“There you are,” his colleague had replied.
“But then it is at the loss of this school, these students and the doctors that teach them. Because Grace Sharpe is a brilliant mind and the world will be a better place when she becomes a practicing physician.”
The betrayed wonder that had shown on Dr. Cameron’s face wasn’t at all unlike the expression Grace had given James when she left the carriage. His ego had been to blame when he reached for her, eager to tell her everything he had said, but a wee modest part of his heart told him to let her go. If she wanted to believe that he was a man without conviction, what did he care?
Pushing himself up to his knees, he took a step up on one wobbly leg, then another. He intended to finish this round.
“Out of the way,” he said, waving his friend to the side.
“Are you mad?” Graham asked, standing in front of him. “You’ve just been rocked.”
“I don’t care.”
“Would you allow one of your patients to continue?”
“I’m not a bloody patient. Now move.”
Graham was hesitant as he finally sighed, shaking his head as he left the ring to watch from the floor. James signaled to his opponent and put his hands back up.
“Ye’re a bit muddled, ain’t ya, doctor?” Perry asked.
“Try it.”
Perry obliged.
“All right. It’s your funeral.”
The large man came bounding forward, but James was ready. He sidestepped his opponent’s charge and turned around, just as Perry did, only James was faster. With a jab to the jaw and a double shot to his ribs, James stepped back to allow the stunned Perry to sway.
“Bloody hell. Where’d that come from?”
But James didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward again, faked right before uppercutting from the left. Perry stumbled back, but James wouldn’t let up and charged, hitting him in the ribs repeatedly until Perry fell on the ropes and began waving his hands.
“All right! All right!” He spat, droplets of blood spraying James in the face, causing him to jump back. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”
James rolled out of the ring as Graham came forward to help remove the tightly laced leather gloves. Although gloves were often used in sparring, Perry had once been a bareknuckle fighter. He was talented too, but James himself had tended to Perry at the end of his career and convinced him to teach with gloves, as it was far safer than scarring his students.
Of course, James didn’t have to worry about that.
“Where did that come from?” Graham asked as James toweled himself dry from the sweat that glistened all over him.
“What?”
“That. You never attack to the end like that. You’ve always been, well, rather annoying when you fight, actually. Always trying to teach your opponent what they did wrong, or where to try and strike. But that,” Graham said, bobbing his head at the ring from where Perry was glaring. “That was brilliant.”
“It wasn’t brilliant,” James spat. “It was stupid and irresponsible.” He threw his towel to the bench and walked over. “I’m sorry, Perry. That wasn’t right of me.”
Perry made a face and shook his head before letting out a laugh.
“Aye, it wasn’t. But it’s fine,” he said with a laugh, showing that he wasn’t bothered. “You’re just full of fire and piss today, is all.”
“Yes,” James said before heading toward the corner of the room.
St. Mungo’s Pugilist Club was something of a social club for professional men that had been set up in an old stone building, across the street from the cathedral in the center of Glasgow. It had once been a place where church members could go to discuss charity, particularly what to do about donations and where to allot certain monies. Of course, several times arguments would erupt and the men would start physical altercations and soon it seemed that fighting with one another in a sequestered spot gave them a better attitude in their private lives, as well as a time and space to settle their disagreements. Thus, the natural progression of things turned it into a pugilist club.
Graham had followed him to the area in the back of the room, where a wall of open, wooden cupboards had been fitted, where each individual section was fitted with a hook and a stool. An employee known as Roger met James there with a bucket of clean water and a length of white cloth. James was quick to dip the fabric in the water and wash his face, neck, and hair, before he ran it over his body. He was shirtless, and fitted in a loose pair of pantaloons that had been specifically made for this sport.
Graham folded his arms across his chest as he watched James, seemingly searching for something.
