Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven

by Susan Fanetti

  “No cutman?” Watters asked as William stepped in.

  He shook his head. He had an assistant with him on this trip, but Murray wasn’t a friend, and certainly not close enough to bear witness to his likely humiliation.

  “I’ll work his corner.” A man from the crowd stepped forward.

  Without any better option, William held out his hand. “Thanks. I’m William.”

  “Roy.” He shook. “Good to meet ya. You sure about this? Timmy’s undefeated.”

  Timmy? Gargantua’s name was Timmy? And of course he was undefeated. He could face down Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, all of them at once, and be the last man standing. “I’m sure.”

  “Big brass ones you got, then,” Roy said.

  William guffawed. Well, that was what he was here to prove, he supposed. He took off his shirt, and Roy took it and tossed it over his shoulder.

  Calvin served as referee, pulling both men into the center of the ring. “Three round fight, three minutes a round. Fight clean. Back to your corners.”

  A bell was struck somewhere, and Timmy heaved himself to the center of the ring. He swung as soon as William was in range, a roundhouse with an arc like the rotation of the earth, but it was slow, and William’s chief skill in the ring had been speed. He was strong, but not muscle-bound, on the tall side, but not a tower. He’d succeeded, when he’d succeeded, because he was fast, and quick. He ducked the roundhouse easily and countered with a jab to Timmy’s wide, hard gut.

  He felt that impact all the way to his shoulder, and Timmy simply seemed confused. William ducked another blow, this one a left hook, and came in again with a double jab, aiming to the side this time, to maybe make the beast’s kidney sore. Again, his hands ached, and Timmy looked down like there might have been a fly to brush away. William used that chance and delivered an uppercut to his chin. He heard the snap of Timmy’s teeth crashing together and earned a scowl on the broad, pale face, but nothing more.

  So this was the fight, then: Timmy was strong but slow. He relied on sheer power to win and had no real boxing ability. Dance around him, duck out of the way of punches he telegraphed far in advance, and drum ineffectively at his marble body until the bell rang. It wouldn’t be pretty, but William could survive it. Hell, maybe even win it on a decision, if he could dodge those planet-sized fists for all three rounds.

  The first bell rang, and, though there’d been a few alarmingly close calls in the last minute, William hadn’t yet been hit. Timmy looked like he hadn’t, either, but William’s knuckles were already beginning to swell.

  The second round was a replay of the first, with the additions of a deepening scowl and a new repertoire of growls and grunts from Timmy, William’s concern that his hands would be utterly useless for weeks after this night, and the crowd’s noisy disgust with the conduct of the fight. Between the second and third rounds, Watters went to Timmy’s corner and ranted at him.

  “Boss wants a show,” Roy said. “You know, Timmy’s like a big ol’ bear. Most times, he just ambles around, mindin’ his business, leavin’ people be. He don’t even like these fights. But you get his back up, and he’s all teeth and claws and murder. Boss is gettin’ his back up now.”

  William could see that. Timmy now glared across the ring like William had murdered his family and served them to him as an entrée. “Suggestions?”

  “If you can reach it, he’s got a weak ear. His left. Been busted a few times and it can’t take much more. You hit that, and his balance’ll go to hell, give you a chance to bring him down.”

  “You want me to make him deaf?”

  “Friend, you see the way he’s lookin’ at you? He’s gonna get up off that stool and try to kill you now.”

  The bell rang, and Timmy did indeed leap up like a whole new man. He charged all the way across the ring, drawing his arm back while he did. William dropped into a crouch, ducking that monster blow, and leapt back up, driving his shoulder into Timmy’s chest, forcing him back.

  Timmy swung again, and again—still big, ungainly blows, but much faster now. If he’d started out the fight moving like this, he would have worn himself out. Instead, he was fresh, and William’s hands were a wreck.

  He ducked another blow, and Timmy charged in, driving him back. He was six or eight inches taller than William. How the hell was he supposed to hit that ear with any force, from such an odd angle and with a shoulder the size of a side of beef in his way?

  Timmy nearly got him on the ropes, but he ducked low and twisted around, staking claim on the center of the ring. The crowd yelled and booed. They wanted blood. Timmy spun around and charged again. William ducked yet another blow—but Timmy delivered his first combination of the fight, and William couldn’t quite react quickly enough. A massive fist crashed into his cheek. He’d blocked it, but only enough so the blow didn’t take his head clear off. It did knock him off his feet. He crashed to the mat with his face on fire and a galaxy of stars dancing in his eyes.

  The crowd roared its approval. William lay on the mat and tried to understand if all his parts were where they belonged. He opened his jaw, and pain blasted through his eye. Hot blood washed over his nose and into his mouth.

  “Seven ... six … five …”

  Watters was counting him out. William had to get up. He couldn’t entirely remember why he was in this ring or why it was so important, but he knew he had to last out this round. He rolled to his knees and spat blood on the mat. The crowd roared louder.

  “Three … two …”

  William made his feet, and the crowd made their disappointment known.

  Watters laughed and patted his sweat-slicked back. “You got a set on you, alright, kid. We can call it.”

  “No.” William blinked his sight clear. “Let’s finish it.”

  Timmy came for him as soon as Watters stepped out of the way. William’s head still rang, but he ducked the next blow and drove his shoulder hard into Timmy’s gut. He heard the oof as he knocked his breath out, and Timmy folded over William’s head.

  That was the in he’d needed. Still buried in a fold of gargantuan fighter, William sent up a right cross, blindly aimed, with all the power he could find. He felt Timmy’s ear smash against his screaming knuckles, and the big guy wailed and reeled back, clutching his head. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  Still holding his bum ear, Timmy swung wildly from the other side, and William dodged again. He countered with another agonizing uppercut, and this one caught right and send Timmy’s head flying back. His equilibrium off, he stumbled back to the ropes and only kept his feet because of them.

  The bell rang. The fight was over, and William was on his feet.

  The crowd was actively angry now, nearly a riot, and William realized that they’d probably put money on this fight. Son of a bitch. He’d survived Timmy, but the man’s friends were going to kill him on his way out.

  Watters came up and clapped his back. “You did good.” He grabbed William’s wrist—he already had Timmy by the other wrist. The poor guy still held his bad ear.

  The crowd went quiet as Watters stood there, holding both fighters. He milked it for every drop—and then raised Timmy’s arm, and they all went nuts.

  William laughed and spat out another mouthful of blood. That was fair. It was he who’d landed on the mat, after all. Moreover, that result would get him out of the yard without further injury. He’d done what he’d needed to do.

  “We’re square?” he asked Watters.

  “Four corners. I’ll get a shipment out first thing Monday.” Watters held out his hand.

  William shook it, forcing himself not to wince when Watters clasped his hand. “Thank you.” He nodded at Timmy. “Send me his medical bills for that. I’m sorry I had to do it.”

  Watters nodded and gave him another cracking pat on the back. William went back to Roy in his corner.

  Roy handed him a wet towel. “You’re alright for a rich man.”

  High praise. William thanked him with a painful
grin and buried his face in the towel.

  His face wasn’t broken, but his right hand was badly sprained, and he had a track of stitches across his left cheek. When he got back home, he let his mother and aunt fuss over him. He reported his success to his father, and then, on Aunt Adelaide’s very welcome orders, he went to the ranch for a few days of rest.

  Lupe, their Marin housekeeper, fussed over him, too, insisting that he sit on the porch while she made him a roast beef sandwich and an ice bag. The wound was a few days old and no longer in need of ice, but he let her fuss. When she brought out a blanket and a basket full of the ranch mail, with a glass of warm milk, he let her shake the blanket over his legs.

  He sat on the chaise, with the Headlands spread out before him, listening to the cattle, and flipped through the mail, grumbling over the clumsy bandage around his right hand.

  It wasn’t much; personal family mail rarely came to the ranch, and their ranch manager handled mail pertaining to his work. Most envelopes were addressed to his mother, and looked to be either invitations or congratulations—suffrage had been more popular here across the Bay. But then he flipped to one that made his heart stop.

  It was very fine paper, but it had had a hard, long journey. All the way from London. Chris’s elegant handwriting spelled out William’s name and the ranch address. The postmark was from five weeks ago—just before the election. That was an unusually long time for a letter to travel, even from England. How long had it sat in this basket, waiting for the Fraziers to return from the city?

  William tore the envelope, not sure what to expect inside. Why would Chris write, after the way they’d left things? To berate and accuse him some more? Why now, a year after the fact? To apologize? Again, why now? To inform him that Nora was engaged?

  That was likely it. To push the dagger in to the hilt. Kill that last inch of hopeless hope.

  William took a deep breath and unfolded the letter.

  My dear friend,

  Not to berate him, then. Or to hurt him more. To make amends? Truly?

  My dear friend,

  First, and expeditiously, I open this long overdue missive with my most profound apology. Though I maintain that you used my trust badly in the end, I was far more wrong to answer that grievance as I did, and I have done terrible damage. I fear it might be irreparable damage, but I must hope that there is still time. I know you love Nora, or did, when last we met. I hope this letter finds you in that frame of heart still. Will, she needs you. I can’t and won’t write it all here, but if you are able, and if you still desire it, please return to England. She still loves you now as she did then, and she needs you now more than ever. Come, collect her, and save her. Be her gallant hero. I cannot. I’ve misplayed every turn since I sent you away, and my sweet sister has paid the price. If you are coming, please wire at once with the details of your passage, and I will be waiting upon your arrival. We have much to discuss.

  Your friend still, I hope,

  Christopher Tate

  William tossed the blanket away and stood. Leaving the basket of mail on the porch floor, Chris’s letter in his hand, he went back to the house. He tore open the door and nearly crashed into Lupe, who held a plated sandwich and a towel knotted up with ice.

  “Mr. William! You are well?”

  “Sorry, Lupe. I have to go back to the city.” They didn’t have telephone at the ranch yet. He’d stop at the telegraph office on his way back to the ferry.

  “But you just get here!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  That letter was five weeks old. If he left at once, it would be two weeks before he landed in England. Something terrible had happened to Nora, he’d abandoned her to it, and even the request for his help had gone unanswered. He had not a single moment to spare.

  SEVENTEEN

  Nora’s thinking wasn’t quite sharp again yet, and she’d felt ill and frantic for days after she began to make herself bring up the contents of the blue bottle. Sometimes, her father lingered in her room and stole away her chance to rid herself of what he called medicine, and she was tempted by the numb it brought again. But she persevered, and each day, she felt a bit stronger, a bit clearer, and a great deal more outraged. Now she could see and feel and hear and think and remember each day—not like she had before; everything seemed a bit more distant and quiet than before, but enough to understand that her father had no intention of ‘making her well.’ If he ever had, he’d given it up. He meant to keep her locked away, in her own personal Bedlam. Forever.

  Like Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, the novel by Charlotte Brontë—a woman whose father had allowed her, and her sisters, to pursue their intellectual interests. Miss Brontë hadn’t had a title, of course, or a thousand years of family history to support with her womb.

  When she’d read that novel, before her world had closed itself up, she’d felt sorry for Jane and Mr. Rochester, how he’d been burdened with his wife’s madness and held back from true love. Now, she understood his wife much better. Had she merely seen the world differently to others, before she’d been locked away from it?

  Her maid Kate knew almost right away that Nora wasn’t keeping her medicine down, and her knowing changed everything. Because Kate was on her side. After a few days, once she was sure of what she’d suspected, she began to talk to Nora again. A few days after that, she began to sneak newspapers in under her apron.

  Nora’s father’s means of isolating her worked in her favour in this respect. Because he wanted to avoid ‘overstimulating’ her, he’d limited the number of people coming in and going from her bedroom—including the scullery maids, whose job it was to clean her rooms and tend her fireplace, to change her linens and launder her clothing. He’d assigned Kate to handle all of Nora’s needs.

  Thus, even without the need for Nora to be dressed, Kate spent a whole hour or more with her each morning, and again in the afternoon. While she turned and made the bed and cleaned the room, Nora would close herself up in her bathroom and read the papers.

  After a few weeks, Kate had offered to post a letter for her, to seek assistance, but there was no one Nora trusted to help her. Her brother and her aunt had left her here, and there was no one else she could petition.

  But Kate’s offer changed everything again.

  A few days after that, when Nora’s father had left the room, and she’d given over her dutifully numb mannequin performance and brought up the medicine, Kate came in to prepare her for the night. Before she began her tasks, she sat down on Nora’s bed—a tremendous liberty for a domestic to take in the world of Tarrindale Hall, but Nora didn’t mind.

  “May I speak informally, Lady Nora?”

  “Of course you may. Speak as my friend, Kate. You’re the only one I have.”

  “Thank you. I have … I have an idea. I hope with all my heart you’ll hear it in the way I mean it, and if you don’t like it, you’ll not think poor of me for bringing it up.”

  There was some risk, then, to Kate in the mere mention, and Nora clasped her hand. “I’ll not hurt you. Ever.”

  “I think I can”—she lost her nerve, swallowed, and found it again. “If it’s something you want, I can get you away from here. If it’s something you want.”

  “What do you mean? Escape?”

  “Yes. Escape.”

  “I don’t—how?”

  “When next Lord Tarrin takes his day away. I’ll give you some common clothes, and we’ll off to London together. I have a good friend from home there, and she’ll let us stay. I’ve some little bit of coin saved up. Enough for two tickets on the train.”

  Nora had to work extra hard these days to conquer the continuing effects of her weeks under sedation. She stared at Kate, concentrating, and worked out the import of her words.

  Her intense focus must have shaped her face into something like disapproval, because Kate paled. “Please, milady. I mean no offense. No offense at all.”

  “No, Kate, it’s all right. I’m only trying—you mean to t
ake me away to London to stay with your friend? And pay my way?”

  “Yes. I don’t expect you have money of your own, but I’ve got a bit saved. Enough.”

  “You’d never be able to return to Tarrindale. Or ever get another job in service again.” Kate had worked for the family longer than Nora had been alive.

  “I know. Maude can get me on at the laundry, where she works. I’ve worked it all out.”

  A laundress was a careening, crashing tumble in status from lady’s maid. Not only status but circumstance. “I can’t ask you to tear your life apart like that.”

  “You’ve not asked, milady. I’ve offered. I can’t sit by another minute and see what’s happening to you. I don’t want to be here anymore. I stay for you. Only …”

  “Yes?”

  “You understand what it would mean for you? If you leave and don’t come back? You would be like me. You’d have to work, once your feet were under you.”

  Her choice was to be locked away in ease, or free in toil.

  “If you’re sure you’d give up so much to help me, then I’m sure I can learn to work.”

  The chance came about a week later. Kate came into the room with a basket of laundry and informed her that Lord Tarrin had left in his motorcar and announced that he wouldn’t need dinner.

  Inside the basket was a simple woolen skirt and cotton blouse, with heavy cotton stockings and sturdy shoes. A lined canvas coat and a simply trimmed, flat-crowned hat completed the ensemble. Kate helped her dress, giving her instructions as she fixed her hair in a simple coil at her nape, so that she might be able to do it again herself.

  Nora filled a bag with a few things—she had little that would be of use in this new life—and they left the room.

  She’d considered leaving a note for her father but finally decided against it. He was no longer interested in her thoughts, so there was no point in sharing them. But she took William’s note, tucking it away in the finger of her glove.