by Edie Cay
Bess’s eye began swelling shut, and she tasted blood. Her entire body was running on instinct and memory. Her ears began to ring. She landed a solid uppercut in a soft belly, unready for a blow, but she continued to plow through them, wishing them to stay down after she addressed them. One got a fistful of her hair, yanking her backward. She kicked out at the man in front, driving him behind her to the ground. Her hair was free of the other man’s grasp and she clambered to her feet again, aware that this had ceased to be a fight and was instead a desperate scramble.
She wished as she struggled, planting a facer, watching a tooth fly out of one man’s gob. She wished for Violet to run. She wished for Os to appear with his blacksmith’s hammer, the way he had that first time.
A punch to her own breadbasket knocked the wind out of her. She came up hard, knocking the back of her head on a man’s chin, sending him backwards, allowing her to advance. It was instinct to push forward, but there were no corners in this fight. There were no boundaries. It was the world coming down upon her, showing her that it was just her against the violence of those men who would uphold the wrong order.
If only Os were there, one swift swing of that smug’s hammer would clear a path like a scythe. But it was her fault for not knowing how to make him stay. For not being the kind of woman Miss Manchester was. For being herself. Only herself.
Bess was getting tired, and if they took her to the ground now, she wouldn’t have the strength to get back up. Her elbow caught a man’s jaw. She covered her head, blocking the rain of blows with her forearms. The only way to end it was to pop the head off of this scuttling beetle so that Jeffers couldn’t take Violet. She lunged towards Jeffers, that push forward, swinging until the world went black.
Os found a new talent. His feet knew the way home, even in this strange, sprawling town. His mind buzzed with thoughts of his mother, unable to settle on any particular memory or fantasy. The warmth of her flooded him, bringing him back to early days of his life. The sureness of her love and comfort seemed a miracle. The dark streets should have felt at least some part menace to him, but he was too drunk on this new information to see anyone as anything other than a friend.
Jean was waiting for him by the fire in the cottage. It was low, just a few embers burning, enough to toast bread. The boy stood when Os entered but then quickly sat down, back to turning the toasting iron as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“How was the pub?” Jean asked, his voice careful, the traces of French all but dropped from his words.
Os took the paper out of his pocket and smoothed it on his leg. Jean tried not to glance over, but did anyway. He said,
“Is that?”
Os did his best to keep a grin from cracking his face, but it didn’t work. There was something about sharing joy with another person that made it all the sweeter. “She’s leaving soon,” he said. “So I have to be quick to visit and make myself known to her. It’s too late tonight, but tomorrow. Tomorrow.”
The boy doubled over, and when he turned his face towards Os, his eyes were shining with unshed tears. “You found your mother.”
The blacksmith nodded. He needed to believe it was her. Everyone else did. “After all these years.”
Jean stood up. “We have to celebrate. How do we celebrate?”
“This is enough for now,” Os said, getting up to slice some bread. He put it in the toasting iron and joined Jean. “A proper celebration after I see her.”
“Of course,” Jean said. He put his arm out on Os’s bicep. “I’m so happy for you.”
There was shouting in the street. Another drunken brawl, probably. Os was too elated to deal with the usual men pushing over the magistrate box or fighting with some toffs who wandered too far from Hyde Park after dark.
They ate their toast, adding a bit of cheese on the next slice, melting and browning it to perfection. Sated, they bid each other good night, Os heading upstairs to his room while Jean went to his downstairs.
Os tucked into bed, looking forward to the next day. He would finish work early, clean up, don his best clothes and knock on the door of the house where his mother lived. The only thing missing was Bess. He had wanted to tell her, watch her face light up. When she was happy, she was happy with her whole being. He loved that about her. Or rather, had loved that. He’d have to get used to the world being less colorful now that she’d chosen to not be a part of his.
But he’d found his mother. Perhaps after a while, Bess could calm down about Sophia’s presence, understand that the past was the past, and they could take up again. Perhaps. But his mother needed to be first in his life, after all. He needed to make a priority, and Bess had made that easy for him. One had to choose to be happy sometimes, and so he was choosing it tonight as hard as he could. He drifted into a dark, concentrated sort of sleep.
But sleep didn’t last.
There was a creak of the floorboard. Someone was in his house. Jean’s footsteps were heavier, more horse-like. Os got to his feet, careful of making any noise that might alert the intruder. There were far better targets than a blacksmith’s cottage, but Os wasn’t about to question the motives of thieves. He crept out of his room, lighting no candle. He didn’t need a cudgel or some other weapon. His fists were enough. He stopped to listen.
Fast breathing. The panicked kind, the kind that was almost a sob. It didn’t sound like a thief.
“Who’s there?” Os bellowed.
A terrified sob escaped the entryway. There was a creak in Jean’s bedroom as Os’s voice woke his apprentice. Os followed the sob.
“Who’s there?” he repeated, softly, already knowing the answer.
“Violet,” squeaked a small voice.
“Come here, child,” he said, stretching out his arms in the dark. The girl scampered over, falling clumsily into his embrace. She sobbed and shook. “What happened?”
It took minutes of her hiccupping and sobbing to get the story out. By then, Jean had come out and was standing nearby.
“Is Miss Abbott all right?” Os finally asked, but the girl only shook her head, her hair swinging across his face.
“That’s fine, shush your tears. You’ll be safe, I promise.”
Jean reappeared with a candle, the look of concern on his face clear.
“If your father is determined to get you back, you can’t stay here, Violet.” Os looked at Jean, who nodded his head. The boy would do whatever it took. “I think you and Jean should go to the house of Corinthian John in Marylebone. It’s far, and he’s a rich man. Your father would not dare mess with the likes of him. You’ll be safe there. Do you know the way, Violet?”
Violet nodded, her sniffling dampened once there was a plan to follow.
“I’ll go out and help Miss Abbott any way I can. I’ll send word when she’s safe, no matter the hour. Is that all right?” Os worried for Bess. It must have been bad to put Violet in such a state. The child was accustomed to all manner of horror.
“It will just take a few moments for me to dress,” Jean said, disappearing into his room.
“I forgot Abigail,” Violet wailed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. She was in my pocket and now she’s not.”
“No need to worry, I will find Abigail and bring her to you. I promise.”
“I was supposed to—” The girl broke off into incoherent sobbing. Jean appeared with an extra coat for Violet.
“We’ll go quickly,” Jean promised.
“It’s the new developments in Marylebone. Stick to the wide streets with gas lamps. They won’t dare snatch a child where someone could see.”
“But the back ways are so much quicker,” Jean protested.
“And far more dangerous. There is still the unruly element in Marylebone. Main roads,” Os advised. Turning to Violet, he gave her one last reassuring squeeze. “Be brave now, just as Miss Abbott would want you to be. Be brave, and I will bring her to you.”
“And Abigail?” Violet asked, drying her tears.
“And Abigail,”
Os promised.
“Come, Little Weasel,” Jean said, taking her hand.
“I’ll see you soon,” Os promised them as they slipped out the door.
Os went upstairs and dressed. He didn’t bother with a waistcoat, putting his trousers on and pulling braces over his shoulders. He pulled on a loose greatcoat and a hat before he went to the forge to grab his hammer. It was for intimidation as well as anything else.
He proceeded down the road that Violet and Bess normally took to his place, all the while keeping an eye out for the little copper cat. There was nothing but long shadows, which spooked him as he ambled along, trying to look as if he just happened to be out for a stroll. He crossed street after street, encountering no one. He was halfway to Mrs. Martin’s when he saw a figure limping in the dark.
“Where is she?” Bess demanded when she reached him, her words slurring. Her face was bloody and swollen. The way she held her body, crooked and drooping, it made him think that perhaps she had a broken arm.
“Where. Is. She?” Bess demanded again, holding open her palm, in which was a misshapen Abigail. “I know she came to you.”
It ripped at his heart. She was alone, searching, beaten beyond what anyone else could bear, but there she was, in the middle of the night, on her feet. Looking. Always searching.
“I sent her to Corinthian John’s with Jean.” Maybe he should convince her to go home, let Mrs. Martin take care of her, or call on Tony, see if he would take care of her. Of course, Os wanted to take care of her. But he knew she wouldn’t let him. His practicality always churning through possibilities.
“I told her to run,” she said, panting with the effort. “I need to find her.”
“If you want to go all the way to Marylebone, I’ll go with you.”
She didn’t argue. But then again, he didn’t think she had the energy to do anything except shuffle towards John Arthur’s house, steady, limping. He didn’t offer to carry her, didn’t offer to hire a carriage. She wouldn’t want either of those things. A carriage ride would be unbearable in her condition anyway.
They shuffled down Crawford Street and cut across Montagu Square, houses all around still being built, construction halted only for the rise of the moon. And the night felt like a menace. Figures lurked in alleys and made him glad he’d brought along his heavy, imposing blacksmith’s hammer.
They walked in silence, allowing Os’s mind to wander and imagine the worst. As they neared Corinthian John’s street, Os frowned. He had put his mother’s address to memory. New Cavendish Street had to be nearby. How is it that she and Corinthian John lived so close? How could he have not known?
They stood in front of Corinthian John’s home. The imposing front door finally slowed Bess’s painful progress.
She stared at the door, catching her breath, as if she could will herself to knock without raising her hand. Os went to do it for her, but that only spurred her on.
She began to pound with her good arm, using her fist and then her forearm, until the door swung open.
The butler was fully dressed, as if a visitor would be expected at this hour.
“Where. Is. She?” Bess panted.
To his credit, the butler did not appear distressed by Bess’s appearance. Instead, he ushered them both in, taking them down the hall to a study. Os was glad, as he didn’t think Bess could negotiate the steps to the upstairs drawing room.
Corinthian John drowsed in a chair by the fire. The butler gently roused him with a firm hand on the shoulder.
“Good God, Bess,” he said, standing almost before he was awake. He blinked hard, coming around. He was in his shirtsleeves, a coat draped over a nearby reading chair. There was a stab of jealousy, this ease and informality between the two old friends. The man didn’t even bother reaching for his coat.
Os was impressed by the study. It was luxurious, of course, but not overly so. As if Corinthian John were someone who liked to read and wanted nice things. None of the furniture was particularly decorative, but it was all functional. Newspapers hung on a rack near the desk, ready for reference. There was no drink cart, no display of beautiful items. Everything was there for a purpose and nothing more.
“Where?” Bess asked.
“She’s here, she’s safe,” Corinthian John said.
Bess nodded once, and soon, Os noticed tears on her cheeks. She swayed on her feet. Thankfully, Os was close enough to steady her.
“Come on. Sit down, sit down.” Corinthian John waved them over next to the dying fire. “Parsons is getting Violet now. She’s with Lydia and Pearl, cuddled up with the baby. Violet couldn’t be more comfortable.”
A strangled gasp came out of Bess. Os chose to believe it was a sob of relief, as it seemed like the sound he’d wanted to make when Jack About Town slid the piece of paper across the bar earlier in the evening. He settled Bess into the chair by the fire, and Corinthian John pulled up a second one for Os to sit in.
“Jean is asleep in one of my guest rooms,” John said to Os.
“No need to wake him,” Os rumbled.
“While we wait for Violet to come down, would you let me fix you up?” Corinthian John asked, turning back to Bess. “Just like old times?”
Os wanted to thank that man. He hadn’t the experience to know what to do for these types of injuries. Corinthian John summoned the butler again, meeting him at the door to whisper details of what to bring.
“Who did this?” Os asked Bess.
Bess pointed to her jaw and shook her head. It was swollen, like everything else, and was turning terrible colors. She didn’t want to talk more than she had to.
“Violet’s father?” Os asked.
Bess pointed to him, signaling that he had the correct answer.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.” The feeling in his chest sunk even lower. Not only had he not been there to help, he’d let her walk a mile to find help from another man. He couldn’t protect her and he couldn’t take care of her. No wonder she’d told him that he wasn’t needed.
Bess put her hand on his. He hadn’t noticed earlier in the dark, but her knuckles were bloody and swollen. It made him feel all the worse. She’d fought for her life. For Violet’s life.
There was a commotion at the door and Violet burst in, wearing a nightgown much too long for her. The girl’s face was red from crying, but she rushed to Bess.
Bess tried to get up but couldn’t. Instead, Violet, tall as she was, crawled onto Bess’s lap. Bess put her arms around her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Violet sobbed.
Mrs. Arthur, Miss Pearl Arthur, and Corinthian John kept their distance. Only Os was able to see the current of unfractured love.
“S’all right, Duckie,” Bess shushed her, rubbing her back.
“I’m with you, I’m with you,” Violet insisted, still sobbing.
“I know,” Bess said. “You did right, coming where I could find you.”
Os knew how much it hurt Bess to talk, but still she was comforting Violet. The butler returned with a tray laden with strips of cotton, tea, and few other potions Os wasn’t sure of.
“No,” wailed Violet. “I belong to you.”
It was a thunderbolt to Os’s heart to hear the little girl’s declaration. Violet belonged to Bess because she was the child Bess needed. The two were fitted, a pair, a mother and a daughter in a configuration that no one else could see and that no one named as such. Bess buried her face in the little girl’s shoulder.
Os felt the void of his own mother. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be Violet. He could only hope that his mother would be half as accepting as Bess was.
“Of course, Duckie,” Bess mumbled into the nightgown. “We belong to each other.” Bess pulled Abigail from her pocket and presented the figure to Violet.
Violet gasped and swept it up herself. Bess turned her half-lidded gaze to Os, pride clear in her expression. And Os felt her beckoning him into her family.
After a time, Corinthian John convinc
ed Violet to clamber down and sit at Bess’s feet. Os held Bess’s hand as Corinthian John catalogued the hurts, applied compresses, coaxed her to drink willow bark tea dosed with a small amount of laudanum. Violet fell asleep curled around Bess’s right foot, in between the chairs where Bess and Os sat.
“It’s time for me to go,” Os rumbled. Fatigue had long ago set in, despite the tray of dark tea that seemed ever present and always hot. Bess had pulled down the top of her dress, chest bandage still tightly bound. She must have been training just prior to whatever happened. Dark red stained her ribs. The color would deepen to purple by tomorrow morning.
Bess’s hand pressed in his. “Stay,” she murmured.
Corinthian John raised his ginger eyebrows, glancing first at the hand and then at Os, as if trying to silently tell him to keep still. Instead of speaking, Corinthian John returned to laying out bandages to wrap around what were likely broken ribs.
It was reconciliation. It was a gesture. But was it enough? “I’ll stay, then,” Os said.
It was late into the night, early into the morning when Bess allowed Os to carry her up the stairs to a guest bedroom. It had been prepped hours ago, so the room was warm and the bed was comfortable. Corinthian John carried the sleeping Violet up to the nursery, where she had been sleeping before Bess and Os arrived.
Her head felt pleasantly light as Os helped her undress. The room was warm, and his calloused hands were gentle. She hadn’t the urges for an intimate encounter, sore as she was. Every breath in was full of needles, and she knew that when she awoke, her head would pound with a profound pain.
But he was here, helping her step out of her dress, unwrapping the chest bandage that held her breasts in place while she trained. He held out the night rail that Lydia had left for her on the bed. She slowly shook her head no, feeling as if her face was a second or two behind her head in motion. That and the laudanum made her giggle.
Os smiled, which made her feel warm. He’d been angry at her. She had deserved it. But that felt so long ago. And now, his gentle hands guided her to the bed, where she crawled in without a stitch on, save the rib binding.