The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  Jean puffed his chest out. It was all Os could do to keep from rolling his eyes. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Sophia,” he said as a farewell. “Thank you.”

  She took Jean’s arm and gave him a silent acknowledgment.

  “I’ll be at The Pig and Thistle,” Os told Jean.

  Jean gave him a cheeky grin.

  Os watched them go, Sophia in her brilliant green dress picking her way across the street, her arm threaded through Jean’s. The boy looked almost a man, the years of apprenticing widening his shoulders to a respectable brawn. A few more pounds on him and he would look a proper man, a proper blacksmith. Standing next to the petite Sophia, he looked a veritable strongman.

  Armed with news, Os went to find Bess. Once she heard his plight, she would know that this was no rekindling of an amorous tryst. She would know that this was business, through and through. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

  His heart pounded hard and thick in his chest. Jack About Town was his only hope. And if he charged more than seven pounds for his services, Os didn’t know what he would do.

  15

  If there was ever a time when she felt invincible, it was now. The ancient Roman legions couldn’t have taken the Breton English countryside had she been fighting. She could smell her own sweat; the room was dank and musy with it. Violet had long since fallen to exhaustion and was napping in the corner.

  Bess heard the footsteps, heard the polite throat-clearing, but still she didn’t turn. Why should she be interrupted? She kept on working the bag, the sawdust sagging and malforming as she hit, time and time again.

  “Bess,” said a familiar voice.

  Finally, she stopped and turned to find her oldest friend posed at the entrance. “Aren’t you the dandy?” she greeted John. He twirled his walking stick and spun around to show off his clothes.

  “You know better than to dress like that in places like this. Someone’ll waylay you for the watch fob alone.” Sweat beaded now that she had stopped moving. She could feel it drip down between her shoulder blades and soak her chest bandage.

  “I was waiting for you to visit me, but apparently fatherhood has made me too uninteresting for the likes of you,” he said, stepping into the center of the gym. He looked around, for it had been his old haven, too. He looked good—healthy, though a little paunchy from all the paternal lying about. But babes did that to a man, she supposed. A good man, anyway.

  “Been training,” Bess said, wiping the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her dress. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been by his place, anyway. Only a week or so. But she’d gone from a daily visitor to not at all in that span.

  John began a stroll around the room, letting his coppery head swivel as if he might notice some change in décor. “I heard the fight was off,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Back on, now.”

  He stopped his promenade. “Since when?”

  “This morning.”

  “How’d Tony manage that?” he asked.

  “Weren’t Tony. I got the fight back,” Bess said, trying to keep from sounding too proud of herself.

  “You silver-tongued devil,” John said with a smile.

  “They like money, I like money,” she said. “The negotiation weren’t hard.”

  “Still. Did Tony know you were going to try to get the fight back on?” John asked.

  “He said if I wanted it, I had to do it myself.”

  “Listen, if there’s something else to this, that you need the money this bad, just let me know and—”

  “No, there’s nothing,” Bess cut him off. She made a face. “Same as it always is, you know, down here with us lowlifes. A bit of scratch is always needed.”

  “You’d tell me if it was something, wouldn’t you?” John asked.

  “Yeah, ’course I would,” Bess said.

  John stared at her with his translucent blue eyes. They both knew she was lying.

  The curtains parted and Os stepped in. When he saw John, he stopped short.

  Bess was surprised that Os bothered. After seeing what his friends from Manchester looked like, she didn’t think he’d want much to do with her after that. She would give him the prize money regardless of whether or not he continued their association because it was the right thing to do. In her mind, she’d all but given her word, and there was honor in upholding the intention. The money was for his mother—a person didn’t have to be his lover to help him get justice. Besides, he had a mother to get. How lucky can a person be?

  Thinking about him reuniting with his mother pushed the numbness aside, revealing a cold hollow inside of her—a place that she didn’t understand and didn’t want to touch. Still, she was glad that Os sought her out, and it made her ache in a way that felt both good and bad, like scratching an itch so hard the skin bled.

  “I beg your pardon,” Os rumbled.

  John spun around. “Ah, Mr. Worley. A pleasure to see you again,” he said, with a short bow.

  Os ducked his head in return. “Corinthian John,” he said. “I didn’t realize you would be in our part of London today.”

  “Nor did I,” John said, swinging his walking stick in a circle, displaying it as if it were a mere prop and not a casual way to strut the streets of London with a weapon. “But it has been too long since I’d seen Bess, so I thought I would see how training was going.”

  “Congratulations on the birth of your new child,” Os said.

  Bess noticed that Os’s eyes flitted around, downcast. She huffed. Just because John got all jumped up didn’t mean he was better than either of them.

  John glanced back at her. “Thank you, Mr. Worley,” he said, giving a little bow. “I will pass on your felicitations to my wife, who wants to take all the credit for creating a new life.”

  Bess snorted. “Well, the most important three minutes of yer life.”

  Os flinched at her vulgarity, but John took it in stride. “You wound me. It was at least five.”

  “Shove off,” Bess said, turning back to the bag. “You beef-witted popinjay.” She could practically hear him grin.

  “All right,” John said, dropping his aristocratic accent, his street upbringing showing. “I’m off, you jingle-brained moulder.”

  Os cleared his throat.

  “And you, Mr. Worley,” John said, returning to his aristocratic air. “Good evening.”

  “Sir,” Os said in return. They both watched John leave, listening as the heavy door of the Pig and Thistle closed.

  Bess waited, not throwing a punch, not turning around. Os should say something. There should be something said by one of them. Like hell she would go first.

  “I can go,” Os said. “You’re in the middle of training.”

  “No,” Bess said. “I’m just finishing.” She made a show of swinging her arms and untucking the sleeves of her dress. Violet remained undisturbed in the corner.

  “It wasn’t what it looked like,” Os said.

  “Don’t know what yer on about,” Bess said, walking in circles, trying to get the stale air to cool the sweat on her skin. She could picture that woman in green, her jewel-like eyes complementing her dress, both colors belonging to one of Lydia’s heirloom necklaces.

  “The woman at the foundry,” Os said, taking a few steps into the gym.

  His head was high, proud the way he’d always been. Was this an apology or not? Funny how people moved the way stray dogs in the alleyways did—his head cocked to the side, as if listening to a whisper, just as ready to pounce as to run away. Or did he move that way to mirror her own pacing, as if she were the hungry dog, unpredictable and ready to run?

  “It looked like she needed to speak to you,” Bess said with a shrug. If only she could take that hollow piece of her insides and set it aside. Removing the cold burning of that ache would make it easier to stay in her body, make her ready for the fight. More than anything, she had to stay focused on the mill ahead. It would be a considerable challenge to knock Bridget Kelly out withou
t hitting her in the nob.

  “She had a message to pass on,” Os said. “Jean was there the entire time.”

  That was a laugh. “You need a chaperone? You an honorable Miss with a sterling reputation?” The words came out more bitter than she intended.

  “I wanted to make sure you understood there was nothing untoward happening with her.”

  “Her?” Bess asked.

  “Miss Sophia Williams,” Os supplied.

  “Of Manchester,” Bess added.

  “Of course of Manchester!” Os snapped.

  The unexpected outburst heightened every one of her senses. She was like a predator that scented blood. Bess stopped her pacing and advanced on him, her mind blank, her instincts taking over.

  But Os wasn’t the type of man who let his emotions run free. “I apologize.” His head was again held high, no remorseful wringing of hands.

  Her head spun with nameless emotions, none of them giving her words to say, so she continued with her pacing. If she was moving, then she didn’t need to talk.

  “Did you hear me?” Os asked, coming closer and closer.

  “Maybe you ought to stay back,” Bess snapped, turning her back on him. Violet still slept in the corner, her mouth slack, her head resting on her arms.

  “Please talk to me,” Os said.

  “I am talking to you.” He made her want to punch something.

  “You’re in the same room with me while I’m talking,” Os said, picking up the rope that lay on the floor, hanging it on the nail with the others. “It isn’t the same thing.”

  “Well, I ain’t the sort of woman who runs her mouth. You want that, you go somewhere else,” Bess said. “Maybe Miss Williams of Manchester can help you out.”

  “If that’s the way of it, fine,” Os said, his voice flat and hard. “You want to be angry because I had a life before you, that’s a choice you can make.”

  “Ain’t no choice,” Bess murmured.

  “Turn around and talk to me, damn it all,” Os bellowed.

  Violet startled in the corner, shooting to her feet, face flushed and eyes wide. Neither she nor Bess had ever heard him raise his voice before. There was a certain smug wickedness inside Bess that took delight in being able to make him angry. As if it showed she was worth some kind of effort.

  “Go back to sleep, Duckie,” Bess said, surprised her voice was as gentle as it was.

  The little girl nodded, still sleepy, and returned to her position, curled on the bench with her head on her arms. As soon as Violet looked settled, Bess whirled around to face Os.

  He stood less than a foot away. “If I was jealous of your life before me, I’d never sleep again. It isn’t right that you hold my past against me.”

  “I wouldn’t if the past was really past,” Bess shot back. Before she knew why she did it, she edged forward, getting inside defensive range, arms rising to block any potential blows. It wasn’t that she thought he would strike her, it was the way her insides felt at that moment, that’s what she was supposed to do. That was protection.

  Os seemed to notice. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut, suddenly looking much older than he did on a usual day. His muscular shoulders went slack. He opened his dark-brown eyes and looked at her in a way she’d never seen before. He retreated, his posture loose as he backed away.

  “I came to tell you that Willrich found no record of my mother on his plantation. He thinks that she was free. I’m back at the beginning. I don’t know where she is, or where I came from. All I have—” his words choked on emotion.

  Bess watched him, unable to figure out if she should move or not move, speak or not speak.

  “I thought you would want to know. I thought you’d care,” he said, then turned and walked away.

  She let her arms drop, seeing his back retreat. The gym felt empty, gutted somehow. She did care, but what did it matter? The world spun as it spun; mothers were found or not found, regardless of how she cared. And if Os was back with the pretty woman with different sorts of scars than hers, then it doubly didn’t matter if Bess cared. Did the man not realize that she’d been set aside so many times that it was easy to see it coming early on?

  Did he think she hadn’t known this was the result from the start? That she was the bit of fun, a taste of something different for a change, knowing that after his curiosity was slaked, she would be back to her lonely room all over again? She knew.

  It was her own damn fault for caring. About Os, about his mother, about the idea that his mother was findable at all, that somewhere in the world, he had a mother that was breathing. Bess cared so much it was as if her insides were stones, grinding upon each other, grating into powder until she had fallen to dust and could no longer stand.

  Nothing felt right. She fell back to where Violet slept in the corner and pulled the girl’s sleeping form onto her lap. The hot breath of the little girl made her feel a little bit better, but the grinding inside seemed only to continue its slow procession, turning her into dust.

  “You don’t seem yourself,” Jean said, sweat running down his face.

  Os grunted in response. He didn’t want to talk about it, certainly not with an overly-amorous seventeen-year-old apprentice. A child.

  “The spring seems too delicate,” Jean pointed out.

  It was true. Os had gotten carried away pounding the spring. It was far too delicate now for the carriage. It would just snap.

  “Some days are better than others,” Jean said, trying to goad Os into talking.

  Os was not in the mood for a discussion. Tonight he would go the White Hart again, hoping against all odds that this scrawny Jack About Town might give him a name or a direction—more than anything else he had.

  He’d thought coming to London would solve his problems. That somehow, magically, his mother would waltz into his foundry one day and announce herself. That here he could get a life worth living. Not just endless work, endless pounding and cooling, endless fires, stoked and fed, while he waited. Waited for an answer that would make him feel whole.

  Leaving Manchester was the first action he’d taken, leaving his friends, his community, leaving Sophia. Which seemed not to have hurt her as much as he’d thought it might.

  He’d made a mistake taking up with Bess. He should have known he couldn’t figure out what a woman like her needed. He didn’t know how to be a partner to anyone. He’d never had to. He was always alone, it seemed. He should have known he must keep it that way. It was arrogance, really, to think it would have ended any other way.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” Jean announced.

  “You will do no such thing,” Os said without turning towards the boy. “I’m the master blacksmith here. I tell you when you move.”

  The boy sighed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “And if you gave instruction, I’d gladly follow it. But now you just stare at the chickens, fuming, as if one of them has wronged your family.”

  “I don’t have a family,” Os snapped.

  The boy quieted. Os was not a man who read other people’s feelings well, but even he could tell that he’d hurt the boy with that comment. Jean had been his apprentice for five years now. Five years of working in concert, teaching him, eating together, sleeping under the same roof. It was more family than he’d had in any other quarter. More even than his days with Horace and Mary Reed. Meanwhile, the boy’s family was back in Manchester, working in the factories, but coming home to be together at night. Always together, while Jean was away.

  “Take a walk,” Os commanded. “I’ll finish this myself.”

  Jean nodded and took off his apron.

  This was a mess of things. Os ought to throw the spring out, it was worthless, pounded so thin. He worked as best he could without a striker. As the afternoon passed and Jean had not yet returned, Os gave up on the paying work and started in on the decorative hinges.

  Finally it was time to make his way over to the White Hart. He hung his apron and performed a quick wash, changing into
a fresh shirt. Work shirts were separate items, dedicated to the trade. Just as he was dedicated to his trade, for what else was he at this point? He brushed his hat, no need to look as rough as he might feel.

  Three pounds seemed to be a decent upfront sum that Jack About Town might charge, so Os readied two purses: one with the three pounds in it and another one full of false coins that would feel like a full purse, just in case he was set upon. He didn’t think any footpad would try, but it was a precaution he would take anyhow.

  The evening was warm, and summer soon would be upon them. As he closed up the doors, Jean came sauntering up.

  “I’ll finish closing,” he said, avoiding Os’s gaze.

  Os grunted an approval. He disliked that Jean was upset with him, but he didn’t have time to address that now. He needed to get to the White Hart.

  The walk was pleasant, or it would have been had he not been in such a foul mood. The lanes were more subdued than the last time he came. When he got to the White Hart, it was downright tranquil, comparatively. Perhaps it was too early in the night.

  He arrived at the bar, ordered his pint, and waited. There was a certain amount of faith in this moment. Faith that Jack About Town would be here, that he would have some piece of information. Faith that the information was true and accurate, and not just fiction to entice Os to hand over more coin.

  The beer was bitter, but it sat well with his mood. Bitter of tongue, bitter of heart. No, it didn’t rest inside of him. He was angry at Bess. There were very few people in his life he’d ever been angry with, and it wasn’t pleasant company.

  “Mr. Worley,” the voice appeared at his elbow.

  The boy was stealthy. Probably had to be. The stories Bess had told him of her time in a children’s thieving gang came back to him. A pang of something that he did not care to name struck him, thinking of that vulnerable child, left on the streets, needing to fend for herself. But that was not why Os was here.

  “Mr. About Town,” Os greeted, turning to face the boy. Tonight, though, somehow, the boy looked entirely different. At their first meeting, Os had thought the boy might have had African ancestry. Tonight, however, the boy looked almost pale as the barman. Yet the same dark eyes took Os’s measure, and the same flop of black hair fell from his cap. There was something inherently changeable about the boy, and Os couldn’t put his finger on it.