by Edie Cay
Another jab flew past her, and this time, Bess was determined to speed up. She’d fight ungentlemanly, un-London-like. She needed to win, and she couldn’t let another shot land. She danced away, her opponent following.
Before long, Bess found herself dodging rapid-fire combinations, desperately trying to work in a deflecting jab. Instead she hunkered down, arms up in protection. When it seemed like the rain of blows was faltering, Bess ventured out a quick hummingbird jab, light, thrown as a test. It popped Bridget Kelly on that right shoulder, causing her to stagger back, at least giving Bess some room.
But she didn’t have long—Bridget Kelly charged her, landing a combination on her torso that tagged a sore kidney. Bess went down.
“End of Round Three,” the referee declared. “Thirty seconds.”
Bess staggered to her feet, returning to John and Tony.
There was no advice. Just staring, resting, drinking the watered beer. As she was called from her corner to return to the middle of the ring, John said, “Hair.”
At least that’s what she thought he’d said. She toed the line. Hair. Hair? Her hair? Another quick opening jab, which Bess expected. Bridget Kelly was bold, she’d give her that. But as they danced around, each wary now, four rounds in, Bess realized what John meant.
Quickly, doing her best not to accidentally transmit her intentions, Bess sidestepped around her opponent, grabbed the long cascade of curls that had been secured behind Bridget Kelly’s head. One fist in her opponent’s hair, Bess pummeled her kidney until she dropped. Probably piss blood after that. Bridget Kelly’s clients wouldn’t appreciate that tonight.
“End of Round Four,” the referee announced. The crowd watched as the Irish lass struggled to her feet. “Thirty seconds.”
Bess went to her corner, this time too energetic to sit. She swayed from side to side instead, sipping at the beer.
“Keep it up,” Tony said.
“Her fault for keeping her hair long,” John said.
She felt it now, that turning of the corner. It was something in only the best matches, the ones where you weren’t sure which way the scales would tip, and then, when you finally realized it would be in your favor, it felt like nothing could stop you. She returned to the scratch.
From the other corner, Bridget Kelly stalked back into position. “No face shots would be cheating.”
Bridget Kelly eyeballed the ref, who approached, given their conversation. There would be no quarter given for thrown matches. Both of them could be torn limb from limb by the crowd if cheating was suspected.
“Not allowing face shots would be cheating,” Bridget Kelly said. “We fight fair or we don’t fight.”
Bess didn’t know what O’Rourke had said, but it wasn’t her business. The round started, and this time Bridget Kelly began with a weak right cross. True, Bess wasn’t expecting it, but she avoided it all the same.
She returned an exploratory right cross, this time aimed at her opponent’s face. Bridget Kelly leaned away from it, but it connected, soft but true.
From her corner, O’Rourke spat loudly, cursing. Bridget Kelly looked back at him.
It was just a split second, nothing but a chance, but Bess stepped into it, delivering a powerful combination to her opponent’s face. Blood spurted from her nose, a spatter landing in a rain across the floor.
Bridget Kelly was down, holding her face, blood pouring. She hadn’t been used to that sort of blow, protected as she’d been. It was a different sort of pain.
“End of Round Five,” announced the ref.
Bridget Kelly stood, weaving as she returned to her corner. Bess had meant to ring her bell, and it looked like she succeeded.
“Thirty seconds.”
“What changed?” Tony demanded.
Bess stretched her shoulders, which were finally starting to feel right again. “She said it would be cheating to not allow face shots.”
“It would be,” John agreed.
“O’Rourke said it would cost me five pounds if I did,” Bess said, sipping at her small beer. She was beginning to feel better. Chancing a look, she peered over the ring at Os.
He put his hand to his heart. The gesture threatened to bring her down faster than one of Bridget Kelly’s jabs. Bess gave a weak smile, knowing it might split her lip, and returned the gesture.
“Focus,” Tony growled.
“One more round,” John said. “That’s all it will take.”
Bess returned to the line, her opponent slower. The bleeding was mostly staunched, but it was clear that Bess had succeeded at the request. The lass’s nose was broken. She didn’t look like the pretty dairymaid that had stepped into the ring—she looked like a right fighter.
“I’ll go down swinging,” Bridget Kelly growled.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Bess said.
The round started and out came one last jab, this one in full force, but Bess knew it was coming, side-stepping it easily. Knowing that her opponent was fading fast, Bess led her on a merry chase. She danced around, threw wide jabs this way and that. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, but mostly she did it to keep the sour frown on O’Rourke’s face.
Finally Bridget Kelly stepped in, making her move. It was a good effort, and if she’d done it earlier in the match, it could have meant a different outcome. But now Bridget Kelly was slow and hurting. And Bess knew her weaknesses. So while her jabs were deflected, Bess spun around, targeting that right shoulder.
As Bridget Kelly favored the injury, she exposed her left side. Bess worked the exposed ribs, and as her opponent straightened, moving to block, Bess yanked her hair back and planted a career-ending facer.
The Irish lass went down like a bag of stones.
19
From his vantage point, Os saw the look of raw determination on Bess’s face as she planted the last fist of the fight. The crowd was silent for a moment, holding its breath, waiting to see if the Irish lass would stand up.
The referee bent down, prodding the girl to no avail. He stood, shaking his head at the men in the fighter’s corner. The Irishmen rushed out to her while the ref held Bess’s arm aloft.
The entire building erupted in cheers. Os whistled and stamped his feet along with the crowd. His eyes went blurry, pride building. Next to him, his mother gave a sophisticated clap, but she leaned over to whisper to his half-brother, Mr. Bernard Franklin, whom Os still could not decide if he should address by his Christian name.
Bess yelled into the crowd, a noiseless open mouth for all Os could hear. But she whipped up the crowd, the men in the room finally on her side.
Those cheering on the Irish lass were disappointed, but the vast majority seemed to favor Bess. His Bess. The fighter from London, the fighter they called their own.
The money was collected and handed to the ref, who divided up the spoils right there in full view of the crowd. Men shuffled forward to collect and unsanctioned side bets were settled away from the ring. Bess took her share of the purse and retreated to her corner, met by Corinthian John and Tony Farrow.
Os felt bad that he wasn’t over there with them. The traffic from London had been shockingly bad. He knew that certain mills attracted quite the crowd, but he hadn’t dreamed anything like this. He’d even made his brother and mother get out of the stopped carriage and walk the last half-mile, afraid that they wouldn’t make it in time.
“Come with me. I’d like to introduce you,” Os said.
“And reintroduce me,” his brother chimed in. It was already grating on Os’s nerves, this habit of his new brother’s, reminding him that he knew everyone in London.
“Yes, yes,” Os said, taking his mother’s arm and wrapping it around his own. He maneuvered them through the crowd, easier now that it was dispersing.
They found the team still in the corner, Bess sitting on the edge of the ring slurping an orange.
“You came,” she said, wiping her hands on her leg. Her tongue darted out, nervously rubbing a split in her lip.
>
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Os said.
Bess stood, a little unsteady, but managed without help. Her sleeves were pulled back up, but she looked only a little more proper than she had a few minutes prior. He could see her straining towards him, and he felt the pull to her as well. He wanted to fold her up against his chest. He wanted to be alone with her, to tell her everything he’d wanted to say but hadn’t known how to.
“I’m sure you remember Mr. Franklin,” Os said, introducing his brother. Franklin had gone into detail about a house party he had attended where Corinthian John and Bess were showcased in an exhibition. That he had, in fact, dined next to Mrs. Arthur prior to her marriage to Corinthian John, and that for a moment, he had expected their sister Mary to receive an offer of marriage from Corinthian John due to a carriage ride.
Mary had rolled her eyes during the story, which made Os believe that no offer had been at the ready.
“Indeed.” Corinthian John gave a bow in acknowledgment.
“Thank you for coming,” Bess said, not looking away from Os, which filled him with relief.
“And this, I’m proud to say, is my mother, Thomasina Franklin,” Os said, pushing his mother ever so slightly in front of him, as if offering her up for worship.
“Oh,” Bess breathed, her eyes going wide. Os succeeded where Miss Kelly had not, taking the wind out of her.
“This is Miss Bess Abbott, and this is Mr. John Arthur,” Os finished.
Bess almost fell over attempting a small curtsy, wincing as she rose. “Pleased to meet you.” She fumbled through a pile of her things for a moment, then produced the winner’s purse. Looking at it a moment, uncertain of herself, she pushed it at him. “Here.”
Os looked at her. Why was she giving him her winnings? “This isn’t necessary.”
“You said you needed it for your mother.” She then tried to push it at his mother, who looked equally aghast. “Do you need it?”
“Bess, that’s quite a sum,” John whispered to her.
“It’s just barely enough. Os said he wasn’t sure what kind of situation his mother was in.”
“This is for me?” his mama asked, looking back at Os.
Os shook his head still not understanding, and then he remembered the last conversation they’d actually had about his mother—one without shouting and blame and hurt feelings.
“There’s a misunderstanding,” Os said, letting go of his mother and taking to Bess’s side. “I’m honored that you would offer me this.”
“It’s why I fought tonight. For this purse.”
John folded his arms and ducked his head, as if he could will himself out of hearing this private conversation. Os’s mother and brother also looked away.
“That’s why you wouldn’t postpone even though you were injured?” Os glanced up to John but found no engagement.
“You needed coin. I had to get it for you.”
With fewer people in the building, it began to look like a sawmill again, the floor scattered with sawdust. A woman’s laughter floated above from where the Fancy all stood and gossiped.
“Os, I’m not good at a lot of things. But I can fight. And I’ll fight for you and I’ll fight for Violet. Because without you, I’m—” Her eyes teared up and she faltered.
He didn’t know what to say, and it tore at him to think she felt abandoned. That there was any possibility of him leaving her.
She cleared her throat, glancing at all the rest of them who pretended not to hear. “Because without you, I’m not who I want to be.”
His hands drifted up to touch her hair, gently cradle her cheek, run his thumb over the smoothness of her ear. “You are extraordinary.” He pulled her hand up, kissing her bloodied knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere. Haven’t you figured out that when I’ve found my family, I’m going to hold on with both hands? I’m not good with words or giving fine speeches, and the best way I know how to say it is that you’re mine, Bess Abbott, and I’m yours.”
His lady fighter looked like she was about to burst into tears.
“I’m so proud to introduce you to my mother and her to you,” he continued, letting Bess fight through her emotions.
“Even though I threatened to shove my fist up some bloke’s arse?”
His brother chortled.
“It was a very quick rejoinder,” his mother said. “I’m not sure I could have thought as fast in the same situation.”
Bess smiled, even though Os knew it probably hurt to do so. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said. “And more than a little relieved that we don’t have to rescue you from some evil bawd.”
“Bawd? Goodness no,” his mother said, appalled.
Corinthian John interrupted. “It’s late. Let’s get this champion into a bath and tucked in for a good meal down at the inn.”
“Will you be staying at the inn?” Bess asked.
“Sadly, no,” his brother said. “My sister is departing north for her upcoming nuptials. My mother and I will meet her at an inn a little further on.”
Bess stepped forward and took his mother’s hands into hers. “I’m very glad that you would speak to me. That you would come to a prizefight at all.”
Os watched as his mother’s face went through a rainbow of emotions. “Don’t let the pretty dress fool you. I know about humble origins. We don’t get to choose where we start in life, only where we end up.” She squeezed Bess’s hands. “Good luck, and I hope to see you again.”
Watching the women’s clasped hands, neither delicate, both work-worn, Os felt a sense of rightness, of completion. In all of the choices he had been able to make, choosing Bess was the best one. And having his mother bless that choice made it all the sweeter.
Tubs large enough for Bess to stretch out were few and far between. This particular sawmill was a common place for pugilistic entertainments, and this particular inn saw a goodly share of prizefighters, most of them retiring to the inn in various states of injury. The large soaking tub was worth having at the ready, and the innkeepers made sure it was not only available but also expensive. But a champion could afford it.
Bess leaned forward in the tub, letting Os wash her back. He knelt beside the tub, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his waistcoat slung over a chair in the corner. His strong, corded forearms glided along her body. Big hands roamed across the expanse of her chest and her torso. She sighed with happiness. A full belly, a championed mill, a man who would wash her back. “I feel like my heart is a cannon.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Os rumbled, his hands dragging softly between her shoulder blades.
“Maybe it makes more sense to say that I feel like I’m the cannonball,” she amended. “As if I could go soaring through the sky right now, propelled by happiness.” She glanced over her bare shoulder to see a sly smile on his face.
“Happiness is a dangerous thing,” Os said.
“Why’s that?”
Out of nowhere, Os pulled the wet cloth around and touched her nose, soaking her face with lavender-scented bathwater. “It makes you slow.”
She laughed. “Have pity on me. I’m injured.”
“And you need fixing up?” Os asked, abandoning the washrag.
“In the worst way.” Bess watched as Os pulled off his shirt. The broad expanse of his chest was highlighted by the fire. “As tonight’s champion, I insist you nurse me throughout the evening.”
He gently pushed her back against the tub, trailing fingertips along her skin. He lingered at the cup of her breast. “If you’d like me to help you feel better, I’d be glad to offer my services.”
“Any other time, I would insist. But my body has been through more than its fair share the last few days. Give me a day of rest and I’ll be ripping your clothes off with my teeth.”
“I can barely wait,” he said with a chuckle. His hands shied away from her breast, continuing the soft trails of his fingertips up and down her shoulders. “Whatever you need, all you have to do is tell me.”
“Just stay
,” she whispered.
He put his forehead against hers. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Will you let me say it now?”
“Say what?” she asked, her mind slow and cluttered.
“I love you, Bess Abbott, London’s Champion.”
“What a mouthful,” she said, sliding lower in the tub.
He tipped her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. “I mean it.”
The look in his eye was determined. She raised a wet hand to his cheek. “I love you, blacksmith. You’re stuck with me like a sore tooth.”
Os shook his head. “Not a sore tooth. Like an alloy, two separate metals bonded to become indistinguishable.”
“Is that poetry? I wouldn’t know,” Bess said. “I haven’t an ear for it.”
“I love you. Why don’t we stick with that?”
“I love you like an alloy.”
“Good enough.”
Epilogue
One year later
“Bloody bollocks,” Bess said, burying her head in her hands.
“Language,” Violet said.
“Don’t language me when the bread is about to turn to ash,” Bess complained. She wiped her hands on the apron around her waist.
Jean opened the back door, knocking as he did so. “’Allo, I’ve got some delicious treats.”
Violet ran to him, scooping the basket out of his arms.
“Did Os tell you to buy all that?” Bess asked.
“You have made me promise to never lie to you under threat of physical harm. So let me say, is there any cheese left in the larder?”
Bess groaned. Os had no faith in her ability to cook or bake, which was not entirely unfounded. They’d moved to a very nice home in Marylebone, not far from John’s, but in a far more utilitarian district, yet still more opulent than anything she could have ever imagined living in. It had an entire kitchen, which seemed too odd to reckon with.
Everyone had suggested they hire a cook, but Bess couldn’t countenance that kind of expense when they’d already hired a maid, so she set about trying to learn herself. It led to more empty-bellied evenings than she’d had since living on the streets. With Os’s mother coming to stay for a month in Town, partly at their house and partly at Mr. Franklin’s townhome, Bess wanted to welcome her with special effort.