The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “What are you looking for?” Jean asked.

  “White iron.” Os folded his arms across his chest. He just couldn’t see any.

  “For what?” Jean asked.

  Os could hear frustration in the boy’s voice. His needs might come across as a criticism. Jean took pride in being able to anticipate Os. “I need to do some decorative work.”

  Jean came and stood next to him, folding his arms as well. “I don’t normally ask for that, but I can put it on the next order.”

  Os harrumphed. “I don’t need much as of yet.”

  “Oh, well then.” Jean turned and grinned at him, a bit of bread still stuck in his teeth. “I’ve got just a bit. I keep it around to practice on.” Jean reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a small merchant bar.

  The bar had not been visible from where he stood, which irritated Os. Was there more in his own foundry he didn’t know about? “Is that coming from my pockets, too?” Os growled.

  Jean’s expression turned from triumph to worry. “No, no, nothing like that. I made that old bastard throw it in for free a few visits ago for being so rude to you.”

  The old bastard was the toothless, bigoted arsehole who delivered the raw metal, whom Os loved to torment with his size and his darkness. It was easy to intimidate men who feared the shade of his skin. They started out scared, and it took very little to push them into shitting themselves. At least, it worked when he was confronted with a single man. Get them in a bunch and they would circle and pounce like wolves. Just ask Mr. Jeffers.

  “Thank you,” Os said, taking the merchant bar from Jean.

  “Is this a new project?” Jean asked. His enthusiasm was palpable, and it suddenly made Os tired.

  “It is,” he said. “But I’m afraid I cannot pay you extra for it, so you’d best let me do the work on my own.”

  His apprentice shook his head, brown curls bouncing. “You know I just want to learn.”

  Os almost smiled.

  Bess didn’t see Tony that morning in the gym. Miz Penny didn’t know where he had disappeared to, so Bess trained alone, Violet sulking and bored in the corner.

  The training was progressing at least. She was noticeably faster, her constitution more rigorous. Her dresses were too loose at the waist and too tight at the shoulders. Not that she wore sleeves when she boxed, but afterwards, pulling them back up over her arms was becoming a danger. The thin wool was becoming delicate from being stretched.

  She’d warmed up, punched the sand-filled bag—woefully under-filled compared to the ones at John’s house—and worked on her dodging and weaving. Violet at least liked helping her with that part, standing on the bench, throwing artless punches near Bess’s head. Honestly, it didn’t help Bess much, as Violet’s body told Bess where the punch was coming from minutes before anything was thrown.

  But the girl liked to help, and it was good for her own training as well, meager as it was. So Bess kept her face stern, as if she were concentrating, while Violet tried very hard to punch correctly, twisting her wrist with a snap.

  Now, they both jumped rope for a bit. The girl was fading, but Bess felt more and more like a god. Her body felt good and right, despite a bit of sweat dripping into her scraped knuckles. Damned Jeffers had the nerve to lose a tooth on her, and the salt from her own sweat stung.

  She could do this forever. Each time her foot connected to the ground felt no more exhausting than breathing in while seated in a chair. She could train for hours—for days even. A five-minute break every few hours for a bit of cheese or, better yet, a rabbit pasty, and Bess would fight every man and woman on the British Isles back to back.

  Violet had stopped jumping rope and sat down on the bench. Then she curled up in a ball and laid down. It was time. Bess slowed her pace and stopped. Her heart was pounding, but that felt normal now.

  “Right, right,” Bess said, letting the sweat drip. Oddly, she now felt cleaner after training than she did before. “We’ll walk it off on our way home.”

  Bess put away the equipment as Violet moped around the corners of the gym.

  “Miz Penny!” Bess called. She knew the woman could hear her through the floorboards. Footsteps crossed from one end to the other, and Miz Penny appeared on the stairs.

  “All finished?” Miz Penny asked.

  Bess had no idea what the woman did upstairs. Was she darning socks? Cleaning? Writing bills for Parliament?

  “We’re done for the morning. Violet’s overdone her footwork,” Bess said. Violet dragged herself from the corner to Bess’s side. She leaned all her weight against Bess’s long flank.

  “Are you tired? Poor little love,” Miz Penny tsked. “Do you need any food to keep you until you get home? I bet Mrs. Martin is a lovely cook.”

  “Not as good as you,” Bess said.

  “Well,” Miz Penny said, blushing a little. She descended the stairs like a lady, floating on air, and removed herself to the kitchen. Floating while walking was a grace Bess had never mastered, but then again, she had never been required to. Miz Penny reappeared with some rolls and a hunk of hard cheese wrapped in paper. “It isn’t much, but you haven’t any meat on you. Make sure Mrs. Martin understands that.”

  “She ain’t blind,” Bess said, taking the packages, handing one to Violet.

  “You need to eat more,” Miz Penny said. “I’m sure your blacksmith friend would appreciate a little more on your ribs.”

  She meant it kindly, Bess told herself. Still, the comment stung. Os should like her for what she was. And if she was lean and in fighting condition, he should love her for her sinew. If she was in between, with a bit more cushion, he should love that when he got it, too. If she’d gotten her teeth knocked out, well, then, he should love her with no teeth. A person can’t love an ugly woman and then get picky about it.

  “I’ll let her know,” Bess said through clenched teeth. “Tell Tony we’ll be back tonight for another round.”

  Midday seemed to arrive unexpectedly on the doorstep of the foundry. One minute, dawn was breaking over the thatched roofs and alleyways and the next it was overhead, a few clouds to help cover, but a surprisingly warm breeze came along with it.

  Os looked over at Jean, again stoking the fire. They’d done good work, catching up on a few orders, parceling out jobs that were finished. Os had inspected Jean’s solo handiwork and had to admit that the boy did a fine job. Os’s Manchester sojourn hadn’t cost him as dearly as he’d been afraid it would.

  The chickens began to cluck, catching his attention. Brutus lifted his ancient head to sniff the breeze. Moments later, Bess strolled in with Violet, both of them freshly washed, hair wet and flat to their heads, covered by a white matron’s cap on Bess’s head and a straw bonnet on Violet’s. Os couldn’t think of a more welcome sight.

  Bess carried a basket on her arm, and Os’s stomach rumbled in response.

  “Good morning,” she called, entering the chicken yard.

  Strange how such a small thing could make his heart swell. The thought of being able to see her come home with a basket over her arm, as if she were out doing the household shopping—he couldn’t think of a happier picture. What would it be to have that in truth, creating an odd little family out of the four of them: a blacksmith, a lady boxer, a French apprentice, and an orphaned street mouse. Oh, but to have the fifth, his mother, be a part of the mix would only make it that much sweeter. Now he could believe in the idea of it, that perhaps Willrich would find her and Os could bring her home.

  “Morning still, is it?” Os called back.

  Bess smiled. She was missing a tooth way in the back, a gap he could only see when she grinned in genuine happiness. Her skin glowed underneath the fresh soap scrubbing, and her bubbled ears weren’t artfully covered by her cropped, wet hair. Her cap covered most of the wet head, but he could still tell.

  “Little Weasel!” Jean cried, abandoning the fire. He held his arms wide, and Violet rushed to him.

  After a short embrace, Violet pu
lled away, suddenly shy at her outburst of affection.

  “I brought a bite of food,” Bess said, watching Violet. The girl’s antics with Jean were amusing. “I thought you might be able to refresh us with a cuppa.”

  “Mr. Henshaw bartered us a bit of tea last week,” Jean said. “Hopefully it is as good as he claimed.”

  Os wanted to pull Bess close. Instead, he reached out his hand and cupped her elbow. “What do you have in the basket?” It was a simple question, but he meant other words. He meant a whole fleet worth of other words, none of them having anything to do with a basket.

  Bess had the good sense to flush bright pink.

  “My dearest Weasel,” Jean said. “Would you come help me make tea? I’m French and am quite terrible at it. You could teach me how.”

  “But I don’t make tea,” Violet said, looking to Bess.

  “But you are English, are you not?” Jean asked. “I believe it is boiled in your blood.”

  “In my blood?” Violet asked, curling her lip.

  “Go help Jean make tea,” Bess said, not taking her brown eyes off of Os. He could feel the heat in them.

  “I think we have to go draw water at the well, first,” Jean suggested.

  Os could hear the snicker in the boy’s voice, but he didn’t care. “Then go draw the water. I’ll not keep you.”

  “Off we go,” Jean said, taking Violet’s hand and starting out the wide doors.

  “You’ll need a pail,” Os called. It was torture to pull away from Bess’s gaze.

  Jean snapped his fingers. “Of course,” he said, retreating to the back of the foundry, retrieving the required bucket. Once again, Jean took Violet’s hand and this time, left the foundry.

  Os pulled Bess out of view of the street. “I missed you,” he whispered.

  She moved with him, never faltering. “I missed you back,” she said. “This is just bread.” She motioned to the basket on her arm.

  “I don’t care,” he said. It was all he could do to not rip her dress to shreds. Then he kissed her because he couldn’t stand not kissing her any longer.

  Bess dropped the basket and wrapped her arms around his neck. This was all he wanted in the world. He pulled her closer, his lips on hers, drinking as if he were dying of thirst.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his breath coming fast.

  “Promise,” she insisted, pulling away to look at him, her expression serious.

  “I promise,” he said, and he meant it. Of all the things a man could own, it was his word. Even when all else belonged to another, the money in his pocket, the sweat of his back, his word was his own. “I will never leave you.”

  Bess threw herself at him with such force he staggered back, catching the workbench to break his fall. She kissed him hard, a searing kiss, a branding sort of kiss. It made him want to push away at first. But as she softened in his arms, he came to understand that as much as she was taking him, he owned her. She was his—his to command or wheedle or however husband and wife learned to live together. This time it was a bondage given freely and taken freely.

  It was then that he knew exactly what project he would start when he finished with the hinges: another dainty bit of work, something that might fit over the swollen and bruised knuckles of a certain boxer. He smiled into her lips, and she smiled back, still kissing, still connected, as if she could read his mind.

  Only when her leg hooked around his thigh and his hands had reacquainted themselves with the expanse of her muscled back and arse did Os think to step away. His trousers were tented and Bess’s dress was covered in fine black dust from his apron. The evidence of their desires was on display to anyone who walked in, but it was better than letting any customer see the show.

  “They’ll be back soon,” Os said, catching his breath.

  Her brown eyes shone dark, like the rich leather of a horse saddle that had been freshly polished. She nodded, her lips red and swollen. He could feel the heat of her from across the room, and there was nothing he wanted more than to disappear into that abandon.

  But someone had to be responsible. Her eyes flicked to his groin, where his own wishes were clearly stated, despite his heavy leather apron. She licked her lips, and he thought even the strong mastery of his control might falter. He could withstand any beating, but not a look such as that from a woman such as her.

  “They’ll be back soon,” he repeated, the words choked and meager.

  Bess nodded and picked up the basket. “Something to eat, then?” she asked, sweeping past him, through the door at the back of the foundry.

  Os took off his leather apron and hung it on its peg. His hands were close to shaking. Putting aside his lust, he scrubbed his face on his shirtsleeve. Going into the house was worse than the corner of the foundry as it was even closer to his bedroom. He peered out the doors, looking to see if Jean and Violet were on their way back from the pump. He would need that cold bucket of water for himself if he weren’t careful.

  “Tell me about Manchester,” Bess said, pulling out the rolls from her basket. The shopping was mostly for Mrs. Martin, but she had added a few coins of her own to get treats for the four of them.

  Os followed her slowly through the door. She snuck a glimpse at his trousers anyhow. Could she be blamed for taking pride in his reactions to her? She was never the one to have a man seeking her in lust. So what if she gloated to herself about being able to manifest such a display in Os? She certainly wasn’t teasing or unclear about what she wanted. She fully intended to go through with every fancy she had dreamed up in his absence.

  “Tell you about Manchester?” he repeated, staring at the rolls on table. “The plates are in the cupboard.”

  He went behind her and took them down. She didn’t dare turn around but could still feel his presence, drawing her closer in a way she didn’t understand but enjoyed nonetheless.

  “Manchester,” she said again.

  He came around to the table, giving her wide berth. It was in some ways comical, and in some ways disappointing how he avoided being close to her. Like an opponent trained in offensive approaches but scared of how hard she hit.

  “The place you traveled to, stayed there a bit, saw old friends?”

  He blinked, as if surprised. “Old friends?”

  “Did you not see Willrich?” she asked.

  “Yes, Willrich,” he said, straightening his back and finally looking at her. His face lost its dreamy quality and he became the practical Os she knew. “Lord Chitley now. We had some business, it turned out.”

  “Your mother?” Bess ventured. She wasn’t sure if she should ask questions or let him tell her on his own time. But he wasn’t the type of person to volunteer information, so if she didn’t ask, she wasn’t sure he would tell her anything at all.

  “He hasn’t found her yet, but he has someone there looking for her,” he said.

  “That sounds like good news,” she said. The rolls were on their separate plates, waiting now only for a good pot of tea. Her belly rumbled. She was always hungry and also not hungry at the same time.

  “Perhaps,” Os said, staring at the rolls.

  “Perhaps seeing Jack About Town might turn up something. We might as well try.”

  “We?” Os asked, a smile starting to tease at his lips.

  “Yes, we,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. They’d all but said they were on the same team. That was enough for her.

  Os reached out and took her hand again. The look in his eyes melted her. Maybe it really was true. He really did care about her, have feelings for her, and the thought that he might actually love her made her throat tighten. She hadn’t known she had this desire, as she’d put it aside for so long, but all she wanted was for someone to look at her like that. The words weren’t important.

  Jean and Violet walked through the door then, the water sloshing in the pail between the two of them. Conversation would have to wait.

&n
bsp; “Violet is ready to show me how to boil water,” Jean announced.

  Os dropped Bess’s hand. She couldn’t help but frown.

  Jean put water in the kettle and hung it over the fire. While they busied about, Bess stood out of the way, her head buzzing with plans. She didn’t know how much Os made as a blacksmith, or if he had any blunt put aside, but one thing she knew: if Mr. O’Rourke was as good of a talker as he claimed, there could be a full crowd for the upcoming fight. That meant a heavy purse, whether she won or lost. She could help Os fund his search.

  Jack About Town wasn’t cheap. She knew Jack worked with toffs, worked in smuggling as well as legitimate trade. Anyone who knew the shady sides of London had heard about Jack.

  Violet giggled as she instructed Jean on proper tea-making. Jean bumbled, purposefully misunderstanding her instructions. Os watched them, his massive arms folded across the wide expanse of his chest, glancing at Bess to see how she reacted to the clowning. It was hard for her to pay attention, her mind already moving ahead to obtaining the purse. She would get it. She knew she could win.

  Drury Lane was everything Os had heard it would be. Brothels were easily marked, with more doxies on the prowl in the streets. Drunken customers reeled along, careening into buildings and other patrons. Laughter, loud and high, echoed from corner to corner. Children were hidden in deep recesses, darting out to pickpocket as opportunity stumbled by.

  The strains of a fiddle on a distant street corner reached his ears, as did the cries of infants and hawkers of goods alike. It was a lively place, more raucous than his little corner of London, but not without its own type of easy, indulgent charm. The White Hart was not hard to find, famous as it was, having been the last stop of ale on the way to the Tyburn gallows, before all that had moved on to Newgate’s grounds.