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Chloe flopped beside her on the stool. “Are they fun, Miss Griffin? Soirees?”
“Yes, of course. Well…” In point of fact, she couldn’t ever recall having fun at a musical soiree. They were an obligatory event for a debutante to attend – like eyebrow plucking. “Not always, but one can meet new friends. It’s just that we are expected to obey the rules of propriety in selecting songs, and the choice can be somewhat restricted for ladies.”
Her charge’s young shoulders slumped. “I hope I like being a lady. Pa says I’m not awfully good with rules.”
Matilda was well aware that Miss Appleton would now fritter away an hour discussing the need for a young lady to obey without question, to follow the edicts of their betters, yet hadn’t Matilda herself defied her guardian’s word? Sought, in her own small way, to overturn society’s expectation that she give herself in marriage without complaint to an aged libertine who smelled of wet dog and week-old cabbage?
Chloe, she had discovered thus far today, was a girl with a thoughtful nature and intelligent mind yet an outspoken tongue and bold attitude.
Should a governess curb such character and mould it to meek and mild?
“I think…” She made to pat Chloe’s arm in reassurance, but awkwardness beset her at such an avuncular gesture. “I think it more important to be kind to one another than to slavishly follow rules and expectations. We all wish to be accepted, of course, but that does not mean we must suppress our true selves. ’Tis a balancing act that I myself have not yet learned.”
Her young charge patted Matilda’s arm. “Well, why don’t we learn together then, Miss Griffin.” A broad smile and Chloe dolloped a forefinger on middle C. “You follow my lead.” And she took a deep breath…
“‘There was a pious parson,
Who lived in Upper Harding…’”
* * *
Some folk might believethat to be the owner of a boxing academy, one would merely need a brutish fist and a thick skull, yet other qualities were also required, such as forethought, tact, patience and–
“Lord Cholmondeley!” yelled Seth. “Keep your fists up, man. You’re not dancing the quadrille at bloody Almack’s.”
The young sprig nodded and brought his gloves closer to his hairless chin as he and another lordling sparred within a small chalked circle upon the floor – the restricted space kept their footwork tidy, promoted focus and allowed Seth to fit more members into this Academy hall – otherwise he’d be seeking new premises.
For some reason, now Napoleon had been seen to, there had been an upsurge in new members: returned officers with pent horrors that needed to be dispelled in peacetime, and fledgling fellows who wished to show patriotic pride by milling their closest friend on the chops – a curious trait of the English.
Seth skirted a sweat-clad Waterloo hero punching the hell out of a straw bag suspended from the ceiling, and headed to the main ring, where a small crowd had gathered.
Many a gentry cove arrived to view the practice bouts he scheduled for his young apprentices – to gain inside knowledge of the latest up-and-coming prizefighter and conclude whether to wager on or against him.
And Liam Wheelan was one such fighter – young, raw and tough. Yet…
Seth tapped a member of the crowd on the back. “Excuse me. May I pass?”
Without turning, the earl growled, “Find your own patch to…” He twisted his head. “Mr Hawkins, do excuse me. I’d not realised it was you.” And he shifted to allow Seth through while also yanking his companion to the side.
Seth nodded his gratitude and stepped up to the ropes. Raised at a modest height for all to see, the ring was surrounded by this simple hemp barrier, the floor scattered with sawdust for grip.
The hulking Liam landed a nobbler upon the other young fighter’s conk, then a plump to the brisket. This was no fancy boxing match with nobs sparring in gloves to protect their delicate knuckles, but the bare-fisted combat of prizefighting with few rules.
“You’ve got a winning lad there, Hawkins,” pronounced some duke to his side, before clapping a hand to his shoulder.
Hmm.
The two apprentices circled upon bouncing feet, the younger displaying his agility with a sharp dodge to the right. Yet Liam showed no mercy for effort, and with a swift, determined settler to the jaw, his opponent hit the floor.
Seth waited as the crowd dispersed for other pleasures of London, then narrowed his gaze as Liam smirked at the defeated lad, who gamely sat up and attempted to shake hands. With slack wrist and disinterested eyes, Liam barely brushed palms, and the younger lad slunk beneath the ropes with a grimace. Seth grabbed his arm. “Your technique is good. Keep practising, get some meat on those bones and you’ll get there.” The lad nodded before heading to the changing room, and Seth twisted back to Liam.
The seventeen-year-old victor reminded Seth of himself at that age – rough and hungry, his eagerness built upon a need to escape a vicious life as the crisp whip scars upon Liam’s back attested to.
All essential ingredients and yet the lad lacked two fundamentals…
“I’ll be ready for a proper fight soon, won’t I, Mr Hawkins? He were a cock robin who tumbled before I’d breathed on him.”
Namely humility and patience.
