by Edie Cay
The girls groaned in near unison. They dragged their feet, gathering up their coats, still huffing after the exertion.
“Oi, come back next time ready to run, you hear me?” Bess yelled after them. “Violet, you go straight home to Mrs. Martin, understand?” The girls scuffled out, and the only thing that managed to put a crack in her ill feelings was seeing Lucy grab Violet’s hand as they ran out.
Bess trained longer that night than she normally did. One of the new pugilists, a barely-bearded George, worked with her, wearing pads stuffed with straw that were tied about his person. They ran drills, working on speed and stamina. Tony stayed on late, coaching her form like he did in the old days, but mostly sitting on a stool, eating leftover pasties that Miz Penny kept bringing.
“Let’s send for John,” Tony said, licking his thick fingers.
“Leave him be,” Bess said, breathless. These were the times she was happy to remove the top portion of her dress, dripping sweat, needing cool relief from any corner.
“It’d be good practice for him,” Tony said, wiping his fingers on his trousers.
“His wife’s about to drop her babe.” Bess walked in a circle, trying to catch her breath before she went on to the next round. George was likewise sweating, trying to show his own prowess by pretending not to be as out of breath as he was.
“Thirty seconds,” Tony announced at the pocket watch he kept perched on his knee.
Bess nodded and returned the combination pattern he had prescribed. Exhaling with each punch, she tried to concentrate on her form and technique. Power was for another day.
“We’ll leave him alone tonight then,” Tony said, wiping his still-greasy fingers on his strained waistcoat. “Last round.”
There was nothing like the feeling of throwing a powerful cross or using her hip to twist extra thrust into her uppercuts. She didn’t know what this Bridget looked like, or how tall she was, or even her record, but she at least knew this: there was power here, inside.
“Time,” Tony called, sliding off his stool.
Miz Penny ducked around the corner, holding a plate with three pasties, each a little too browned. Bess stopped, catching her breath. She swung her arms across her chest to work out her muscles. Tony reached for one of the steaming delights. Miz Penny slapped his hand.
“These are for the lady,” Miz Penny admonished. “She needs some nourishment after working so hard.”
“Not too much. We’re still taking some of that flesh off. We want to keep you quick.”
Bess walked in circles, letting the air cool her skin. Whoever this Bridget Kelly was, Bess would be more than ready for her. Yet the missing information bothered her. Why did O’Rourke not give her any hard numbers? If she was so good, any manager would be happy to tout an undefeated record. Still, they would meet this Bridget soon enough.
Bess pulled her dress up over the sweaty bindings while George undid his pads, leaving them in a heap in the corner. Tony pushed a pint of small watered beers at the two of them. She took hers, trying to avoid gulping it. How many times had she let the liquid pour down both sides of her chin as she tipped it back too eagerly at the end of a workout?
It happened anyway. The beer crested her lip, spilling down her face and onto her dress. Tony chuckled. She glanced over at George, who had done the same thing.
“Some things never change,” Tony said.
She tipped the rest of it back, finishing it all in a gulp. Once finished, she wiped her face with her sleeve and handed the cup back to Tony.
“More?” he asked, taking George’s empty cup as well.
Before turning to the steaming pasties, she nodded. Tony disappeared into the other room, only to return moments later with a full pint.
“What kind are these?” Bess asked, watching the steam rise from the crust.
“Rabbit,” Miz Penny said. “I saved ’em for you special. And I heated them up, nice and hot. I know how you like them best.” She beamed at Bess.
George murmured his thanks as he bit into the treat.
“Thank you,” Bess echoed, picking up one, not sure if she would burn her fingers on it.
“This other one’s for Violet,” Miz Penny said. “But I didn’t see her.”
“No,” Bess said. “She’s back at home with Mrs. Martin.” She took a bite, the crust flaking off in her mouth.
“I’ll just go wrap it up then,” Miz Penny said.
“I could eat another one,” Tony said, reaching out to take the pasty off the plate. He got another slap on the hand for his effort.
“This is for Miss Violet, you dirty cully,” Miz Penny said.
The inside of the crispy pocket was full of tender chunks of rabbit, potato, and peas. Before Bess knew it, the pasty was gone and she was licking her fingers, just as Tony had sucked the grease off his.
“I’ll be off,” George said, having finished his food and redressed. “Thanks for the extra session. Good luck, Miss Abbott. I’ll be around if you need another partner.”
Tony handed her the second pint, and she lifted it to George in thanks before he disappeared. This time she drank it with a little more grace.
“You’ve nothing to worry about,” Tony said.
“I know.”
“I mean about yer blacksmith being up in Manchester.”
“I didn’t know that you knew my blacksmith,” Bess said, trying to tease.
“You’d be surprised what I know,” Tony said. “A publican hears a lot.”
“A lot of rubbish,” Bess said, tossing back the rest of the pint. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty.
Miz Penny returned with the warm pasty wrapped in paper.
“For instance, watch out for Violet’s father,” Tony said. “He’s been getting louder about you.”
“I didn’t think he spoke about me at all,” Bess said, accepting the package from Miz Penny.
“Of course he does,” Tony said. “You’ve got his daughter.”
“He didn’t want his daughter,” Bess said.
“You’re humiliating him,” Tony said.
Bess shrugged. “He should be embarrassed. He’s a drunk and a wastrel.”
“Just watch yerself,” Tony said.
No amount of assurance ever worked to make anyone believe she could take care of herself, despite how many times she had proved that she could. So instead, she touched the wrapped pasty to her forehead as if she were doffing a cap. “Tomorrow, friends,” she said and made her way through the almost empty pub.
The night was warmer now that it was creeping towards proper summer, but it still left a chill on her overheated skin. She wished she were going to the foundry instead of going home. She wanted to talk to Os about this mystery opponent, about Violet’s father.
She was so tempted to hunt down Violet’s father, confront him, maybe beat on him a little bit, make him promise to stay away from her forever. But she knew that wasn’t the best idea. Violet had chosen her, and that was enough. At least the two of them were a family now, unreliable men be damned.
The streetlamps were lit, making her way home less treacherous. It was late enough that people were settled down.
The warmth of the pasty seeped through the paper. Maybe she was wrong when she told Miz Penny she couldn’t eat two. The second rabbit-filled pasty seemed suddenly a perfect snack. She kicked the mud off her shoes as she made her way up the stairs. The lamps were lit inside, so perhaps Violet was still awake. She knew she ought to get that girl into a school of some sort, but she didn’t know where she could put her that she wouldn’t get snapped up into an orphanage or workhouse of some kind.
There had to be something to get her up in the morning—it was important for a child to have a routine, wasn’t it? Maybe she could work at the foundry, feeding the chickens and sweeping the floors.
There had been a hot meal. The smell of it still lingered, but the stove wasn’t lit. “Mrs. Martin?” she called.
Mr. Crawford, another boarder, appeared in the d
oorway. “Miss Abbott,” he said. “They’re in the sitting room.”
A cool dread settled in her stomach as she followed Mr. Crawford through the small dining room and into the sitting room. Mr. Crawford was a thin man, tall and young. He had only been renting a room for a few months, and Bess had not yet found time to get to know him. He always seemed likable, calm in his reactions, and willing to help when Mrs. Martin needed it.
Mr. Gregory was also in attendance. He was a quiet sort who kept to himself, and despite his years of residence in the upstairs room, Bess didn’t know him well either. He stood behind the settee where Mrs. Martin sat, quietly weeping, her arm linked with Violet’s, and Violet sat expressionless, staring into the fire.
“What’s happened?” Bess demanded. Immediately she thought of killing Violet’s father. First, she would find out if he’d laid a hand on either Violet or Mrs. Martin, and then she would give him his due, tenfold over again. She knelt in front of the settee.
Mrs. Martin wailed when she attempted to answer Bess. Violet refused to look away from the fireplace. There were no answers to be had there.
“Mr. Gregory,” Bess said, looking up at him. “Can you tell me what has occurred?”
The man cleared his throat, a nervous habit that he had, and now one that made her want to throttle him. “The girl’s father came.”
“And?” Bess said.
“And we did not let him take her,” Mr. Crawford said, coming around to stand next to Mr. Gregory.
There were no signs of bruising or swelling on either of their faces. “Anyone hurt?” Bess asked.
Mr. Gregory cleared his throat. “The gentleman, you see, was more in a way that he would hurt himself.”
“Ah.” So right now it was the gin that gave him the courage to take back his child. The experience of being deflected so easily might embolden the man or it might deter him. She didn’t know which. Either way, she would make sure she was there for any more of his visits.
She took Violet’s hand, limp and clammy, into her own. “I won’t let him hurt you,” she said.
Violet said nothing, staring into the meager fire.
“You know that you’re safe, don’t you?” Bess asked.
Without warning, Violet ripped her hand away, breaking her link with Mrs. Martin as well. “You weren’t here! How can you protect me when you aren’t even here?”
Bess sat back on her heels. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing without thinking. She was sorry—if something had happened to Violet while she was elsewhere, Bess would never forgive herself. “I was training. I have an important fight coming up.”
“And I was here!” Violet screamed, her terror launching her to her feet. “Where he could get me!”
She reached out to clasp the girl’s wild hands. “Then you’ll come with me,” Bess said. “You’ll go where I go.”
“That’s not healthy,” Mrs. Martin sniffed.
“Safer with me than with you,” Bess snapped. “Thank you, gentlemen, for aiding Violet.”
Mr. Gregory and Mr. Crawford acknowledged the compliment, only Mr. Crawford looking pleased for it. Mr. Gregory still looked as if this was the worst day of his life.
“What will she learn all day with you?” Mrs. Martin asked, sniffling. “With me, she can learn sewing, cooking, how to pour tea.”
“With me, she can learn to protect herself,” Bess growled, getting to her feet. “A teapot only goes so far.”
Mrs. Martin huffed.
“Have you eaten dinner?” Bess asked Violet.
Violet nodded, still not friendly.
“Would you mind sharing a rabbit pasty that Miz Penny sent home for you?” Bess asked. They walked back through the dining room, Bess scooping up the wrapped pasty as they passed.
Violet’s eyes lit up despite herself. Some things really were cure-alls. Bess mounted the stairs, but Violet remained.
“Aren’t we going to eat the pasty?” she asked in a small voice.
“Oh, yes,” Bess said. “And we’re going to eat it in the bed, like naughty children.”
Violet grinned and followed her up the stairs.
There was something about eating under the covers, the copper wire cat Os had made resting between them, that made a person feel safe. And they needed to feel safe more than they needed to worry about crumbs in the sheets.
Os was dropped off in the center of Manchester. The city seemed to have doubled since he’d left. More factories had sprung up, and people seemed to be living cheek-to-jowl. He coughed. The air was thicker here than in London, and that was saying something.
The walk to the Chitley estate would take him a good while, but he still had daylight, and it would feel good to stretch his legs after another day in the public carriage. He stopped off at a pub for a quick bite and an ale. It wasn’t as good as the Pig and Thistle, but it would do to fill his stomach.
If Willrich didn’t offer him servants’ quarters and some cold dinner, he didn’t know what he would do this evening. He had plenty of coin for a room, but it would be late by the time he made his way back to the village.
The pub suddenly filled with men, sooty from head to toe. Some had younger boys at their side, but every one of them reeked of coal.
“Got ’em ready,” said the pub owner behind the bar. Meals wrapped in paper lined the trays. An older woman that Os assumed was the publican’s wife came over to stand with the trays, the man taking the coin from each worker while the wife handed over a parcel.
The queue formed quietly, as if everyone’s step was known. A young boy edged up to the table where Os sat.
“You in coal, too?” the boy asked. He looked about ten. Fine black dust settled in lines around his young face, as if attempting to make him appear wizened.
“In a way.” Os worked with coal daily in his forge, just not the way the child meant.
The boy nodded, the creases appearing and disappearing as he examined Os. “Thought so. Make sure you wipe your face before you get home so your mum don’t get angry.”
The comment stunned him, almost made him spit out his ale. The boy’s tone was friendly, and his expression was open as if he meant no harm by it, no malice. “I will,” Os said. “Thank you.”
The man, whom Os could only assume was the father, pulled the boy back into line by the back of his shirt. All of the workers looked dead on their feet. Os finished his meal. This was why he’d wanted a trade; so he wouldn’t end up with no life left in him at the end of the day.
He exited the pub, feeling somehow better about his choices. He catalogued the experience in his head, trying to remember exactly what the boy had said in order to tell Bess later. She would throw her head back and laugh. She was a softer person on the inside than he would have ever guessed. He liked knowing that about her.
The streets were jammed with horses and people and shit. The dark, drizzling haze that hung over one half of the city had subsided at least. Os sidestepped the young children spilling out of doorways, the garbage heaps in the gutters, and the cabriolets on the narrow streets. Clotheslines crisscrossed lanes as if the rooms inside the buildings weren’t enough and families had to lay claim to the air surrounding them as well.
He trudged along, glad when the odors subsided and the crowded buildings fell away. Finally he was out of the city proper and on his way to Chitley. The path was familiar—he’d walked it often as a child. This part hadn’t changed. He was glad to see a few of the cottages still being occupied, persistent with cheerful flowers and tidy hedges.
Thoughts of an idyllic life in one of these cottages sprang to mind. He tried to picture himself and Bess there, but he couldn’t quite make the pieces fit. Where would his foundry be? Where would Jean live? What about Violet? And Bess wasn’t the sort of woman who darned shirts and kept house. That put a stutter in his step.
She seemed to be able to do the washing up, and if she could handle that, then could they afford a cook? Would Bess continue to fight? Or teach? He wasn’t sure how
he felt about that. There was a pride in being able to care for a wife and family, but he wouldn’t want her to feel trapped by him.
The long drive stretched out in front of him. The gates were new. Wrought iron and decorative, they were finely made. Os ran his finger along one of the curlicues. This had to have been made by his blacksmithing master. While Os focused on the practical ends of the trade—tool-making, repairs, and farrier work—his master, Hawthorne, was known for his artistic skills.
Os opened the gate and closed it behind him, admiring the handiwork. This would have taken months of the full shop’s efforts, all the apprentices and a few other journeymen and masters to get this done in a timely manner. In some ways, Os wished he could have been a part of such a project. But to have something he touched permanently installed on Chitley lands? The thought chilled him.
The house itself loomed in the distance. The green lawn stretched from the front of the house along the drive. The long rows of windows reflected the light of the waning sun. The golden yellow brick practically glowed, the white slate roof making a halo. The manor house suddenly seemed more like an old abbey than what it was: an ancestral home built to display wealth and power.
The gravel drive crunched under his boots as he approached. It was early to be having dinner, so he might actually get an audience with Willrich beforehand and not have to wait until after dark to see him. How he would be received, he wasn’t sure. Words in a letter only meant so much.
The door loomed as large as it ever had. He knocked.
There was the sound of footsteps on the marble foyer inside and then the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a man Os had never seen. He was in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair, distinguished looking but definitely new to the position. Os could smell the righteousness coming off of him.
“May I help you?” The butler asked.
“I’m here to see the master of the house,” Os said. “I’m an old friend.”
The butler sniffed, clearly not believing him. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Os said. “But he’ll want to see me.”