A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  “I’d squeal and pretend to be a weak-kneed damsel, then when they were close enough, slam one a poke to the belly followed by a mitt to the sneezer. The other would see stars after my nobbler to the noddle and a stamp on the old dew beaters. Then with a culp to the lughole, I’d scarper. After maybe a clicker to the gob.”

  “Excellent, although a clicker to the throat might have downed one quicker and required less force.”

  She nodded. “Hmm.”

  “Now, what would your governess have done?”

  This idea had coalesced after Miss Griffin had mentioned that the simple knowledge of how to protect herself imbued her with more confidence, and Seth of all people knew that was half the battle. If you scuttled through the streets in fright, the cats came out to play. If you stalked chin high, they may just think better of it.

  Chloe tapped a lip. “Miss Griffin would end up with her skirts over her head. Most likely her throat slit. Which would be a shame, as I adore Miss Griffin.”

  Seth winced.

  “Indeed… So, she needs someone to teach her how to defend herself. I cannot do it, propriety and all that, and in any case, many women would not be comfortable with a man demonstrating.”

  “But it’s not ladylike.”

  “No. It is not seen as such, but I suspect in private that many, like Miss Griffin, would very much like to learn some basic techniques.”

  “Hmm. Do you think I could?”

  “Of course you could. But it also depends on your aspirations, Chloe. This would not be in a public arena with applauding masses, medals and prize money, but for personal satisfaction, passing your knowledge on and helping other women. Not only with defensive techniques but also the focus of one’s mind. All similar to what I do in the Academy, I suppose.”

  “I’ve never taught anything before.”

  “You are only thirteen–”

  “Fourteen in November.”

  “Quite. And this is merely an idea at this stage for when you’re older. But if you wished to try teaching, then I suggest you begin with Miss Griffin. Just some basic essentials for escaping a ruffian in the streets.”

  “With thumping?”

  “With the most effective incapacitation for a sharpish scarper.” And he winked.

  His daughter giggled, doldrums shifting as fast as Hopping Ned’s toes. “Yes. Yes, I think I could teach that. I’ll ask her if she’d like to attend a lesson. Now, which waistcoat are you wearing for dinner?”

  “I can’t, pet. The chap’s coming to fix the weighing machine.” The mood swung to grouchy again. “But we are all going to the prizefight together on the morrow.”

  “But you told me…” She stabbed him with a governess glare exactly akin to Miss Griffin’s. “That ladies do not attend fights.”

  “Your governess won’t be attending as a lady but as a nefarious footpad on the prowl. It was all Kian’s suggestion to take her, anyhow.”

  “Ah.” Chloe nodded sagely as though all was explained. “And I suppose she couldn’t refuse him. Not with those blue eyes of his.”

  Seth scowled and crossed to the wardrobe to throw on a loose jacket. “And I suppose mine are a boring brown?”

  “I asked Miss Griffin today what colour she considered your eyes, and do you know what she said?”

  “I have no wish to know.” He’d learned with Chloe that if he wanted to know something, it was better to deny it.

  “Oh. I shan’t tell you then.”

  Perhaps he’d done it too often. “Daughter of mine?” And he produced that look of fathers.

  Chloe grinned. “She said they were a mysterious mixture of spring’s nature and autumn’s earth.”

  Seth scratched his chin. “Is that good?”

  His daughter rolled her eyes. “If we notice, we notice. If we don’t, they are mere brown.”

  “Oh, I see.” He didn’t.

  His daughter sighed that ancestral sigh of generations of womenfolk…and tutted for good measure. “What colour are Miss Griffin’s, Pa? A mere brown?”

  “Gads, no. An elegant mixture of brandy and sherry and…my amber stickpin.” Oh, he did see. “Chloe, you are frighteningly perceptive when you want to be.”

  “Hmm. I obviously didn’t inherit that from you.”

  Cheeky blighter, and she shrieked as his cravat landed on her head, whilst deep inside Seth, a glow kindled.

  He’d avoided Miss Griffin this day, not seeking to crowd her, not wishing to know if her memories had been drowned in Porter Ale or if her request had solely come from an impulse for adventure.

  Yet with Chloe’s disclosure about his eyes, surely she felt…something.

  Matilda felt rather dreadful.

  Yawning, she plodded up the stairs with feet like dumb-bells and legs of lead weights, the late night and Porter Ale having, as Betty had succinctly put it, “done her in”.

  Dinner had been a quiet affair with just Chloe, although Matilda’s appetite had returned, and they’d tucked into Betty’s finest chicken and peas.

  With such weariness, however, thoughts of wretchedness now prevailed…

  Last night in the darkness of the carriage with ale and life coursing her veins, asking one’s handsome employer for a kiss had seemed such a good idea.

  Yet in the light of day, it seemed such a bad idea.

  He must think her a harlot. One who had the responsibility of teaching his daughter morals and virtue.

  Truly, she must strive to remember her chosen vocation and not become distracted by caring fighters with crooked noses and fiercely carnal hands, eyes and chest. And lips.

  Mr Hawkins had acquiesced with her request for a kiss but never had he spoken of a need for anything more profound within his life, and so she should not expect further adventures.

  Once Chloe no longer required a governess, Matilda would surely continue in her profession. By then, she’d have references and be retained by some aristocratic family as she’d always hoped… With starchy butlers and silent dinners, miserable servants and condescending noblemen.

  Wretched thoughts indeed.

  Arriving at her bedchamber door, she noticed a brown paper-bound parcel resting upon the floor, and lifting the neatly wrapped item, she hunted for a message.

  Naught.

  Frowning, she opened her chamber door and strolled over to sit upon the bed, twisting the small package this way and that.

  Vague tales of governesses receiving gifts of an unfavourable nature from their crop of charges rattled in her head – frogs, worms and suchlike. Yet surely Chloe was not that way inclined.

  Miss Appleton would no doubt issue a sour command that the governess refuse such items for fear of bribery but…

  Matilda could not remember the last time she had received a wrapped present.

  Her parents had ceased gift giving when she’d attained the age of twelve, and they’d instead settled upon reading one another’s favourite passages from books for birthdays and Christmas.

  Which had been perfectly…nice.

  Nevertheless, as she loosened the string, a curl of pleasure coursed. A new quill? A diary? No, too small.

  The smooth brown paper rustled and she creased it back to reveal…

  Three bars of her beloved Pears amber soap were stacked upon one another, her favourite scent of flowers assailing her.

  A card slipped out.

  May you never be without your English garden.

  S. H.

  The gift was forward and wicked, outrageously scandalous for a gentleman, and possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her.

  Matilda’s eyes smarted as she stared at the simple blunt script of his handwriting.

  Mr Seth Hawkins.

  A man whose wits she’d considered at the interview to have been most likely knocked out in some prizefighting field. Whereas in fact she was the witless one to ever have judged him as such.

  Astute, determined and kind. Those were the words to describe him by day.

  P
assionate, intense and sensual. Those were the words to describe him by night.

  She smoothed a finger upon the transparent glycerine, slick and gentle against her skin, brought the soap close to her nose, inhaled…

  Those thoughts of wretchedness faded.

  And all of a sudden, she felt rather wonderful.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Society you are not to expect.”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  High-perch yellow phaetons and rattling antique dogcarts, bakers with wares balanced upon their heads and pie sellers shouting loud. Scruffy lamplighters shoved in raucous collision with silk-clad gentlemen, and Matilda felt as though the world had turned upon its head.

  One chock-full of merriment, jostle and noise, but also scrawny lads with thieving fingers, bosky gents clutching bottles of gin, ladies of doubtful virtue flashing their pink petticoats and girls flicking mud with their toes.

  Her heart pounded with this rhythm of life. Frantic, as though the now had to be enjoyed before it was all too late.

  “Matilda?”

  In utter bemusement, she stared up at Mr Hawkins, or Seth, as they’d agreed for their day out.

  “Yes?”

  “You must stay close and preferably not answer if anyone speaks to you. We cannot link arms as it will appear…peculiar.” And he twitched her nefarious footpad’s hood to obscure her brow.

  For once, she was glad of the muffler and cloak as the day had dawned a bitter blue, although the cold had made no difference to the mob mingling on Wimbledon Common in every mode of dress.

  “I shall. But…where did all these people come from? There must be thousands.”

  He grinned and shrugged. “From all walks of life. We’ll return to the carriage to watch the fight with Chloe and Kian, but let’s wander the field a little first. I’ll show you the ring whilst it’s quiet.”

  Quiet?

  Wimbledon Common had been transformed.

  A square platform had been erected in the middle of the Common, two feet off the ground and encircled by wooden posts with ropes slung between them, empty but for two boys who scattered wood chips upon the boards.

  Outside this platform was a wider grassed area, also fenced from the Common, where groups of men strutted, and…was that not the Earl of Farleigh, whom she’d once danced with at a ball?

  Together, they squashed through the hustling mob beyond, towards this fenced area, and she grabbed Seth’s coat-tails in order not to lose him.

  “Harry?” Seth shouted to a bulky man with a dog. “Can we come through?”

  “Well, burn me breeches, if it ain’t Seth Hawkins! Always room for you, lad.” And the two shook hands, a wooden gate opening for their entrance.

  The man peered strangely at Matilda and she peered strangely back.

  She’d gone without petticoats so the cloak fell in a straight line to her sturdy boots – the donning of breeches having thankfully not been mentioned anew as surely they must chafe. A muffler covered her mouth, a cap her hair and then the cloak’s hood covered the lot.

  All in all, she did indeed resemble a nefarious footpad on the prowl.

  So she quite fitted in with this motley assemblage of persons.

  The fellow sloped off to inspect the posts and Seth guided her to one side.

  “That’s Harry, does all the ropes, and this area is where the backers, friends and umpires stand. It also keeps the crowd back…a bit. They stay on the outside, but at Wimbledon there’s also a paying stand with seats, which is rare.”

  She lowered her muffler a mite and observed the packed wooden scaffold which supported benches six rows deep. “Why is it rare?”

  “Matilda…” And she twisted back to catch Seth’s amused grin. “You do realise prizefighting is against the law?”

  “What! No!” Gosh. “I’m at an illegal event! How thrilling. But what if the local magistrate finds out?”

  “You can ask him. He’s sitting in the second row of the stand. The bigwig in brown. Fights are never scheduled as such, the time and location spread by rumour so that the shoulder-clappers don’t find us.”

  With eyes wide, she tugged Seth’s coat and raised herself on tiptoes to see. “And that’s Lord Farleigh, is it not? Next to the magistrate.”

  “He’s the sponsor, a bang-up fellow. It’s a hundred-pound purse today for the winner.”

  “Well, he can’t waltz for a sixpence. Trod on my foot thrice.”

  A snort and they took a turn around the grassed area as though gentlefolk in a drawing room. Many acquaintances nodded at Seth or clapped him on the back, and although he wore elegant clothing, including a pale-blue waistcoat with intricate paisley pattern and bright gold buttons, he fitted in – his breadth commanding respect and his fighting past their admiration.

  Clothed in the finest of green silk jackets, a tall black-skinned gentleman warmly shook hands with Seth, and it seemed to Matilda they made a small wager.

  Was that lawful at an unlawful event?

  The fellow nodded at her, winked, and then strode away with a swagger, his stature cutting a swathe through the mingling groups.

  Matilda beamed. “Is that gentleman from the African continent? I would adore to travel there. What part is he from?”

  “New York, I believe.”

  Matilda blinked.

  “That’s Bill Richmond, a fellow champion who also fought with me before the Heads of State last year, yet he was born into slavery. Took me under his wing a bit when I first started. Told me the golden rule is to focus and not let anger fuel you. An extraordinary man. Retired now but beat Shelton only two years back – a chap half his age.”

  A finger to her chin gently closed her mouth.

  “Prizefighting is open to all ages, trades and nationalities. The sole requirements are being able to fight and having a motivation to succeed.” His brow furrowed. “And I’d imagine slavery provides plenty of that.”

  “You must think me very unworldly, Mr… Seth.”

  Fingers raised her muffler but then abandoned her skin after the slightest caress.

  “No, Miss… Matilda, I think you enchanting.”

  A coiling warmth dispelled any chill that lingered from the bitter dawn. Enchanting. Was she really? The word garnered images of delicate fairies and seductive mermaids, not a loquacious nitterwit who wore yellow.

  They strolled on and she gawked at the array of folk gathering at the outer fence – shabby coats rubbing with silks, the beaver hats of the Corinthians bashing the slouched caps of farmers.

  Seth abruptly hastened his stride. “Apologies, but we’d best head back to the carriage as the fighters will soon be making their entrance. Then the mayhem ensues.”

  They retraced their steps through Harry’s gate and battled through laughing lordlings and chortling ragamuffins, much like the scrum at a ball for supper, but soon she glimpsed the coaches encircling the melee, folk sat atop for the best vantage point, and even the trees beyond were leafed with lads.

  “The followers are called the Fancy,” Seth shouted, “be they lackeys or lords, although some say the swells are just the visitors and don’t truly belong, that these fights are for the men of the streets and stews.”

  A gnarled fellow knocked into her, grunting his anger, before a broad-shouldered woman barged past with a bottle, and all at once, Matilda felt a little afraid, her feet stumbling in the churned grass, the crowd pushing and pulling.

  Perchance she did not belong here either.

  But a strong arm gripped low on her waist and pulled her from the hurly-burly to where the coaches were lined up cheek by jowl.

  “I’ve got you, Matilda. Never fear.”

  Fright was a rare emotion for Seth.

  Yet as a ruffian and his bobtail had barrelled into the dainty frame of Matilda, it had clattered his pulse, and he’d asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing bringing a lady to a heathen f
ight in the middle of a bloody common.

  As a rule, these contests began jovial enough, but frequent brawls broke out amongst the Fancy, pickpockets ran rife and the language spoken so ribald, he wished to clamp his hands to her ears.

  Yet that was rather why she was here…

  To experience his background.

  Some said that although these events were illegal, the law turned a purposely blind eye. Better to allow the lower classes to rage without censure, having worked their fingers to the bone all week, than allow that rage to become revolution…à la France.

  To Seth as a lad, it had all appeared so glamorous and thrilling, and let’s be honest, it was better than attending a hanging, the only other event which garnered such a crowd.

  “Are you well, Matilda? We can go home, if you wish?” Although they were hemmed in like geese at Christmastide.

  “No! No, certainly not. I just…it’s all so overwhelming. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Pa!”

  Seth twisted at the shout, finding Chloe and Kian perched upon the coachman’s seat of a carriage two up from his own. With gold trim and spanking wheels, this equipage was fit for a king, whereas in fact it belonged to John Jackson, one of Seth’s rival boxing academy owners, who tipped his hat at them in greeting.

  The bugger would no doubt cajole his daughter into parting with information – good luck with that, as she’d fed Jackson a right clanker concerning their fees the last time he’d tried.

  A cheer surged then weaved through the crowd like a gust of wind through wheat, the thud of horses’ hooves trembling the earth.

  “What’s happening?” Matilda yelled. “I can’t see anything.”

  Seth flung himself to the coachman’s pew of his carriage and aided her ascent, their hands clasping.

  Once up, he grasped her by the shoulders. “Now, Matilda, this isn’t gentlemanly or proper in the least, so please don’t squeal.” And he swept her into his arms – a featherweight.

  No squealing ensued but rather she laughed and clasped him around the neck, fingers linking at his nape…caressing.