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Chapter 11
“Where is it we are going this evening?” Mr Blake asked as they crossed the road.
“Ah, that would be spoiling the surprise to tell you now,” Marcus said with a hand lifted, urging his new friend to halt with his questions for a little while.
Since Mr Blake had fallen over his legs in Hyde Park, Marcus had barely left the young man’s side. The day before at Somerset House, where Marcus had discussed what in general the critics thought of each painter, Mr Blake had offered more insightful and individual opinions, such as how Van Dyke could never paint a man who was not looking directly at the artist, or how Constable always painted tiny figures, possibly because he lacked skill at drawing the human figure and wanted to avoid the topic as much as possible. Marcus did not think he had laughed so much in an art gallery before and had duly invited Mr Blake to dinner afterwards.
The day after, Marcus had met Mr Blake in the club where they drank coffee for a while, before taking another walk in Hyde Park. Now, they were on their way out, with the sun having disappeared and the night’s sky come up to greet them, Marcus was keen to engage in one of his favourite pastimes that London offered.
“Consider this part of your education,” Marcus said with a smile as he crossed the road between carriages, urging Mr Blake to follow.
“My education?” Mr Blake said sceptically with raised eyebrows.
“You said this is your first time in London alone without family. Any man alone in London should see what we are about to see at least once,” Marcus said, turning down another street.
“You have me intrigued!” Mr Blake said, hurrying on behind him. “I have a feeling we are not in the main streets of London anymore.”
“Oh no,” Marcus said, steering Mr Blake down the quieter roads behind Covent Garden. “It is not strictly illegal, but the magistrates do tend to frown upon it. That means whenever there is a meet, the location is usually somewhere out of the way.”
“You have me even more intrigued than before,” Mr Blake said, following Marcus as he walked toward an old warehouse.
The once-grand building was somewhat dilapidated now, out of use thanks to the modernisation of the cotton mills meaning such works now done further up the Thames in a different building altogether. The empty warehouse was the perfect location for hosting such a rare meet.
The moment they stepped inside, the noise was raucous, forcing not only Marcus to come to a firm stop, but Mr Blake too.
“God have mercy,” Mr Blake said, covering his ears. “My eardrums will be so rattled they’re in danger of falling out!” Marcus laughed at the image his new friend painted.
“It may yet get worse,” he said. “Follow me.” He beckoned Mr Blake to follow him and together they walked through the crowds that had gathered, heading into the thicket. There were men shouting at one another, eagerly taking bets, and placing more, waving banknotes and loose coins in the air.
Top hats were set sideways on heads as many men had partaken of drink this evening, but gentlemen were not the only men to frequent such a place. There were poorer men too, and businessmen, with lawyers and clerks in suits standing on the edge, trying to politely make their own bets.
“I feel as though I am at the Tower of London menagerie,” Mr Blake said, having to nearly shout to be heard by Marcus.
“I can see why,” Marcus agreed. “This way.” At last, Marcus managed to steer the two of them to the far side of the warehouse where pitched seating had been set up, with benches lined side by side to give a view of the room. Mr Blake jumped up beside him before his eyes widened, looking down at what was in the middle of the raucous crowd. A seven-foot square blocked off by ropes.
“It is a boxing match!” he said excitedly, his voice pitching high. The sound was much higher than his usual tone, but he cleared his throat the next moment, his tone returning to normal. “I have always wanted to see one for myself.”
“Now you shall,” Marcus said. “So…care to take a bet?” he said, pulling his money out from his jacket. Mr Blake smiled before faltering.
“I am not sure.”
“Why not?”
“I lost a good deal of cash the other day to a Captain Sharpe. I am wary of losing any more.”
“Then let me show you how to make a bet you cannot lose.” Marcus winked at Mr Blake, pulling another smile from him before beckoning for him to follow. Little by little, Marcus worked his way around the building, asking questions of strangers and the betters, finding as much information he could about the two men that were about to enter the boxing ring. Soon, it was pretty clear to see who the more likely man was to win, and he encouraged Mr Blake to place his money on this particular man.
“How safe of a bet is this?” Mr Blake asked as they retook their places on the benches.
“Pretty safe, I’d say,” Marcus said and pointed toward the ring where the two fighters were entering. “Let’s find out for sure.”
Marcus’ eyes slipped to Mr Blake as they continued to watch the ring. In the darkness of the night, where the room was lit only by candles that had been attached to candelabras, the soft orange light fell on the young man’s face. Marcus was strangely reminded of Lady Violette once again looking at those features, then he nudged himself, recalling exactly what his father had said about Lady Violette.
He was not permitted to think about Lady Violette anymore. She would not make a suitable wife for a Marquess.
***
Violette was fascinated as the fight got underway. It was brutal at times, fighting with bare knuckles, with bruises developing each second, the purple and blue marks resembling butterflies under the skin as they spread across the fighters. Yet, there was something about the skill and the athleticism of the fighters that she admired too. Along with the men around her, she found herself cheering on the man she had put her money on.
