The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “My manager there is inquiring about her whereabouts. As you know, it takes time to get news from the island.” Willrich said all of this as if they were just cold, hard facts, and not information about an actual woman who might be subject to the whims of the pale-skinned men who surrounded her.

  The fire was low but steady. Os had an urge to stoke it with coal to make it burn so hot it would sear their eyelashes and smelt iron. “If you would write me papers declaring my freedom, I could sail over and fetch her myself.”

  “Let’s slow down our conversation just a bit, Os. First, I understand that we must assume your mother is still alive.”

  Rage bubbled up, molten hot. The fire needn’t be stoked as his body took on a heat of its own. Os took a sip of brandy to cover his true emotion.

  “We had always assumed you were a freedman, and your mother was a freedwoman. If that’s the case, I have nothing to offer you. But should that not be the case, and you and I met on the Chitley plantation instead of in Freetown, she may well have been in bondage, living there at the estate. It would be surprising to me if another plantation poached her from me. So she may be hiding somewhere on the island, or someone could have changed her name. She may have become the concubine of a man and given manumission. But the most likely scenario, regardless of her legal status, I’m sorry to say, would be that she was killed in the uprising.”

  Os caught his breath, steadying himself so as not to betray himself. He knew she was alive, he could feel it in his bones. And they weren’t in bondage. He knew it. “You speak so coolly.”

  “I’ve had a long time to think about it,” Willrich said. “You are just now taking in all the implications.”

  “I can’t believe my mother is dead just because you say it is likely.”

  “Of course not. That’s why we must assume she is alive, regardless of probability. I’m waiting to hear more from my plantation manager there, and my solicitor here. He has all the older records. It’s safer to keep those stacks of ledgers with him than in this study, where anyone can get to them.”

  The coals shifted and the small log on the fire fell lower on the grate. At least the sound of a fire was a comfort.

  “But let’s say she is alive. We’ll get a passage on a ship to England for her, but why would she come? Because of a child she no longer knows? And who compensates me for the lost income? The plantation where we find her?”

  “Compensates you?” Os asked. When he was younger, he’d had moments where he pictured his hands wrapping around the drooping neck of Lord Chitley, his face turning pink and mottled as Os squeezed. But those times only came when Lord Chitley talked about his costs. As if employing Os had been such a hardship when his labor could have been free. When his life could have belonged to another man. Rage bubbled, an unfamiliar and old emotion.

  “The estate was compensated for your care, and I think it makes sense to seek the same for your mother’s. At fair prices, of course.” Willrich sipped at his brandy, as if they were discussing boots.

  Os couldn’t even sputter. “Who paid for my upkeep?” he choked out. He didn’t dare ask what he was worth. The idea that a human life was invaluable is lost when a price is put on one’s head.

  “The abolitionist group in Manchester. They caught wind of it through the servants before Father could ship you back to Barbados.”

  So there had been plans to return him. He remembered tumultuous days, where he’d been granted not a room but a cot in the kitchen. Some of the staff had tiptoed around him, some had joked with him, but he hadn’t understood their strange, new accents, nor could they understand his. It had been hard to judge the tenor of their smiles and nods. Except for the cook, Mrs. Reese; she was a plain-spoken woman, said what she meant, helped him stay tidy, and kept his plate full.

  He’d been grateful for her bits of fresh bread and a palm full of plums. It had felt like a gift beyond measure. If he’d only known what had been happening above stairs, in the study with the leather chairs. He’d been hauled up there, displayed in front of a small group of men and women with all hues of skin. Lord Chitley had yelled, but the spokesman of the group, a white man in sober dress, remained calm. Horace had been standing there, hat in hand, amongst the crowd. He’d winked at Os, the first in a long line of ways Horace had made Os feel safe.

  Papers were exchanged, and one of the ladies came over to him and laid a cold white hand on his cheek.

  “Bless you, child,” she had said.

  Horace had touched Os’s shoulder and given a gentle squeeze. The next week Horace returned to check on him, inviting Os to join his family for Sunday dinner after services at the local church.

  Os had no idea how tenuous his life’s path had been. But after that day, he’d gotten a room next to Mr. Pickett, the stable master. That was the beginning of his life in England.

  “So you are expecting money in return for my mother?” The shadows of the room seemed to grow longer than even he had first imagined.

  “Yes, of course. If she was on our plantation.” Willrich blinked in surprise. “An asset is an asset, Os. These estates don’t run themselves. I’m divesting myself of our Barbados plantation, not only because the institution of slavery is barbaric, but also to raise capital for other ventures.”

  The lord rose out of his chair and refreshed his brandy. Os couldn’t look at him. How conciliatory the letter had seemed, and how disgusting Willrich sounded in person.

  “Don’t mistake me, now,” Willrich said, returning to his chair. “Human bondage is an odious thing, and I don’t approve. But I have to be practical. My farmland is increasingly going vacant as my tenants are moving to the city to work in the factories. The generational bond of tenants and lord is weak now, Os. My father claimed it was just another ebb in a long tide, but first it was the Napoleonic Wars and now it is industry. I’m being as frugal as I can, but I don’t see how I can avoid parceling off my estate as my child grows. What kind of legacy is that?”

  “I’m sorry for your struggles,” Os bit out.

  Willrich cut him off. “Thank you. That means the world. I know I shouldn’t burden you with these sorts of troubles, but I’ve no one to talk to. One’s good fortune is everyone’s business, but one’s bad fortune is a solitary sentence.”

  But I want to talk about my mother, Os wanted to say. There was no broaching the subject again. Plans would have to continue, slowly, with other angles. Tomorrow he could search for the solicitor and the abolitionists.

  The next morning arrived with a sour taste in the back of his throat. When Os came down, he found Willrich already at the breakfast table, reading crisp newspapers.

  “Lady Chitley won’t be joining us,” Willrich said, pleased. “She has difficulties in the mornings.”

  Why the man seemed so happy that his wife was ill in the mornings was puzzling, but Os could only think that he was so satisfied with his upcoming heir that any discomfort his wife felt was beside the point.

  “Would you like to go out and tour the stables? I have not alerted the staff to your presence, but you know how fast gossip travels below stairs,” Willrich said.

  The breakfast cheer was too much for Os. Accustomed to Jean’s sullen morning silences, and given his own preference for quiet, the conversation seemed shrill.

  “No. I will go into Manchester and then return to London as soon as possible,” Os said. The butler poured him a cup of tea, the color dark like the meat of a walnut. It made his mouth water. His tea was always watered down, stretching the leaves as far as he could.

  “I may be frugal with our meals, but I cannot pinch on tea,” Willrich said. “I had them set up a buffet this morning. Normally I just have a bit of toast. Help yourself.”

  Os stood and went to the buffet behind Willrich. There was a single plate there, waiting for him, but he still felt as if he were about to be accused of stealing. This was the lord’s house, the lord’s breakfast, and if there was one thing that had been beaten into him in this house, it was th
at he was not a lord.

  Even in his work, he needed to apply to be a master blacksmith in order to open his own shop. The Manchester guild had wavered on his qualifications, not because of his metalwork but because they weren’t sure of his status. Was he an actual Englishman? He had almost retracted his application from the guild, ready to remain in Manchester as a journeyman for the rest of his life.

  “I recommend the eggs,” Willrich said, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

  Os picked up the plate and removed the lid of the chafing dish. Fluffy scrambled eggs in a quantity he’d never seen before lay waiting for him. Two solid helpings ended up on his plate, and before he knew it, the dish was mounded with fruit, toast, and a bit of ham as well. The excess embarrassed him, but he certainly couldn’t put anything back.

  Os sat down at his place with the still-steaming cup of tea. Willrich eyed his plate but didn’t say anything. He went back to his newspaper, looking smug and satisfied. His plate was shoved to the side, empty aside from the scattered crumbs and smears of grease.

  Not knowing if he was supposed to say a prayer or perform some other sort of ritual, Os picked up his fork and began to eat.

  “I do wish you’d change your mind on returning to London so quickly,” Willrich said. “There’s so much I’d love to show you on the estate. Things that have changed, and Mrs. Reese would love to see you again. And watch you eat her food.”

  Os grunted, trying to chew as fast as possible to respond. “I’ve a shop to run.”

  “Yes, I suppose a tradesman’s life doesn’t leave much time for leisure,” Willrich said with a sigh.

  “What would I do with leisure?” Os asked before resuming his breakfast.

  “Oh, all the noble pursuits,” Willrich said. “Reading, painting, drawing, writing, horseback riding, hunting, that sort of thing.”

  “You must have a very strange idea of what a blacksmith does if you think I have time for painting.” Os looked up from his food, giving Willrich a half-smile to let him know he didn’t mean the comment as an insult.

  Willrich returned the expression. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t know the plight of any man other than myself. It’s a hole in the education of a landed gentleman. Is there any way that you might be able to help me see better?”

  The eggs, fluffy and not too dry, were gone. There was merit in Willrich’s proposition. Os could show him the foundry and introduce Jean. He could show him Bess’s fight night, and the pub where she trained. But even if he did walk Lord Chitley up and down Paddington and Marylebone, introducing him to every carpenter and good wife, would it change the way he thought of those people? Would he understand that poverty was not inherited like a title? Would he understand that sometimes, all the hard work in the world still left you with the single cookpot you’d lugged around since your youth?

  Could Willrich forgive a woman such as Bess, long-legged and plain-faced, for turning to violence as a means to make a living? Would he understand how Violet came to her, and would he have allowed Violet to stay? The weight of all that Willrich asked in that simple question was too much. A single person could not shoulder the burden for a whole class of ignorance.

  “I’m sorry, you are welcome in my foundry anytime you like, but I have work I must attend myself in order to keep my business afloat.”

  Willrich drew back and opened his newspaper again. “Of course. May I at least give you a ride into town? I’ve sent my solicitor a note to expect us this morning.”

  “The solicitor?”

  Willrich once again looked pleased with himself. “It’s the absolute least I can do.”

  10

  Instead of being an invisible observer in the cramped office of a middling ledger-keeper, Os was the subject of much glaring and scorn from the bony-faced solicitor, Mr. Gravestock.

  Willrich looked at ease in the uncomfortable chairs and small room piled with dusty books. The wooden seats were too narrow for Os, and leaning back made him feel like the whole contraption would topple backwards. The chair was an unsurprising reminder that the world was not built for a man like him.

  Sheets of paper slid across the desk. Willrich signed and returned them, asking a few questions each time. The solicitor leaned back in his chair as he answered, revealing a small, dirty window behind him, brushing his dark moustache with evident pride.

  “If we could, Mr. Gravestock, I’d like to address the subject of the Barbados estate,” Willrich said.

  Mr. Gravestock gave another look of disdain and pulled a ledger from under a pile of papers. “Of course, my lord,” Gravestock said. “Is this a matter of pricing?”

  Os straightened in his seat. It was not a matter of pricing, it was a matter of location.

  “I’m interested in the history of one slave in particular, a laundress named Thomasina,” Willrich said.

  Every word burned to hear it on his lips. Os’s breath came short; it made him want to pull down every shelf and shred every book in the tiny room. But he knew it wouldn’t help anyone, not himself, not his mother, not Bess, so he let the hurt course through him as heat, making sweat prickle under his arms and on his palms. He sat still, trying to show himself as a patient man. “Seamstress,” Os corrected.

  “I beg your pardon. A seamstress named Thomasina,” Willrich repeated.

  Gravestock hemmed and hawed, paging through the ledger until he settled on a page. “Her depreciation?” he asked.

  The question felt like a slap, as if Gravestock had personally reached across the table to assault him. A person’s value didn’t decrease with age; a life became no less meaningful as years passed. Os took deep breaths, reminding himself that this was a first step to finding his mother, who he insisted on believing was safe and happy and possibly in London. Home.

  “No need, as I believe she was granted manumission some years back,” Willrich said.

  Os coughed and the chair squeaked as he shifted. Willrich gave him an encouraging smile, as if it alleviated any of the grotesqueness of the moment. Looking out the grimy window, everything was a shadow of coal dust and smoke. Os’s stomach flipped and turned, unable to settle.

  “Mr. Worley has sent someone to find his mother, as the uprising was so contentious,” Willrich continued. “No one is sure of the woman’s whereabouts. She is not listed on the ledgers at the plantation after 1816, and since the ledgers there were burned during the rioting, we have no idea of her fate. Surely you remember my prior inquiries of her?”

  Mr. Gravestock blinked furiously for a moment. “Of course. I have not yet had the time to forage through ledgers looking for a single laundress.”

  Os was ready to take Gravestock by the collar and choke him with it. He was not a violent man, but this was beyond what he could stomach. “Seamstress,” Os growled.

  “Either you are my solicitor or you are not,” Willrich reminded him. “I asked you to look into this two months ago. Mr. Worley, I do apologize.”

  “It will take me some time to go through them,” Gravestock said.

  “If you give them to me, I can look myself,” Os offered.

  The solicitor looked shocked. His paper-thin spine stiffened. “Absolutely not. My lord, I will attend to the matter as soon as I am able. But I will not surrender my ledgers.”

  “His lordship’s ledgers.” Os couldn’t resist correcting him.

  “Quite right, Mr. Worley, thank you.” Willrich bestowed an amused smile that was chillingly reminiscent of his father. “See that you get to it quickly. We’ve had enough of a delay already.”

  “I will write when I have a firm answer,” Gravestock promised.

  “See that you do,” Willrich said, before turning to Os. “I promise to relay the information to you myself.”

  Willrich and Gravestock finished their business, and when the lord got to his feet, Os did the same.

  “Mr. Gravestock,” Os growled, the best he could do at a polite goodbye. Mr. Gravestock said nothing in return.

  When they rea
ched the stoop, coats and hats retrieved and put on, Willrich gave him another satisfied grin. “A great success!” he declared.

  Os said nothing, straightening the collar of his overcoat. In order to survive, he had to not think about these moments, the way his mother might be charted in an accounts book. The thoughts pushed down, away, disappearing, but not gone. He looked out into the street, where the stones appeared darker than the ones in London. Maybe everything in Manchester seemed gloomier now that his home was elsewhere.

  The thought surprised him—when had he thought of London as home? Anywhere as home, for that matter? It was his strange little family that made it so: Jean, reliable but never serious, Bess, an unlikely love, and Violet, quiet and still, so much like Bess it made his heart ache with the recognition. He wanted to go home. But he wanted his mother more. That wild gleam of hope that maybe his mother was already there.

  There were a few more stops before he could buy his carriage ticket back. He decided to go to his old parish church to ask questions. It was where the Society had met, where he had been obliged to attend.

  “Let’s go celebrate with a pint,” Willrich said. “Like the regular chaps.”

  Os shifted his gaze and his thoughts back to the man who stood beside him. “Celebrate?”

  “Of course!” The lord clapped him on the back. “An excellent step forward!”

  Os choked on his anger. He had no new answers, he was out the price of a coach, and he was losing valuable time at his forge and with Bess. Willrich was well-meaning, perhaps, but this man was so focused on his own small family and lands that he could not see past his own narrow, pale nose.

  “You speak of my mother.” There was not another second Os could spend talking to the man whom he had once considered a friend.

  The sweat felt good, and what Tony didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Bess and Violet worked at the gym. The Pig and Thistle had closed early for the evening, and Tony had gone off to God knew where.