by Edie Cay
When he entered the establishment, it was filled with people. Os looked around, unsure of himself. He made his way through the crowd, his size both an encumbrance in the small space, but also an aid as patrons scuttled out of his way.
The barman greeted Os, and Os did the same before saying, “I’m to leave a message here for a Mr. Jack About Town.”
The barman, a pudgy man with reddish features and ruddy skin, lifted his furry white brows. “That so.” He looked about the room, noisy conversations bouncing and skidding across crowded tables. “The way it works is this. You buy a pint. By the time you’ve drained your glass, you’ll know if Jack will work with you.”
Os took a coin out and placed it on the bar. “Then I will take an ale, if you please.”
The barman inclined his head and slid the coin off the bar. He returned with a freshly poured pint of ale.
Os wasn’t about to elbow his way to a table, not in an alcove or near the fire. He stood, instead, waiting for the verdict from this mysterious Jack About Town. The glass was about half empty when he heard a lad’s voice. He had to turn fully to see the thin young man standing next to him at the bar.
Jack About Town had large, dark eyes that moved and assessed quickly. While Os was no expert, the boy looked to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen. His skin was dark—not as dark as Os’s, but swarthier than anyone else in the room. He had a slight build, but Os assumed he must be quick on his feet, otherwise he wouldn’t have the reputation that he had.
“Are you looking for something, then?”
“Mr. Jack About Town?” Os asked, extending a hand.
“The one,” the boy said, extending his hand in return. It all but disappeared in Os’s massive paw.
“Mr. Os Worley. You come highly recommended.” Os wasn’t sure what manners dictated here.
Thin black brows shot up in pleased surprise. “Well, I thank my very pleased clients for the good word.” There was something shifting in the boy’s accent, as if the Cockney he was using wasn’t quite his own. “But let us not mince words. You’re a busy man, I’d wager.”
There was something too sure in the boy’s manner—too definite. It put Os on edge. “Manners dispensed then.” Os moved his glass around. “I’m looking for my mother. I was told you would be the person to help me find her.”
The boy’s head immediately started waggling back and forth. “Oh no. I don’t trade in persons. I find objects. Thieved articles and whatnot. Lots of whatnot.”
Os sighed. This boy was his last hope. If he could even find a scrap in some ledger about who had bought his mother all those years ago, he’d give over every pound he had. “My mother was an object to some people. Which is why I need to find her.”
The boy gave a curious look, canting his head as if he were a fox listening for a predator. “Go on.”
“The last I saw of her was thirty years ago in Freetown, Barbados, or possibly on the Chitley Plantation.”
“Sorry, mate.” The boy shook his head. “You need someone over there in Barbados looking. I can’t do much from here.”
“I have had men over there looking.”
The boy turned his body to the bar, drumming his fingers on the surface. His face screwed up into a pout as he thought. “You come here. You done some looking. You think your mother is in London?”
How to explain the wild pull inside him? The one that screamed that his mother was here, that she had been here all along? “Yes, I do. My man in Barbados found that a woman who shared her name and occupation, and who had a boy child, moved to London.”
The boy nodded, drumming again, weighing the facts and feelings. Anticipation built as Os waited for his answer.
“Normally I charge half up front, the other half upon delivery. I don’t know if I can help you or not. Come back here in three days. I’ll see what I can do, and if I can do anything, that’s when I’ll ask for your coin.”
“That’s a generous offer,” Os said. “Her name is Thomasina Worley, and she was a seamstress in Freetown, Barbados.”
“No promises, now,” the boy said, extending his hand. “But I do have a soft spot for mothers.”
“He’s here,” whispered Violet.
Bess dropped her hands and stepped away from the sandbag. Sweat dripped everywhere. She’d worked hard the last few weeks, but not like tonight. Not with this intensity and focus. She needed that purse, and she needed to win.
Finding a person could be expensive. Money to extract her from a bawdy house. Money to find her a new place. Money to pay Jack About Town.
“Tony!” she shouted from across the gym.
The big man shuffled in, pausing before he went upstairs. He didn’t look happy. He raised his eyebrows at her, expecting more.
Bess jogged over to him. “Tony, hey, I need to talk to you about the mill,” she said, panting to get the words out.
He held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t—”
“I’m wondering how much money is on the line here. Do we have any guarantees, any projections?” She’d never paid much attention to the money end of it, trusting Tony to be fair and give her what she was owed.
“I talked to O’Rourke tonight,” Tony said, shaking his head.
“And?” Bess danced her weight back and forth. Stopping all of her momentum right now would just make her stiff.
“And they heard about what you did to Jeffers.” Tony gave her a pointed look that implied she knew what he meant.
“So what? That arsehole had it coming for decades. I’m finally the one who dished it up for him.” She swung her arms.
“O’Rourke is concerned you are out of control,” Tony explained. “He doesn’t want you anywhere near Ms. Kelly.”
Bess scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m a fighter, I fight. That’s business.”
“No, Bess,” Tony said. “The business is that you fight for money. You don’t beat men on the street within an inch of their lives.”
“Jeffers is fine,” Bess said.
“You know that?” Tony asked.
“Well, no,” she admitted.
“Fight’s off,” Tony said. “It’s done. You cool down and we’ll set up something else with another opponent in a month or two.”
“A month?” She knew her mouth was hanging open, and she clamped it shut. “But I’ve been training twice a day. I’m ready. I’m more ready now than I’ve been for any other fight.”
Tony turned to go upstairs. “I think that’s what’s got O’Rourke worried.”
“Tony,” she protested as he trudged up a few steps. “Tony, stop. I need the money.”
He turned, his eyes narrowing. “For what?”
“For a friend,” she said.
Dropping down a few steps, he was eye-to-eye with her. “Which friend?”
“No one you know.” She stopped swinging her arms. She couldn’t very well air Os’s business in front of someone else. He’d never forgive her.
“I know everyone you know,” Tony said. “For your blacksmith friend?”
She looked down at her feet. “No,” she lied. She was a terrible liar. Always had been, always would be. Fists were so much easier than words.
“If he needs money, tell him to come to me.” He started back up the stairs again. “Please tell me this isn’t for something criminal.”
“Why would it be criminal?” She demanded.
“Because you’re involved,” Tony said. “I’ve known you forever—don’t think I don’t remember your little gang.”
Once he made it to the top of the stairs, Bess panicked a little. “So there’s really no chance for this fight?”
The big man sighed. “You can talk to O’Rourke yourself, if you want.” Then he disappeared into the living quarters, leaving Bess to wonder what her next move would be.
She should be discouraged. No fight? She just didn’t believe it. A clutching panic caught her chest and chilled her.
Violet came and stood next to her. “Can we go home now?” she
asked.
Bess shook her head. “Nope, we have to finish,” she said, putting her arm around Violet’s shoulders, dampening the girl’s dress. “Because we always finish what we start, no matter what anybody says.”
14
The air smelled like rosewater. Not the good kind of rosewater, like what Lady Kinsley and Lydia wore, but a cheap imitation: cloying, like sickly plants about to die. The scent seemed to leak out from underneath the door and windows, as if the whole house was wearing perfume, not just the people in it.
Bess knocked on the door anyway. There was no choice but to face her opponent, fair and square. It seemed strange that Mr. O’Rourke would have boarded Bridget Kelly in a brothel, but at least it seemed to be a middling one and not a cheap sort of place where her training might be necessary against some of the rougher johns.
This was a sort of place where the customers pretended they were courting genteel ladies, as if their charms and trickery got skirts lifted, not their coin. Everyone needed their own bit of fun, their own bit of fantasy to get through the day, she supposed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t made that trade before: illusion for coin. But not anymore. She smiled, thinking of Os. She couldn’t help it—just thinking of him made her a babbling idiot. It was nice, actually, nice like bread pudding in front of a fire on a rainy November afternoon.
The door opened to reveal a young boy, maybe a few years older than Violet. He looked bored.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Mr. O’Rourke and Miss Kelly,” Bess said.
“Yeah, all right,” he said, opening the door wider for her to pass by.
She shouldered past the boy, taking in the garishly pink painted walls. It was the sort of place that looked cheap in the day but by candlelight seemed to taste of gold.
“Have a seat,” the boy said, ushering her into what would be a drawing room.
This was where clients were entertained before choosing a girl and heading upstairs. There was a clavichord in the corner and several divans, some more private than others. She’d dallied in the work, but always on her own, never in a house with organized rules and someone else making coin off of another woman’s back. Besides, a house like this would have never had her. The madams in places like these would use nice words like “plain” when describing her. As if that had anything to do with the fact that she had a cunt for rent all the same. It put her teeth on edge.
Bess fidgeted until she heard footsteps on the stairs. Mr. O’Rourke and Bridget Kelly appeared, comfortable in their surroundings.
“Good morning, Miss Abbott,” Mr. O’Rourke greeted her, all smiles and all fake.
“Good morning,” she said. “Miss Kelly.”
Bridget Kelly looked fresh and well-rested, her cheeks rosy. She wore a well-tailored peach day dress, nothing as nice as Lydia might wear, but nicer than anything Bess owned. Tall as she was, Bridget Kelly looked more at home in this brothel than in a gym. It didn’t set well.
“To what do we owe this visit?” Mr. O’Rourke asked.
Bess glanced back and forth between their faces, O’Rourke ruddy and whiskered, and Bridget with an annoyingly clear complexion. “You must know,” Bess said. She felt like a mongrel dog backed into a corner, growling.
“Not at all,” O’Rourke said, grinning in a way that made Bess’s skin crawl. “We’ve spoken with your manager. We are just enjoying the sights of London before we find our next destination. Our time here is done.”
Her mouth was all but hanging open. Surely this awful little man wouldn’t make her beg for a fight.
But O’Rourke wasn’t done talking. “Of course,” he continued. “It hasn’t been as fruitful as we’d have liked. Still, London has lived up to its reputation. Big, smelly, crowded, and the like.” Finally the man took a breath.
“I’d like to get the fight back on,” Bess said.
“Your manager said that wasn’t a possibility. That you are…” O’Rourke made hand gestures that Bess couldn’t even begin to interpret. “Not in your usual way.”
Bess wanted to take him by his jacket and shake him. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Aye, but perhaps a bit too emotional?” O’Rourke asked.
“No,” Bess said. “Listen.” She shook her head. How did a person negotiate? She wasn’t good at the talking part, that’s why Tony existed. Why couldn’t she just shake hands with Bridget Kelly, promise some restraint, and then get on with her bloody day? “Miss Kelly, what do you think?”
Bridget Kelly smiled at her, a pretty smile with perfect white teeth. “Mr. O’Rourke speaks for me on my professional matters.”
“But it’s you who takes the hit,” Bess said.
The girl blushed a little, demure and ladylike. O’Rourke looked on her proudly. Something wasn’t right, but Bess couldn’t put her finger on it. This was all an act, but an act for what?
“He’s yer pimp,” Bess blurted as the understanding dawned.
O’Rourke had the nerve to look surprised. He shrugged. “What else would I be?”
“Her manager,” Bess sputtered.
“That I am,” he said. “Whatever language you like to speak.”
She couldn’t think straight enough to put words in a string. Tony wanted her to fight a prostitute? Was Bridget Kelly even a fighter?
“You think we make money by fighting? Women, fighting? There ain’t no money in that, no,” the man shook his head. “The fighting is the show, the attraction, get the men’s blood all up. Then—” He gestured to Miss Kelly, sitting there in her nice day dress. “Yeah?”
No wonder they stayed in a brothel. She would be working the entire time, whether on her back or in the ring. “Is that how come you ain’t missing any teeth?” Bess asked.
Miss Kelly tittered, as if Bess had asked a vicar’s daughter if the pigs had rutted.
“A lady don’t reveal her secrets,” O’Rourke supplied.
Bess shook her head again. She needed the money. They wanted money. This was business, no matter how she felt about their end. “Fine. This was to be a good purse, yeah?”
“We had lined up quite a bit of interest,” O’Rourke said, his eyes narrowing.
“I had an incident the other night with an old acquaintance. Years coming, if you know what I mean,” Bess said, leaning forward, putting her elbows on her knees. “I weren’t out of control, as Tony might have led you to think. Blood debts are blood debts, as you surely must realize.”
O’Rourke’s face softened. “I can respect that.”
“So it ain’t like I’m going to lose it in the ring and cost you…” She gestured at Bridget Kelly’s angelic face. “Assets. I want a fair fight, and we split the costs and door same as before.”
O’Rourke leaned back, thinking it over. “If we do, I want assurances.”
“Fine,” Bess said. “How?”
“An extra five pounds if you damage this,” O’Rourke said, gesturing to her face. “No broken noses.”
Bridget Kelly’s head snapped up sharply, as if she were hearing this for the first time. “That’s cheating,” she murmured, but not soft enough that Bess couldn’t hear it.
“How do you think we kept you so, so pretty?” O’Rourke asked, thumbing her jaw. Bridget recoiled as if she’d been slapped.
“Fine,” Bess said. “Five pounds to you if I break her nose.”
Five pounds would be half or more of her winnings. There’s no way she would touch the girl’s face.
“Then it’s a deal,” Bess said, getting to her feet. She didn’t want to stay one second longer.
“You know, this will bring in quite a bit of business for Bridget. If you like, we can get you a room here, too, after the fight. If you win, we could even charge as much for you as for Bridget.”
Bess towered over O’Rourke. “I don’t lose.”
“Lose, win,” O’Rourke flipped his hand back and forth. “It don’t matter. What matters is that a man feels powerful plowing a champion, no matter what her face lo
oks like.”
Her head flooded and her stomach clenched, ready to fight. This was what she had faced her entire life. This power that others needed to feel at her expense. And this is why her nose was crooked and her ears were shiny—because she wouldn’t allow anyone to take that feeling from her. It made her protective instincts roar, wanting to pull Bridget Kelly from this wrong-headed whoremonger, but glancing at the girl, she didn’t seem to feel the same.
So she controlled herself. If only Tony could see her restraint. She took a step back, and then another, leaving the drawing room as if she were surrounded. “You’re a worthless piece o’ tripe. I wish it was you I’d be hitting in the ring.”
O’Rourke started laughing as Bess turned on her heel and left the brothel with its bright walls and false show of wealth. It made her sick. Bridget Kelly made her sick. To sit by and have that rat run her life, run her body. To smile as if it was the most normal thing in the world to have men line up to abuse her.
She would stand outside the brothel that night, taking on every man who’d pay for Bridget Kelly on her back, showing them the fight they got in a lady fighter.
But, Bess thought as she trudged back to the pub, if Miss Kelly enjoyed her work, who was she to judge her? It wasn’t the transaction that she despised, it was the fantasy of power, trying to take a powerful woman and make her less. As if society already didn’t tell women how worthless they were, as if it didn’t show them over and over by the women in the gutter, forced to do things to gain the favor of men who might help them feed themselves or their children.
Many thought fighting for a living was beneath contempt, but Bess loved it. She’d be damned if she didn’t fight to change things just a little bit so that Violet wasn’t told she was worthless just because she was tall and plain.
The decorative work on the hinges took him longer than he anticipated, but he had to get it right. If this worked out, his name and reputation would become synonymous with delicate decorative housewares, increasing his income in a way that would allow him to support Bess and Violet. With all the new housing developments and all the new rich, such items as decorative hinges, ornate doorknobs, and elaborate fireplace screens were already in demand.