The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “Name?” The butler asked.

  At least he had the opportunity to give one. If the butler was truly intent on keeping him out, he would have just gone to “check” if the master was receiving before turning him off the property. “Mister Os Worley.”

  The door shut in his face, a completely unsurprising occurrence. If this man had heard of the Black boy that had lived on the estate years ago, there was no reason to equate that boy with this man. The sun was warm on his back, and the fresh smell of grass was a welcome relief from both London’s and Manchester’s more acrid atmospheres.

  It wasn’t long before the door reopened, the butler attempting to hide his surprise. “If you’ll follow me, sir,” he said.

  The butler escorted him through the house’s public rooms, decorated identically to the way they had been on the day he left. The same portraits hung on each wall, cluttered from the chair rail to the ceiling. Os slowed his walk as they went down the long corridor. This was the dreaded room, the one where Lord Chitley had reigned. An odd feeling came over him as the butler opened the door to the master study. A film of sweat came over his palms, a nervous tick that hadn’t occurred in years.

  Os crossed the threshold.

  9

  Willrich stood when Os walked into the imposing study of the sitting Lord Chitley. The large room, dominated by the Earl of Chitley’s dark-stained oak desk, wasn’t particularly ornate as it was heavy with wealth. Os stopped short of the imported blood-red rug that delineated the business area of the room.

  “Os!” Willrich cried, his arms outstretched. The new lord looked well—he had always been a handsome lad, according to the giggling and whispers of the scullery maids. He had a dimple in his cheek when he smiled, and all the maids had felt a certain sense of accomplishment if they had seen it on any given day. Os wouldn’t have known about this feature of Willrich’s if it had not been a frequent topic of the servants’ dinner conversation downstairs.

  Willrich’s hair was fashionably long, with a thick curl to it, the kind that was in all the fashion plates. His clothes were less ostentatious than his father’s style had been, but they marked him as a country gentleman nonetheless. Os would bet good money that the new Lady Chitley was discussed as a diamond of the first water. Os sketched a bow, the movement familiar but stiff. “My lord,” Os said.

  Os sketched a bow, the movement familiar but stiff. “My lord,” Os said.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Willrich said, sighing. “It’s me, Os. We’ve eaten worms together.”

  “I was under the impression that it was poor manners to brag,” Os said with a straight face.

  Willrich chuckled and came around the desk. Though merely furniture, the desk had intimidated Os in his younger years. The previous Lord Chitley had used it well—a barrier, a symbol, and a threat all at once.

  “I’m surprised you’ve come!” Willrich grabbed him by his upper arms, not daring to embrace him. “I’m pleased, but surprised.”

  “I received your letter,” Os said. The paper of it weighed heavy in his breast pocket.

  The expression on Willrich’s face changed, showing sorrow. “I am sorry, Os. My family has failed you. Not just once, but repeatedly.”

  “I need to find out what happened to my mother,” Os said.

  “I am trying,” Willrich said. “But the distance makes it difficult.”

  “You will remember that I corresponded with a local vicar, but he has not had any success with a Mrs. Worley in Freetown,” Os said. “I have thought that I might take you up on the offer to stand over your solicitor until he locates his ledgers.”

  Willrich stepped back, leaning against the desk. He ran his fingers through his brown curls. “I meant that in jest,” he said. A gentle smile, full of pity, played across his face.

  “I must find her. If you won’t go with me, I will go glower at your solicitor myself.” Os dropped his bag and crossed his arms. He knew it was a posture of intimidation, which was not something the old Lord Chitley would have borne.

  “Tell you what,” Willrich said, clapping his hands together. “I’m sure you must be tired from your journey. I’ve had Roberts make up a guest room for you. Go clean up. Dinner is in thirty minutes. I’d love for you to meet my wife. We’re not as formal now, so if you haven’t a change of clothes, don’t bother.”

  “I’d be comfortable in the servants’ quarters,” Os said.

  Willrich looked genuinely shocked. “Absolutely not.”

  Os found himself looking at his own shoes. He was here now, back in this house, a place he vowed to never return. Humbling as it was, he didn’t think it was as humbling for Willrich.

  “My father did wrong by you,” Willrich said. “I can’t change what’s passed. I can’t even change what’s happening to your family. But I’m trying. Please have a little faith in my intentions.”

  Os ran his tongue over his teeth as he considered. “Fine,” he said. “Can you call someone to show me the room then?”

  Willrich brightened. “I’ll lead you myself.”

  Protesting would be futile. Willrich was determined to be the most gracious host in history, even though the servants would likely be appalled at seeing their master parading through the halls like a butler.

  He followed Willrich out of the study, down the hall, and up the front staircase. Os was almost embarrassed by the stares of the servants, peeking around a corner when they heard the master talking. No doubt they expected some grand lord or lady, not a common blacksmith who towered above them all.

  “Here we are,” Willrich said, his voice betraying the pride he found in his ancestral home. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing a guest suite fit for a prince. The walls were painted, and beeswax candles occupied silver tapers on the mantle and at the bedside. The bed itself, a canopied fortress of walnut and damask fabric, was larger than most of the rooms Os had slept in. Adjoining the bedroom was a sitting room with a writing desk. More beeswax candles sat at the ready for nightfall.

  “My lord,” Os rumbled. This was a humiliation. He couldn’t accept this level of grandiosity. “I beg of you.”

  Willrich held up his hand to stop him. “I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay here. This the best I can offer. Better than my own bed.”

  Os sighed. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And don’t call me that,” he added. “I’ve always been Willrich. The Chitley title is, well, still new.”

  Tony didn’t look ruffled by the opulence of John’s pugilist training room. He leaned his bulk against the wall and watched while John and Bess traded jabs. The air in the room was close now, full of sweat and exhalations. Violet sat on the couch, Abigail the copper cat in hand. She watched them, but not with the interest Tony showed.

  Both fighters shifted their weight, foot to foot, gaining balance before letting loose with a blow. Finally, Bess feinted a left and threw a right cross that landed squarely. John’s head whipped back with the force of it, his eyes wide in surprise.

  “Time,” Tony said, not looking at his watch.

  “That was nothing but a tap,” Bess protested. Sweat dripped from every inch of her. She’d ignored the need for more air, concentrating instead on the twitch of John’s shoulders to tell her where the next blow would come from. Her speed was improving. Having no idea what her upcoming opponent would fight like, she had to train like her life depended on it.

  “Time,” Tony repeated, this time with a scowl.

  “Fine,” Bess said, catching her breath.

  John walked off his exhaustion, mopping the sweat from his face, wiping his nose to see if there was any sign of blood. He bent his knees and folded in half, recovering for a second before continuing his circuit around the room.

  Bess made the same circuit in the opposite direction, hands on her hips, gasping the humid air.

  The door opened and a servant entered. “Sorry to disturb, sir,” the man said with a subtle incline to his head.

  “Yes, what is it?” Jo
hn asked, trying to appear lordly despite being shirtless, covered in sweat, and red as a beet. It was comical enough to make Bess laugh.

  “The physician has been sent for,” the servant said.

  John seemed to stop breathing for a moment. “Thank you,” he managed when he recovered. “Please tell Lydia that I will be up in a moment.”

  The servant turned to go.

  “And prepare a bath for me,” John added.

  “Very good, sir,” the servant said, turning to go once more.

  “And some food. A cold plate will do.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Maybe some cheeses,” John said. “Lydia loves cheese and she’ll get hungry.”

  “Of course,” the servant said.

  “And extra towels—for her though,” John said.

  “Absolutely sir,” the servant said.

  “Let’s also bring up a good Madeira—”

  “John,” Bess interrupted. She placed a hand on his sweaty shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Let the man go do his job. The physician is on the way.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Stephens,” John said.

  “It is Greyson, sir,” the servant said.

  John winced. “My apologies.”

  Greyson left, closing the door behind him, much to Bess’s relief. “What sort of self-important toff are you that you can’t even remember one man’s name?” she teased.

  “It’s happening,” John said. Where he’d been red with exertion just minutes before, now he had gone pale.

  “What’s happening?” Violet asked.

  “It might still be a long while. Pace yourself,” Tony advised.

  “And what would you know about baby-having?” Bess challenged.

  “What would you?” Tony challenged back.

  “Got me there,” Bess said. “Get cleaned up. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe Lydia will want you there. You know, to help.” John gripped her arm.

  “She wouldn’t want my help,” Bess said.

  “But you’re a woman—you could be in there,” John said.

  “I’ve not done what she’s about to do.”

  John nodded, his stare miles away. He wanted Bess to be there for him, but that wasn’t proper. She was neither woman enough to attend Lydia nor man enough to distract John while they waited. If she didn’t have Violet, maybe she would have stayed, but as it were, Violet shouldn’t be made to wait like that. It could be a whole day before anything happened, and it might not be a good outcome anyhow.

  “We’ll be off,” Tony said. “Many felicitations to you both. C’mon Bess.”

  Bess toweled off some sweat and pulled her sleeves back up. She threw a clean towel at John. It would have been nice to get a little more tidy, but she didn’t want to tax his hospitality. “Get moving. New territory here. Yer about to be a father. No one knows how to do that job.”

  She glanced over at Violet, her words hanging in the air. Violet’s father wasn’t a good example, but she hadn’t meant to insult the man outright. Violet didn’t look at her.

  John snapped out of his reverie and grinned at her. He leapt down from the ring and headed for the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” he said, leaving the door open behind him so they could see him run down the hall.

  “Get up, Petal,” Tony said to Violet, who sat wide-eyed on the couch.

  “We should go,” Bess said. “C’mon, Violet.”

  They didn’t meet in the sitting room to go in to dinner. By the time Os had washed his face and hands and returned to the main floor, the family was already at the table. The butler ushered him in, announcing his name as if he were grander than he was.

  Willrich stood as a courtesy, but Lady Chitley remained in her seat. Almost as soon as he sat down, a footman placed a bowl of soup in front of him. It was disorienting, but not unwelcome. It had been too many long miles since the pub back in Manchester.

  “Well,” Willrich announced, looking pleased as could be.

  Lady Chitley looked across the long end of the table at her husband. Os had been correct: Lady Chitley was beautiful in a small sort of way. She was of petite stature, her blonde hair arranged in a series of massive sausage curls. Large blue eyes made her appear doll-like. Os wondered if she would have been so pretty if she’d been a poor woman, without the fashionable trappings and ribbons. Many men preferred smallness, as it made them feel bigger for the comparison.

  Os was always uncomfortable with the doll-like sizes of those women. As if even a sneeze in their direction would cause a disastrous collapse.

  “Yes,” Lady Chitley said, answering a question that had not been posed.

  Os realized then that he had not been formally introduced to Lady Chitley. How awkward would it be to spend the entire time conversing only with Willrich? He cleared his throat.

  “This is such a delightful moment, isn’t it?” Willrich asked, ignoring the footman who delivered his soup.

  “If I may,” Os rumbled, feeling as if his words may have gotten stuck in the dust of the road. “I don’t believe I have been introduced to your wife.” He hazarded a glance at the woman, who appeared visibly relieved.

  Willrich sputtered, flustered, but in a charming sort of way. The way he had done everything in his life, a show of forgetfulness, easily forgiven. Os had to wonder how much of those displays were showmanship. How many times growing up had Willrich forgotten to meet him after dinner, only to bluster and blush, apologize and make promises for next time? There had been so many promises over the years, coming to naught.

  Os got to his feet, as did Willrich. “My dear childhood friend, Mister Os Worley, may I present my beautiful wife, Jane Lawrence, Lady Chitley.”

  For good measure, Os bowed as low as he could muster. For her part, Lady Chitley didn’t arise from her seat, but nodded her head in acknowledgment.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Worley,” she said, her voice high enough to be mistaken for a child’s. “I do apologize for not getting up, but—” she blushed, looking down, the picture of a demure lady. “I am finding I mustn’t tire myself.”

  “Of course,” Os said, returning to his seat. “I wouldn’t want to tax you, my lady.”

  It was strange to talk so obliquely of her condition, as just a week before he’d been in another aristocratic household where the lady of the house was rotundly pregnant and open about the state of her affairs.

  “I’m so pleased that you are here, Os. Just so pleased,” Willrich repeated, shaking his head.

  Lady Chitley began dipping her spoon in her soup, and Lord Chitley followed suit. Os was glad for dinner, hoping that the effusive comments would at least die down while they ate.

  Dinner was simple, at least by the standards Os had witnessed the prior week at the table of Corinthian John. There was only one wine, a Madeira, of which Willrich drank several glasses while Lady Chitley picked at her food. The soup was a watery broth without much seasoning, followed by pheasant and then a sort of small, bland cake for dessert.

  “We don’t eat to excess here,” Willrich said as the footman cleared his plate. “My wife has a sensitive constitution, and I find that displaying a more frugal lifestyle than my father did is better for tenant relations.”

  Os nodded, as if the idea of master/tenant behavior was something he’d ever once thought about. But it did make him suspect that money was not as easy as it had been in years previous.

  “Now,” Willrich said with a clap of his hands. “I’m sure my lady wife would like to retire, and Os and I can occupy ourselves in the study with my brandy.”

  Lady Chitley gave a weak smile as she rose from her seat. Os glanced over at her form, noting that beneath the high-waisted gown, there was yet to be visible evidence of the impending heir.

  “Good night, my lady,” Os said.

  She was pale enough to match the linens. Os glanced over to Willrich, who was beaming as if the child had already been born. Os wondered if the lady wou
ld make it up the stairs without assistance, but it wasn’t his place to ask. He followed his old friend into the study where they’d met earlier.

  “Brandy?” Willrich asked after Os closed the door behind him.

  Os already felt thick and slow from the Madeira at dinner but felt it impolite to decline. “Thank you.”

  Willrich poured a second glass and handed it to him.

  Os took the brandy, turning to once again examine the study with its dark furniture and walls of ledgers. Can a man hate a room as if it were a person?

  “I know,” the lord said. “I could barely bring myself to use it after Father died.”

  “But you did,” Os said before he could stop himself, knowing it was a challenge.

  “Of course,” he said. “The estate and the rooms inside belong to the title, not the man.”

  Os grunted. That was the perpetual excuse. They weren’t mere men, they were titles to be preserved. Obligations and custom and circumstance dictated their lives—so oppressed were these fat, opulent aristocrats. So oppressed to have to float across the ocean to enslave and torture the children of other men.

  “I’d like to find my mother,” Os said.

  Willrich gestured towards the chairs in front of the fireplace. “Of course. Who wouldn’t want to know about their mother?”

  Os tried to remind himself that Willrich was being solicitous. That he was offering his best hospitality, and he wasn’t trying to talk down. Many others of his class would have never let a blacksmith step across the front threshold of his home, let alone sleep in a guest room. Os sipped at the brandy as he settled into the wide leather chair. He’d never thought he would sit in any of the furniture in this room. Willrich settled in the identical chair opposite him, a satisfied expression dancing across his face.

  “Let’s discuss in earnest. My letter detailed what I knew—after the uprising, she seems to have vanished. To be honest, I have no reason to believe or disbelieve she was on the plantation before the uprising.”

  The breath in Os’s lungs hitched. It was painful to think about—he much preferred the fantasy where she continued her work day in and day out, a free woman with wages, growing older and rounder, where no man, white or Black, would pay too much attention to her.