Forever a Lord (25 page)

A large bucket of water was poured over Nathaniel by his second, drenching his black hair and sloughing blood off his face and bare chest. Nathaniel let out a laugh and took to shaking the hands of men now surrounding him.

“Ey!”
a man yelled, popping out both arms and stepping in front of her. “Where do you think you’re going? This stage is reserved for chroniclers, the opponents and the committee, sir.”

Sir? How nice that she looked that convincing. “I’m actually here to see my husband. Lord Atwood. I’m his wife and his investor. And therefore part of the committee.”

The man gaped, stepping back.

Stripping off her top hat, which released her bundled hair and sent it cascading down and onto her shoulders, she flung it toward Nathaniel to get his attention. “Nathaniel!”

Nathaniel paused in between handshakes from the men that surrounded him and stared, his wet, swollen features appearing about as stunned as swollen features could be.
“Imogene?”
he yelled out, shoving his way frantically through the men toward her. He scanned her appearance as he shoved his way closer. “What are you doing here? And what the devil are you wearing?”

She grinned and rushed toward him. “I couldn’t miss it. You were amazing!”

Nathaniel seized her by the arms and scanned her again, shaking her. “Jesus. You shouldn’t be here. Not in your condition.”

Still grinning, she grabbed his waist, to ensure she didn’t touch anything that might hurt, and shook him in turn. “You, my lord, just took the title for the Champion of England whilst your wife proudly watched. What now? Are you taking on those bulls in Spain like you promised me we would?”

Nathaniel let out a riled laugh. “Hell, we buy all of Spain! Imogene! We did it!” Grabbing her face, he leaned in and kissed her lips soundly. Then winced. “We kiss later,” he rasped down at her. “Once I have regained my ability to.”

“Regain it fast, my lord,” she teased. “Patience is supposedly a virtue, but I don’t think I have it.”

He searched her eyes, still cradling her face and whispered, “I can’t believe you are actually here. I can’t believe you are actually standing here with me. Breathing in this moment with me.”

She smiled and whispered back, “Know that I am here to breathe in every moment with you, Nathaniel.”

He searched her face. “Forever and always?”

She leaned up and gently kissed his chin. “Forever and always.”

EPILOGUE

Few, if any, can boast of such patronage as our hero—who, if reports speak true, may now smile.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Ten years later
Christmas evening at the Wentworth House

“A
GAIN
!
Show us again!
” they all piped in resounding unison, bobbing up and down whilst sending short trousers and above-ankle skirts and little polished boots and slippers shuffling and swaying within the large receiving room.

Those a little less able to focus on the excitement merely crawled around said trousers, skirts and boots in the opposite direction, babbling their way toward the candlelit Christmas tree where scattered, ransacked boxes, dolls, wooden horses, balls, books and other countless toys layered the floor.

Nathaniel lifted a debonair dark brow toward the large group of young spectators. “Dare I?” he challenged.

“Yes, yes! Again, again!
Again!
” A riled group of nineteen children—four of which were Imogene's and Nathaniel's, three of which were Henry's and his French wife Orphée's, five of which were Robinson's and Georgia's, and seven of which were Matthew's and Bernadette's—herded past crawling tots and skidded toward the evergreen-draped hearth.

Nathaniel remained steadfast before the hearth on one trouser-clad knee theatrically demonstrating how he had single-handedly won the title of Champion of England ten years earlier.

With both hands behind his back.

And one eye closed.

Imogene tsked and called out from where she lingered beside Georgia, Bernadette and Orphée, “Years are fading that memory of yours fast, Nathaniel dear. Do you want me to take over and tell them how it really happened?”

“You weren't there, tea cake!” he called back with a quirk of his mouth.

“Wasn't I?” Imogene called back.

Nathaniel smirked and angled himself toward his captive audience. “Can't a man glory in what little remains of his fighting years?”

She tsked again. “Once a boxer, always a boxer. He may have retired from putting up those fists but he didn't retire from thinking about it.”

Georgia leaned toward Imogene. “At least yours remembers how you two first met.” Georgia puckered her lips and thumbed toward Yardley, who sat cross-legged on the floor with his youngest in his lap. “He remembers everything but that.”

Imogene burst into laughter. “I suppose I shouldn't complain then, should I?”

Yardley glanced up, adjusting his son onto his other knee, and hollered across the room, “Ey! I heard that.”

“Leave us upstanding gents alone for one breathing moment. It's Christmas!” With green eyes dancing, Henry snatched up a ball and playfully whipped it toward their direction.

Orphée, Bernadette, Georgia and Imogene darted out of the way, giggling.

Augustine, Imogene's oldest child at almost ten, darted toward the tree, blond braids swaying, and swiped up another ball, whipping it toward Henry. “A ball for a ball!” she taunted, bouncing it off his leg.

Ballad Jane, Georgia's oldest, also darted in and whipped another ball. “And here is another ball for a ball!”

Bernadette quickly pointed at Matthew and the duke before sweeping a finger toward Henry. “Gentlemen, throw this ruffian out. Before he gives the children any more ideas. This game of a ball for a ball sounds like a fire waiting to happen. Do you have any idea how many candles are on that tree? Queen Victoria ought to be scolded for introducing such a hazard into every household.”

“You needn't worry,” Matthew called out to his wife. “I'll throw the real ruffian out into the snow!” With a charging gruff roar, Matthew darted toward nine-year-old Augustine and tossed her up into his arms, sending her half-screaming and giggling.

Candles, bouncing balls and screaming children aside, it was another
very
Merry Christmas. Imogene grinned, knowing it had been yet another glorious year with not only the man she loved but the children she loved and the friends and family she loved. She couldn't ask for more.

She paused. Well, no…she could ask for one more thing— her husband in their bed by the end of the night. A woman had to unwrap
something
on Christmas.

* * * * *

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Historical bare-knuckle boxing is a creature that took me quite a bit of time to understand. It isn’t even a breath near the boxing of today. The rules were very different and the men were very different. Chaos and the fist ruled without restraint. Mr. P. Egan’s
Boxiana
or the Sketches of Ancient and Modern Pugilism,
was a huge starting point as it was printed in the era which I was writing in. But it also only raised more questions I needed answered. I didn’t understand the terminology or the slang and had to learn everything from scratch.

Prior to 1743, there weren’t any set rules and men died even trying to box. It was a brutal sport that went back to the days of the Romans and Greeks and beyond. Rules were tacked here and there in the name of the sport itself, but none were officially adhered to or followed until a certain British gentleman by the man of Broughton came along and changed boxing history.

On August 10, 1743, Broughton introduced a set of rules meant to regulate the wild world of pugilism and its men. Although there were only seven rules written and set up by Broughton, it was an introduction to fair play which many felt the world of boxing was missing.

One of the most important rules of the seven was actually number seven itself, which read: “That no person is to hit his adversary when he is down, or seize him by the ham, the breeches or any part below the waist; a man on his knees to be reckoned down.” It’s obvious by the rule itself that prior to Broughton’s rules, men hit anything they could get their hands on. Even after the rules were set, holding on to your opponent’s hair was still considered legal because it was located above the waist.

These seven rules set by Broughton were adhered to until another change in boxing history occurred when the Marquess of Queensbury endorsed a boxing code drafted and written by Mr. Chambers in London in the 1860s. Rounds were set up to prevent exhaustion, no wrestling was allowed and gloves became standard.

In the era prior to the Queensbury rules, in New York City itself and the United States, bare-knuckle boxing was illegal due to its savageness. Fights were held in secret locations—usually near wharves—that were usually announced at the last minute. The rounds were determined not by time, but the moment one of the fighters hit the ground. The match didn’t end until someone couldn’t get up after a thirty-second period of time after hitting the ground or if one of the fighters called out, “Enough.” To say “Enough” before a boxing crowd, however, was like saying “I’m not good enough to fight, boys.” So it was rarely ever used by bare-knuckle boxers. In fact, I haven’t come across a single recorded fight prior to the 1860s that had a man call out “Enough.” Which says something about the men who were fighting. They didn’t kneel for anyone unless dead. And unlike the few rounds of today, men in the 1830s could fight well over seventy rounds, usually lasting as many as two or three hours, depending on how much fight there was in a man.

What fascinated me the most, however, was how the men of the 1830s had to train their hands to take hits without breaking them. Men strategically built calluses on their knuckles by training on trees. Yes. Trees. Trees were everywhere and they cost a man nothing. Think of a tree being used like a punching bag. Men would actually knock the bark off with their knuckles in order to pad their hands well with scars and calluses alike. Other men used axes to strengthen their swing and their muscles. Either way you look at it, these men were badass. They defined the hero I saw in my head.

Reading about boxing in the 1830s, I knew I had to throw my hero into being a boxer and mold him around it. I hope you enjoyed glimpsing the historical boxing world. I genuinely loved researching it. In fact, I hope to one day return to it, because there are still so many facets of historical boxing I have yet to explore and touch.

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ISBN: 9781460300367

FOREVER A LORD

Copyright © 2013 by Delilah Marvelle

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