by Edie Cay
“Your manager?” Os asked. The man was easy to spot. Not tall, but large. “He must make good coin to be that wide.”
Bess snorted. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She turned to him, urging him on with her eyes.
Os took a breath. It was now or never, to tell her that he had a family out there in the world. That they weren’t the same. And maybe she would understand, never having had a mother, why finding his was more important than anything. More important than her.
“I left Barbados when I was five. It was a sunny day, and I was playing with a new friend—I don’t know how we came together, but it was as children do. A look, a game, and off we went, running through town, dodging around people, scaring horses, dogs chasing after us until they got distracted by something else. We ran down to the docks, sailors everywhere, cargo unloading and loading. No surprise that we both fell in the water.”
Bess snorted in a laugh, the images of two young boys cavorting and creating havoc in their wake.
“I helped my friend out of the water, and we ran aboard a ship, hoping to get some dry clothes. But he was scared of getting in trouble, so we hid in a storeroom, waiting for the sailors to leave and let us sneak up to his cabin. It was warm in there, despite our wet clothes. I fell asleep. So did he. When a sailor found us, they only spotted him—I was tucked further back. When I finally awoke, the ship had left port, and I was an accidental stowaway. My friend didn’t want to say anything, afraid of getting us both in trouble.”
Bess nodded, her intent gaze bolstering his confidence. She understood. At least, so far, she understood.
“Eventually, someone found me when I was crying in my sleep, calling out for my mother. When I got to England, I had to go somewhere. I had a lisp, and between that and my accent, hardly anyone could understand me. Many didn’t believe I was a freedman, no matter how hard I insisted. Until my parents could be contacted, the local abolitionists pressured Lord Chitley into keeping me, as was his obligation as the local landowner.”
“Otherwise, you would be kept by the parish,” Bess said with a frown. “I know what happens to children kept by a parish.”
The comment stabbed at him. She likely was kept by a parish. Which meant a workhouse, or being shipped up to a factory where children lost lives and limbs. But without parents to complain, it didn’t matter if nameless children disappeared.
“So I continued to be the young master’s playmate, took lessons with him until he was sent away to school. After he left, I worked in the stables, and the stable master, Mr. Pickett, kept me in line. On Sundays, I would go have dinner with a couple named Horace and Mary Reed. They showed me that family could be anyone. They didn’t have to be blood.”
“That’s quite a tale,” Bess said, turning to look up at the ceiling.
“It is,” Os rumbled, waiting for her to extricate herself. But she didn’t.
“I have another question, and I’m afraid it’s going to come out sounding terrible.”
“You mean like Lady Kinsley?” Os teased.
“Yes, I’m going to sound like Lady sodding Kinsley,” Bess said.
“At least I’m prepared for it.” He didn’t mean to, but he tensed his body as if he was going to receive a blow. The terror of what she might ask, how low and insulting it would be made him clench.
“How is it that people might not believe you were a freedman?” she asked. “Slavery doesn’t exist in England.”
“Because slavery in the British Empire is still legal, and I was coming from Barbados. But in England, slavery is illegal,” Os explained.
“But I thought they couldn’t take more people from Africa,” Bess said. “I’m at least smart enough to know that.”
“You cannot take a free man into bondage,” Os explained. “But those born to it remain in bondage.”
“You could be a slave in Barbados, and in Manchester, you couldn’t?”
“English soil guarantees freedom,” Os said, turning to face her. “God bless the King.”
Bess snorted. “Something good to be said about the dirt here, then.” She took his hand, curling it into a ball and placing hers around it. “What would happen if you went back?”
“I’m not sure.” Os choked on the thought of it. In some ways, it was lucky that he hadn’t found his mother in Barbados.
“So you won’t ever go back, right?” Bess said. “You can’t.”
“Bess,” he said, trying to think of a way to explain. How to explain to a motherless orphan the need to help one’s mother? How to explain to a free woman how it felt to risk enslavement?
“You can’t go,” she insisted.
“Luckily, I am only going to Manchester.” He covered her palm with his own, letting his hand rest gently on hers. No need to stoke her worry with tales of those snatched off the streets and forced onto ships. “But I will not make promises that I can’t keep. Not to you.”
Her eyes focused on some point far beyond his room. It was like she’d left already. Had he not been gentle enough?
“What did I say?” he asked. Os didn’t know if he should touch her or leave her be.
“You can’t leave me,” she said, and even in the dim light, she looked determined. “I won’t allow it.”
His heart burst then, like an air bubble in smelted copper. Tough and strong as she was, she was still that child, perpetually abandoned and tossed aside. Alone in a way that was familiar to him, insecure in any attachment, for it might be ripped away at any moment.
“I can’t take you with me tomorrow,” he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Her skin was hot, as if her body would combust with the force of her will.
“I know. Besides, I have to keep training. I can’t afford two days sitting on my arse in a padded carriage,” she said, tipping over so that she was curled next to him, fitting her long body against his, her head on his shoulder.
“You make it sound so comfortable.”
“I could run alongside you for the first fifteen miles, just to keep you company.”
Os barked out a laugh. “I bet you would, too.”
Bess grinned at him, her teeth catching the light. She never smiled that large in the daylight, and he could see gaps where some of her teeth were missing. He hoped those were just a professional hazard and not someone’s earnest pounding. He gazed at her long legs, her strong shoulders, those impish brown eyes, fueled the steady hum of emotions and words that made him want to talk for the first time in his life. He didn’t think he’d ever felt that way before—about anyone. Not even Sophia. “I lo—” but he couldn’t say it. As he opened his mouth, Bess visibly flinched. “I love London. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
She sat up and kissed him on the mouth, her hands cradling either side of his head. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean it,” he said, hoping he could look deep enough into her eyes that she would believe the words she wouldn’t let him say. “Why don’t you want to hear words like that?”
“In my small experience, it just means disappointment.” Bess shook her head and disentangled herself from him.
He put his hand on her shoulder, keeping her from sitting up. “I’ve got time for a story.”
“This isn’t a good story,” she said, but she let him push her back down to the bed.
He slid his hand down to hers and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Tell me anyway. Let me know what I’m up against.”
Bess sighed. “I would have to tell you eventually, anyway. So why not? Right.”
Os gripped her hand harder, trying to let her feel his encouragement. He could give her his attention tonight, and that had to be enough.
“I was a young thing then, maybe one-and-twenty or so. I was making a name for myself, as was John. He’d just come up with his nickname, ‘Corinthian,’ because some of the Fancy had gifted him some swell’s cast-off clothing. He strutted around—it was something to watch. So I got to know the Fancy, too. Started saying I’d help instruct, j
ust to give myself a bit more jingle in my pocket. And a young lord took a fancy to me. He was just an honourable at the time, a second son, so he didn’t have the same restrictions as the titled toffs. Started out with private instruction, and then it became more. And all the while he paid me, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I needed the money. But did it make me a whore to take his money, if he was paying for the pugilistic pursuits? He said such sweet things. Creative things. Maybe stuff he read in books, not that I would ever know. But he told me that he loved me, in a thousand different ways.”
“So far, it sounds nice.” Os didn’t like the bleak feelings that snaked around his insides, hearing about this honourable. He wouldn’t want to make Bess feel that way. It reminded him to not tell her about Sofia. Or the fact that he would likely see her up in Manchester.
Bess harrumphed. “He was average in face and feature, nothing beastly, but not handsome enough that he didn’t have to work to charm a lady. And he learned how to do it on me. Pretty words, trinkets. He didn’t seem to understand that I didn’t have anything before. That every bauble was precious. Right about the time he inherited—I don’t know if it was pox or accidents that carried off his father and brother—I found I had a growing belly.”
A wave of sadness ran through the room, palpable as a ripple in the blankets.
“He gave me a wad of banknotes and sent me to a cutwife. It was one thing to be a man with a mistress, but he couldn’t have an illegitimate child with a woman as homely as me.”
“Surely he didn’t say that,” Os interrupted.
“No, it was his man who did.” Her tone was frank but cold. “For it was his man who put the banknotes in my hand, and his man who delivered me to the cutwife to make sure I would have no future claims on the title. Never saw his lordship again.”
“I’m sorry,” Os murmured. No wonder she didn’t want Os to leave town.
“At the time, I hadn’t thought about motherhood. Didn’t have time to want it or not want it. And then all of a sudden, I’m bleeding and hurting and staggering down an alley trying to get home. Tony and John and Caulie kept me alive until I healed. And by then, it was clear that I’d never have children. Whatever that cutwife did, she finished it all for me.”
Os rumbled to acknowledge that he’d understood her story. And his mind tapped those things into place. It suddenly made sense that she thought this could only be an affair—not only because of the treatment at the hands of this aristocrat, but because she couldn’t have children. If they married, he would have no issue from his body. He kissed her on the temple. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” Bess said, again trying to sit up.
He tipped her chin towards him, catching her midrise. “The past can still hurt.” He kissed her, lightly.
She pulled away for just a second, and Os was sure she was gone for good. That she would bolt from his bed and from his life. But then, whatever decision she had come to, she dove back into him, kissing him as if their connection was a lifeline to pull her from a river of sadness.
“You’re coming back,” she said in a definite tone, brooking no argument.
“I’m coming back,” he repeated. “And we’ll start building something together.”
“Tell me what we’re building, and I can help.” Even in the dimness, her eyes searched his. “I make a superb partner. Just ask John.”
There was silence as she stared him down. She was asking for his past. She was asking for trust—not just reassurance, but emotional currency. Os relented. “First, I have to find my mother.”
Bess nodded. “Sure enough. Wait. She isn’t still in Barbados, is she? Is that why you won’t promise to stay in England?”
“Very perceptive,” Os said. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice everything, I just let people get away with most.”
“No, I don’t believe her to be in Barbados. In fact, I can’t find record of her anywhere. There’s a rumor that a seamstress with her same name moved to London.”
“But—”
“I don’t understand either,” Os admitted. “There’s no record of her in any ledgers on any plantation, and the only woman with her name and occupation was a freedwoman. I’ve been in contact with the vicar in Freetown for years, and he insists that this woman could be the only one, but I don’t recognize the last name.”
“Couldn’t she have remarried?”
“This was before she remarried.”
“Well.”
“Exactly.”
They sat in silence, staring at the ceiling. Now she knew. Mother first. Bess second. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but surely, she must feel it.
“If she were in London, I know a person you could see about finding her.”
“Do you?” Os kept his tone neutral. He didn’t want to sound dismissive of her efforts. But he honestly didn’t know how anyone she knew could help.
“Former student of mine. Goes by Jack About Town. You can find ’em at the White Hart in Drury Lane most evenings. Too late now, o’ course. Maybe when you get back.”
“When I get back.” Not much of a surname, but then again, who was he to judge a person by their name?
“Jack’s very good. Helps recover stolen bits and general precious objects. Ain’t nothing more precious than a mother.”
“Cheers to that, my love.”
Bess sat up on her elbow suddenly. “What’d you call me?”
“It’s a term of endearment.” Os explained, reaching up to give her a soft caress on her shoulder.
“I know what it is, I’ve just never heard it applied outside of fishwives selling their wares.” Her hand crept across the expanse of his chest and she hooked her leg across his lap. The air thickened between them. “I’m going to make sure that you’ll be very tired on that carriage.”
8
Public carriages were not the easiest of conveyances. Os knew that this would be a bumpy ride as he had on many occasions repaired springs and shock absorbers from these very same communal vehicles. Still, it didn’t prepare him for the continuing rattle of his brain well after dinner.
The inn where the coach stopped was nice enough, but also inexpensive enough for his pocket. Dinner was included in the night’s stay, which Os was glad for. The ale settled his stomach after the all-day jumble.
There were four other passengers, none of whom seemed to pay him much mind. Indeed, neither they nor the driver seemed to care what Os was up to. The innkeeper seemed to feel the same, which gave him some relief. There were other men like him, he knew, men with impressive height and broad shoulders, men who might intimidate. They could be a blessing on the roads that were not as well patrolled by the King’s men.
He sat in the common room nursing the last dregs of his cup. The fireplace was burning, giving a warm glow, warding off the dampness of the air. The building’s stone walls were covered by heavy curtains, another attempt to keep the wet cold from seeping inside. The driver sat at the bar, taking in another drink, flirting with the woman serving. She seemed to tolerate him, probably knew him well if this was his regular route.
Bess crept into his thoughts. He was glad she had stayed with him through the night. He had woken up several times, checking to see if she was still there, if she was cold. When she’d risen from the bed to go at daybreak, he roused, too. But he figured that if he opened his eyes, there would be a delayed and tearful goodbye. He wanted to remember their last moments together as sweet as they were: their bodies tangled, her head on his shoulder.
He swirled the last bits of his ale in his cup before drinking it down. Visiting Chitley would bring him more information, and perhaps a satisfying argument. Of all the things he’d imagined he would say to Willrich over the years, he couldn’t choose just one.
But no sense in biting the hand that would feed information. Os left his glass on the small table and wandered up to the shared room on the second floor. Nothing he’d brought was worth a damn, and anyth
ing worth a damn was on his person: his pouch of coins and the letter. Tomorrow, he’d disrupt Willrich’s dinner and demand more answers.
“Violet!” Bess yelled. The giggling stopped, but for all that was holy, at least she was giggling. “What do I always tell you?”
The girl looked healthier than she’d ever been. There was color in her cheeks, and her hair had grown almost as shiny as Prinny’s. Mrs. Martin’s mealy porridge was better fare than she’d normally had, apparently. The other girls had warmed to her now, making their instruction all that much harder.
“Keep my hands up?” Violet guessed.
“No,” Bess said. “Pay attention!”
Lucy laughed until Bess turned a sharp eye to her. The girl’s laughter died down immediately.
“Everybody run in a circle. You can stop when I say so,” Bess said. The little girls moaned and groaned, putting down the jump ropes and beginning a trot. “You’ll thank me for this when the constable is running after you in the streets.”
It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but likely to be true. Even privileged Prinny might have an unpleasant encounter with the Dogberries at some point. Bess’s bad mood compounded once again. Os had only been gone a day, but she wanted to talk to him so badly she thought she might burst.
“Bess!” Tony called from the doorway.
She spun around, hands on her hips. “I’m teaching here. What do you want?”
“Stop torturing the little demons. You sparring tonight? Better get on wi’ it,” Tony said, hoisting the waist of his trousers over his large belly.
“Stop running,” Bess said to the girls, waving her hand. Tony still had her under his thumb, no matter how old she was. “Time’s up. Clean up. Grab yer pasty. Go home. Stay out of trouble.”