The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “It doesn’t look like you’re hurt,” Os said, looking at Bess. It was hard to let the others pet her and care for her. He wanted to push them out of the way, scoop her up, and take her home, as if she belonged to him. She was thinner than when he left. Perhaps it was just the stress of the night, but her expression was empty, as if that hot light that lived inside of her had been extinguished.

  “She isn’t,” Tony said. They sat for a moment, the four of them, as if they were some kind of family, Tony as the tough-but-fair patriarch, Miz Penny as the doting mama, Bess as the wronged daughter, and Os as the…what would he be here? The suitor? The help? The man so in love that he could barely keep himself from overturning the table and carrying her off like some kind of barbarian?

  “I saw blood outside,” Os commented. Truthfully, he’d stepped on what he had thought were pebbles, only to look down and find blood, but also teeth.

  “Jeffers’s,” Bess said through clenched jaw. She finally met Os’s gaze, and then he saw where that light had found a home. There was a rage inside of her that was barely contained. Tony must have seen it, too, accounting for his unusual alertness. Last week Os wouldn’t have understood that feeling, but sitting across the desk of the Manchester solicitor, he’d felt the overwhelming power behind it.

  “Is he dead?” Os asked. It seemed a fair question, but Tony’s quick glance told him that he shouldn’t have asked.

  “No,” Tony said.

  “He would have been,” Bess said at the same time.

  “A pugilist doesn’t go beating someone to death in the streets,” Tony declared. “It isn’t…” He fumbled for the words. “Ladylike.”

  That at least got a sarcastic guffaw from Bess. It shook her melancholy enough that she downed the rest of her pint. “Miz Penny,” she said, taking one of the woman’s gentle hands from her face. “May I have a pasty?”

  “Of course, dear,” she said, popping up out of her seat, clearly pleased to have a role in comforting a distressed person. She hurried over to the counter, her white hair wisping about behind her like a cloud.

  “I’ll cancel the fight this Friday,” Tony said.

  “What?” Bess’s head snapped up. “No, you can’t.”

  “You lost control,” Tony said. “I’ve never seen you like that. I’ll not let you fight until you can prove your command.”

  “The purse, Tony,” she pleaded. “Think of the purse.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Tony said. “And I’d rather have a smaller purse than spend it all on feeding you while they wait to hang you for murder.”

  “Matches are different,” she said. “It’s controlled for a reason. You’ll be there.”

  “I was there tonight and it didn’t make much of a difference,” Tony grumbled.

  “Maybe he’s right,” Os said, hoping to lend a voice of reason. No, that was not what he hoped. He hoped for her attention, in whatever form it came.

  “Stay out of this,” she said, her voice flat.

  “We’ve got a good crowd already built up for it,” Tony sighed. “It would be a shame to cancel.”

  “I’ll do anything,” Bess said.

  Tony regarded her, the alertness in his eyes fading to cleverness. Os watched him, wondering how often he manipulated Bess. She was an easy target for him, as he was father, trainer, and boss all rolled into one man. “Come back to the gym and I’ll think about it. But I have to tell Mr. O’Rourke and Miss Kelly about this.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “They need to know what to expect,” Tony said. “What you’re capable of.”

  Bess scoffed. “I know nothing of her, now do I? They know my record, my manager, my gym. I don’t even know how many bouts she’s had. Why do they need to know about some private brawl? Whose side are you on?”

  “Bess—” Os tried to cut in.

  “And whose side are you on?” Bess demanded, turning to look at him.

  Tony rubbed his face, exhaustion taking its toll. “Fine, I won’t tell them about the fight, but I still might cancel if you don’t show me you’ve got a handle on yourself.”

  “I’ve always got a handle on myself,” she said.

  “Not tonight,” Tony said. “That’s my point.”

  She shrugged. “Fine. I come back to the gym, prove that I won’t get rattled.”

  “Good,” Tony said. “I want you to come home.”

  Bess scratched at the back of her neck. “John’s gym is better.”

  Tony snorted. “Puffed up dandy that he is.”

  Os assumed this was what passed as an apology between the two of them.

  Miz Penny returned with a toasted pasty. “For you, dearie.”

  “Thank you, Miz Penny,” Bess said. She got to her feet, Miz Penny’s head not clearing Bess’s shoulder. “Os, would you walk me home?”

  He nodded, feeling as if he had just witnessed a family dinner and had no more say than a fly on the wall. “Wouldn’t want you to be set upon by brigands.”

  “The poor brigands,” Bess said, biting into the pasty.

  “That’s exactly who I’m concerned for,” Os said, straightening his sleeves. He thought to offer his arm, but given that she had food in her hands, he opted to keep to himself.

  “I’ll be back to train tomorrow, Tony,” Bess called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll expect you,” Tony said. “You’ll be slow after tonight’s ale and pasty.”

  “Worth every bite,” Bess said, still chewing.

  “Goodnight, little loves,” Miz Penny called, as if they were young lovers out for a stroll.

  Once outside of the pub, the air cooler and fresher, Os felt as if he could breathe again. They took an easy pace, their feet hitting against the stones with no urgency or haste.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Os finally said, glancing over to her.

  She polished off her pasty and licked her fingers. “Are you now?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

  There was a small part of him that wondered if she would punish him for his absence, wondered if she would demand he choose her and give up all hopes of finding his mother. But Bess had never been one for games. In fact, he rarely thought of Bess as a woman, more as a person who happened to have delightfully womanly parts.

  “I returned as soon as I could,” he said. “And I couldn’t write you.”

  “I don’t have the blunt for a letter anyway,” she said, kicking at pebbles and rubbish as it came into her path.

  Should he put out his arm for her to take? Maybe pull her close to him to show how much he cared?

  She sighed, the sound loud in the quieting streets, rolling her shoulders back as she did before and after a fight. He wasn’t sure if that was her calming down after the scuffle with Jeffers or if that was her readying for verbally sparring with him.

  The walk seemed both too short and interminable. He knew he should say something, but whatever would make this woman happy was a mystery to him. In the past, a light compliment on Sophia’s frock would mend most distance between them, but he could picture the scoff and rolling of her eyes should he say something like that to Bess.

  Mrs. Martin’s house came into view. This was the last bit of time he would have to make his reappearance in Bess’s life feel right. He didn’t know what else to do, so he grabbed her hand.

  Instinctively, she pulled away before relaxing back to a neutral position. She flexed her fingers and then gripped back. His heart damn near pounded out of his chest, and he felt like a green boy all over again, mooning after the flower girl that sold carnations on the street.

  It was as if the night they spent in his bed had melted into nothingness and they were strangers once again.

  “I thought of you every day,” he said.

  “You promised you would,” she answered, still not looking at him.

  “I do what I say.”

  This finally got her attention, and she slid her eyes over to him. The look near slayed him. It made her look sly, this sidewa
ys glance, as if she could see through him like a bowl of water, down to the uneven bottom. The moonlight caught the glinting of her eyes, and he wished he could see into her in the same way. The things it made him want in that moment were bigger than a man like him should hope for.

  He wanted the immediate, of course, to press her against the expanse of his chest, to crush her to him, to show her just how he thought of her, but it made him want more than that: it made him want a pile of years, thrown together in a heap, so many that they couldn’t be counted. Happy years full of sharing chores and feeding animals and work and exhausted nights, the things that weren’t extraordinary. This look she gave him made him want it so much he thought he might fall to his knees and beg the sky, the Lord, whoever was in charge of the clock that governed his life, for days filled with Bess and Violet, for Jean as his striker, for his mother, safe and protected in her dotage.

  “I’m glad you keep your promises,” Bess said.

  They stopped in front of Mrs. Martin’s and she pulled him into the shadows. She kissed him hard then, pressing her long torso against his. It took him by surprise for just a moment, and then the fierceness of too many days spent apart took over, and he pushed her against bricks.

  “I missed you,” she murmured when he took to trailing his kisses to her ear and down her neck.

  “I couldn’t wait to get back,” he said, returning to her lips.

  “You’re home now,” she said.

  He pulled away to see her face. She was right; he was home because he was with her. “I’m home,” he said, and he kissed her again.

  She felt better having put Jeffers in his place. It felt good in her shoulders, and even in the throbbing of her knuckles. She had cut herself when she loosened the man’s teeth, but it couldn’t be helped. Even with the years of purposefully leathering her knuckles, human teeth still could sting. Heading up the steps into the flat, she marveled at Os’s footsteps behind her, heavy and measured.

  More than that: even if the fight with Bridget Kelly was in jeopardy, the world felt better because Violet was safe, Os was home, and Jeffers was out there bleeding in some flophouse.

  “I wish I could stay with you tonight,” she whispered to Os as they entered the flat.

  “I do, too,” Os whispered, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her close once again.

  “But Violet,” Bess said.

  “I know,” Os said. “Come by the foundry tomorrow.”

  “I will,” she promised, pulling away to enter the sitting room.

  “Thought we heard voices,” Jean announced, standing. The boy’s curly hair and grinning face made it hard not to return the smile. It occurred to Bess that she had spent more time smiling since Os came into her life than she had during the rest of it combined.

  Violet was curled up on the settee, sleeping with her head on Mrs. Martin’s lap, her hand gripping Abigail the cat. For her part, Mrs. Martin looked as content as could be.

  “All is well,” Bess said, feeling Os’s eyes on her as she said it. It was a bit of a stretch to say it—all was not well. There might be repercussions from the beating she had administered, but she didn’t care. Jeffers was nothing, less than nothing, and she wouldn’t let him threaten what was hers.

  Mrs. Martin gazed up at her, the contentment in her face as clear as the fire in the hearth. “Glad to hear it,” she said.

  “Is she well?” Bess asked.

  “Poor thing was worn out,” Mrs. Martin cooed. “But Jean here distracted her with funny sorts of tales until she fell asleep.”

  Jean shrugged, trying not to look pleased with himself.

  “It’s time we left the ladies for the evening,” Os said to Jean.

  Bess went to the couch and gathered Violet up in her arms. The girl was as limp as a pile of rags. Bess maneuvered the copper cat out of Violet’s hand, warmed by the little girl’s sweat. Only then, with an armful of sleeping child, did Bess dare look at Os. Her control this evening had not been functioning well.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Bess said.

  Jean gently pinched Violet’s foot. “Tomorrow,” he said.

  Violet didn’t stir. The men left and Bess headed up the stairs to her room. Mrs. Martin followed.

  “Is everything well?” she asked.

  “I said it was, didn’t I?” Bess answered, pulling the sheets back on her bed with one hand, balancing the girl in the other arm.

  “Will he be coming for her?” her landlady asked.

  Bess laid Violet onto the bed, placing the cat carefully on the nightstand. She pulled off the girl’s shoes but didn’t want to wake her by taking off her dress. Tucking the coverlet around the girl, Bess stood again. “He won’t be coming any time soon, if he does.”

  Mrs. Martin nodded, her lips tugging in different directions.

  “If you’ve something to say, Mrs. Martin,” Bess prompted.

  “She’s a good girl, our Violet,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “That I know,” Bess said, glancing back at Mrs. Martin. The child looked almost pretty then, sleeping as she did. She liked that Mrs. Martin had said our Violet. When Bess first kept the girl, she had been violently jealous and alert about everything concerning Violet. But now, knowing that more people cared and watched out for her, it made Bess feel good and contented.

  “I’m afraid he won’t stop,” Mrs. Martin said. “There’s something about blood, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Bess snapped. She had no time for musings about blood families. “Besides, I’ve taken care of him.”

  Mrs. Martin’s eyes went wide.

  “Not like that,” Bess said. “Well, a little like that.”

  “The constables,” Mrs. Martin breathed.

  “Won’t be coming to look for a woman who beat up a drunken criminal just out of Newgate.” Bess moved to the dressing stand. “If you’ll excuse me now, Mrs. Martin, I’d like to get some rest.”

  The landlady huffed and bustled with a few excuses before she finally made her exit. Now that Bess’s charge was safe, her landlady reassured, and her lover returned, the fatigue from earlier returned. She stripped down and wiped herself with the cold, wet cloth, scrubbing the blood from under her fingernails and the stink of sweat from under her arms.

  Never had her cheap night rail felt so fine against her skin. She climbed into bed next to Violet. The girl sighed and turned towards her, pulling in closer and shivering until she nestled deep against Bess.

  Maybe Bess didn’t know about the pull of blood, some sort of mystical bond that happens between a parent and a child. She’d never known her own, so how strong could that bond have been? But one thing she did know, the strength of her love for this girl was just as stout as any claim Jeffers had. And now, having found it, she wouldn’t relinquish it to anyone. He’d have to kill her first.

  13

  Os wiped the sweat from his brow. The wide barn doors of the foundry were open, letting in the chill morning air. He stretched his neck, enjoying the sounds of the chickens in the yard beginning to chuff and waken. Dawn had not yet broken, but the streets were beginning to lighten.

  Behind him, he could hear Jean shuffle through the house. Os doused the hinge he was molding. The hiss of the hot metal cooling in the water bucket was a comfort. He was back to work, back in London where he belonged. The world wasn’t perfect, no, he wouldn’t say that, but while it hadn’t helped his case, he was relieved to have sat across from that ledger book and not seen his mother’s name. He’d dreaded the idea of seeing her name printed out neatly, a price affixed.

  He’d leave word at the White Hart today, for Jack About Town, as Bess had suggested last week before he’d gone to Manchester. He hadn’t made much of an effort, busy as he’d been with the foundry, Bess, and Violet. He needed to make contacts with other people of color in London, go to the taverns and make friends and ask questions. But, if he could pull together the coin he needed, then this Mr. About Town would do the leg work for him. He pulled the
hinge out of the cooling bucket and inspected his work.

  There was a chance he would need an absurd sum to facilitate his mother’s happiness, and therefore, he needed to get creative.

  As for Bess, his homecoming had not gone the way he’d envisioned; not the good way or the worst way, but an entirely different way. No one could have dreamed that he would return to town, smuggle Violet out of a pub, and induce Bess to commit violence on a man. Well, that last bit was no surprise. She had a temper, his private pugilist, but it wasn’t random and it wasn’t unjust. From his own point of view, a beating was never justified, but a good defense was always reasonable. The problem was, Bess would have said her offensive was her defensive. Get them before they get you.

  Growing up in alleyways and stealing food had led her to that conclusion, just as his own complicated past had led him to his. Still, he didn’t dare feel pity for Bess’s solitary upbringing. The only thing that could hold a candle to her hatred of Violet’s father was her hatred of being pitied.

  Besides, how could a person picture Bess as a child, cowering in a corner? Not possible. She was vinegar itself and had always been.

  The hinge structure was adequate, well-formed and sturdy, as a hinge ought to be. He hadn’t wrought like this in many years, but he still remembered how. He set the hinge down next to the other five identical hinges. Decorative work was the hard part.

  Jean came strolling out, still chewing on a piece of bread and a bit of cheese. “You’re on the anvil early,” he said between bites.

  “There’s too much to get done. Can’t waste time in bed,” Os said, staring at the stacks of raw iron along the wall.

  “It isn’t wasted if it isn’t alone,” Jean said, finishing off his bread.

  Os ignored the bawdy remark. The occupants of his bed were his own business, and Jean knew he’d spent his night the way a bachelor ought: alone. He continued to stare at the stacks. They’d plenty of stock, no doubt about that. Jean was good at keeping them in supply for all the welding, tool-repairing, and carriage-fixing needs. They’d plenty of metal for new hammers, new carriage springs, and new hatchets.