing the copper wire cat that stood in the palm of his hand.
The whole room seemed to hold its breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Os saw Violet nod.
She stepped forward, her hand out, clearly wanting the small, copper cat. “I’m different too,” she said.
“You are?” Os asked. “Would you like to hold her?”
Violet nodded. “I’m like you,” she said, her voice small, revealing her age.
Above his head, he heard Jean exhale in amusement. Os cocked his head with a gentle smile. “How is that?”
“I’m very tall,” she said, gingerly picking up the sculpture from his outstretched palm.
“That you are,” Os said. “We can be tall together.”
Violet looked at him without fear now. “Can I keep her?”
“On one condition,” Os said. Her eyes grew round. “I would like to know her name.”
The girl smiled, revealing a missing tooth. Os hoped that was just her age and that it hadn’t been knocked out by force. “Her name is Abigail.”
“Abigail the cat?” Bess asked.
Violet nodded. “My mother’s name,” she whispered.
“Nice to meet you, Abigail,” Os said, directing his comments towards the cat sculpture. He could absolutely understand naming a cat after one’s mother. “And you are?”
“Oh, I’m Violet!” the girl cried.
“Nice to meet you, Violet. I’m going to stand up now, and you’ll be reminded of just how tall I am.” His calves were falling asleep from crouching for so long. Standing, his knees protested, as did his lower back.
Violet took a step back but then seemed to remember herself and instead leaned against Bess. Os was pleased to see how easy the girl was with her, and how easy Bess was in return. Her hand rested on the girl’s shoulder, an unthinking gesture of belonging.
There was a pang of a half-memory he pushed away: running under a hot sun, through wet sheets drying on lines, into a room, crashing against his mother’s legs. A childhood that was better buried than unearthed.
“Violet, where’s the package?” Bess asked.
The girl held up the cat sculpture, balanced in her hand, the tail winding skyward.
“Abigail is very pretty,” Bess said. “But where did you put the package?”
The girl seemed to come out of her reverie, blinking hard. She glanced down at the floor. Jean took a step backwards and stumbled over the brown paper package.
“I found it,” he said.
Violet scurried over and scooped it up, turning to hand it to Bess. The package looked worse for wear with a fresh boot print on the corner. Bess tried to wipe some of the dirt off before giving up and presenting it to Os.
“As promised, a shirt,” she said, blushing. “I didn’t want you to have to do anything extra for this dinner. I know it is more than I ought to ask.”
He took it from her, untying the string and tearing the brown paper to reveal a plain white shirt made from finer fabric than he’d ever owned. It still looked unwrinkled, despite its troubled voyage.
Jean whistled in appreciation. “But does it fit?”
“Go try it on,” Bess said. “I’ve instructions on where to get it tailored.”
Os shouldered past Jean to get to the stairs.
“Oh, why bother going upstairs? Just try it on,” Jean said.
Bess nodded. “I won’t look,” she said with a grin. She turned both herself and Violet in the other direction.
Os pulled off his coat, waistcoat, and linen shirt, handing them to Jean to hold while he slipped into the new shirt. It did feel fine against his skin, not at all rough or scratchy.
The shirt settled on his shoulders well, fitting better than his own garments. He finished buttoning and roughly tucked the long tails into his trousers. He felt terrible at accepting a gift when he’d bought a ticket to Manchester. It was clear that she would give him everything she had while he still had his mother first in his mind. He tried not to let the guilt weigh on him, treating her as second-best.
“Can I look?” Bess asked.
“You can,” Os said.
Bess approached him, running her hand along his sleeve. “It’s a fine shirt.”
“Why are you smiling like that?” Os asked. The look in her eye was one of appreciation. It took Os several seconds to understand it was not the shirt she was appreciating, but rather the man that wore it.
Jean snickered. “’Tis a fine shirt.”
Os shot daggers back at his apprentice, but the boy didn’t seem to mind.
“Oi, Violet, you want to go see if we can catch some of the actual cats that live with us? They’re out in front of the foundry,” Jean said, steering the little girl towards the door.
“This seems like an expensive shirt,” Os said once they were alone.
Bess shrugged. “They can afford it.”
“I don’t like being indebted to people I don’t know,” Os said. “When I give it back, perhaps I can include a lending fee.”
“They’ll be insulted if you do,” Bess warned.
“It doesn’t even need tailoring,” he said, looking down at it.
Bess frowned, as if she were going to argue with him, but then softened. “They’re good people,” she said. “You’ll like them.”
“If they’re your friends, I will.” Os glanced towards the door.
“They’re gone,” she said, following his glance.
Os took the opportunity of her being off balance to pull her into his arms. She laughed as he bent to kiss her. He tried to keep it playful, but his need surged and the lighthearted nips deepened into passion. She returned his ardor in kind, reaching up to undo the buttons at his neck.
He pushed her backwards until she was against the wall. He reached around to cup her perfect buttocks, muscled and rounded. She ground against him so he picked her up, cradling her bottom, her legs opening for him. She gasped in surprise but then hiked up her skirts to ease the strain on the fabric and locked her legs around his waist.
It wasn’t what a nice man would do, but he was past being able to keep that in mind. The tumult of his feelings, the rage and sadness, the yearning desire for Bess turned off his best intentions and he let things happen. He pushed his hardened length against her, grinding, showing her what he wanted. Her legs tightened around him, pulling him in closer. Her breath grew ragged.
Jean’s voice carried through the door.
It was like a bucket of cold water on them both. Os dropped Bess to the ground. She straightened her skirts while he buttoned the shirt. Her lips were swollen and red from their kissing, and Os took a few steps around the stairs, trying to shake loose the erection that strained against his trousers.
“I apologize,” Os said.
“Please don’t,” Bess whispered.
“I should not have—”
“Yes, you absolutely should have,” Bess countered, bending to wad up the torn brown paper the shirt had come in.
Os wasn’t sure what that feeling was that hung around her, draping the room, charged with something so potent and heady that he could barely breathe.
Jean and Violet came through the door. Violet seemed oblivious to the signs of the adults, but Jean eyed them both carefully.
“When you go out for that dinner, can I come visit Jean instead of staying with Mrs. Martin?” Violet asked.
Bess looked up at Jean, who seemed just as surprised at the request.
“Don’t you like Mrs. Martin?” Bess asked.
“Yes, but she doesn’t have any chickabiddies to chase,” Violet said.
“You’ll have to ask Jean,” Bess said.
Jean stuttered out an acceptance.
“We ought to be on our way,” Bess said. “Don’t want to be late for Mrs. Martin’s supper.”
After Os closed the door behind
their visitors, Jean folded his arms. “You need a chaperone.”
6
Standing in front of the scratched mirror, Bess smoothed her skirts one more time. It was her newest frock, new to her anyway, a castoff from Lady Lydia’s sister, Lady Agnes. The girl was nearly as tall as Bess, and she had modest taste. The round gown was one with simple ties in the back, but it fell too short. Bess had worked hard to sew a bottom frill to make it dinner-party-ready, but she was a terrible seamstress.
“You look fine, dearie,” Mrs. Martin said.
The pink was a masculine color, but Bess didn’t mind it. She’d gotten updated stays for the event—no more wearing the old ones that pressed her chest flat. At least, not for when she wasn’t working on her trade. Mrs. Martin had cooed at her while helping her into them, which had made Bess blush. But now that she was dressed, missing her hat and new gloves, she looked unfinished somehow. Strange. Off-kilter.
She wiped her sweaty hands on the dress out of habit. She was only going to John’s house, fine as it was, and only bringing Os. But she wanted this to be special somehow, the first time they went into public together, declaring themselves in some way, and she looked as dull as she looked every day.
“May I?” Mrs. Martin asked, watching her.
“If you can help,” Bess said, trying to hide her bitterness. Why could she not clean up as well as other women? Why didn’t a bit of ribbon placed just so brighten her pallid cheeks?
Mrs. Martin approached her, pulling hairpins out of her pocket. “You’ll need to bend down a little bit for me.”
Bess tried to squat but found even that was not enough. Instead, she knelt, sitting back on her heels so Mrs. Martin could tend to her hair.
“It doesn’t need much, just a little style,” Mrs. Martin said, brushing what little hair Bess had off her forehead, pinning it to the side. “There.”
The older woman danced around her, pinning and finger curling. When Bess finally got a chance to see herself in the mirror, she could barely believe it. Her foggy reflection looked a little more feminine somehow. Not too feminine, not fake or weak or silly. She was still herself, but elegant. Perhaps tonight could be special. Aware of her skirts, Bess got to her feet, once again towering over Mrs. Martin. “Thank you.”