The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  Bridget Kelly smiled at the little girl, stopping the processional exit. “Thank you,” she said to Violet.

  “Don’t you talk to her,” Bess snapped.

  Bridget Kelly straightened, giving another warm, thoughtful glance to Violet, who shrunk behind Bess’s skirt. “She’s yours?”

  “She is now,” Bess said, her fists balling.

  “What’s your name?” Bridget Kelly asked Violet, despite Bess’s warning.

  “I said, don’t talk to her,” Bess snarled, taking a step towards the other woman.

  Mr. O’Rourke stepped in before the Irishwoman could respond. “Now, now, save it for the fight. Let’s go.” He pushed Bridget Kelly out the door.

  Tony sized Bess up before he followed his guests out the door of the pub, not saying a word.

  11

  Bess threw herself into training and teaching. Days were longer and sweatier than ever before. Her head swam at night, and she was never able to eat enough between sunup and sundown. Yet, even as her dresses loosened around her, the hard millstone around which she had been built emerged, her flesh ground away to reveal the barest ruthlessness she usually kept hidden.

  Os should have been home that morning if all he had was a single errand. One night on the way there, do the errand, take the next coach back. Three nights away was plenty of time. The fact that he wasn’t whispered a thousand horrible thoughts in her ear. But she pushed them away, just like the throbbing of a nosebleed in the first rounds of a mill.

  She dropped in on John more and more, using his training facilities away from the prying eyes at the pub. The more she thought about Bridget Kelly, the more nervous she got, until the day there was nothing inside of her left to feel. She was exhaustion, she was technique, she was the cold survivor of a lifetime ruled by violence.

  “Punch it out,” John advised, wearing a suit of pillows he’d had sewn for just such an occasion.

  “You look like an idiot,” Bess said. They had warmed up and already sweat dripped from her back and her brow.

  “Maybe so, but this is for my protection,” John said. “Lydia has already yelled at me for the bruises you’ve inflicted. I’d rather not get yelled at anymore.”

  “Didn’t think you’d get so scared of your dainty, blue-blooded wife.”

  “You don’t have to live with her,” John said.

  “What’s she gonna do? Murder you in your sleep?” Bess joked.

  “That is precisely what I am afraid of,” John said. “Having a child has shown me just how expendable I am.”

  Bess laughed for the first time since Os left London. It felt good, even if it sounded like a bitter approximation of humor. “Well, then, if you are killed, I’ll avenge your death.”

  “Oh no, don’t do that,” John said, holding up his hands in a boxing stance. “If she kills me, it’ll be for a good reason.”

  Bess took a half-hearted swipe at him, which he dodged without effort.

  “That was an embarrassment.” John squinted at her, as if trying to see better. “What’s got you in knots?”

  Bess shook her head, advanced another step, and let loose another weak attempt at a jab.

  “Out with it, or we’ll be here all day without improvement,” John insisted.

  She jabbed and followed with a cross, both of which caught air.

  “Oi,” John said, his accent slipping into the rough tones of their childhood. “Stop and think. What’s eating you?”

  Circling her arms wide to work out any lingering stiffness, she came back to her stance, knowing she should let her doubts fill the air. If she could say them aloud, then maybe they could stay in the training room and not follow her about London, dogging her steps. “Violet didn’t want to come today,” Bess said, this time landing a quick jab and a solid right uppercut. “She’s bored watching me train.”

  John grunted with the surprise of actual impact. “There it is. Another,” John said, circling her to keep her feet moving.

  “I don’t know anything about Bridget Kelly,” Bess said, advancing and jabbing faster than John could dodge.

  “Fine,” John said. “What else?”

  “I think Tony might want to drop me and promote her instead,” Bess said. The fears were superficial, but they existed nonetheless. She invested in a jab-uppercut-body combination that sounded solid against the pillows John wore.

  “I don’t believe that, but if you do, punch it out,” John said, grunting when Bess landed a short series of body shots on his padded suit.

  “She’s pretty,” Bess said, raining combinations of uppercuts and body shots on John, backing him up against the wall, working out all of her frustrations. When she tired, both she and John were panting. She could almost forget Bridget Kelly’s wavy blonde hair and milkmaid-pure smile.

  More than anything, she suddenly wanted to break that smile. It was easy to picture the tall girl doubled over, broken teeth on the floor, blood dripping from her mouth. That’s what the darkness inside of Bess wanted, to be the destroyer of that thing. To reach out and mangle beauty with her bare hands.

  A beauty she never had. A beauty she could never be. A beauty that every man wanted. A beauty that Os should want.

  “I’m going to need a break after that one,” John said, walking past her, shedding some of his pillowed protection. He arched his back, stretching out the pain.

  “Sorry,” Bess mumbled.

  John held up his hand. “I asked for it.” He panted for a minute, his eyes closed. “What do you mean, she’s pretty?”

  “I mean she’s pretty,” Bess said, stretching out her upper arms. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, small, unbroken nose.”

  “Unbroken?” John asked.

  “That’s what worries me.” Bess shook her head. “Either she’s so good no one can land a single shot on her, or she’s so inexperienced she’ll go down in the first round and I’ll look a villain for beating up the pretty country maid. Either way? I lose.” But she’d rather be the villain than the loser.

  “Have you asked Tony if he knows any more about her?”

  “I could, but I don’t trust him right now,” Bess said.

  John looked at her like she’d grown another head. “Why not? He’s always taken care of us. Why would this be any different?”

  “Because he took them to Lion’s instead of back to the Pig and Thistle. He showed them around, hanging on her every damn word. Where I wouldn’t find him.”

  “I see,” John said, fluffing the pillows across his torso. “When does Os come home?”

  “What does he have anything to do with this?” she demanded.

  John folded his padded arms and waited.

  “I don’t know when he comes home. Maybe soon, maybe not?”

  “Well then, I hope for Tony’s sake that Os returns before the fight,” John said, stripping off the pillow suit.

  “What are you doing?” Bess asked. “We still have hours to train.”

  “You’re way too keyed up, and my wife is far too dangerous for me to be your punching bag today.”

  “I need to be keyed up,” she protested. “Bridget Kelly might be a career-ending fight.”

  “But that’s not what you’re thinking about. You’re too busy worrying about loyalty and looks.”

  “I’m not worried about anything,” Bess growled.

  “And this has nothing to do with you worrying about Os meeting a pretty woman in Manchester and not remaining loyal to you?” John asked, his face no longer flushed from exertion.

  Bess stuttered, feeling her insides go cold at the accusation. “That’s not what’s going on.”

  “Isn’t it?” John asked. “Love makes us think in circles. The great Bess Abbott is no less susceptible. Go home. Do a training run. Go ask the apprentice when his master returns.”

  “But,” Bess said, looking around at John’s gym. Everything here was tidy and clean. The ropes weren’t frayed, sand didn’t leak out of bags.

  “This isn’t helpful to you,”
John said. “Your head isn’t thinking about your body, it’s worrying about your heart.”

  “What if he doesn’t come home for weeks? Or what if he never comes back?” The acknowledgment of Os’s absence hit her harder than any of her last opponents had. Her hands began to shake. She stilled them, but John noticed.

  “He’s coming back,” John assured her. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  The carriage ride was just as brutal on the return to London as it had been on the way to Manchester. After two days on the road, Os was ready for a bath and space to move his legs. The cramped quarters of the public coach left him with his arms crossed for hours on end.

  Stepping off the coach in London, there was relief not just in his body, but in his mind. Shaking out his arms, he looked forward to the walk back to the foundry. Dusk was falling, and while London possessed its own keen odor, it seemed better than the coal-dusted drizzle of Manchester. He stepped around the people in the crowded streets, making his way home. Home to his foundry. Where his apprentice kept things tidy. Where his woman came to find him. His home.

  It was twilight when he approached the foundry, the barn doors still open wide as Jean worked a project on the anvil. The embers glowed hot in the furnace behind the apprentice, and the boy clanged the hammer in the slow, steady rhythm of a man flattening iron.

  Os bent to scratch the old hound in the yard before entering the foundry. Jean finally noticed him and dunked the piece of metal he was working, the hiss of the steam a familiar sound.

  “Doors are still open,” Os said as a greeting.

  “And the forge is still going,” Jean said. “How was Manchester? Did you go by the old Master’s?”

  Os shook his head. “No,” he said. “And Manchester gets dirtier every year. Factories.”

  Jean nodded. “Then it is good we left.”

  “It is,” Os said, turning to go into the house. He ached for a bath.

  “Are you going to go visit Miss Abbott tonight?” Jean asked.

  Hidden inside this question, Os could hear all the other questions Jean longed to ask but didn’t—he wanted to avoid prying. “It’s late,” Os said.

  “I doubt she’ll mind,” Jean said, grinning. “Or should I run down to the pub to let her know you’ve returned?”

  Os’s heart pounded at the mention of Bess. He did want to see her, but it was a selfish feeling. He wanted her to soothe him, coddle him, tell him he was right to condemn Willrich in his mind. Bess would let him know that everything would work out. She was happy, and he would be happy soon, too.

  But his clothes smelled stale and sweat-soaked, and Os was too practical to indulge in those sorts of fantasies. Bess was her own person with her own worries. She wasn’t exactly the coddling type. “Is there water for a bath?”

  Jean frowned. “It isn’t Saturday.”

  “A man can hope for exceptions,” he said, his head low as he walked through the foundry and into the house.

  “So you don’t want me to go find Miss Abbott?” Jean called to him.

  Os grunted, letting the door shut between them. Heading upstairs, he noted Jean’s housekeeping while he’d been gone. Their housekeeper was supposed to have come during his absence, but even her efforts seemed for naught. Things were dirty, the handrail for the stairs had a new black handprint on it, but at least the main rooms were tidy. After dropping his pack, he went to the bedroom and stripped off his old clothes.

  Using just a small cloth, he cleaned the grime from his body using the cold water from the ewer. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do at the moment. It made him think of Bess, of their time together before he’d left. It had only been a week, but it felt like a year.

  He did want to see Bess, and she deserved a clean man. Despite the exhaustion from the road, the body aches, and the vexation of Manchester, he could almost taste her on his lips. It wouldn’t be his finest performance, but if he could get her to his bed, she would know how much he missed her.

  Mrs. Martin put the kettle on when Bess walked through the door.

  “Company coming?” Bess asked.

  Mrs. Martin gave a thin smile. “Only Miz Penny. She’s bringing Violet back.”

  The world, which had been hazy on the long walk back from John’s, sharpened into stark relief. “Back? She was supposed to stay here.” The specter of Violet’s father threatening to take her made Bess feel ill.

  “Tony came by to see you and Violet begged to go to the pub. What was I to say to that?” Mrs. Martin kept her back turned, fussing with the stove.

  “You say no, that’s what you say.” Though Tony could deal with Violet’s father better than Mrs. Martin could. The promise to take Violet with her wherever she went had relaxed by necessity as Violet grew bored with Bess’s training. “Why did Tony want to see me?”

  “He said it was business,” Mrs. Martin said, hustling herself into the other room.

  Bess’s eyes narrowed. Those were words straight from Tony’s mouth. Her stomach growled, and her limbs felt heavy. She shook her head to keep herself alert. “Tony’s a snake,” she said. “And Violet should have stayed here.”

  “He’s a well-fed one, then,” Mrs. Martin said. “And Violet will go where she pleases. It’s something you two have in common.” The woman disappeared into the sitting room.

  Bess stomped up the stairs. Her heart pounded as she climbed, and she knew she needed to eat soon. The idea of finding food had become so complicated it hardly seemed worth it. Beef tea, plain porridge, boiled pork, the same thing every day. What had happened to rabbit pasties and pints of hearty ale? After Bridget Kelly. Then bread and ale. Maybe even stop by John’s to sit through the worst fifteen minutes of her day with Lydia and Agnes as they entertained, eating the best bit of sweets and tea in London. Sweet currant buns—her stomach growled loud enough to startle the animals in the Tower. Oh, she needed to stop thinking of it.

  Instead of bathing and changing as she planned, she laid on the bed, pushing away the great weights of her worries. Everything was fine, she told herself. Everything was always fine. She was alive, she had a roof over her head, and she knew where to find food. All other concerns were nothing but frippery. She would live another day.

  When Os came back downstairs, cleaned and in a fresh pair of trousers, Jean was lounging by the door, nibbling on what looked like stale bread.

  “Want to drop by The Pig and Thistle?” Jean asked.

  Deny it all he wanted, Os knew that by the end of the night he would seek out Bess. It was almost instinctual, a drive that he couldn’t entirely control. Os gestured to the door, inviting Jean to exit first, the only way Os was willing to acknowledge that perhaps his apprentice knew Os better than he thought.

  Os checked his pocket watch—the one vanity he allowed himself this evening. The item didn’t dangle from a decorative ribbon or hang just so from his waistcoat, like a dandy. His watch was inexpensive but durable, and he’d forged the delicate chain himself, knowing that it would never fail. The hour was later than he thought, but the pub would still be open, and God willing, Bess would be there.

  “Somebody must be having good fortune,” Jean said as they approached the pub, the noise from within spilling out into the streets.

  The door swung open, and they met the eyes of the men leaving—sober men who were not impressed with the drunken antics of those inside.

  “Careful, lads,” one of the men said, shouldering past Jean. “Those in there are spoiling for a fight.”

  “We’re just here for a quick bite,” Jean said as they entered. “No trouble needed.”

  Os was grateful that Jean could banter so easily with strangers. He was too fatigued to make the effort of casual conversation. But the mention of trouble put him on edge. Was Bess part of the trouble? She certainly didn’t shy away from it.

  Once inside, the troublemakers were clear. They were a dirty lot, just a few men who reeled with every gesture, laughing wide and loud, showing rotted teeth.

&nbs
p; Os made his way to the bar, where Tony stood watch. The portly man made no show of wiping down the counter or any other busy task. His gaze never wavered from the drunken sots.

  “Evening,” Tony greeted, not bothering to meet either Os’s or Jean’s eye.

  “Evening,” Os returned. “We’re just here for a couple of Miz Penny’s pasties, if you’ve any left.”

  Tony’s gaze finally settled on Os. “You the blacksmith?”

  “I am,” Os said, trying to take measure of what the man wanted.

  “You seen her yet?” Tony asked. “You were in Manchester, yeah?”

  “Returned this evening,” Os said. “She here?”

  Tony shook his head, letting him know that the gym in the other room was likely empty. “Yer a big sort,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes.

  “It’s been said,” Os returned. Jean shifted his weight, seeming to be just as uneasy with the conversation as Os was.

  “I’ll give you those pasties if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor,” Tony said, his gaze wandering back over to the drunks in the corner.

  “What sort of favor?” Os asked.

  “I need you to sneak Violet out of here,” Tony whispered. “She’s upstairs with Miz Penny.”

  “Why does she need to sneak out?” Jean asked, looking around the half-full pub, as if the answer would magically appear.

  Tony gestured to the drunks with his chin. “One of them is her father. He’s been out to snatch her back, Lord knows why. Just got outta Newgate and looking for a way to occupy his time.”

  “Does Bess know?” Os asked.

  Tony shook his head. “She’d kill me and tear apart every man in this pub if she did. She was over at Corinthian John’s training today.”

  “Is there a back door in this place?” Os asked.

  Tony shook his head. “There’s a door, but you can’t get out of it—all boarded up to prevent thievery.”

  Os glanced over at the noisome crew, who had noticed them as well.

  “Of course, of course,” Tony said as loud as his voice would carry without shouting. “I’m happy to show off my facilities to a fan of Corinthian John’s.”