by Edie Cay
“Of course,” she said, as if the finger curls were as commonplace as a pot of stew. “Now let’s see if Miss Violet is ready for her big night.”
Both women walked down into the parlor where Violet was playing with a paper doll.
“Miss Violet, will you be taking the doll with you to visit Mr. Fabron?” Mrs. Martin asked, her hands tucked in a clasp in front of her belly.
Violet looked to each of the women. “No, ma’am?”
“You can if you want to. Or you can leave it here,” Bess said.
The girl was frozen with indecision.
“If you leave it here, I will take good care of her,” Mrs. Martin promised. “But you must put her to bed before you go.”
Violet scampered upstairs to the room she shared with Bess to put away the doll. Her heavy footsteps crashed against the floor’s wood planks.
“She’ll fall through them one of these days,” Bess said.
“As if you don’t make such a ruckus yourself,” Mrs. Martin tutted.
The girl ran down the stairs, pounding each step. She appeared at the bottom of the landing, panting for breath, her hair limp and loose and more than a little out of place. Mrs. Martin clicked her tongue, producing a short blue ribbon from her pocket. She finger combed the girl’s hair to tame it and braided it in what appeared to be a single swift motion, tying it at the ends with the ribbon. The hidden talents of Mrs. Martin, Bess marveled.
“Now you may go visit Mr. Fabron,” Mrs. Martin said. “But if you need to come home early, I’ll be here.”
Violet nodded, allowing Bess to steer her out. “We won’t be very late,” Bess said over her shoulder to Mrs. Martin. She handed Violet her coat and pulled on her own wrapper. She nudged Violet. “What do you say to Mrs. Martin for braiding your hair?”
“It don’t make no nevermind if you are late,” Mrs. Martin said. “Try to have a good time.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Violet said, taking the bonnet Bess handed her.
Both of them tied on their straw bonnets, neither of which was fashionable nor warm, but that is all they had. Bess maneuvered Violet down the front steps and to the street. She tugged on the bonnet, hoping to show the pinned curls Mrs. Martin had managed to create in her hair.
Prior to Violet, she had never realized how difficult it was to make another person do anything, even something as simple as going out a door. But Violet was there to challenge her—that much was certain. The girl dragged her feet outside and stomped while inside. There was no predicting her behavior—sunny and helpful one minute, then sulking and tentative the next.
“Pick up your feet, Violet. You don’t want to trip,” Bess said, eyeing the mud she was splashing on her leather shoes and her woolen stockings.
The girl harrumphed but did pick up her feet.
When they got to the foundry, the carriage John had promised to send was already there. Bess tried to hurry Violet along, but the girl refused to change her pace. Not even a fortnight along as her guardian, and already Violet was shortening Bess’s life.
The great double doors to the front of the foundry were open, the fire still blazing in the center chimney. The boy, Jean, pounded on the anvil, something small held with pincers.
“Jean!” Violet yelled, running through the yard of chickens. The birds squawked, clearing her path.
The boy looked up from his task. When he saw them, he relaxed his shoulders, as if resigning himself to working no more that evening. “Ah, my little weasel!”
That endearment stopped the girl short. “I’m not a weasel,” she said.
Jean casually put down the hammer. “Of course you are,” Jean said. “It is a term of endearment in France.”
“We aren’t in France,” Violet pointed out. “And I’m no weasel.”
Jean dunked his project into a bucket of water, causing a hissing sound as the metal cooled.
“That’s too bad,” Jean said, shrugging. “I like weasels very much.”
The carriage driver seemed not to notice the conversation around him, or the chickens, or the ancient, wrinkled dog that napped nearby. He sat perched atop his bench, reins in hand.
“Where’s Os?” Bess asked, picking her way through the chicken yard. This might have been the first time in her life she actually cared about keeping her hems clean.
Jean let out a low whistle. “Look at you,” he said. “Os won’t be able to speak a word when he sees you.”
A blush crept up Bess’s neck. The wrap was bulky and unflattering, but the pink skirts were visible underneath, and hopefully the curls showed under her bonnet. “He doesn’t say much anyway.”
“He’s finishing up. Hard work getting all this coal out from your fingernails,” Jean said.
Violet had her hand in her front pocket. “Guess what I have?” she asked Jean, trying to regain his attention.
“A pony?” Jean asked.
“No,” Violet said, giggling.
“A train,” Jean guessed. He pulled the pincers out of the bucket and dropped the object he’d been working on into his hand. He kept one eye on Violet while he put away the tools.
“No!” Violet said. “Guess for real.”
“Are you sure you can watch her all evening? Mrs. Martin is back at the flat if you need,” Bess said.
Jean waved her off. “A butterfly?”
“No!” Violet said, stamping her foot.
At least Jean could try Violet’s patience as much as she tried Bess’s.
Os appeared then, pulling on a brown leather coat as he moved through the foundry. He stopped in his tracks, staring at Bess. Without taking his eyes off her, he finished pulling on his overcoat and adjusted the lapels. He wore a beaver hat that seemed surprisingly fashionable.
Bess smoothed her skirts again, waiting for him to say something, anything.
But he didn’t say a word. He strode past Jean and Violet, through the chickens, to get to her side. He held his elbow out, as any gentleman would. She took his arm, as any lady might. Her heart felt near to bursting. No man had looked at her in that way before. This must be how Lady Lydia had felt on a nightly basis. Did a woman like her get used to the thrill? Was every man’s elbow just the same? Could she flutter coquettishly on any man’s arm, or had John’s touch been as special as Os’s touch was?
The driver hopped down from his bench to open the door and slide out the stair for them. The man said nothing, and neither did they. Bess stepped up into the carriage and Os followed suit, both of them straining to fold themselves through the small enclosure.
The carriage door closed behind them, the only light in the compartment came from the small windows. They felt the vehicle shift as the driver climbed on top of his perch. Bess waited for the lurch of movement, but it didn’t come. They sat, overstuffed, over-tall for such a small conveyance. Os leaned past her and thumped the carriage wall with his fist.
Bess took the opportunity of his nearness to inhale. He smelled of fresh soap and laundered clothing. Underneath all of that, she detected that same almost metallic scent of him. He turned to look at her and the carriage lurched into motion, sending him back to his own side.
“You look nice,” he said, his voice low and quiet, as if he were worried about waking a sleeping giant.
“You do, too,” Bess said.
“I like your hair.”
“If you had hair, I’d like yours too,” she said, grinning.
He chuckled, a sound that she found herself craving. The low tone of his voice sat in her chest, as if one of his cats had curled up inside of her, purring.
“Your friends must be important if they have a carriage to send,” Os said. “Is this an evening with Corinthian John?”
Bess shifted in her seat. “There will be a few other guests. You’ll recognize them from the fights,” she said. “They’re a right annoying bunch.”
Os chuckled and looked out the window. Bess did the same.
The carriage pulled up at an enormous townhouse. A tall
footman opened the door and Bess stepped down. Os followed suit, squeezing himself out through the small opening.
The liveried footman led them indoors, where the butler met them, taking their overcoats and hats. Os took a moment to look at her in her pink dress, the white ribbon at her waist, the white lace at the hem. He grinned because she seemed nervous. Her hair was curled and pinned, framing her face, making her seem all the more girlish. He enjoyed her looking like this, fine and dressed as an expensive cake, but he liked her looking like herself even more.
“The rest of the company is in the sitting room. If you’ll follow me,” the butler said. Bess fell in behind the man, and Os trailed after. The foyer wasn’t as big as the one belonging to Chitley, the one Os had grown up in. Despite the high ceilings and the winding staircase, there was something friendlier about this entryway. Perhaps the fresh-cut flowers on every table had something to do with it. Or maybe because there were no imposing portraits of scowling, pink-faced ancestors with watery eyes judging him where he stood.
The butler led them up the staircase, its walls filled with landscape portraits. The servant announced them. Bess entered and Os followed, feeling blind.
They were toffs, just as Bess said. The room appeared opulent, with gilt-edged frames and an intricately carved mantle over the fireplace. The men and women lounged with glasses of pale-colored wine, their evening finery glittering in the lamplight.
Os let his eyes range over them, and as Bess predicted, he did recognize one or two of them. The Beastly Baron was an infrequent fighter, but he was a handsome sort who peeled off his shirt in the ring like it was a gift to every person in attendance. He looked every inch the lord here, his black coat snug, his green eyes bright with amusement.
Corinthian John got to his feet. Of course he knew this man. Bess had spoken of him often, and Os had seen him clobber men near twice his size in the butcher’s storeroom. He was an impressive fighter, and now he had an impressive house.
“Welcome,” Corinthian John said. “We’re so pleased to meet you, Mr. Worley.”
Os ducked his head, not sure if Corinthian John was a gentleman now or not.
“No need to bow to this lot,” Bess grumbled beside him.
“If I may introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Lydia Arthur,” John said, moving aside to reveal a woman Os recognized.
She was the beauty that Bess had fought last year, no mistaking her. But she was the size of a cow, her belly swollen with child. Os averted his eyes, heat growing under his collar.
“For the love of—” Mrs. Arthur exclaimed, shifting on the sofa. “I’m with child, not with leprosy. You can look at me.”
“Forgive me,” Os said. “I didn’t know—”
“It’s fine, Os. Really, it is,” Bess said, stepping closer to him.
Corinthian John continued the introductions, moving away from his wife, and thankfully not prolonging the discomfort Os had trouble hiding.
Happily, Os turned his attention to his hosts’ sisters, both Lady Agnes, whose relation to Mrs. Arthur was as clear as day, and Miss Pearl Arthur, whose fine elfin features and ginger-tinged coloring betrayed her relation to Corinthian John.
On the next settee were Lord and Lady Kinsley, both handsome in the way that the English strived to be. The man was golden-haired and long-faced with a strong jaw. The lady had a warm peaches-and-cream complexion that, had she been born poor, would have turned ruddy with the sweat and toil of household chores.
Their clothes were impeccable and the lord’s waistcoat was the finest color blue Os had ever seen. Cobalt glass was not as blue. Of course, the man’s eyes matched the waistcoat, and his blonde hair shone with all the health a lifetime of good eating provides.
His wife, Lady Kinsley, wore a dress fancier than the one Corinthian John’s wife did. There was gold thread shot through the fabric, creating sparkle and shine at the slightest movement. The woman herself was not exceptionally pretty, but she observed the room if she were cataloguing not just the objects but also the people, trying to see into them, summing them up before she spoke.
Last was Lord Andrepont, known to Os as the Beastly Baron.
“I didn’t know this was to be a full dinner party,” Bess whispered at their host after introductions were complete.
“They just got back into town,” Corinthian John said. “Lydia thought it would be fun to see everyone.”
Bess harrumphed, but Os was glad to see that she was as uncomfortable as he was. A footman came around with a tray of wine glasses.
“Champagne,” Mrs. Arthur suggested.
The young man who held it kept his expression aloof. The life of service meant no eye contact. Os was glad he had not gone down that path for himself, though many did. When the time came, standing in front of the big desk, staring down the man who had dictated the circumstances of his childhood, he had been bold enough to demand an apprenticeship.
“So, Mr. Worley, how is it that you know our dear Bess?” Mrs. Arthur asked. Her voice was so smooth that she almost purred. It was unnerving to be in her sights.
“From the fights, my lady,” Os said, still unable to look at her. He looked at Bess instead. Her hair was pretty tonight. “As I also recognize your ladyship, your husband, and Lord Andrepont.” Os made eye contact with the green-eyed man, who smiled in response. Again, though his expression was one of friendship, that smile did not feel at all friendly.
“I had no idea you fought often enough to become recognizable, James,” Lady Kinsley said.
“That ugly mug is always recognizable,” Lord Kinsley said, putting his hand over his wife’s.
“Aristocrats stand out,” Corinthian John said. Bess murmured her agreement.
Os was glad for the defense.
“Well, if you won’t tell me more information with that question, how about I put it to Bess? How do you know Mr. Worley?”
Bess was sweating. She hated that she was nervous here. If she felt like this, how did Os feel? She took a swig of champagne and felt an unexpected, smooth bit of bubbles on her tongue. It was sweeter than she thought it would be, and she found she actually liked it. Typically, she didn’t care for the drinks Lydia served.
“Os came to save me,” Bess said.
Lydia snorted. John looked skeptical, but the other aristocrats leaned forward to hear the story.
“I was out on an errand for Mrs. Martin—my landlady,” Bess added for those that didn’t know. “And this gang of drunken churls started yelling at me.”
“What were they yelling?” Lady Kinsley asked, her expression filled with innocence.
Lydia rolled her eyes. Bess couldn’t figure out what Lady Kinsley meant. Did the woman actually want her to repeat such things in the polite company of a drawing room?
“Insulting things, I would imagine,” Lord Kinsley answered his wife.
“Yes, my lord,” Bess said, taking the cue to continue. “Inappropriate things.”
“How inappropriate?” Lady Kinsley asked, interrupting again.
“For the love of—” Lydia sighed.
“I don’t think we want to have that kind of language tonight,” John said.
Lady Kinsley leaned back, looking peevish. “I’ve been on a boat for six months. I’ve heard some terrible words, but how am I to know if it was truly terrible, or if the sailors were holding back for fear I could hear them? How am I to know the context of Miss Abbott’s story if I don’t properly know her level of discomfort and fear?”
“Rose.” Lord Andrepont spoke in a quiet voice, then modified it for the rest of the company. “Your level of discomfort at hearing those words would not be the same as Miss Abbott’s. She has heard rough language her entire life, not to mention, she’s in a position to do something about it. Those words will not help you picture the scene any better.”
“I’m only curious,” Lady Kinsley insisted.
“I’ll tell you later,” Bess said. “After the pudding.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Please d
o.”
“Continue, please,” Lydia said, irritation apparent in her voice.
“So these blokes, I think there were four or five of them,” Bess continued, trying to recall the evening. Funny how she could remember Os stepping out of the shadows with complete clarity, but not the fight that preceded it. “I told them to shove off, in not-so-kindly terms.”
Lady Kinsley leaned forward again.
“But they insisted on making threats on my person,” Bess said. “So I kicked away the nearest one, dropped the other one with a simple combination, and turned to the rest to see if they wanted to try their luck.”
“Did they?” Lady Kinsley asked, breathless.
“Where was Mr. Worley during all of this?” Lydia asked.
Bess glanced over at Os, who had a hint of a smile on his face. “He was watching in the shadows, a big hammer over his shoulder.”
“Where did the hammer come from?” Lady Kinsley asked.
“My foundry, my lady,” Os replied.
“You’re a blacksmith!” she said.
“Indeed,” Os said.
“Is that Old Barnsworth’s place?” John asked.
“The very one,” Os said.
John chuckled, shaking his head.
“You know it?” Andrepont asked.
“I used to steal eggs from the chickens Barnsworth kept in the yard. Just a few, from time to time,” John said.
“Only if I begged him to,” Pearl said. “I’m afraid I was the mastermind behind that particular moral failing.”
“I still keep chickens,” Os said to Pearl.
“I’d be happy to provide another chicken to you for all the eggs I stole,” John said.
“They weren’t my chickens,” Os said.
“No, but I like to make good on my debts,” John said with a lighthearted smile.
Bess warmed to the conversation around her. John making Os feel like he belonged here, even if Os’s clothes were less fine.
“I have so many questions for you regarding alloys and their respective melting points,” Lady Kinsley said, seeming genuine in her interest, gearing the conversation back towards blacksmithing and away from poultry theft.