Authors: Sophie Dash
Soon enough Isaac would have enough funds to buy back his father’s lands and make them profitable again, instead of the wasted, ruined, overgrown and tangled mass they were now. The name Roscoe would be restored to its rightful place, if he fought hard, if he worked for it, if he bled for it.
And he wouldn’t need anyone’s help or charity in order to do it.
The Oak lumbered forwards. Isaac jabbed, his fist meeting a hard jaw that didn’t mark. There was nothing, no effect, not even a flinch. The answering blow pummelled his own cheek with such ferocity that his sight briefly failed, as though it were snowing indoors. It all went dark. He was on the dusty floor. There was sawdust strewn beneath him – good for soaking up blood, piss, bile and whatever was beaten from the other men who’d tried their luck in the pit. It stank and stuck to his chin, mixing with saliva and too much red.
Moving was a battle; his entire body hurt. At least he still had all his teeth. For now. The Oak was playing with him. The smile offered – mainly gum, for that’s all that was left – told him that much.
The spectators roared, spat, snarled. It was a mix – rich and poor – all gamblers eager to make a win. One of them was a man Isaac recognised, who stood out amongst the rest, looking ill at ease and disapproving. He knew that man. It was his great-aunt’s ‘helper’ for lack of a better word.
Another heavy punch came his way, but Isaac was fast. He craned back, slipping on the gritty floor and barely holding his footing. He’d served for years at sea and developed a good balance, amongst other things. The Oak, on the other hand, had overstretched, gone too far, stumbled. It gave Isaac a brief advantage. A smack to the kidneys and a kick behind his knee forced the Oak down – and thankfully – sent his head into the wood panelling that fenced the boxers in. There was sickening
CRUNCH,
a crash of splinters, and then nothing.
Gone, unconscious, immobile.
A lucky turn for Isaac. One that kept him safe, from the Oak at least, for the crowd were not too happy with the outcome. They had wanted a more gruesome result.
Hisses, shouts and curse words were thrown at Isaac’s raw back, but no one stopped him leaving the ring, while the Oak dribbled onto the floor. As he’d anticipated, the familiar face – one from his past – followed, all the way out into the corridor, to the narrow lane between buildings; an extension of both the bar next door and the illegal boxing venue. Broken crates were lined up in the alley, an old dog prowled the leavings and two men were slumped nearby, playing a foreign game with battered wooden tiles.
Isaac tested his lip with his tongue and hissed at the sharp pain. “What do you want, Sebastian?”
“I have been sent to find you by your great-aunt.”
“You found me. Is that all?”
“It never is.”
“I know,” said Isaac grimly, chest rising and falling heavily, sweat leaving his hair in dark, clumped spikes across his forehead. “What does the old hag want now?”
An annoyed twitch had the wrinkles deepen around Sebastian’s mouth. “Lady Mawes has received concerning news about your conduct.”
“I am not the only high-born man to fight.”
It’s all he’d done this past month, seeking out guts and glory in the grottiest south-easterly towns. Moving from place to place, making a name for himself, attempting to forget what he was running from. It was living, or it would be until his luck ran out.
“Not this,” said Sebastian, voice as flat and drab as his clothing. “I refer to your other recent unsavoury activity.”
“Which one?” Isaac grinned a lewd, vulgar grin. “You will have to be a little more specific.”
“You know to what I refer.”
It had been almost a month since Isaac had parted ways with Miss Osbourne. News, he knew, travelled fast throughout London, although he had not expected it to reach the countryside and his home for a long while yet.
Sebastian was humourless and looked like a vulture with his black attire, thin white hair and scrawny neck. “Where’s the woman?” He asked in such a way that indicated he already knew the answer – and knew that Isaac did not.
“How should I know?”
And why should I care?
If he sounded petulant, it’s because he was. All the other women from his past he’d easily forgotten. Not her. It didn’t matter how much he drank or how many brawls he started, the pain and the liquor did nothing to drive away the image of her and those sharp last words. God, and that look upon her face. It haunted him. Reminding him of all he’d done and all he’d take back, if only he could…
Isaac pushed himself away from the wall and went directly towards the bar. No one stood in his way, though a few unhappy mutters were cast in his direction. There’d be a scuffle later, when the others were drunk enough to be brave and had forgotten the power Isaac held in his fists. More fool them.
“She’s your responsibility, as far as your great-aunt is concerned.”
“Mine?” He gestured to the barman, took a table and ignored the constant stares hurled his way.
“Yes,” said Sebastian, following his every step. The man had always been around since Isaac was a boy, managing the Roscoe affairs – like family, only the relationship was never stated. What Isaac’s aunt wanted done, Sebastian would do. He was stern, calm and seemed to have been old for ever – or at least since Isaac was young – and to have him here brought those childhood memories racing back.
They were not welcome ones.
“We received word from a banker, a Mr Osbourne, about the entire sorry affair involving his niece.”
“Why is this my problem?”
“Because she’s to be your wife.”
Isaac snorted, a broken laugh into the drink that had been set down before him. “Are you mad?”
There was only silence as a response, for Sebastian rarely repeated himself and never made jokes.
The table was sticky under Isaac’s elbows. He didn’t care; he was already filthy. “Is this old Lady Mawes’s command?”
“Naturally.”
“I knew she would succumb to her delusions eventually.” Ones about family and loyalty and kinship. “Here is the proof her sanity is finally gone.”
“Do you think this is the first misdemeanour that has met her ears?” Sebastian kept his voice low, as if Isaac’s reputation wasn’t already tarnished enough, as if everyone in their immediate surroundings and in nearby towns didn’t know the kind of man he was. “We have had to clean up after you for years, with tearful women sending letters, turning up on our doorstep and telling tales about your conduct.” The older man’s frown was levelled at Isaac’s appearance: shirtless, dirty, scraped and cut. No way for a gentleman to present himself, no way for a decent man to behave.
“You have?” Now
that
was a picture. He could only imagine his great-aunt’s face, her fury, as gossip spread and Isaac was firmly established as a rogue, a rake, a scoundrel.
“The family name is under threat due to your actions.”
“And this is my punishment?”
“This is your
duty,
Isaac,” persisted Sebastian.
And Isaac knew, with utmost certainty, that the man was right – not that it changed anything.
“Whatever match my great-aunt is thinking on making, the Osbourne girl is better off without me.”
Isn’t everyone?
The woman had suffered enough without pledging her life to him – and Isaac had vowed never to marry. He had seen, first-hand, what such a union could do when it was broken. It was better to have a different body to warm his bed each night. Less risk, less pain. Love was for fools and love created fools. He had lost too much in his life to ever lose his heart as well.
And, as far as everyone knew, he had no heart.
“She’ll be destitute without you, cut off entirely – as will you.”
“What?” The beer held Isaac’s focus no longer as his eyes snapped upwards and onto Sebastian’s.
“There will be no more funds, no financial support, unless you marry the poor wretch.”
“Fine,” he shot back. “I can survive on my own.”
Better to be alone – it’s safer that way.
“The woman you wronged cannot.”
“She wants nothing to do with me and for good reason.”
“It does not matter what she wants. The wedding has already been arranged a week from now, and I have been assured that Miss Osbourne will co-operate.”
Surprise slackened Isaac’s features and smoothed away the hard lines. “She will?”
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything,
he reminded himself, though he struggled to believe it.
“What choice does she have? She’s alone, her betrothed has found another, her uncle has disowned her and she’s been shunned by all London society. And, more’s the pity, her last hopes rest on you.”
“Then she is doomed.” And he’d doomed her. He’d done this.
Ruth.
Guilt had hollowed out his chest and filled the cavity with lead. The girl would co-operate? That could mean anything.
It doesn’t mean she’s forgiven me.
“If I don’t agree to this marriage, I will be destitute?”
“Unless you can survive in this…putrid fashion.”
“I’ve coped so far.”
“Have you?”
Isaac took a long, slow drink. No, he hadn’t coped, not as much as he would’ve liked. Not since his time with the Navy had been cut short – his own fault – and he’d dragged himself down with the lowest dregs of society. He was an outcast. Too high-born to be accepted and yet not high enough to secure his own living, at least not any living that appealed to him.
Marriage to Ruth Osbourne? She hated him. As she should. To chain himself to her was no more than he deserved, a penance, a toll to pay. He had put them in this position and the least he could do was to try and make amends, especially if it kept him in coin.
No, it isn’t only that.
He could fool Sebastian. He couldn’t fool himself. Although money was a big persuader, there was more to it.
“I never thought I had it in me to hate anyone…”
He could still hear the fury, the loathing.
“Not until this very day, this moment.”
She’d held fire then. A damning spark. One that had haunted him these weeks past. Of all the regrets he’d anchored himself to, he regretted – most of all – that he’d never kissed her when he’d had the chance. That they’d never done all they’d been accused of. To hold her, to take her, to watch her fall apart under his touch. Because he’d known she’d wanted that as much as he.
Those futile thoughts would do him no good,
had
done him no good. The woman was no fool. She’d never fall for his tricks and charms again, not when she knew better, knew him, and what he was.
And yet she’d still agreed to their union, even if it was out of desperation.
There was a possibility that perhaps, one day, she might…
No, never, she’s smarter than that.
She’d still agreed. That had to mean something.
“Then I will marry her,” Isaac said at last.
Like his bruises, scrapes and cuts, that defeat would hurt tomorrow, when he let himself think about it, when he was sober.
Wedded to Miss Osbourne. A lifetime with a woman who hated him, who could never forgive him, who would always see him as the cause of every single one of her troubles.
Yes, that would hurt a lot.
Ruth
The morning’s wide, mid-August sun was unrelenting as it stared down across London’s furthest outskirts. Gulls interrupted its glare in sweeping arcs and leaned their cries over the cracked dirt roads, the dust of which clung to Ruth’s satin shoes. An old, battered pair that had seen far better days. She stood before a church. Its exterior was blackened with coal smoke and its thick oak doors were a gaping mouth poised to swallow her whole.
In an hour or so, when she passed through those doors once more – venturing out, rather than in – she would be a married woman. Eyes pressed closed, Ruth did her best to temper her breathing. Two mindsets battled within her. The first said, “
This isn’t how it’s meant to be. I was meant to be happy
.” The second, rather more rational, told her, “
You will cope. It’s what you do
.”
For hadn’t she done it her whole life?
Cope and cope and cope.
I won’t cry.
Uncle Osbourne had deigned to turn up to the ceremony, if only to ensure the marriage took place. Ruth would not look at him. She didn’t trust herself. If she could not keep her name, her body, her freedom, she could keep her dignity. And,
God
, she wouldn’t cry.
The past five weeks had gone by in a blur. The inn she had woken up in that morning had become the only place that would take her, supported reluctantly by her uncle, even though he had publicly disowned her. All the doors that had ever been open to her were now closed. Ruth Osbourne was damaged goods.
Without virtue, lacking morals, a fallen woman.
People sneered at her if ever she ventured out. They spouted horrible words or refused to speak to her at all. Letters were written. Most were returned. There was nothing from Lottie. Rumour reached her, through her limited interactions with her fellow tenants, that Lottie had become engaged to Albert. It was an admission of guilt if ever there was one. Yes, she’d wept. It hurt, to be betrayed to such an extent, to be used. What did she expect after all her father had done?
Villain.
Although she had never truly liked Griswell, she had never expected this callousness. Money. It was always money with a man like him. All the time he had been in her company, had held conversations with her, dined under her uncle’s roof while plotting her downfall. He hired a cad to set her up in such a ghastly fashion. Had Lottie known all along? No, no, she couldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t let herself believe it…only…some nights, when the inn had been at its loudest and she felt at her loneliest, she doubted everything. Had they ever truly been friends? Or had circumstance thrown them together and made Ruth the most agreeable prospect in their school days?
Lottie need not see her now, need not care, for the girl had all London society to befriend and manipulate and use. Ruth had no one.