by Edie Cay
Tony edged down the bar, motioning for them to follow him. Jean shrugged and went along, Os following after giving the louts another glance over his shoulder. Tony flipped open the curtain that separated the pub from the gym.
“Now, I can, in all humility, say that if it weren’t for me, Corinthian John wouldn’t be the man he is today,” Tony announced, promenading into the gym with flourish, followed by Jean and Os.
On the stairway near the door sat Miz Penny and Violet. Miz Penny had her arm curled around the girl. Violet was tucked into herself, eyes cast down at the floor. When Miz Penny looked up to see Os and Jean standing there, she let out a sigh.
“Finally some good news,” Miz Penny breathed.
“We can take her home,” Os said.
Jean crouched down to Violet’s eye level. “Are you well, Little Weasel?”
Violet’s eyelashes fluttered. Os wondered if Jean was the only person who could have gotten even that much response.
“Is Abigail safe?” Jean asked.
The girl’s hand crept to the pocket on her dress. She pulled out the wire sculpture, flashing open her fingers to show the cat was indeed safe before tucking it back into the fist.
“Good,” Jean said. “Then we are ready to leave.” He stood and stuck out his hand, waiting for Violet to take it.
But instead of reaching for Jean, the girl burrowed back into Miz Penny’s embrace. She whispered something, but Os couldn’t hear it. He glanced at Jean, but Jean shook his head, making it clear he hadn’t heard it either.
“I’m sorry, Weasel, what did you say?” Jean prompted.
“I can’t,” Violet whispered.
Miz Penny’s expression softened. “I think she’s scared.”
The men exchanged glances, as if a plan could form without words. Nothing safe came to mind. Os crouched down, just as Jean did. “Would you feel safe if I carried you out of here?” he asked.
Violet looked up, her eyes glassy. She nodded and scooted out from Miz Penny’s arm.
“I’d be happy to make a big show of ordering some pasties,” Jean said.
“This way,” Tony said, once again stepping into the lead.
Os gathered Violet up into his arms and stood. The girl smelled like the same simple soap Bess used. She trembled as she leaned against his chest. It made his heart ache. He remembered being small and being scared, with no one to help him, unsure of who to trust. It was no small thing to have this girl’s faith.
Miz Penny stood, placing her hand on his arm. “Bless you, dear.”
“Tell me when to go to the door,” Os said.
Miz Penny stood next to the curtain, watching. Os could hear the loud conversation between Jean and Tony at the counter.
“Go now,” Miz Penny said, holding aside the curtain to allow him to duck through.
Os kept an unhurried pace, striding to the door, his chest angled away from the back wall so as to keep what he carried private. He tallied his pace, a quarter through the room, halfway through the room, three quarters to the door, when—
“Oi! Blackie!” One of the drunks shouted. “Ye can’t be stealin’ Tony’s fings! Tony!”
But Os didn’t break stride. He felt Violet shrink in his arms. To her credit, the girl didn’t whimper or cry. She kept still, clinging to his waistcoat.
“Nothing’s amiss, lads, go back to yer drinks,” Tony said.
“But ’e’s takin’ fings!” Another cried.
“He’s just taking a bit o’ gear to Bess Abbott,” Tony called.
“Oi, to Bess Abbott?” one of the men said. “Wait, you Blackie, you the blacksmith who takes up with the lady fighter?”
He was almost to the door, just a few more strides.
“Stop when I talk to you,” the man called.
“Now Mr. Jeffers—” Tony said.
Violet cringed in his arms. That man must be her father.
“I said, stop,” Mr. Jeffers cried. Os glanced over, seeing him approach. The man’s hair was starting to gray, and the deep lines of his face didn’t speak to age so much as to an over-fondness for drink. His face was square, as if it had been cut from the same blocks as Newgate prison itself. His nose was red, another sign that he’d taken some gin before he’d come to the pub.
If Os didn’t slow, the man’s compatriots might make it difficult for Jean to leave as well. He glanced back to his apprentice, stuffing pasties into his coat pockets. Good lad, Os thought. Knows he needs to keep his hands free.
“You’ve taken up wif’ her, right?” Violet’s father asked. “Not the finest English rose, but I suppose it’s all exotic to you, idn’t it?”
Os ignored him, continuing his pace to the door, his back starting to ache from keeping himself twisted as he was. But he couldn’t let the man see Violet. Heavy steps came up behind him as Jean hurried to catch up.
“Mr. Jeffers, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Jean said, doing his best to hide his accent. “I’m the apprentice down at the foundry if you ever need anything.”
The other drunks started to climb out of their corner, trailing at a distance.
“Wot you’ve got, anyway?” Jeffers asked.
“Just some gear,” Os said.
“Like what?” Jeffers asked. Suddenly, he yanked on Os’s arm.
Os didn’t drop Violet, but his arm dipped enough that the girl gasped. Jeffers rounded on him, his back against the pub door.
“Violet?” Jeffers roared.
The girl scrunched her eyes closed and whimpered this time.
“Move,” Os commanded.
“This fiend is stealing my daughter!” Jeffers cried to his mates. The men weaved between the tables, gaining ground.
“How about another round?” Tony shouted, hoping to get their attention.
“Move,” Os commanded again.
“That’s my daughter! She’s mine,” Jeffers said, his already red cheeks darkening.
“Do it,” Jean urged from behind him.
Os put his shoulder down and shoved through Jeffers, opening the door to the outside. The man grunted with the impact, stumbling away from the door as Os pushed.
“Assault!” Jeffers cried, falling to the ground.
“Can you run with Jean?” Os asked Violet.
“Yes,” came the small reply from the girl clutching his chest.
Os turned to Jean, lowering Violet to the ground. “Take her to Mrs. Martin’s. Run,” Os said.
Jean’s eyes were wide, but it wasn’t the first time the French boy had fled an unruly crowd of drunks. He took Violet’s hand and they disappeared down the street. Os backed himself away, hoping to leave without any further conflict.
“You think you can just come here and do whatever you want?” Jeffers screamed. “I’ve my rights, guaranteed by God!”
“Feel free to fetch a constable,” Os said. “I’ll wait.”
The other men spilled out the door, a comedy of drunkards, perhaps dangerous a few pints ago but now rendered harmless by their own libations.
Jeffers narrowed his eyes and spit. Getting to his feet, he managed to hold his composure. “I wouldn’t want to waste my time,” he said. “Not when I can get my justice later.”
“You know where my foundry is,” Os said. He wanted to keep shuffling backwards, inching closer to Bess as he went.
“Oh, I know right where you sleep, Blackie,” Jeffers said. “I’ll find you.”
12
Noise never woke her. A carriage could rumble past her head and Bess wouldn’t stir. But urgency—the sound of a human voice unable to mask fear—that always brought her out of a cold sleep.
Though she couldn’t make out words, the voice was pitched low and tinged with an unfamiliar shape of words. She was on her feet in moments, recognition coursing through her mind. The fatigue that had plagued her evaporated as she took the stairs two at a time. Sleep was now the furthest from her mind, and she was thankful to have been fully dressed when it had overcome her.
Mrs. M
artin was now speaking, and bodies bustled about on the main floor. It was difficult for Bess to keep herself from shouting down to them. She hit the landing, and finding the small stove unoccupied, she rounded into the sitting room. Jean’s broad shoulders blocked her view.
“Where’s Violet? Are you all right? Is Os safe?” Bess said, worry bursting out of her.
Jean turned, his face creased in fear, making him look far older than his years. Bess caught sight of Violet, pale and shaking, on the couch. Mrs. Martin was already holding her, rubbing the girl’s arms as if it were cold that caused her to tremble.
“Violet!” Bess rushed past Jean and knelt in front of the girl. “What happened?”
Violet’s eyes took time to focus, and when they did, she met Bess’s gaze. “Me da,” she whispered.
“Did he hurt you?” Bess’s blood turned to ice. She would kill him. There wasn’t any part of her that wouldn’t face a hangman’s noose for Violet.
Violet shook her head.
“He was in the pub,” Jean said. “Him and some friends. Tony hid Violet in the gym and we tried to sneak her out, but Mr. Jeffers saw Os trying to leave.”
“Os is back?” Bess asked. Funny how she could be bloodthirsty and joyous at the same time. “When did he get back?”
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Martin rose to answer it. Jean watched her as she left.
“Just tonight. He cleaned up and we went to the pub for a bite,” Jean said, still watching the doorway.
Mrs. Martin returned, her face not quite as drawn as it had been. A familiar bulk followed her, filling the entry to the sitting room.
Bess felt as if she was exhaling for the first time in days. “You’re home,” she said.
Os nodded, a smile tugging at his lips but not yet fully forming. It was more than a relief to see him—it felt right and whole and good to see him. He looked dapper in a clean, well-tailored coat.
She wished she was half as well-put-together as he was. When she had pictured his homecoming, it certainly didn’t involve her still smelling of a workout and disheveled from an unplanned nap.
“What happened?” Bess asked.
Os took a few steps into the room, as if he were unsure of his welcome. “We stopped by the pub for a pasty and met up with Violet’s father. We tried to sneak her out, but he caught sight of her.”
Bess rubbed Violet’s calves. “I’m sorry, Duckie. I should have been there.”
For the first time, stoic little Violet’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” Bess said. “And I didn’t.”
“They knew me,” Os said. “If I weren’t—”
“He was taunting you because he knew you were connected to Miss Abbott,” Jean interrupted.
“I’m sorry,” Os said. “I tried to get her out without him seeing her.”
“But he didn’t hurt you?” Bess asked Violet.
The girl shook her head.
“Or you?” Bess asked, turning to look at Jean and Os. Both men shook their heads as well.
“Tony’s back there dealing with them now,” Os said. “Shouldn’t take much, they were all a bit bosky.”
Bess shot to her feet. “Well, if they’re still loitering.”
Os stepped to her, putting his hand out to stop her. “Don’t. No good can come of it.”
“He doesn’t get to have her,” Bess said, stepping around him.
“And I’m not saying he does,” Os said, attempting to gentle her. “But why provoke him?”
“Oh, it ain’t provocation,” Bess said, slipping by. “It’s a warning.”
Bess left the house without coat or hat. She had no need of anything warm on the early summer night. She was happy Os had returned, and planned on spending time with him, but just now she had a certain man to set straight about his place in the world.
The few blocks to the pub disappeared behind her, the blood thrumming in her ears. She could hear the rowdy crew before she saw them, slurred remarks indistinct on the wind.
Tony stood blocking the tavern door, his great mass working as a passive obstruction.
“Oi, Jeffers!” Bess called as she made her way up.
One of the staggering men wheeled around to face her. “Wot?” he roared.
“You stroll out of Newgate like some kind o’ perfumed lady?” Bess asked.
“Wot you sayin’, Abbott?” he said, pushing his way between two of his drunken friends.
“I’m saying, you come out like a proper person, or you come out like a whore reekin’ o’ last night’s customer?” Bess stopped, put her hands on her hips, and waited. It was easier to let him come to her, drunk and unpredictable as he was, so she’d have time to assess how steady he was.
“I paid my debts, right and proper,” he snarled.
“Did you now?” Bess asked, watching every step he took as he moved closer to her. “Because I know a little girl who is owed so much more than you could ever pay.”
It wouldn’t be a fair fight and wasn’t even a proper match, but the anticipation of the coming violence filled her not so much with joy as with familiarity. She knew this feeling, understood this exchange. “Because I know a little girl who is owed so much more than you could ever pay.”
Jeffers’s eyes narrowed. “So where is she then, that I may attend my debt?”
Bess canted her hip, a show of sass, though in reality, it masked her shifting into a fighting stance. “Haven’t you heard? Your debt has been assumed by another, better able to provide for her. The best you can do is to disappear.”
Jeffers then did what Bess did not anticipate—he laughed. More than that, he threw his head back and roared. “You hear that, lads?” he asked his friends. “Fancy talk out of a gutter whore.”
He was smart enough to bait her back. But it was far from the first time she’d been called a whore, or worse.
“Where’d you learn all that money talk? One of your patrons?” he asked, his voice going husky on the last word. “I’ll not let no daughter of mine whore herself out to dandified perverts.”
Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. She’d done what she’d done to survive. Anyone who lived in those alleys had accrued some shame on any particular day. “I make my living with my fists,” she said. “Not any other bit.”
“You can’t fool me, Bess Abbott, ’cos I remember you,” Jeffers said. “I know you, and I know what you done. You think I’d forgotten your gang when we was nothing but dirty-faced rats? You didn’t even have a name.”
“Name or not, I got by.” She had blocked out her childhood. It wasn’t a walk in the park, and it hadn’t been easy to stay alive then, always pushed from bed to bed—and then, when she was older, pushed from alley to alley. Home had not even been where she could lay her head, for that never lasted long, sometimes not even an entire night. Always running from the older gangs, like the one Jeffers was in. She’d had good nights, a belly full of stale bread and swigs from a near-empty bottle of ale. But then there had been the bad nights, being hunted and taunted, hoping her grumbling stomach didn’t give her hiding place away.
It had been why she needed Tony, why she had given him her undivided loyalty, why she was bonded to him and his gym and then to John as well. It wasn’t just that Tony had given her a safe place to sleep—he had saved her life when he taught her to fight. By then, the gang had given her a name: Bess. Not for any other reason than that was the tool she carried to help break into houses. She was a tool for the betterment of the gang, a way to bust in a door. When she left them for Tony’s, no one even missed her.
“Well, Violet’s having a better life than you, so you best run along and fetch her for me,” Jeffers said. “I’m her father, after all.”
“Are you sure about that?” Bess asked. “Fathers are not the reliable sort of way to track parentage.”
To her surprise, Jeffers bristled. This was his soft spot then. He must have loved Violet’s mother, whoever she had been.
“I’ve got five men behind me,” he growled.
“I can count,” she said, letting her arms dangle at her sides. This is what she ached for, the release of this bluster, the words ending and the sound of flesh on flesh beginning. “But I’d say four and a half—one of ’em looks to be a little too foxed.”
Jeffers didn’t turn away to look, which Bess gave him some credit for. It would be easy to sucker punch him here, but it wasn’t her style. She didn’t need the element of surprise.
“I want my girl,” he said, advancing on her. “If I take her back, it’ll be all the worse for you.”
“You threatening me?” she asked, pulling her heels up off the stones, ready to spring. “Please threaten me.”
His answer came in the form of a wide swing to her face. She dodged it easily—ducking under it and returning with an uppercut to his face. He staggered back, his weight not counterbalanced for his movement—something a bar brawler would do, not thinking of where to move his feet. In a pub, there was always a table or a chair, or another patron to fall against. On the street or in the ring, being off-balance just meant a body fell on his ass.
Bess advanced on him. He was caught by a friend who looked to be one of the more sober ones.
“Now then,” the friend said, his voice thick with drink.
She stopped his conversation by giving Jeffers a few shots to the abdomen as he groaned. One of the friends circled around her and tried to kick her, but she moved fast enough that he, too, ended up on the cobblestoned street.
It was honor that made Jeffers try to stand again. And it was Paddington honor that made him speak again. And it was that same twisted honor, built of abandonment and shame and loyalty, that made Bess drop to her knees and pound Jeffers’s gin-laden face with her bloodied knuckles until Tony managed to pull her off.
Os let Miz Penny look at her first. Jean had stayed with Violet back at Mrs. Martin’s place, warming by the fire, telling the girl funny stories steeped thick in his sleepy French accent.
Tony’s eyes were big and alert as he sat next to Bess, both of them nursing a pint of nut brown ale. Miz Penny stroked Bess’s shoulders and brushed stray wisps of hair away from her face. Os sat down across the table from both of them.