by Edie Cay
The sheets felt unbelievably soft. The lingering heat from the bed warmer felt like the ultimate luxury on her aching body. She climbed in and reached out her hand, afraid that he would do something gentlemanly and sleep in the chair by the fire.
Again, he gifted her with his smile, making her woozy heart feel as happy as her woozy head. He removed his coat slowly, or perhaps it just seemed slow to her. She could no longer pay attention. Her one good eye drifted shut as he slid into bed. The only thing she knew as she drifted into a heavy sleep was his hand wrapped around hers.
17
She awoke the next morning to the taste of blood in the back of her throat and a tray of food on the table near the fire. Os was gone, with no trace of him lingering. She buried her face in his pillow, hoping to detect his scent, but the injuries from the night before left her with a fit of painful coughing instead. The tray held a bowl of porridge with heavy amounts of cream and stewed fruits, seasoned with salt and cinnamon. There was more willow bark tea. She drank what she dared and stared at the porridge.
Through her blood-clogged nose, it smelled delicious. But was she even hungry? She’d swallowed enough of her own blood to make her stomach roil. She sighed and pulled on her shift. The stretch hurt her ribs, and she couldn’t lift her arms all the way up over her head. Wincing, she lowered her arms.
Her face still felt swollen and throbbing. She ended up spitting out some blood into a clean, starched kerchief and felt bad about ruining John’s nice things. But it felt better to get out whatever it was that was stopping up her face. Besides, with that done, she felt better about the process of eating.
Food was essential for healing. Spooning up a small bite, she hoped her mouth would open appropriately. The porridge was delicious after weeks of plain gruel, and once the first spoonful crossed her lips, she kept at it until the bowl was empty. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation. The scuffle last night had worked up her appetite.
Already she felt more alive than she had when she first woke. The willow bark helped with the throbbing in her face and ache of her torso. Getting dressed still posed an issue. Her right shoulder felt like a rock, and her left arm was barely usable.
Really, the fight had been glorious in its own way. She opened the door to the guest bedroom and peeked her head out into the hallway. How was it that one got someone’s attention?
A young girl carrying breakfast trays hustled down the end of the hallway, about to disappear down a door that Bess would have never guessed was even a door.
“Hullo?” Bess called, her voice creaking and gravelly. It didn’t hurt as much to talk this morning as it did last night.
The girl looked over her shoulder and startled, almost dropping her tray. She set the tray down and scurried down the hallway to get to Bess.
“Yes, miss?” she asked, not looking Bess in the eye.
Was that deference or disgust? Bess didn’t know, nor did she care. “I need help with my clothing,” she said.
“I will fetch someone,” the girl said, bobbing a curtsy.
“Can you just do it?” Bess asked before the girl could move away. “I hurt everywhere and I just want to get downstairs. It won’t take but a moment.” She could see the girl’s face working through the issue before nodding and following Bess into her room.
After dressing, aching even more from that exercise, Bess descended the stairs, gripping the railing with clawed hands, breathing through the pain. She headed straight back to John’s study.
The door was open, but the scene she found was unexpected. Os and John sat in the reading chairs, both going over newspapers. There was a tray of empty plates and cups on the small table between them.
“Companionable company,” Bess croaked as she hobbled in. She liked seeing them so comfortable with each other. It made her proud to see Os reading John’s newspapers, sitting there as a right gentleman.
Both men dropped their papers and stood up, which was amusing. She almost looked to see if Lydia was behind her because it was so odd to be considered a lady.
“How are you feeling?” they both asked, nearly in unison.
She hobbled towards them. “I don’t dare ask for a looking glass.”
John ushered her into his chair. “We can get one.”
Bess waved him off. Os stared at her intently, as if he could measure up her damage by looks alone. She tried to give him a weak smile, which hurt a little, but it was worth it.
“Violet is upstairs in the nursery,” Os said. “She seems in good spirits. Relieved you are nearby.”
“Relieved? Small word for it,” John said, pulling a cord to summon a servant. “She insisted we sneak into your room this morning to check on you.”
Bess raised her eyebrows. She’d been nude in the bed.
“I aided the endeavor,” Os rumbled, reassuring her that her slumber did not seem untoward to Violet.
“I’d like to do some more doctoring. I think we could get the swelling down on that eye. At least enough so you could open it by tonight,” John said. A servant appeared and John listed out ingredients for one of his poultices.
“Fine,” Bess said.
“I sent Jean back to the foundry, but still, I need to get back,” Os said, taking her hand. “Will you sleep here again tonight? Or will you go back to Mrs. Martin’s? I’d like to check in on you.”
“I ought to at least go show my face to Mrs. Martin. The fight was in front of her place, after all.”
“So what happened? How many were there?” John asked.
Bess told them, slowly, about the woman claiming to be Violet’s mother, about Jeffers, about the men who helped try to kill her. It was when she got to the part about telling Violet to run that she choked up. John handed her tea laced with some sort of painkiller, followed by a sturdy dark brew of tea that felt restorative.
“Finally, I blacked out. I was on the ground, receiving the kicks, which probably accounts for these,” Bess said, running her hands over her bandaged ribs. “I thought I was dead. It wouldn’t have taken much at that point.”
“Who helped you?” Os asked, staring at his own hands.
Oh, he felt bad, which in turn made her feel bad. She’d kicked him away when he needed her, with her usual selfishness. It hadn’t been fair to accuse him of bad faith because of Miss Manchester.
“The other two boarders at Mrs. Martin’s. They ran down and got Tony, who got some of the fighters. They broke it up, got me inside at Mrs. Martin’s. I came to with Mrs. Martin cleaning my face.”
“And you just left?” John asked.
She shrugged, only then noting the pain the shrug cost her. “I needed to find Violet. Last I knew was that I told her to run. I didn’t see if she got away or not.” Os shook his head, but Bess didn’t know why. “I did what I had to for Violet.”
“I should have been there,” Os said.
Bess looked down at her bloody knuckles. “You’re here now.”
Os glanced up at her with a shrewd look.
Bess winced. She was no good at talking about feelings, or even having them. How to tell him that she needed him? Wanted him? “I’ve a mill in just a few days. Will you be there?”
John snapped his fingers. “That’s right,” he mumbled, shuffling through papers on his desk. “Here, I saved these for you.” He returned to her with a stack of newspaper clippings.
“John, you know I can’t read these,” Bess complained, trying to hand them off. Os took them instead.
“This is unmistakable,” he said, holding up one of the clippings. It was an illustration of two women in boxing stances.
“Is that me?” she asked, taking the clipping. One of the women had long curly hair, clearly meaning to be Bridget Kelly. The other was taller, with a squarer set to her shoulders, decked out in clothes far fancier than Bess owned.
“Not that you resemble her today,” John said. “But that’s you. It says ‘Miss Bess Abbott, London Champion’ underneath it.”
“I’m in the newspap
er!” Bess exclaimed. Her ribs still ached and her face still felt like a plaster held onto the back of her skull by some kind of magic, but the excitement of seeing her likeness in the newspaper cured all sorts of ills. She’d not been in the newspaper before.
On the other side of the table, Os’s face creased into a frown. “Do you think you’ll be ready for this? Perhaps you should postpone the bout so you can heal.”
Bess couldn’t gather the strength to answer him. She was in the papers, and that made her invincible. “Read it to me,” she insisted, handing the clipping to John.
John cleared his throat, as if he were to make an important announcement. “Miss Bess Abbott, claimant of the London lady boxing crown, does challenge the newcomer, an Irish beauty by the name of Bridget Kelly.”
“I never called her a beauty,” she sniffed. She didn’t know who had written the text, but it was full of made-up things. Except, of course, her impeccable record of being undefeated. Bridget Kelly wasn’t going to smear her now.
Os stood. “I should go, let you doctor her, if you honestly think you should go through with this mill.”
“I do, and we will,” Bess said.
He kissed the top of her head, in front of John. A most unexpected, but welcome, gesture. She felt all kinds of flustered and warm. But maybe that was the laudanum.
Os left, handing her the stack of clippings. “Read ’em all,” she commanded John. “I don’t know who wrote this trash, but I ought to at least know what people think I’m saying.”
After the study door closed, John put the clippings down. “I think you should postpone the fight.”
Bess shook her head, despite the fact it felt like a mess of bees inside her nob. “No. We made a deal.”
“If it’s about money, I can give you the money.”
John meant well, she knew that. He didn’t mean it to come out sounding all aristocratic and snobbish, but it did. He didn’t understand that yes, she needed the money, but she had to earn it herself.
Os might need money for his mother, and she didn’t understand why or what for, but that wasn’t the point. Os needed it, and so she would get it for him. It was the only way she knew to show Os how much he meant to her. Bess leveled her gaze at John to show him she meant it when she spurned his coin.
Os stepped out, the afternoon already fully underway. He hadn’t meant to while away the morning hours in Corinthian John’s study, reading every newspaper London had to offer, but he had. Jean had taken his hammer back with him early in the morning and promised to set to work immediately, giving Os breathing room once again.
The heavy door closed behind him, and he blinked at the bright sun. A clear day, an unusually good sign. Despite the heat, he wore his greatcoat, as underneath, he was in his shirtsleeves and braces. He smiled at the sky, knowing that today would be the day he met his mother. He took a few steps, fairly certain he could get his bearings quickly, maybe find New Cavendish on his way home so he could return at a decent hour, looking like a successful tradesman.
There was plenty of bustle along the streets. A few young ladies with their chaperones or maids out walking, errand boys moving swiftly between skirts. Gentlemen here and there processed, their minds occupied by work. Carriages clattered by.
He reached the corner, where yet another stately house with an ornate facade stood, as a carriage rattled around from the mews behind. Not far beyond it, a young woman of mixed parentage strolled, her skin lighter than his own. Next to her was a dark-skinned lady, dressed in finery and carrying a parasol, clearly the mother of the young miss, not just by age but by features.
Os almost stumbled. He righted himself, continuing to the corner. He felt strange, as if he were floating when he looked up and saw that the cross street was New Cavendish.
The piece of paper, committed to memory: No. 59 New Cavendish sat across the street. Mrs. John Franklin lived in the new developments of Marylebone, as her husband was a land man—that’s what Jack had said. He stopped. Stared. The house number finally clear in his vision. Number 59. The carriage stopped in front of No. 59.
Across the street, the dark-skinned lady looked up at the commotion of the carriage, and Os was at her line of sight just beyond the carriage. Even at this distance, he saw her eyes widen as she caught sight of him. Her free hand flew to her stomach. Quickly, she murmured something to the young miss, who in turn glanced up at Os.
The young miss hurried in front, her mother slowing her stride, still staring at Os. They were locked in a gaze unbecoming to strangers, but the grip of Os’s belief squeezed his insides. This was her. He knew it like he knew a fire hot enough to smelt metal. She quickened her step to No. 59, by which time the young miss had already dispatched a footman in his direction. The man may be coming to tell him to move along, but Os didn’t believe that, not really.
Without quite knowing how, Os started moving once again towards this house, the footman coming to intercept him. A boy leaned against the wall on the street, a smug look on his face. Briefly, before the boy turned away, Os could have sworn it was Jack. But it couldn’t be, could it? Os didn’t care.
The footman reached him, another young man of color, handsome and tall. They must be a wealthy household, as a man this attractive would have fetched a good salary in any man’s service. Dark skin could earn more in service, which is what he had been told growing up, urging him towards that career. But Os knew he didn’t have the temperament.
“Sir, madame requests you come nearer,” the footman said, embarrassed.
This was not how things were done in polite company. But Os knew in the fibers that made up his person that the woman standing across the street from him was the mother he’d searched for. It was knowledge like the sky was blue, and water is wet. There was his mother.
Os didn’t give an assent, only navigated across the street, approaching the woman he had sought for thirty years.
“Mama?” called the young woman from the doorway. Her expression of confusion was evident as she gripped her fashionable bonnet in her hands.
Mama. As he got closer, he could see his mother taking shallow breaths, her eyes locked onto his form.
Finally, he reached her. She was tall for a woman, beautiful, graceful, and stately. As Jack had said, she was beautiful in a way that didn’t come from youth or from a pretty frock. It was inside her, the tilt of her cheekbones, the depth of her eyes. Her long neck, her shoulders, the softness of her skin. The skin like his.
“Your name, sir?” she all but whispered.
“Mr. Os Worley,” he answered. Her eyes were the same shape as his. How could he not notice this? Those memories, her softness and humming, the light of an island sunset?
“Os, then?” she asked, the lilt of her accent matching his.
He could do nothing but nod.
Her eyes filled, but she turned away. “Do come in, sir. You would honor me with a short visit.”
“Mama?” the young woman called once again in confusion.
“We will postpone our shopping, Mary,” his mother called ahead, advancing up the short steps. Her hands shook. “We have an important guest.”
Os followed her inside the house as if in a dream, up the stairs to the drawing room, trailed by a footman, and then replaced by a butler. Neither servant could have liked the look of Os, rumpled in his shirt, wearing a greatcoat to cover his state of undress. This was not how he had envisioned this meeting, but he would rather it happen now than to try again and find her gone.
His mother ordered a tray of tea and sweets to be brought, and the butler made a pointed remark about remaining close by should he be needed. The door all but closed, slightly ajar. But they were alone now. Os stared at his mother standing across the room, the woman of his memory.
He didn’t have anything to say, memories flooding him. Did she still smell like the cleanest of clean? He noted that her hands trembled.
“Are you—” she started.
Os nodded. Whatever she asked, he wanted t
o say yes. His desire to please her was still from the age he left her. In her presence, would he always be five years old?
“You look so much like your father,” she said, tears not quite spilling. She approached him, small steps, as if dancing.
“I don’t remember him,” he said, wanting to meet her in the middle, but finding himself uncommonly stuck.
She gave a rueful smile, still holding back tears. “He passed when you were still very young. But he loved you. Delighted in you.”
Os took in her words like air. “And you?”
She made it to him, finally, taking his rough hands into hers. He wanted to sink into her lap, as if he could still curl up into her and let her make everything better.
“You are him, aren’t you?” Her tears finally spilled over.
“Mama?” he asked, his voice suddenly just as small as he felt.
Her hands flew to his shoulders, his bare head, his chest, his cheeks. “My baby,” she wept.
His arms encircled her and pulled her close. His mama. He finally had his mama. His tears spilled onto her gown. She embraced him back, and they stood, mirrored hearts hammering in their chests.
“But why—” Os did not mean to demand answers. He meant to say thank you, he meant to say, pleased to meet you. He meant to look around the beauty of this drawing room and compliment her wealth. “Lord Chitley—” He choked on the name. Why would that man’s name have to hang in the air between them? He pulled away from her, to look into her face, to study it, hoping he wouldn’t find betrayal there.
She shook her head. “I don’t know who that is. I was told that you drowned. You were seen near the ships, and then never again. They said it happened to boys as young as you—that you fell in, hit your head, and were swept under.”
Os let the idea sink in. They didn’t know who he was, and Os was young enough that he would have only been able to give basic information about himself and his mother. Willrich stowed him away, hidden until they were too far away to turn back. Once docked in England, the expense of sending a single child back wouldn’t have made sense.