by Edie Cay
“How did you…er…how were you…?” Os didn’t know how to ask such an impolite question as to the details of one’s freedom. It shouldn’t be a question that had to be asked.
“I was a seamstress in Freetown, your father a blacksmith.”
The knowledge pinged inside Os’s chest. He said nothing, allowing his mother to continue.
“We were happy. He passed suddenly one day, collapsing at his foundry. You were my solace. My reason for living.” She took a step back, procured a handkerchief from her sleeve, and wiped at dewy eyes. “When you disappeared, I felt like I had died myself.”
His mind zinged from place to place, unable to direct the conversation, unable to ask questions. He had been loved. Cherished.
“A year or so later, when Mr. Franklin came calling, he needed shirts mended. Then his ship was delayed, and he returned to my shop time and again, asking after me and my health. Our courtship was short—it had to be, given his need to return to England.”
Os didn’t care about Mr. Franklin, he cared about her. A maid entered with a gleaming silver tea service. She set it down on the table and poured two cups, adding a slice of lemon to the saucers, then handing one to each of them.
“We married the day we sailed. I knew he was an honorable man or I would not have left. But I had nothing to stay for. I knew he worked for the London Society for Freedom, and it was a cause I wanted to help. I could make a difference as his helpmeet.”
Os took his teacup and saucer into his palm, staring at the lemon wedge. He was numb. Happy, of course, but bowled over by her life, lived without him. A life where she didn’t even know he was alive and breathing.
“We don’t take sugar in this house,” his mother said. “Sugar is made from the blood of our people, and I am not a cannibal.”
Her words were full of iron. Os had not ever thought that hard about taking a bit of sugar in his tea, though he didn’t care for it sweetened. But she was right. To force an issue based on what he consumed—it was a small way to try to change the world. “I don’t normally take sugar in my tea anyway,” he said.
She smiled. “You look so much like him.”
Os looked up to see her gazing at him exactly as he’d dreamed she would. Like a mother looks at her child. Full of love. Full of pride. Full of recognition and belonging. “Is Mr. Franklin at home?”
Her gaze fell to her teacup. “I have the unfortunate distinction of being a widow twice over.”
“So Mr. Franklin is also—?” Was it polite to say “dead”?
“I was lucky to have two good men in my life. Not every woman can be that fortunate. In a way, you brought Mr. Franklin to me. It was how I thought of you, as my little angel, bringing me hope when I had none.”
“He sounds a fine man.”
“We had a good life.” Os’s mother sipped at her tea, punctuating the end of her story. “Tell me all about you. I want to know everything from the moment you left my arms that morning.”
Os took a breath to steady himself. He started with stowing away on the boat, not understanding what he was doing. He told her about Lady Chitley, the Society, Horace and Mary Reed. Then about life at the estate, and then his apprenticeship.
“You’re a blacksmith?” His mother asked, a smile splitting her face.
“I am,” Os rumbled. “My forge is not far from here.” Os looked down at his hands. “I came to London on a hope. People said I was crazy to do it.”
“People like to tell you who you are,” his mother said, setting her teacup down with a rattle. “They make up stories so they can feel pity or admiration. They don’t know how to understand the world in any other way. Don’t let them write your history. They’ll be wrong.”
“I sacrificed everything to find you.”
Her gaze softened. “If I’d known.” She picked up her tea and saucer again, brightening. “But surely, you didn’t sacrifice everything. Is there a daughter-in-law or perhaps some grandchildren I could meet?”
Os looked down at his own tea, going cold. Bess. Jean. Violet. Last night he had witnessed Violet flinging herself into Bess’s arms, proclaiming her belonging as fiercely as she knew how. Now he was Violet. But it wasn’t into Bess’s arms he was folding himself.
“There’s room,” his mother said, her voice gentled by experience.
“Pardon?” Os asked, looking up.
“The human heart is capable of so much love. You can love so many people, in so many ways. If there is a person you are pondering, deep in that teacup, let me be the first to tell you: you can have both of us.”
Os’s chest expanded, as if he were taking a first breath after having been underwater. That’s all he’d wanted. To not have to choose. He should tell Bess before her fight. That they could all be together. His mother could be her mother. Together, they would gain something they’d each wanted. Family.
The door flung open and a lighter-skinned Black man walked in. He was handsome, tall, thinner in the shoulders than Os, with a sprinkling of freckles across his face. Though he looked young, he carried himself with an air of authority—a man of influence and ownership. They had their differences in features, but Os could read his mother’s influence in his face.
“Who is this?” the man demanded. “Are you bringing in random strangers for refreshment? Mary is distraught. You were supposed to go with her to buy her wedding trousseau!”
His mother didn’t seem at all disturbed by the young man’s outburst. Oh, he liked his mother, so calm, so graceful, so even. It was as if he could recognize himself in her. “Bernard, this man is not a stranger.”
Os stood up, and the man’s eyes went wide. There was something that Os enjoyed about his reaction. Other times, he was self-conscious of his size, not wanting strangers to be scared of him. But if he was the man’s older brother, then he could flex and preen all he wanted. So he did. His chest and arms rippled underneath his coat, and this man noticed. His mother glanced over and actually giggled.
A flush of joy and pride ran through him. His mother had laughed because of something he did. He couldn’t help but smile himself. He took a breath, feeling as if he could finally relax for the first time in his life.
“This man is my son. My firstborn, Rufus. This is your big brother.” His mama crossed the divide of the silver tea service and took hold of Os’s hand.
“Rufus?” Os startled, turning towards his mother.
“You had a lisp as a child, so you called yourself ‘Os.’ It was the only way you could pronounce your name.”
“Rufus,” he tested it out. “Rufus Worley?”
“Worley?” his mother asked, turning back to him. “Who is Worley? Your guardian?”
“Me. I’m Worley.”
His mother shook her head. “No.”
“Yes, I’ve looked for you for decades, Thomasina Worley. Was I…was there an indiscretion?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “An indiscretion?”
“Look here,” Bernard Franklin said, taking a step forward, his finger out, ready to give Os a firm talking-to. As if Os couldn’t manage him and his ridiculous finger-wagging.
Then his mother started laughing. The two men stopped short. She laughed so hard that she wiped her eye. “I’m sorry. It isn’t funny. It really isn’t. These damn English.”
“Mama!” Bernard admonished.
“Raleigh,” she said. “Rufus Raleigh.”
Raleigh. With a lisp and an accent, he’d been renamed. He was probably too scared to correct them, couldn’t anyway, because they couldn’t understand him. He’d spent his life as Worley when he’d been born Raleigh.
“Rufus Raleigh,” Os whispered, testing it out.
“Rufus Raleigh,” his mother repeated, slipping her hand into his.
Her hand disappeared in the wide expanse of his palm, but still he gripped tightly. His mama. Mama was right here, claiming him. She wanted him. They belonged.
The freckled man eyed the two of them, from one face to another. “Right
, now that we all know the name,” Bernard tsked. “I thought he was dead.”
“I did, too, but I saw him and I knew.”
“Did he not show up on our doorstep?”
“I just found your address yesterday,” Os said, wanting to be in this conversation. He didn’t like that all of this talking was happening around him. “I had planned to visit later today, but in nicer attire.”
“Something precluded that plan,” his brother said, his eyes narrowing, no doubt ticking off the inappropriateness of his shirtsleeves and braces.
Os had been afraid of this kind of distrust. That smallness and greed that was rampant, a sickness carried by large amounts of money.
“I saw him walking down the other street,” his mama said, tightening her grip.
It felt so good to have her fight for him. He hadn’t known what he’d missed, to have her stand up for him. Os suddenly felt like a rich man to have a mother in his corner.
“I was at the Arthur residence,” Os supplied.
“The prizefighter’s house?” he asked. “You know Mr. Arthur?”
“I do,” Os said. He wondered if he should elaborate, tell him that he’d had dinner with the Arthurs, with Mrs. Arthur’s family in attendance. But he didn’t. This was not a moment to brag about such acquaintances.
Franklin chewed his lip, but softer now that they had the same friends. “How do you know he is who he says he is?”
His mama gave Os a cool appraisal once more. “He looks exactly like his father. And I’ve never heard anyone else call themselves Os.”
His brother looked like he was ready to spit. “Fine, fine. Os then,” his brother said, sticking out his hand. “Bernard Franklin. Pleased to make your acquaintance, brother.”
Os took his hand, feeling the suspicion melt as his brother decided to accept him. He got the impression that Bernard made decisions once and then stuck by them regardless.
“Should I call for Mary? She should know she has yet another brother.” Bernard had already moved to the next hurdle.
“Do you not mind that I am…” Os trailed off. Did they not mind that he was a tradesman? Did they not mind he was of another father?
Mr. Franklin cast a glance just as appraising as his mother’s. “Your trade, sir?”
“Blacksmith. I have a foundry where Paddington and Marylebone meet.”
“Nice and close, then. Wonderful. I shall send all our business to you, of course.”
“Horseshoes and carriage springs are a blacksmith’s lifeblood these days, what with the factories up north.” Os didn’t know what to say. He had expected more tearful reunions, but his brother was brusque. Not unwelcoming, just matter-of-fact.
“Oh, I don’t mean just the horses and carriages.” Franklin raised his eyebrows as if he hoped to surprise Os. “No, I mean that I can send our tools to your shop for sharpening and repair. We develop land. Build parks and landscapes. Large-scale housing developments like this one. We always need a blacksmith on site to hone tools throughout the day. Do you have an apprentice?”
Os gaped. He would need two more apprentices to keep up with the kind of workload Franklin was proposing. “I do. Good lad. He’s more than halfway through his apprenticeship.”
“Excellent chance for expansion, then, when he becomes a journeyman. I’m happy to give you the business.”
“And I thank you for it, but I was hoping to get away from that aspect and move into decorative work.”
Bernard frowned. “Are you the man who makes the hinges?”
Os nodded. “I’ve sold a few demonstration pieces, but no one has yet called for a large order.”
“My man Hathaway showed me one. I have it on my desk.” Bernard fished at his pockets as if he might have the hinge on his person. “If you are the artisan who makes those, by Jove, I hope you would give your brother a discount. Let me go fetch the hinge, and Mary while I’m at it. She’d be interested to know she has another brother.”
Bernard stepped out of the room, leaving Os flabbergasted. He turned around to see his mother beaming. She looked as if she emitted light itself. She approached him, arms open, as if ready to embrace him.
He stepped forward, but before he could let her wrap arms around him, he needed to know one thing. “May I call you ‘Mama’?” His voice cracked.
“Of course, my darling boy,” she said, and she wrapped her arms around him. He’d found her. He was home. “I wouldn’t want you to call me anything else.”
18
Every inch of her ached with the bump and rattle of the carriage, but there was no other way. Even her jaw ached from clenching as John’s carriage moved them further from town, further from Paddington, further from Violet. Lydia and Pearl had stayed with the girl, keeping her safe and cocooned.
It was possible Bess felt worse now than she had just after waking up the night of the beating. Her ribs gave a sharp stab if she took too big of a breath, and she couldn’t raise her arms above her head. She could see out of both eyes now, which was an improvement.
The last few days she had stayed at John’s house, Violet playing with the new baby, Miss Arthur doting over both. Lydia had gotten in the ring again, just to circle and jab into empty air. She was still bigger than her previous self, but that’s not what slowed her down—Bess could see that her mind wasn’t sharp.
Lydia’s slow reactions and inability to focus on her opponent reminded Bess that boxing was about mental work, not just physical. So even though Bess’s body wasn’t ready for a proper mill, her mind could be. She refused any more laudanum, even though the pain warranted it. John didn’t quibble. He followed her request and agreed that she needed her wits. It gave her hope.
She wanted to win the fight for herself, of course, but she needed to win the fight for Os. If he needed coin for his mother, she’d get it. She owed it to him for calling him unfaithful. For saying he was unreliable. For being a thorough arse when he tried to say he loved her. There was a chance that it wasn’t too late. Of course, there was a chance that it was.
More than anything she wanted their little motley family: Bess, Os, Violet, Jean, the chickens, the old hound dog, Violet’s copper cat, Abigail. Whatever it took, she would do it. John had made a life with Lydia. Tony had made one with Miz Penny. It was her turn, but she had to take it. Maybe giving Os that money would be enough to show how much she cared about him.
If there was one thing she knew how to do, she knew how to fight. Jeffers had showed Violet that Bess would die for her. Maybe this mill could properly show Os that Bess would do the same for him.
“Are you sure Os is coming?” she asked as another bump jolted Bess and she let out a hiss of pain. He’d come by John’s while she was running back to Mrs. Martin’s house to gather up her clothes. It had been a hard choice, but an important one. Tonight she would wear the boxing costume that the now-dead Lord Denby had made for her. It was worn at the cuffs and hems, but it was comfortable and the best thing for a fight.
If she was being honest with herself—possibly for the first time, for who wants to admit the dirty truth?—it had been Violet’s words that made her put away the boxing costume. But now Violet was with her, Jeffers was nowhere to be found, and she had the match of her career. She needed that costume. She needed to be the champion that Denby had believed her to be. She could be herself and protect those she loved all at once.
But retrieving the garment had come at a cost: she had missed Os. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left John’s house the morning after the scuffle with Jeffers. It made the gap between them feel wide and nearly impassable. Things with him were uncertain, unstable, and she was terrified of making another mess of things. And while he had stayed with her that night, kissed her head when he left, it wasn’t exactly forgiveness. It was pity for an invalid.
“Os said he had another conveyance,” John said. “As did Tony.”
There was silence, her doubt as loud as any church bell.
“He’ll be there,” John reassur
ed her.
“It feels strange to have it be just you and me in here,” Bess said. In the old days, there’d have been six or seven of them all crammed into a tiny carriage half that size, riding out of town to the prizefights.
“Times change,” John said softly.
Bess touched her swollen face. “That they do.”
They arrived at the mill a few hours later, stiff and sore. Bess and John took a walk around the rural building to find the exits just in case the magistrates showed up. Tony was inside with Mr. O’Rourke and the mill owner. Miss Kelly was apparently back at the inn, resting up, doing her toilet as Mr. O’Rourke put it. The smirk on his face restated his opinion that female boxers were whores, and should act as such.
The water in the river burbled and jumped as they walked along the path. Logs were floated down before being taken up to be hewn in the mill. It was peaceful now, but Bess could imagine what it was like every other day, the building packed with people, the river packed with logs. The sound of the saw chewing through wood.
“I feel like a tree,” Bess said.
“Pardon?” John asked, searching her eyes, no doubt making sure her pupils were the same size.
“I feel like a tree, chopped down, floated along this river, only to be taken to this mill to be parted out into boards.”
“Surely—”
“Don’t you feel it, John? There’s something final here. This Irish lass might beat me. It’s hard to take a full breath, I can’t lift my arms over my head, and the edges of my vision are still blurry. I was in top form three days ago, taking on five men in one go. But now? All the beef broth in the world won’t set me to rights for tonight.”
“Do you want to call it off?” John asked, posed next to the river, looking like a gentleman in his fine waistcoat and impeccably brushed hat. This was part of the change. He had gone from the ruddy, rough boy who fought at her back in the streets to the wealthy man who hid her and Violet in his mansion while she recuperated.