Happy, she looked at the tin in her hands and quietly slipped it into her satchel before going to find Mrs. Abernathy. She found the older lady in the second part of the shop where the bolts of cloth were laid on the shelves and at hooks on the walls.
“He has left, Mrs. Abernathy,” she began. “What are we doing now?”
“I think…” She reached for a book on a pedestal and glided a finger down a list. “Lady Westlake needs a new riding habit and Miss Antoinette Tulloch would like a new set of chemises for the season. She has even supplied the silk for the chemises.”
Fingering the soft cloth, Bridget nodded, “We’d best get to work then.”
Agilely, William dodged a blow from his opponent and landed a blow in the man’s middle. “You’ve got to be faster than that, Magnus.”
Mist had barely risen from the ground when William was stepping into the door of Gentleman Jackson’s pugilism saloon.In the past weeks, a routine had emerged—getting to the saloon by dawn, training, and going home to run the trails of his lands had built up more than his musculature. It also exhausted him to no end, but he got up and repeated it every day.
The man, half a foot taller than William’s six feet, grabbed onto the ropes and hunched over, breathing hard. His hair was wet to the roots, yet they had only begun their bouts fifteen minutes ago. Though larger, the seasoned boxer was showing signs of fatigue, his forehead drenched with perspiration, his broad chest heaving.
William circled him in the ring, trying to look for a good opening. Magnus had a few tells, the man was prone to throwing an uppercut with his right, and following with double jabs by his left. When he prepared to do that move, his left foot slipped to the front before he launched.
Anticipating it, William ducked and landed a blow on the man’s sternum, then braced himself for the blow that would come. The punch caught his lower belly, and though he grunted, he welcomed the jolt of pain. Rebounding, he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his arms up in guard position once more.
With his fists up once more, he let them fly, landing blow after blow, staying light on his feet, ducking strikes, and landing his own in a fierce return. The burn in his muscles was sweet—the quick flurry of his thoughts predicting moves and planning counterattacks made him feel light while he punched with calculated restraint.
Breathe in, breathe out. Do not lose control. Measure your punches, measure your steps, keep the energy up.
He flung out a blistering right hook that sent Magnus right into the ropes and the man stumbled, a foot slipping out from under him. He dropped to the mat and grunted. “Devil and damn, Your Grace, you pack a hard punch. We can stop for today. I give up.”
William stopped bouncing on his feet and took stock of his sparring partner. “Did I injure you too much?”
The older fighter stripped off his practice gloves and touched a hand to his jaw and cheek, wincing. “Not any worse than I have suffered before. You know—” he grabbed the rope and heaved himself up. “—you’ve got good eyes and sense, Your Grace. I have seen how you assess things, and you seem to have the ability to predict moves based on patterns.”
“That’s… not a good thing?”
“It is a great thing, but you need to be wary,” Magnus reached for his water and swallowed half of the waterskin in one gulp. “Relying on patterns may deceive you, and a seasoned fighter will use patterns as feigns and unleash unexpected attacks while you are preparing for another one.”
Swiping the sweat from his eyes, Magnus added, “If you keep training like this, the first match will be a shoo-in for you.”
“But the others?” William reached for a rag in his corner.
“Those blighters are crafty.” Magnus sat again, this time with his back to the post behind him. “They have years, nay, decades of tricks up their sleeves, dirty ones too. You’ll have your work cut out for you when you start to climb the ranks.”
Rolling his neck, William grunted. “I wouldn’t think anything else.”
“Your Grace,” a man beckoned to William while he had his back on the ropes. He stuck out a folded paper. “A message for you.”
Unfolding it, he read Silas’ slashed writing,You’ve been chosen. First match is in eight days.
It was only when Lady Ruth, a countess that had been a beauty in her heyday, her daughter, and their three footmen stepped out of the shop, did Bridget suck in a breath and let the tension in her shoulders fade.
The lady reminded her of goshawk with a mouse under its piercing gaze and Bridget felt like that mouse. Comments like ‘girl’ or ‘child’ and the most demeaning one, ‘chit’. It made her feel dejected and diminished.
She could not—wouldnot—dare admit to being a lady of the ton for they would declare her a liar and laugh into her face.
“Is she always so… direct?” she asked Mrs. Abernathy, afraid to say the more suitable word she wanted to say.
“Well, she was married three times, widows for two and her now husband is a milksop who cannot say no to her, so yes, she is that unyielding,” Mrs. Abernathy nodded while taking another bolt of cloth from the shelf. “Take comfort in her compliment, Bridget, she does not give them out freely.”
“I surely will,” she agreed.
That evening, just as Mrs. Abernathy closed the shop, Bridget stepped out and wrapped her shawl around her. She knew her godmother would be very happy with the half-crown; it would buy them food for two weeks. She made to walk off when a very familiar carriage came around the corner.
“What is Ellie doing around here?” she wondered aloud to herself.
