We're off to the fights! Will Mr. Wickham survive this one?
Chapter 11:
The air inside the boxing club felt thick with anticipation and the acrid stench of sweat. Kitty wrinkled her nose, her stomach churning as she took in the scene before her. Men crowded around the ring, their faces contorted with excitement and bloodlust, their voices rising in a cacophony of shouts and jeers.
Beside her, Lydia stood rigid, her hands clasped in front of her. Tension radiated off her in waves.
Mrs. Gardiner, in contrast, seemed enthralled by the spectacle. "Oh, how exciting this is!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide. "I fear my husband would be appalled at me witnessing such a barbaric display, but Mr. Gardiner will have to forgive me."
The air felt thick with the smell of perspiration. Kitty shifted uncomfortably as she surveyed the crowd. Dread crept over her, the sound of the crowd roaring as the two men in the ring threw punches at each other, grunts of effort and pain filling the air.
Mr. Wickham, for his part, seemed in his element. He strutted about the room, his chest puffed out with bravado as he greeted acquaintances and placed bets on the upcoming fights.
"Denny, old chap!" Mr. Wickham called out, clapping his friend on the back. "Care to place a wager on my victory?"
Mr. Denny's smile was strained. "Perhaps later. For now, let us focus on getting you ready for the ring."
As they waited for Mr. Wickham's turn, Kitty watched the other fights with a growing sense of unease. The brutality of it all, the way the men pummeled each other with such savage intensity, made her stomach twist into knots.
But savage brutality was what they needed.
The announcer's voice boomed over the din, calling out the next fight. "Our third contender, winner of eight of his eleven fights, weighing in at two hundred twenty-eight pounds, we present to you, Mr. Elias Howard!"
A tall, burly man climbed into the ring, his chest heaving as he adjusted his gloves.
"And, in a very rare, special appearance, a fighter so fearsome he made the Little General quake in his boots and has since shown his prowess in London, Bath, Clifton, and Irving, we bring to you, a man who has won thirty of his thirty-six appearances across the breadth of England itself, we bring you, "The Widowmaker."
The crowd parted as a hulking figure strode towards the ring, his face hard and scarred. He moved with a heavy, lumbering gait, his massive shoulders and thick neck straining against a sweat-stained shirt that might have once been white. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, and Kitty could only imagine the damage those enormous fists could inflict.
As he entered the ring, the bloodthirsty crowd roared to life, pounding the ground and chanting his name. "Wi-dow-ma-ker! Wi-dow-ma-ker!" The brute, his face and bare skin already glistening with sweat, lifted his arms, basking in their adulation.
Mr. Howard's face lost all color.
Hope lit Lydia's gaze, and Kitty had to smother a joyous grin as her gaze locked with Mr. Denny. If Mr. Wickham fought this man, so appropriately named, nothing would spare him.
Mr. Denny gave Kitty the barest nod as the two fighters took their stances.
It was over in less than twenty seconds. Mr. Howard, his face twisted with fear, swung wildly at the giant, only to be met with a swift uppercut to the jaw that sent him reeling. He landed a flurry of quick blows to The Widowmaker's chest, which did nothing but enrage the brute. A brutal right hook to Mr. Howard's ribs sent him crashing to the ground, clutching his midsection.
He attempted to rise once more before falling to the ground, unmoving.
The Widowmaker raised his hands in triumph as the referee called the fight.
The crowd went wild, their cheers deafening as they chanted "Wi-dow-ma-ker!
Mr. Wickham took a step back, prevaricating, "I, er, that is to say, I do not think it wise to take on a man so dangerous-"
Lydia stepped forward, taking his arm. "But my darling, I am sure you are at least as capable and courageous, and we all believe in you. Nobody thought you could tame that wild stallion, and yet, you did. And with such ease! Surely this is much less of a challenge. After all, you are fighting a man, not a beast."
Kitty, observing the side of the circle where The Widowmaker had seated himself on a large, wooden crate, guzzling down a jug of what looked like either water or liquor, added, "And he is tired. Look at the sweat pouring off him. And his color seems a bit green, does it not?" In truth, his color was paler than one would expect for the level of exertion, though for a man of his size and skill, the lack of rose in his skin was just as likely because he had not needed to exert himself to dispatch of his previous opponent. "He is tired. A man cannot maintain that level of girth without putting great strain on his heart. I am surprised he can even breathe. Remember our old blacksmith, Lydia?"
Mr. Sargent had been past sixty, prone to drink, and refused any of the apothecary's remedies, but Mr. Wickham would not know that. Lydia, catching the thread, continued with her own embellishments, "Why yes, Mr. Sargent seemed vigorous but as each day progressed, his energy waned until he could not lift the bellows or swing that hammer more than ten times before collapsing in a heap."
"Yes," Mr. Denny added. "A man like that wins through intimidation and brute strength. But you are uncommonly skilled, as you have told us all, many times. You are much more subtle in your approach. Your movements are precise and controlled. He might have relied on his sheer mass to win through his other fights, but you are a craftsman."
Mr. Wickham glanced over at The Widowmaker, who, in a stroke of good fortune, had rested his head on one palm while pouring the rest of his jug over the back of his neck.
"Yes, Denny. You are right. I will not let a brute like this weaken my resolve before the first punch is thrown."
Mrs. Gardiner interjected, "He is rather large, though, and seems quite fierce. Are you certain you are up for this?"
Lydia said, "Auntie, if my husband believes he can best the man, we should not doubt him. He is strong and agile." With her eyes wide, she took Mr. Wickham's hand. "Are you afraid, husband?"
"Never! I have defeated men of larger stature with ease," Mr. Wickham proclaimed. "This will be a simple task. Watch and see."
Kitty breathed a soft sigh of relief. Thank goodness Mr. Wickham's pride could be counted on to overcome his good sense with the right encouragement.
Until the match was announced, Lydia continued her run of flattery. "Now, darling," Lydia said, as Mr. Wickham shed his coat. "Remember, he may be large, but he is slow. I know you will best him."
Mr. Wickham cracked his knuckles and his neck before entering the ring. He bounced on the balls of his feet, loosening his limbs as he stared up, up, up at his opponent. The man was easily two heads taller than Mr. Wickham and twice as broad. His fists were like hammers, his biceps corded with thick muscle.
Mr. Wickham, in contrast, seemed less like a scrappy fighter and more a child playing at fisticuffs. As the two squared off, Mr. Denny leaned in close to Kitty and Lydia, his voice low. "With a bit of financial persuasion, the Widowmaker has assured me he will use his full strength in this match. And, make no mistake, he is aptly named."
It was all Kitty could do not to laugh out loud with the joy and relief of it all. This would be Mr. Wickham's end.
The bell clanged and the two men circled each other. The Widowmaker grinned, a feral baring of teeth. "Ready to meet your maker, little man?"
Mr. Wickham spat on the ground. "We'll see who's little after I knock you on your arse."
They clashed together, the Widowmaker's fist grazing Mr. Wickham's cheek. Even this light blow sent Mr. Wickham stumbling, blood trickling from a cut beneath his eye. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of jeers and taunts, urging the combatants on.
Mrs. Gardiner gasped. "Mr. Denny, did you not say Mr. Wickham was an artist in the ring?"
"Mr. Wickham has said such on numerous occasions," Mr. Denny responded with characteristic blandness.
"Yes, but-" Mrs. Gardiner pursed her lips. "One cannot say he lacks confidence..."
While Mr. Wickham suffered many faults, Kitty could agree lack of confidence had never been among them.
Lydia's fingers dug into Kitty's arm as The Widowmaker threw another punch. Mr. Wickham ducked under it at the last moment, stepping close and landing a trio of blows on his opponent's side.
To Kitty's surprise, unlike with the previous opponent, Mr. Wickham's strikes seemed to have some effect, causing The Widowmaker to stagger back with a short, sharp gasp.
Mrs. Gardiner clapped her hands. "Well done, Mr. Wickham!"
Mr. Wickham grinned and fell back into a defensive stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Kitty clamped a hand over her mouth to hide her dismay. This could not be right. Perhaps The Widowmaker was putting on a show. It would not do for him to simply beat the man to death without even the pretense of sport. Kitty glanced at Mr. Denny, but the gentleman's expression revealed nothing.
The crowd cheered as The Widowmaker regained his footing. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing with fury. He followed with a powerful left jab, followed by another right. Mr. Wickham danced out of the way, narrowly avoiding the worst of the blows.
Drat and double-drat! Kitty hoped The Widowmaker would stop playing around and finish this.
Mr. Wickham spat blood on the ground, his eyes darting from side to side as he sought an opening. The Widowmaker loomed over him, a veritable mountain of muscle and rage. He cocked his arm, telegraphing his intentions. For the next thirty seconds, Mr. Wickham found himself under a relentless assault. Despite his best attempts to dodge, he took a blow to his chest and chin that nearly knocked him flat. But though The Widowmaker continued his relentless advance, his breathing grew heavier with each passing moment. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening in the dim light. And he was slowing down.
Mr. Wickham seized the opportunity to mount his own attack. He landed a solid blow to the man's jaw. The Widowmaker stumbled, and his right hand dropped to his chest. He grimaced, his features contorting in a mask of pain. Mr. Wickham's blow had been solid, but not so strong as to bring about such a response. Kitty could not help but glance at Mr. Denny again, and his expression this time looked decidedly grim.
Mr. Wickham, sensing weakness, pressed his advantage. He pounced, his fists flying as he landed a series of rapid-fire punches to The Widowmaker's exposed torso. The giant buckled, his knees giving out. Mr. Wickham's eyes shone with an almost maniacal gleam, and he continued his assault, raining blow after blow upon his opponent.
The crowd roared its approval, chanting Mr. Wickham's name as the brute collapsed on the canvas in a crumpled heap.
Lydia sobbed, a horrifying, strangled sound, striking Kitty like a well-placed punch to her gut. Her heart.
"Winner, George Wickham," the announcer said, his voice carrying more confusion than satisfaction. Mr. Wickham, face bruised and bloodied, grinned triumphantly and raised his right fist in the air in triumph.
Two men came up beside the Widowmaker's prone form. The man had stopped gasping, and from this distance, it seemed he did not breathe at all. One moved to put his arm under his arm to lift him, but the other shook his head and pressed his fingers to the fallen fighter's neck.
Kitty was too far away to hear what the two men said, but from their expressions and the way the one called out for two more on the sidelines to join him, she doubted it boded well.
"My, that was exciting!" Mrs. Gardiner said. "Though The Widowmaker does not look like he has fared well at all. Do you think he has taken ill?"
To Kitty's eyes, he looked like he had taken dead.
Two more workers rushed into the ring at the judge's frantic wave, their faces etched with a mixture of shock and resignation. They hauled the Widowmaker's limp body from the stage, his limbs swaying as they dragged him from view.
Mr. Denny was silent. Did he feel the knife of failure in his guts as keenly as she and Lydia did?
Kitty stole a glance at Lydia, and her heart lurched at her sister's shattered expression. She bowed her head, wiping a gloved hand at her cheek as her husband exited the ring to enthusiastic applause.
"We will find another way," Kitty said, trying to put confidence into her voice, but it rang hollow, even to her own ears.
Mr. Wickham limped toward the three ladies, his face swollen and streaked with blood. In his hand he held a full purse, prize money from the fight. "I gave you quite the show, did I not, my dears? I admit, I expected more of a man proclaiming himself 'The Widowmaker'." His gaze fell on Lydia, who had not composed her expression to good cheer or even moderate contentment. Mr. Wickham's brows lowered. "Lydia, you need not look as though you are attending a funeral! I defeated him, just as you said I would!"
"You did, darling," Lydia replied with a smile that trembled around the edges. "And I am so proud of you. It was just more frightening than I had imagined."
Kitty bit her tongue, the acid in her stomach bubbling to a burning pitch.
"Yes, well, you are tender of heart," he said, and though he took Lydia's hand with all apparent tenderness, the words sounded like an insult. "Females do not have the constitution for such sport, I suppose. But you will be quite pleased with the prize money. And do not fear, I will not allow this to interfere with my work." He turned to Mr. Denny. "I think I have had my fill of sport today. Let us see the ladies home, and then to our own celebration!"
"Yes, this evening has had far too much excitement," Mrs. Gardiner said, her eyes still focused on the place where they had dragged The Widowmaker away. "I fear that poor man may have died."
THANK YOU FOR READING! In our next chapter, Mrs. Gardiner has some questions...