The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “I would be happy to share my meager knowledge,” Os said, bowing gallantly, as if he knew how to conduct himself with proper ladies. Did he know somehow? He’d said he didn’t trust the titled, but he must have rubbed elbows with them at some point.

  “So how did you know he was in the shadows?” Lydia insisted.

  “Because after the louts ran off, he applauded,” Bess answered.

  Lord Andrepont snorted.

  “It was an impressive exhibition,” Os said. “The last mill, she’d had no takers. I was happy to get an opportunity to finally see her fight.”

  “But he had a weapon,” Lady Kinsley said, interrupting again. “Why did you approach him?”

  The woman was nothing but questions! How did she get through a day with so many questions? “He said nice things to me,” Bess said.

  “Surely gentlemen say nice things to you often. What made this time different?” Lord Kinsley asked.

  Bess looked at her feet. Why did the man assume she received compliments? Could he not see how ugly she was? The insults the gang had hurled at her stung, not because she’d never heard them before, but because she heard them often. It weren’t funny if it were true.

  Leveling her gaze at the lord, she decided to be indecorous and tell the truth. “I don’t receive compliments often, my lord. I fear that I am easily seduced by someone’s high regard.”

  Lord Kinsley’s face softened, and his wife put her gloved hand to her breast.

  Bess wished she could reach out for Os’s hand right then. She wanted his reassurance, the comfort of knowing his regard for her was true and real. That taking him to this grand house with these grand people wasn’t a mistake.

  Thankfully, the gong sounded and John leapt to his feet. “Dinner,” he said.

  Lord and Lady Kinsley led the procession, giving Bess the clue that they were more highly ranked than John and Lydia. How posh were these people? The Beastly Baron went in with Agnes, and for one brief flash, Bess could have sworn she saw irritation on his face. Was it irritation? Or was that some other emotion? Bitterness?

  Bess and Os took up the rear, for which she was glad, because then they didn’t have to guess where they took their seats.

  Dinner had been bearable only because of Lady Kinsley’s oddly specific interest in metals and melting temperatures. Os had been polite enough to answer all of her questions, offering to give her a tour should she ever grace the streets where Marylebone met Paddington.

  “A marchioness at a foundry?” James snickered over his Madeira.

  Bess looked back sharply. This woman with her constant questions was a marchioness? Os met Bess’s gaze. He looked horrified before he went back to his guarded expression.

  Bess’s cheeks colored. Mrs. Martin would never believe that she, the lowly fighter, broke bread with a marquis and a marchioness! Bess tried to memorize the details of everyone’s clothes. Mrs. Martin liked to hear about what fancy people wore more than any other detail.

  After dinner, the women retired back to the sitting room, tea served in cups so fine Bess was afraid she’d crush them in one hand. How could a person possibly dine on such crockery on the regular?

  Lydia had been in an ill mood to start but became ruder as the evening wore on. Bess suggested she put her feet up, as they were so swollen they no longer fit in her fine silk slippers. Once Pearl had gotten Lydia all tucked in, Lydia seemed more content and stopped badgering Lady Kinsley.

  “Miss Abbott, I do apologize for prattling on. I fear that spending six months on a boat with Kinsley and Andrepont has left me starved for female companionship. May I ask if you have an occupation?”

  Lady Kinsley picked up her teacup as simply as Bess might pick up a hammer. Pinkie out and eyebrows lifted, Lady Kinsley seemed the picture of grace. Bess had never felt more giant and hulking in her entire life.

  “I do, my lady,” Bess said. Lady Kinsley was young in a way that Bess had never been. Her blue eyes were wide and eager, but in her expression, Bess could read a loneliness that she recognized, the kind that only came from being different and being alone. Bess felt it still but hid it under her years of hard-won callouses. This woman hadn’t either the ability or the knowledge of how to hide it. It made her pretty in a wistful sort of way, though Bess much preferred the beauty of the women in the doorways of Paddington, wives and widows, strong and capable, in need of no one’s help and no one’s charity.

  “And what is your occupation, Miss Abbott?” Lady Kinsley pressed. Lydia snorted at the question, already amused at what Lady Kinsley might think of Bess’s profession.

  “I’m a pugilist,” Bess said, wishing she could hide her discomfort with a sip of tea but not sure she wouldn’t drop the cup entirely.

  “I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong.”

  “A boxer,” Bess repeated.

  Lady Kinsley looked at Lydia, who nodded.

  “I punch people. For money,” Bess clarified. Pearl stifled a giggle.

  “That is incredible,” Lady Kinsley breathed. “You know, I have my own theory of the sexes.”

  “Here we go,” Lydia said.

  Bess squinted, trying to maintain concentration as Lady Kinsley outlined her theory. The woman put down her teacup so as to use her hands to help explain. If Bess had ever gone to school, this is what she assumed it would have been like.

  “But I think that humans are more equal,” Lady Kinsley continued. “Size is so dependent on food supply that there is no way to definitively say that all males are so much bigger, though clearly they are somewhat bigger, but not at the levels of the great apes.”

  Bess looked to Lydia for guidance, but she had her eyes closed. Agnes began to perk up from her quiet corner of the room. “And?”

  “Men and women are not all that different,” Lady Kinsley said. “Not at all. But given the way we have been raised and social expectation, the sexes act significantly differently in a way that makes them seem so foreign. I give you stays.”

  Bess shook her head no, again looking to Lydia for guidance, but Lydia just held up her hand, as if to say, Don’t bother.

  “It isn’t that women inherently desire awkward garments, but rather, the demand of society is such that if we don’t conform, we are ostracized,” Lady Kinsley said.

  “I’m sorry, ostracized?” Bess asked. She’d understood most of the words being thrown around the room, but that one didn’t stick. Pearl studied her teacup.

  “Oh, ostracized,” Lady Kinsley repeated, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “It means to be cast out.”

  “Ah.” That was something Bess knew about. Not conforming, being cast out, not being smaller than men. Maybe this woman was onto something.

  “Anyway, I had thought to write up my findings to publish somewhere, thinking, perhaps foolishly, that the one decent thing about having some ridiculous title is that it might make up for the fact that I’m a woman.”

  “Nothing makes up for that,” Agnes quipped.

  The door swung open and the gentlemen appeared. Bess was grateful. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like the marchioness, it was just that the lady’s opinions were so strong and plentiful that she made Bess feel as lowly and stupid as anyone ever had.

  Os trailed after the other three men, towering over them from behind. She was glad to see him. He seemed to be adjusting to their company—it wasn’t as big of a strain for him as she had been afraid it would be. It struck her as odd for a moment. Why would he be more comfortable in this company than she was?

  She had a sudden realization that there was far more to this blacksmith than she first thought. In fact, she liked that there was more to him. Just as she was more than the deliverer of a nasty uppercut, he was more than a mallet and an anvil. A feeling like pride began to spread in Bess. She hoped he felt that way about her, too.

  “We’re sorry to intrude on the latest gossip,” John said, leading the men to stand around the available chairs.

  “If only it were gossip,” Lydia said,
her arm thrown across her eyes.

  Bess stole a glance at Lady Kinsley, who didn’t seem perturbed by the dramatics.

  “I was just about to ask Miss Abbott if we could attend one of her matches,” Lady Kinsley said, now looking to her husband.

  The room went still.

  “That might not be the best idea, my lady,” Bess said.

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” Andrepont said gently.

  “Oh, this is going to be the same thing you said in Spain, isn’t it?” Lady Kinsley cried. “I’m not a child.”

  Os shuffled his feet, coming to stand next to Bess’s chair, his hand resting on the back of it, almost in the same proprietary fashion Lord Kinsley had stood with his lady. It was a strange move, she thought, to have him stand there as if they were a couple, as if he were the husband and she were the wife. Bess stifled a smile. She didn’t want anyone to think she was enjoying the tiff happening across the room.

  “Dear,” Lord Kinsley said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “We are only trying to keep you safe.”

  “And how would I not be safe with Miss Abbott? She told us of being accosted by a group of men and fending them off,” the lady protested.

  Bess winced. She didn’t want to get dragged into this kind of argument.

  “Let her go,” Lydia said. “We’ll all go with her and it’ll be fine. Let her see the whole world, James. It’s what she wants.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere in your condition,” John told Lydia. He went to stand behind the sofa, picking up her hand to hold it, as if they were the picture of pre-parental bliss.

  Lydia rolled her eyes and slumped back against the pillows.

  “Either way, this is a discussion for later,” Lord Kinsley said. “We can always send you a note, Miss Abbott, to ask if you will be competing.”

  “I can’t read,” Bess said automatically. “But I do have a fight coming up with a fighter coming all the way from Ireland. It’ll be in the papers.”

  Lady Kinsley brightened like a gas lamp with the key turned all the way open. But Bess found herself pitying the woman. Those gilded cages had once seemed appealing to Bess on the hungry nights when she hadn’t been sure she could make rent—certainly not if she wanted to eat. Those were the times when she would take on fancy clients, knowing that half of them wanted to end training sessions in a manner that cheapened her fighting skills.

  But at least she made her own rules, walked where she wanted to walk, ate what she wanted to eat, and made conversation with whoever was in front of her. But Lady Kinsley was treated like a child still, dressed up in adult clothing.

  “Well, I think it’s time for us to go,” Bess said.

  “I’ll let them know to get the carriage ready,” John said, moving to the door. He seemed grateful for a task to accomplish.

  “No need, John, it’s not that far,” Bess protested.

  “I insist,” John said. He had an imperious look that she wouldn’t mind wiping off his face with a quick jab.

  Lydia struggled to sit upright. Andrepont went over to assist his cousin, holding her elbow as she put her feet on the floor. She gasped for breath. Bess watched with amusement as Lydia made several tries to stand up off the couch, trying to counterbalance the massive belly that sat in front of her.

  “Careful there, don’t want to break something,” Bess joked.

  Lydia gave her a dirty look. She might have said something truly foul if the other women hadn’t been in the room, which would have amused Bess to no end.

  Os and Bess made their way to the foyer, where footmen waited with their overcoats and hats. Outside, another footman waited with the carriage step down and the door open, so Bess could clamber up through the tiny doorway.

  She squeezed in, waiting for Os to do the same. Once they were settled and arranged in the carriage, the footman closed the door and the carriage lurched into motion.

  “Strange night,” Bess said.

  “Very,” Os said.

  “I think I almost feel sorry for Lady Kinsley,” she said. “Marchioness or not, she doesn’t get to do much.”

  Os grunted in agreement, turning to look out the small window. Quiet descended, making Bess nervous.

  “I learned a lot about you tonight,” Bess said. “I wondered how you knew to talk to those toffs.”

  “I’m a blacksmith, not a mud farmer,” Os said.

  “Still,” Bess said.

  “I was surprised you knew.”

  Os wouldn’t look at her, watching the scenery go by. Something was on his mind, but she didn’t want to prod.

  “I’ve been around toffs lately,” Bess said, not yet ready to tell him about her history of clientele. Is that what was bothering him? How she was connected to these people?

  Os made a half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. He was holding in something precious that he didn’t want to share. The quiet descended again. Bess wished for rain—the kind that was so hard and loud that it would make a conversation impossible in the carriage. Instead, the weather was still and clear.

  “That was a lovely dinner,” Os said. “Even with the strange company.”

  “It were a strange gathering, yeah? From a lowly boxer to a marquis and his marchioness. And mark my words, something peculiar is afoot there.”

  “When are people not peculiar?” Os asked.

  Bess harrumphed. That strange quiet fell again, pricking her senses. In her periphery, she watched as Os shifted and shuffled.

  “I’ll be leaving for Manchester the day after tomorrow,” he said. “I have some unfinished business up there.”

  “Oh.” It hit all the harder for the struggle he seemed to have saying the words. Where they had felt a pair all evening, suddenly there was a gaping maw sagging between them.

  “I must,” Os said, his tone clear and final. Tony often used that voice with her, and she knew it well. She knew that his venture would be short, for he couldn’t afford to abandon his foundry, but the panic that scrabbled inside her wouldn’t cease.

  “Whatever you need to do,” Bess said, looking out the window, curling up around herself. Men left. They all left. She felt silly suddenly, dressed up in Lady Agnes’s gown, hair curled and pinned like she could make someone believe she was pretty. It had been a dream that a man like Os would want her for the long years. She only wished it were true.

  7

  Early in the morning, Os rose to finish the fine detail work that Jean was not yet accomplished in. While the world slept, Os opened the foundry doors to let the yellowed dawn light seep in and aid his efforts. Jean seemed eager for Os’s departure. The foundry would weather Os’s absence, even if they got behind on complex orders. Jean could handle it and was happy to show that he could.

  As he worked, Os hoped Bess would appear, dodging chickens as she approached. But every time he looked up, the yard was occupied only by its usual inhabitants.

  By the time evening hit, both master and apprentice were exhausted, Jean lifting the hammer high over his head to strike while Os turned and heated and molded. As dusk fell, Jean could barely raise his arms. Os ached from his lower back to his neck.

  Finally, hair still damp with sweat and cheeks pink from training, Bess arrived. She wore a dress and still smelled like sweat and work, but at least she’d made an effort to come see him. That had to mean something. Her expression was sorrowful, but there was a sort of pride that surged in him to know it was his departure that caused her sadness.

  Violet tripped up next to her, lagging behind to try to pet one of the chickens. A few of the hens didn’t mind the girl’s rough affection. But she stayed tucked next to Bess in the doorway.

  “I didn’t think you’d be working so late,” Bess said, watching Os wipe away the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead and his neck.

  “There’s much to be done,” he said.

  Violet caught his gaze and shyly produced the wire cat from her pocket. He couldn’t help but smile. Violet returned the expression and
reverently tucked the cat back into her pocket.

  Bess watched the exchange between them, her face flushing with emotion. “You really are leaving, then?” Bess asked, creeping into the foundry, Violet picking along with her.

  “I have to, yes,” Os said, stowing some of the tools. Jean was already cleaning from the day’s work.

  “Oh, Little Weasel!” Jean exclaimed, taking off his dirty apron. “I didn’t see you there!”

  Violet blushed harder than Os had seen anyone blush. He could swear even her eyelashes turned pink. “Hello Mr. Jean,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off her toes. Os noticed that one of her hands dove into the pocket where the copper wire cat rested.

  “Why don’t we go out and try to pet the chickens? Far more interesting than listening to these two natter on.” Jean held out his charcoal-covered hand. Without flinching, Violet shoved her hand in his and they left the sanctum of the foundry.

  Os couldn’t have been more grateful to Jean. The boy was far more observant than he needed to be.

  “Good lad, that one,” Bess said, nodding after him.

  “He’ll be able to hold his own until I return.” Os took off his apron. There was more to clean up, but he would get to it later. He wanted to make it clear to Bess that she deserved his attention.

  “And when will that be?” her tone was light and easy, as if she hadn’t been thinking about it since he told her that he was leaving.

  “I’m hoping not long. There are a few errands to run, and then I’ll take the next coach back to London.”

  “So you’re there fer errands. Not to call on folk.” Bess wandered over to the workbench and he followed.

  “I have questions that need answers. Those answers are in Manchester.” Os didn’t want to burden her with the reason for his trip. He didn’t want to speak aloud that while he believed his mother had been a freedwoman, there was a chance that her name was listed in a ledger somewhere, with a price attached.