Chapter 27
Becky hadn't exaggerated about the far-reaching popularity of Snelling's fights, Juliet thought, as they walked through the fields and into Abingdon early that evening. Foot, carriage, and horse traffic were all converging on the center of town from all directions. Drivers shouted at each other to make way. Dogs ran loose, barking, among hurrying pedestrians, through the legs of prancing horses, in and around carriage wheels. Vendors stood on the street corners selling ale, pastries, and other refreshments, and the very air held a festive ambience.
"What a crowd!" Juliet exclaimed, looking around her.
"Bull always draws 'em," Becky said, her voice echoing in a medieval archway as she led Juliet through a row of ancient buildings bordering the Mill Stream. "'E ain't never been beat, Bull 'asn't, and you won't foind a stronger bloke in Berkshire. Why, once Snelling 'itched 'im up to an ox and made each of 'em pull against the other — Bull's so strong the animal couldn't budge 'im!"
"Surely no human is that strong!"
"Most of us wonder if Bull even is 'uman!"
Juliet merely laughed and followed Becky out of the medieval buildings onto Thames Street, where the rushing waters of the mill all but drowned out the sounds of the festivities. Caught up in the excitement around her, she was feeling increasingly happy and free of the cares of her world. She had said her final goodbye to Charles, releasing him from her heart. And, aside from Gareth's sister, how long had it been since she'd spent time with a female friend? She didn't even want to think about the answer. Motherhood had been a full time occupation, and grief for Charles had robbed her of any desire to do anything fun. But she was feeling more like her old self these days, thanks to Gareth.
Dear, dear Gareth.
Her gaze softened as she thought of him. She hadn't seen much of him that day, save for a brief few minutes when he'd dropped by the dower house late that afternoon. She and Becky had been on their hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when he'd come in with an ear-to-ear grin, his skin glowing and his hair damp, unruly, and deliciously tousled. With him around, getting any work done had been impossible. He'd been munching an apple, prowling the kitchen like a restless cat, and driving Juliet insane with his playful feints to her face, to the wall, to the leg of a chair.
"Would you stop?" she'd finally cried, looking up at him and laughing as she'd swatted him away.
"Can't," he'd said and, winking at Becky, leaned down and kissed Juliet fully on the lips. He'd tasted of sweet apples and sunshine, and she'd felt a rush of desire for him that had made her wish Becky was anywhere but in their kitchen.
"What's got you in such a good mood?" she'd managed after he finally broke the kiss and straightened up, leaving her breathless and flushed, her hand to her suddenly pounding heart.
"Oh, nothing." Another playful feint to her shoulder. "Nothing at all, dearest!"
"The way you're acting, one might think you were going to the fight tonight."
His eyebrows had risen, and then he'd laughed, loudly. "Well, maybe I am," he'd said, cheerfully; then, saluting her with his apple, he'd swung back out the door.
Juliet had watched him as he crossed the lawn and headed toward the manor house, his stride cocky and giving him the appearance of owning the world. When she'd turned back to Becky, the other girl was simply sitting back on her heels and shaking her head in amusement. "Men! They just never grow up, do they?"
"Do you know, Becky ... I hope that one never does. He can make me laugh when all I want to do is cry. He can make me see the good in a situation when all I see is the bad. He knows when life should be taken seriously — and when it shouldn't. He's delightful and funny and clever — and not afraid to make a total cake of himself." She had smiled and given a little sigh. "No, I never want him to grow up ... not if it means seeing him change into something other than what he currently is."
Becky had sat back on her haunches, a sly look on her face as she regarded Juliet.
"What?"
"Yer love for 'im is so obvious. 'Tis sweet to see, it is!"
"Becky!"
The girl, still grinning, had shrugged. "Ye can't hide it, ye know. And Oi'll wager yer man — charmin', kind, an' 'andsome as 'e is — is a real easy one to love."
"Well yes, he is, but — it's just that —" Juliet had turned as pink as Swanthorpe's brick and looked away, suddenly flustered. "I guess it's just rather difficult to admit my feelings, even to myself."
But Becky had merely laughed knowingly. "'Well, then, maybe ye'd better admit 'em, 'cause it's plain that yer man's roight in love with you, 'e is!"
"Becky, you're embarrassing me!" Juliet had said, and the girl had merely chuckled before they'd gone back to scrubbing the floor. Mercifully, Becky had said no more about the subject, but the conversation had weighed heavily on Juliet's mind the rest of the afternoon, just as it weighed on her now as the two of them made their way down Thames Street, Becky tossing a few crumbs of bread to the ducks that paddled in the Mill Stream's current.
Yer love for 'im is so obvious.
She considered their marriage. He was fun-loving and larkish. She was serious and pragmatic. He was reckless and impulsive and loved to put on a show. She was cautious and reserved and did not welcome undue attention. He was an aristocrat who'd never done a day's work in his life. She was a provincial who balked at the very thought of idle hands. What on earth did they really have in common?
Nothing.
Everything.
After Charles had died, she had thought the sun would never shine on her life again. But it had. By bringing Gareth — a man who, she now realized, fit all her crooked edges like two pieces of wood joined together in perfect dovetail; a man who could make her laugh like Charles had never done, a man who might make her happier than Charles could ever have dreamed. Charles, with his dignified polish, would have been shocked if called upon to behave as Gareth was wont to do. Charles had been too serious, too full of inhibiting maturity — and the two of them probably would, in time, have become bored with each other.
She gazed over the bridge, over Abingdon's rooftops, and up at the high, orange-tinted clouds. One thing was sure about the Wild One: she would never become bored with him. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a million years.
Purple parts! she thought, with a little laugh.
"What's so funny, eh?" Becky asked as they joined the traffic heading up Bridge Street. Around them buildings rose, the sun's last rays slanting off the tiled roof of a coaching inn on their right, shadowing the warm brick and stone structures on their left.
"Oh, nothing ... I was just thinking about something my husband did, that's all."
"Think of 'im a lot, don't ye?"
"Oh, go on with you!" Juliet said, laughing. Becky laughed, too, chattering on about her own man, Jack, and pointing out various townsfolk that she knew. The street climbed and curved, and there, dominating the Market Place, was the County Hall, a tall, open structure of golden stone, its stone flooring a few steps higher than street level and creating a sort of open-air theater for the crowds that surrounded it. Someone had erected a ring of rope in the center of this open arena where several people, including Snelling, were milling about.
"So, does Snelling makes his living promoting fights?" Juliet asked.
"'E doesn't need foights to make a livin'. Swanthorpe brings in all the blunt 'e could ever know what to do with, it does. No, 'e does this because 'e loikes 'ob-nobbing with 'is betters. That's all it is. Foights attract important people — nobs, statesmen, that sort. Snellin', 'e ain't no better than the rest of us, but by rubbin' elbows with 'is betters, wearin' fancy clothes, and apin' manners 'e's got no business apin', it allows 'im to pretend to be somethink 'e's not."
"You don't like Snelling, then."
"Nobody 'ereabouts does. Wouldn't trust 'im as far as Oi could throw 'im, Oi wouldn't. Oh, look! There's Bull O'Rourke!" Becky stood on tip-toe and tried to point over a hundred heads. "Can ye see 'im, Juliet?"
Juliet craned her ne
ck until she could just see the ring that had been set up for the fight. It wasn't hard to identify Bull O'Rourke. She had never seen an uglier man in her life. His nose was broken, his lips were huge, his brow looked like a ledge of granite, his hair was a shorn orange rug. But his shoulders were what commanded the eye, for they dominated his body as surely as his lips did his face.
"My goodness, I do pity the man who has to fight him," Juliet murmured, shuddering. "You weren't joking when you said he had hands the size of buckets!"
"Knows 'ow to use 'em, too," Becky said. "Bones crack loike plaster beneath Bull's fists, they do!"
"Indeed," added a well-dressed man in the crowd who'd been breathing down Juliet's neck in his eagerness to see the stage. "I was here last summer when he took on Savage Sean. You remember that match, eh Jem?"
"How could I forget?" answered a neighboring gentleman, crushed like a kipper between the first man and the surrounding crowd. "Called himself the Pride of Ireland, but Bull felled him like an ax to a tree. Blinded him in the third round, if I remember right."
"Second."
"Aye, you're correct, second. 'Twas the end of that match, I daresay."
"And of Savage Sean's fighting days!"
"Anyone know who'll be taking Bull's punishment tonight?"
"Don't know. Some newcomer, I hear. Supposed to be good."
"How good?"
"Snelling's put it about that he beat Joe Lumford."
"Psaw! Lumford's the London champion; he's never been beat. Snelling's making up stories to make the betting hotter, that's all. This newcomer? Bull'll cut him to ribbons in less than five minutes."
"Ha, I'll up you a guinea that he'll do it in three!"
Guffaws broke out all around, and for some strange reason she couldn't fathom, Juliet felt suddenly uneasy.
Then Snelling was raising his hands and calling for quiet, strutting before the crowd with the easy confidence of a seasoned actor as Bull's second — for pugilism was not unlike dueling in that respect — joined the prize-fighter. Snelling handed the second a large flask, and, laughing, the man passed it on to Bull, who promptly tipped it to his lips and guzzled heartily before tossing the vessel out into the audience. There was a mad scramble as some fifty people tried to catch it, and several men went down, fists flying as they fought each other for the prize.
A small roar went up as Snelling, turning to the shadows, called for Bull's opponent to come out on the stage.
"And now, may I introduce to you, tonight's challenger ... all the way from the Lambourn Downs, it's the Wild One!"
The blood drained from Juliet's face.
No. It couldn't be.
But it was —
Gareth.
For a moment she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only stand there trying to absorb what she was seeing as the crowds jostled her to and fro in their haste for a better look at O'Rourke's challenger. Shocked into numbness, she watched her husband walk once across the stage and then back again, grinning confidently, as though telling this scornful crowd he'd soon put to rest their jeers.
"Who the hell is he?" complained the gentleman just behind Juliet in obvious disappointment.
"Don't know, never heard of him. But I'll tell you this: Bull's going to put him to sleep by the end of the first round, I'll bet you a crown on it!"
"If he lasts that long!"
"Dear God," Juliet murmured, the nightmare becoming reality as the two pugilists began stripping off their shirts and sizing each other up from across the ring. She could not watch any more. Could not stand there and see Gareth hurt and humiliated and possibly — probably, by the look of Bull — killed. Was this his so-called "work?" Was this how he planned to support them?
Feeling sick, feeling betrayed, she spun on her heel and tried to shove her way back through the milling masses, earning curses, lecherous leers, and a few nasty pinches on her bottom in her haste to escape.
Becky was right behind her. "Juliet! Oi swear, Oi didn't know!"
"He deliberately misled me!"
"What are ye talking about?"
"He let me believe that Snelling had hired him to do mock-fights with swords, not real fights with fists!"
Becky stared at her blankly.
"He's going to get himself killed! Oh, forgive me, Becky, I cannot stay and witness this, I just can't, it'll be the end of me!"
"Juliet! Juliet!"
And then Becky's voice was drowned beneath the sudden frenzied roar of the crowd as the first blows were exchanged. Blindly pushing people aside in her haste to get away, their cheers and yells ringing in her head, Juliet fought to reach open road and once there, ran for all she was worth.
She charged down Bridge Street, through the meadows and fields that bordered the river, and over the footbridge that spanned the Mill Stream. She raced past Swanthorpe Manor, tore across the lawns, and flew into the dower house. It was shadowy inside, empty and eerily quiet. She could hear the crazed roaring of the crowd a mile away, and, with a little sob, she collapsed into a corner, clapping her hands over her ears to block it out even as her eyes frantically sought out ink pot, pen and paper:
Your Grace,
You must forgive my shaky hand, but as I pen these words, your brother, who has taken a position as a pugilist for Jonathan Snelling, is engaged in a boxing match which has drawn the better half of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Please come quickly, Your Grace. We are at Swanthorpe Manor, which, as you know, is in Abingdon-on-Thames.
Godspeed,
Juliet de Montforte
She ran back out the door and up the steps of the manor house, where she persuaded a footman, just coming off duty, to deliver the note. Ten minutes later, it was on its way south toward Ravenscombe — and the only man Juliet knew who could put a swift end to this lunacy in which Gareth had embroiled them.