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Lizzie headed off with her cheeks on fire. When she returned, he was setting out the teacups on an overturned crate. She took her seat gratefully and watched him pour.

“So, what was the plan for this morning?” Lizzie asked, looking anywhere rather than her husband. He slid her teacup toward her on the packing case, and in her haste to take it, she inadvertently brushed her fingers against his. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she blurted, drawing back her hand as though stung.

“No need to apologize, Lizzie.” A smile lurked in his eyes she found most discomposing. “You can touch me all you like. It’s your God-given right.”

The oddest recollections from the previous night kept flashing into her mind’s eye, badly rattling her. Raising her teacup to her lips with shaking fingers, Lizzie promptly burnt her mouth, choking on a mouthful of scalding hot tea. She blanched and set the cup down so fast she nearly overset its contents. Pull yourself together, Lizzie! Giving her head a quick shake, she asked, “Y-you were saying?”

“I was?”

“About your plans for me today,” she said awkwardly.

Benedict frowned. “Oh, that,” he murmured. “I’ve half a mind to simply keep you with me now.” His expression as it lingered on her made Lizzie’s pulse race.

Oh God no, she thought with dread. I couldn’t possibly stand around all day watching him half-clothed all day from close quarters. Not after what they’d done last night! She cleared her throat. “I did not care overmuch for the boxing tent,” she said stiltedly. “The clientele is not the sort of company I am accustomed to.”

“Neither am I what you’re used to,” he reminded her. “But you’re doing a grand job of getting used to me.” The warmth in his eye astonished her. She took another distracted swig of hot tea and winced. “You’re not too- uh,” he broke off and scratched his neck. “Sore this morning?”

Lizzie was so aghast at him referring to such things, her mouth dropped open. She gazed at him speechless with horror. When Benedict’s eyebrows rose, she realized he was waiting for an answer. “No, no indeed,” she replied in stifled accents.

“Good,” he responded, his eyes travelling over her face as though measuring the veracity of her words. Lizzie gulped the rest of her tea, feeling thoroughly unnerved. He pushed the teapot toward her. “There’s enough for another cup.” Lizzie poured it gratefully. “I suppose I’ll have to take you to Connie, then,” he said without enthusiasm. “If that’s what you really want.”

“Connie?” She seized on the notion gratefully. “Is that not the lady you introduced me to yesterday? In the hat?”

“It is. I had some idea you might act as curator for her tent.” He shrugged. “I’m not so sure it holds up in the cold light of day, mind you.”

“I think it sounds a very good idea,” she argued staunchly. “Her tent comprises of female acts I think you said. I’m sure their society will suit me much better than that of boxing enthusiasts.”

“The acts may be female, but their paying guests are mixed,” he pointed out dryly. “You’ll be required to remind them of their manners.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could do that!” Anything, she told herself, would be better than gazing on Benedict Toomes’ half naked body all day, a-prey to mortifying recollections. Maybe in a couple of years she would be able to think of what they had done without flinching, but right now …

Twenty minutes later they were stood outside a round tent whose banner proclaimed it housed The Wonderous Females of the World. A scrawled piece of paper was pinned to the tent flap, stating their doors were currently closed but they would return shortly. The acts were listed in a scrolling hand painted onto a brightly painted banner on the side of the tent.

Lizzie surveyed the list with sinking spirits. A tattooed lady, a ‘living goddess’ whatever that meant, and a snake charmer were advertised. Lizzie’s eyebrows rose higher with each one. Top of the bill was Salome “she wears nothing but a smile” who apparently owned “the finest head of human hair you’ve ever seen”. Lizzie gasped at the lurid picture showing a naked woman strategically covered by great swathes of hair which hung down to her feet.

“The acts listed seem different to the ones you mentioned yesterday,” she commented. “Didn’t you say something about a giantess?”

Benedict finished the last bite of the pastry he had bought on the way. Lizzie had wrapped hers in the paper bag and slipped it into her cloak pocket uneaten. “She has to swap them out regularly to keep the public interested,” he told her and pulled the tent flap aside, ignoring the sign.

Lizzie followed him inside, wide-eyed with curiosity in spite of herself. An inner voice warned her that Connie’s clientele would be no more genteel than the ruffians in the boxing tent. The only difference would be that they were seeking salacious means of entertainment rather than violent ones. Still, she had wanted an occupation and breathing space, and that was what this tent would provide.

Inside, the tent was draped with many painted hangings with mystical depictions of stars and evil eyes and many of semi clad women with lurid claims under them. One of them was for a live mermaid in a tank and another for a ‘living doll’. Lizzie could only suppose that the banners of past acts were hung as decoration once they had left.

Various empty plinths stood about that had oval curtain rods rigged above them suspended from the ceiling of the tent. These were hung all about with draperies, some silky and filmy and others of heavy velvet. Curiously, to one side was a velvet fainting couch. Lizzie wondered if the spectators were offered a seat while they marveled over the Wonderous Females. One of the platforms had a pile of cushions on it and a woven basket. Pointing to it, she asked in failing tones, “Please tell me that basket does not contain a snake.”

Benedict barely spared it a glance. “The snake charmer would hardly leave behind something her livelihood depended on. Not when someone could easily nip in and pinch it.”

“Unless they intended for it to act as a deterrent to thieves,” Lizzie pointed out. “Who would be mad enough to steal a snake?”

Benedict lowered his mouth to her ear. “I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence,” he murmured, and feeling his breath on her neck made her shiver right to her toes. “The snake’s probably not real.”

Lizzie blinked, wondering at the strangeness of the sensation. “Really?”

He shook his head. “Extremely doubtful.”

“Oh.”

The flap that served as a door to the tent swung open. “Who the bleedin’ ’ell – ” Connie started wrathfully. Then she recognized Benedict and fell back a step, suddenly wreathed in smiles. “My, my, I am honored! Mr. Benedict Toomes and if it isn’t his little bride.”