by Edie Cay
Bess didn’t know anything about mothers, how to properly welcome them or how to keep them, and she figured baking a loaf of bread was the least she could do. But while she spent far too much time stoking a fire, the bread was black on the bottom and as dense as a rump roast in the middle.
Os walked in the back door, his shirtsleeves rolled up from washing his hands at the pump out back.
“Husband,” Bess said, trying hard to sound stern. He needed to know how annoyed she was that Jean had shown up with baked goods.
“Wife,” he answered with a grin.
When Os proposed marriage, Bess, in a panic, told him she wouldn’t be moving to Manchester. But Os had already registered in a London parish, and it had been no fuss at all to have the banns read, waiting anxiously week after week, finding a house and all the wares necessary for the nest they would create together. Finally they’d been able to sign the register, Bess making her mark, and they became their new selves, Mr. and Mrs. Worley. Whoever they might choose to be together.
With her winnings from the prizefight, Bess was proud to contribute to the lease, making them partners not just in name but also in deed. They came together as they always did, in partnership, just as the vicar had mentioned in their vows.
“Did you not have confidence in my bread making?” Bess asked.
Jean ushered Violet out of the kitchen, a hunk of cheese in hand.
Os threaded his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. They were not so far past their wedding date that this wouldn’t distract them both. “My mother won’t be here until after dinner. We could just meet her at my brother’s house.”
Bess felt the drowsy heat that made certain outcomes inevitable. She kissed his neck, just below his ear, a new finding that thrilled her to no end. He growled in response.
He hitched her up on the countertop, pushing at her skirts while she fumbled with his trousers. “Wife,” he whispered.
“Husband,” she whispered. “What a thing we’ve built.”
“We’re just getting started,” Os said.
She leaned against him as he loosened her stays, the new kind not meant for flattening, but for lifting certain assets. He pulled her yellow-and-cream day dress down off her shoulders, trailing kisses down her throat.
“Have I ever told you that you remind me of my forge?”
“Are you trying to bed me or not?” Bess asked, letting the work she was doing at the placket of his trousers go still.
Os snorted, his exhale against her skin causing her to shiver.
“Strong, powerful,” he said, kissing her between each word. “Useful.”
“Oh, yes, useful. What a good word for seduction.”
“And mine.”
“All right, blacksmith, that’ll do.” Bess captured his mouth, letting their bodies come together without comment. Some things didn’t need words.
* * *
THE END
Regency Slang
Bawd: madam of a brothel
Beef-witted: foolish
Belly-go-firster: punch in the gut
Bosky: drunk
Bruiser: boxer, pugilist
* * *
Carbuncle-face: red-faced or full of acne
Cat: common prostitute
Cheeser: strong-smelling fart
Chit: a young girl
Cove: fellow, man
Cully: fool
* * *
Daffy: gin
Ding boy: bully, coward, person that hectors
Dogberry: constable
Domino box: mouth—dominos are teeth
Doxy: prostitute, beggar woman
Dugs: breasts
* * *
Fives: fists, five fingers. “Showing fives,” putting up fists to fight
* * *
Gang of nyppers: gang of cut-purses
Gob: mouth
* * *
Hedge whore: itinerant prostitute who may do business under the nearest hedge
* * *
Jimmy-bar: crow-bar
Jingle-brained: wild, thoughtless
* * *
Kinchin: young child
* * *
Moulder: lumbering boxer
* * *
Nugging house: brothel
* * *
Pig-widgeon: simpleton, idiot
Popinjay: dandy, a man who cares for fashion above all else
* * *
Set-to: boxing match
Showing fives: punching someone
Smug: blacksmith
* * *
Tommy: woman who is romantically and / or sexually attracted only to other women and acts on the attraction.
Two-handed: Great, big.
* * *
Wastrel: good-for-nothing person
Whapper: large man or woman
Historical Note
I based the character of Bess Abbott on a real-life woman, Elizabeth Wilkinson Stokes. I made up details, changed what little we know of her, and moved her forward in time. The real woman’s name is likely a stage name, taken for a murderer who hanged just days prior to her first recorded fight, and Stokes was the last name of her promoter who she may or may not have later married. I refer to her as Elizabeth. For 150 years, she was considered the greatest boxer of the 18th century, her career lasting from 1722-1728. She fought with her fists, of course, but also daggers, cudgels, swords, quarterstaffs, and would today be described as a mixed-martial artist.
Like all who are self-employed, she talked a good game. She called herself the “Invincible City Championess.” And likewise, did a fair amount of trash-talking in the press.
While many women boxed “in a state of undress”—which some interpret as topless, others interpret as in only a chemise—Elizabeth fought fully clothed, a signal that she was a serious athlete.
In my book, I cast Pierce Egan, the man who wrote ceaselessly about boxing during the Regency period, as the villain who erases women from the record, which is not entirely true. Egan does acknowledge Elizabeth’s contributions to the sport in his work Boxiana. (She disappeared in 1728, Pierce Egan was born fifty years later in 1772.) His main goal was to get pugilism recognized as a noble pursuit that was inherently British. However, as the Regency wanes into the Victorian era, the changing economic pressures of England and its former colonies cause gender norms to shift. Elizabeth is replaced in history by a male contemporary of hers who shared much of her background, James Figg.
As in my book, Elizabeth did fight a female Irish Champion, Mary Welch, and likely won. In the lead-up to their fight Welch called Elizabeth the “Championess of England.” Welch was an athlete, which is not how I portray Bridget Kelly. I wanted to show the other end of how female athletes were treated during the Regency years—as a T and A show.
The first rules in pugilism were the Broughton rules in 1743—no eye-gouging or attacking an opponent when they’re down—which is likely why Egan casts Broughton as the father of pugilism. Hair-pulling—which occurs in this book—is completely legal. Broughton was a student of Figg’s, and while Figg insisted that pugilism needed rules, he never insisted on them when he fought. Though Elizabeth did.
Once Elizabeth’s career ended, in 1728, she disappears. There is no recorded reason as to why she stopped fighting, and we don’t know when she died or how. She was recognized as the best boxer in London, organizing how the sport was engaged, starting a school, and creating the staple of sports trash-talk that we still enjoy today. This is not feminist revisionist history. This is the history that was erased to make gender divides more comfortable a century later. So much so, that the British government outlawed women’s boxing in 1880.
Gender performance also plays a dominant role in this book. While there was definitely norms and rules for women of the upper class, those rules largely didn’t apply to women of the lower class. Working women—the bulk of the gender—could not afford to be ladylike when the cow needed milking, the water needed hauling, and the nightsoil needed remo
ving. Many single or widowed women ran businesses without male interference, but would not have been able to deal with bankers without a male counterpart. The performative gender roles we enjoy in Regency romances were for the wealthy. And there was a very large gap between those with economic freedom and those without.
“This is the way it’s always been” is not only a dangerous thought, it’s usually also an inaccurate thought. Not just in regards to gender, but also in regards to race. Which is the other big historical elephant in this book.
Having been a part of the Roman Empire, England hosted people from all over the world in the early centuries. It is not revisionist to say there were people of color living and flourishing in England for a very long time.
I used the phrase “people of color” in my book, which sounds very modern, but that is not the case. If you read not only the history but also the writings of Regency contemporary people of color, you’ll find the phrase in use. In my understanding, the term allows for the differentiation of a Black person from England as well as a Black person from Ethiopia. Or America. Or Russia. “Englishman” is not the name of a skin pigment.
The character of Os Worley is a fiction. But his situation is not. Many young Black boys were taken from their families in the 1700s to serve as English lady’s companions. They were included in portraits of the very wealthy, as their dark skin set off the very light pigmentation of the lady. However, as the boys grew into men, they were considered inappropriate companions. Some teenagers were released into England with no support structure and no family. Others, however, were given a gentleman’s education, and supported in their upperclass leisure lifestyle by their employers. Some men were remained in the same house they’d lived in, just in a different capacity of service. I did not find enough evidence of one outcome to say, “this is how it usually went.” There was no consistency or institutionalization of this behavior, as it was limited to the very wealthy.
I chose to give Os a trade, and specifically something that was vital, but also disappearing. This, to me, is a statement that not everything lasts forever—not misogyny that Bess experiences, not slavery, not even our own perspectives.
There is evidence of Black families engaging in other smithing trades that were passed down through generations as well, so the idea of a Black man in an apprenticeship trade is not a construct of my own mind. That said, the city of London did forbid Black people from entering apprenticeships, as early apprenticeships are essentially slavery. No pay, you do whatever the master artisan says, you live with them, etc. The mayor of London thought he was protecting people of color, when in fact, the decree limited opportunities. Most people of color worked as domestic help, however, it is important to remember that this is considered an extremely respectable career path. A third of English people, regardless of color, worked as a servant of some type. A servant was respected and learned of his own craft, some of which were complicated, some of which were dangerous. Hence, Os’s reference to men of color being sought after as footmen. It was considered a show of wealth, and footmen were expected to be tall (six foot at least), and “well made.” This may sound objectifying, but also remember that there was no modern police force, nor was it wanted. A footman was essentially private security and would be responsible for handling any physical interactions that might be necessary.
The discussion Bess and Os have regarding slavery is true, and if you have interest in the complicated efforts of the British courts to have its cake and eat it too, start looking into the Somerset case of 1772. The case itself is appalling and grisly, but the outcome of it was the idea that even if you were enslaved elsewhere, to step onto English soil meant freedom. From then on, slave ships moored in the middle of the Thames, so no risk could be had of lost cargo. It would take another sixty years to eradicate slavery from the rest of the British Empire.
There were a number of Societies that we would call abolitionist—a term I use for modern reader shorthand, but was not in use at the time. In my research, the names of the societies were long-winded but very clear in their efforts. Most had a Quaker base, but not all. Many men of color were prominent speakers and advocates. These men married white Englishwomen and operated in well-respected circles. I did not find evidence of any kind of ill-intent towards mixed-race marriages or children.
Reading about racism in a country that is not my own, in a time frame 200 years before I was born, showed me my bias more starkly than any other reading I’ve done. As an American, I have been raised with a subset of ethnic prejudice that is rooted in seventeenth-century economic fears.
The short version: slavery was first based on religion. Muslims enslaved Christians, Christians enslaved Muslims, they both enslaved “heathens”—it was a thing. Once the British took over the Spanish slave trade, the Quakers did their best to subvert it. Organized groups would sail to the Caribbean, convert the enslaved Africans, teach them to read, and by virtue of their acceptance of Protestantism and ability to read the Bible, they were no longer eligible for enslavement.
This pissed off the plantation owners like you wouldn’t believe. So the Jamaican slaveholders started creating pamphlets, circulating ideas of the racial inferiority of Africans. These ideas were exported to other colonial holds, including Barbados and what would later become the United States. The basis of modern racism is rooted in those specific men. The writers of that pamphlet. They did it. And they did it because they didn’t want to lose money.
Other small points of clarification: pink was considered a masculine color because of its virility and brightness. A rake’s bedroom might be painted pink, as a way to make him feel macho as he is waking up—or taking someone to bed.
A note on locations: Marylebone is a neighborhood that was being developed during the Regency. Long considered outside of London, it was where the nouveau riche were settling. Bluestockings—women of learning—set up salons there, as did families of color, merchants who experienced sudden economic prosperity, and it was a hotbed of political discussion, artistic discourse, and massive disagreements. Of course, there were also areas of Marylebone that were more affordable than where the Arthurs and the Franklins live, which is where Os and Bess settle. There were paths through Marylebone that were still considered dangerous, and where a person could be robbed or murdered, but like all developments, those got pushed out.
Paddington was also a neighborhood transformed by land development. When Regency Park was dug out in the late eighteenth century, the labor was largely done by the poor Irish who had previously lived in St. Giles. They moved out to Paddington, which was a sleepy village at the time, and worked at the nearby reconstruction of the park, making the neighborhood distinctly lower class and distinctly Irish. I’ve tried to reference this obliquely—Bridget Kelly and O’Rourke showing up in an Irish part of town, the name of Tony’s pub is the Pig and Thistle.
A note on boozes: Gin, or daffy, or frog’s wine, or whatever you’d like to call it, was the Regency equivalent of our meth epidemic. Gin was cheap, because it was made locally, and it was potent. Other alcoholic beverages, including wine, whisky, and brandy had steep import taxes, and could not be easily procured by the lower classes. Ales and gin were the go-to drinks, and the gin-craze was attributed to the dissolution of many a fine person (men and women). I tried to reference this in the plight Violet Jefferies, and how her father just seems to worsen over time. I was trying to evoke the progression of managing an addiction to when addiction manages the addict.
Please forgive any errors of my historical interpretation as I am an amateur history buff, and above all else, a fiction writer.
Acknowledgments
I have done my best. Any errors or embarrassments are my own.
Thank you to all those who helped me do my best, including all my critiquers and beta readers, as well as the consistent support of the luminous and fabulous Paper Lanterns: Ana Brazil, CV Lee, Kathryn Pritchett, and Linda Ulleseit. Thank you to Victoria Steele Logue for telling me where she
cried, and Jocelyn Kohler for sharing where she laughed. Thanks especially to Kellie Dunn, who let me Facetime her and talk about imaginary people for hours. Thank you to Nicola Rossini, Jen Kimber, Jee Vahn Knight for all the midnight and midday texts, cheers, and commiseration.
Thank you especially to my two sensitivity readers, Kashinda Robinson and LaQuette. Kashinda, your enthusiasm and openness helped me more than you can possibly know. LaQuette, thank you for the hard talk, the back and forths, and showing me the mirror I needed.
Thank you to Marcus Stephens, who coached me through releasing art into the world. It is so very hard to share the pieces of yourself, and you’ve helped me more than you will know.
Everyone who has made art during this 2020 year deserves a chocolate cake at the very least. It was hard, but we did it. I would clink my fork with you, but…you know…
Thank you to the Beau Monde. I’m a lurker, but I read it all. There have been so many tidbits and references and classes over the years that have helped me write about such a different world than my own. Your collective knowledge and resources are invaluable.
Thank you to my local pandemic family bubble, the McDonalds, the Nespers, and the Lemlers who let me play piano for them and showed up with wine. It might have been the best birthday party I’ve ever had. Definitely the best rendition of Happy Birthday.