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Chapter Fifteen
“Society you are not to expect.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
High-perch yellow phaetons and rattling antique dogcarts, bakers with wares balanced upon their heads and pie sellers shouting loud. Scruffy lamplighters shoved in raucous collision with silk-clad gentlemen, and Matilda felt as though the world had turned upon its head.
One chock-full of merriment, jostle and noise, but also scrawny lads with thieving fingers, bosky gents clutching bottles of gin, ladies of doubtful virtue flashing their pink petticoats and girls flicking mud with their toes.
Her heart pounded with this rhythm of life. Frantic, as though the now had to be enjoyed before it was all too late.
“Matilda?”
In utter bemusement, she stared up at Mr Hawkins, or Seth, as they’d agreed for their day out.
“Yes?”
“You must stay close and preferably not answer if anyone speaks to you. We cannot link arms as it will appear…peculiar.” And he twitched her nefarious footpad’s hood to obscure her brow.
For once, she was glad of the muffler and cloak as the day had dawned a bitter blue, although the cold had made no difference to the mob mingling on Wimbledon Common in every mode of dress.
“I shall. But…where did all these people come from? There must be thousands.”
He grinned and shrugged. “From all walks of life. We’ll return to the carriage to watch the fight with Chloe and Kian, but let’s wander the field a little first. I’ll show you the ring whilst it’s quiet.”
Quiet?
Wimbledon Common had been transformed.
A square platform had been erected in the middle of the Common, two feet off the ground and encircled by wooden posts with ropes slung between them, empty but for two boys who scattered wood chips upon the boards.
Outside this platform was a wider grassed area, also fenced from the Common, where groups of men strutted, and…was that not the Earl of Farleigh, whom she’d once danced with at a ball?
Together, they squashed through the hustling mob beyond, towards this fenced area, and she grabbed Seth’s coat-tails in order not to lose him.
“Harry?” Seth shouted to a bulky man with a dog. “Can we come through?”
“Well, burn me breeches, if it ain’t Seth Hawkins! Always room for you, lad.” And the two shook hands, a wooden gate opening for their entrance.
The man peered strangely at Matilda and she peered strangely back.
She’d gone without petticoats so the cloak fell in a straight line to her sturdy boots – the donning of breeches having thankfully not been mentioned anew as surely they must chafe. A muffler covered her mouth, a cap her hair and then the cloak’s hood covered the lot.
All in all, she did indeed resemble a nefarious footpad on the prowl.
So she quite fitted in with this motley assemblage of persons.
The fellow sloped off to inspect the posts and Seth guided her to one side.
“That’s Harry, does all the ropes, and this area is where the backers, friends and umpires stand. It also keeps the crowd back…a bit. They stay on the outside, but at Wimbledon there’s also a paying stand with seats, which is rare.”
She lowered her muffler a mite and observed the packed wooden scaffold which supported benches six rows deep. “Why is it rare?”
“Matilda…” And she twisted back to catch Seth’s amused grin. “You do realise prizefighting is against the law?”
“What! No!” Gosh. “I’m at an illegal event! How thrilling. But what if the local magistrate finds out?”
