My Dearest Grandson Alexander,
These words from Lord Chesterfield will serve you well as you travel through life if you heed them: “The reputation which you leave at one place where you have been will circulate, and you will meet with it in twenty places where you are to go. That is a labor never quite lost.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Tension coiled tightly in Race, but he had never seen a more beautiful day in Hyde Park. There wasn’t a cloud in the azure sky. The sun beat warmly on his neck while a cool breeze stirred the midday air. A boxing match always drew crowds, especially if it was free, and this one had brought out thousands from every walk of life.
Race had never seen so many people in the park. There was chatter and laughter all around him. In the distance he heard someone playing a lively tune on a flute, and he smelled the harsh scent of burned wood from campfires. Carriages of every size and description, from gigs and curricles to fancy coaches, had been brought in close to the ring with men, women, and children standing on the seats, sitting on the rooftops, and hanging off the sides of them, hoping to get even a glimpse of the fight. More than half of the crowd that had gathered wouldn’t be able to see any of the much-touted pugilists’ match between Gibby and Prattle, even though Gibby had picked the highest mound in the grassy park to set up the prize ring. It was highly unlikely that more than a couple of hundred would be able to see any of it, but thousands would be able to say they had attended.
Pugilism had long been one of the most fashionable of amusements in London, even though it was usually brutal, ending only after one of the bruisers was unable to come to the scratch, which was the center of the ring, and continue the fight.
Race groaned silently at that thought. He didn’t know if he could trust Prattle to keep his end of their bargain and not do irreparable damage to Gibby, but Race had resigned himself to the fact that he’d done all he could to ensure that Gibby wouldn’t be hurt too badly. And to ensure that Gibby wouldn’t ever find out what he had done to help him.
Race looked over at Susannah, who sat beside him, and smiled to himself. He loved her more than he would have thought possible. It made him feel good just sitting beside her. He had crawled through the hedge in the dark of night to see her three times this past week, and each time it became harder and harder to leave her.
Falling in love had been the last thing on his mind when Susannah had first arrived at his door. Now, he couldn’t imagine her not being a part of his life. He wanted to marry her and make her completely his, but he wanted to give her more time to realize she loved him. He knew it was asking a lot of her to give up her prestigious and coveted title of duchess, but he wasn’t planning on her giving it up until he convinced her he would never make her sorry she had.
Race let his gaze stray over to Mrs. Princeton, who sat on the other side of Susannah. She was giving him a less than friendly look, so Race leaned back in his chair and turned toward Blake, who was to his left. No doubt the woman had figured out by now that he was slipping into Susannah’s bedchamber, judging by the evil eye she was giving him. Blake’s wife Henrietta was seated beside him, with Morgan on the other side of her. They all had front-row seats for an event Race had wanted never to happen.
When they had first arrived at the park, the group of them had to wade through a sea of gorgeously gowned women wearing wide-brimmed hats and faultlessly dressed gentlemen to get to their seats in the dignitary section circling the ring. All the others were at liberty to find their own places to stand or sit, be it their carriages, their horses, or nearby trees.
Race and his cousins had wanted to ride with Gibby in his carriage to the park for this event, but he had insisted he didn’t need them for anything other than as spectators. Gibby wanted only Danger Jim, who had been teaching him to box, and his assistant to be at his side during the fight.
The day before, Gibby had allowed Race and his cousins to be with him in the park as he spent an enormous amount of time making sure the ring was the right size and that chairs for the dignitaries were a safe distance from the rope.
There was talk in all the clubs that the prince himself, an ardent admirer of boxing, might appear for the match. Race had seen the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Norfolk, and several Members of Parliament, but so far he hadn’t seen anything to suggest that the prince would be in attendance.
With all the advance advertisements that had been plastered all over London by Gibby and others, Race didn’t think anyone remembered or even cared why Prattle and Gibby were going to box. The crowd just wanted to see a free fight.
“I can tell you are nervous for him,” Susannah said in a quiet voice.
He turned to her and sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t show, but yes, I’m worried about the old man. It’s difficult to bear the thought that he might get half his teeth knocked out, his jaw broken, or worse.”
Susannah’s face wrinkled in quiet concern. “You did what you could to stop him. He is well capable of making his own decisions. He decided he wanted to do it. Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”
He gave her a grateful smile and nodded. He wanted to reach over and touch her soft cheek, hold her hand and lean in close to her, but knew those things were forbidden, so he refrained and promised himself she would soon be his.
“I know you told me you have never seen a boxing match, but look across the ring and directly in front of you on the first row of seats to the robust man wearing the solid red waistcoat. He is England’s current boxing champion, Daniel Mendoza.”
Susannah eyed the man before saying, “Ah, I had already noticed him because even from here I can see how misshapen his nose is.”
“I’m told his jaw doesn’t work too well, either. There are several other well-known pugilists here. At the end of the row to the left is John Jackson. He owns a fighting club. He spent a couple of days with Gibby, teaching him how to protect himself as well as how to box, before turning Gibby over to Danger Jim for more lessons. There are also several members of the Pugilistic Society here. It surprises me that they have come.”
Susannah smiled at him. “Perhaps they want to make sure they have no new up-and-coming competition.”
“Gibby and Prattle?” Race chuckled. “This is such an amateur fight, I doubt the bruisers are worried about two men well past their prime taking the shine off their accomplishments. The boxers probably came so they could have a good laugh.”
“Tell me, did Sir Randolph ever come up with a fighting name for himself?”
Race grinned. “I think you cured him from wanting another name when you suggested he should be called a bird that looked like a lark.”
Suddenly from a distance, Race heard the sound of bugles trumpeting, and everyone who was seated rose and looked behind them. Even as tall as Race was, there were so many people he couldn’t see what was going on.
Morgan stood on his chair, looked around, and then glanced down at Race and Blake with a rueful grin and said, “I don’t believe this. It is Gibby’s coach, being pulled by six white horses. It’s decorated with red and white ribbons. There’s a bugler sitting with the driver. They are both dressed in white.”
Race looked at Susannah and shook his head. “I should have known Gibby would have to make a grand entrance. He is all about getting attention.”
The crowd started clapping and cheering as the people parted to allow Gibby’s coach to come in close to the ring. When it stopped not far from them, the footman jumped down and opened the door. Gibby stepped out, dressed in a buff-colored satin jacket with gold buttons down the front and epaulets on his shoulders.
Loud cheers and chanting of his name erupted to the point it was deafening. Gibby waved and smiled at the huge gathering. His trainer, Danger Jim, and two other bruisers stepped out of the carriage behind Gibby and flanked him as he walked to the rope, ducked under it, and entered the prize ring.
Race had no idea where Prattle came from, but all of a sudden he entered the ring from the other side, with only one lone man standing beside him. The short, thick man was wearing a simple black shirt, breeches, and stockings. There was such trepidation in Prattle’s expression, he looked like a hen staring at a fox.
Gibby taunted Prattle with a wave and a smile, and the crowd roared its approval once again. Gibby then made a production of taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the men standing beside him. Most pugilists fought bare-chested, but Gibby wore a collarless, buff-colored shirt, breeches, and stockings. He looked much thinner than Prattle, and more fit and muscular than Race would have thought possible, given his age.
Race shook his head and chuckled to himself. Under any other circumstances, Sir Randolph Gibson would never appear before anyone half dressed. Even seeing it with his own eyes, Race had trouble believing Gibby was going through with this fight.
A middle-aged man dressed in a collarless white shirt and black breeches stepped into the ring, and within seconds the crowd quieted down. The referee called Gibby and Prattle to the center and talked to them for less than a minute before blowing a whistle and stepping aside.
Race tensed. He hoped Prattle kept to his part of the bargain as the two men lifted their bare knuckles into the air and began to circle each other. Race had tried to make it clear to Prattle this had to be a real fight, but he didn’t want Gibby hurt. Gibby would know if Prattle just gave up and didn’t try to win.
Gibby, the taller of the two men by at least a head, wasted no time advancing on Prattle, delivering several jabs to his head and a couple of punches to his stomach. From what Race could see, only one fist had actually made contact with Prattle’s midsection. The crowd roared its approval of Gibby’s aggressiveness with his rapid punches and dancing feet. Even though Prattle was stocky, he was quick on his feet, and he was bobbing and weaving to avoid Gibby’s fast fists.
It was clear neither man really knew the art of boxing for sport, or about timing and judgment of throwing their punches to insure accuracy, but both men were giving it a valiant effort. Suddenly one of Gibby’s bare, tight-knuckled fists made contact with Prattle’s chin, snapping his head back, by what seemed to be an accident to Race. The expression on Prattle’s face instantly changed from fear to anger. Race moved to the edge of his seat, and so did every one else on the row chairs.
Suddenly, Prattle was the one advancing on Gibby, but the old man didn’t seem bothered by it. He was quick on his feet, and by sidestepping and dancing around, he was able to avoid all of Prattle’s jabs, but at the same time he wasn’t able to land any of his own, either. Race’s hands clenched into fists, and he flinched as one of Prattle’s fists landed against Gibby’s forehead. Race wanted to stop the fight before Gibby got hurt but knew he couldn’t.
It seemed like hours instead of mere minutes before the whistle blew, and the two amateur bruisers went to their corners for a moment of rest and water.
When the whistle blew again, Gibby and Prattle moved back to scratch and once again started circling each other, occasionally throwing a long punch or a short jab in the other’s direction, sometimes making contact and sometimes missing completely. The crowd started yelling for blood, and that sent a chill up Race’s spine.
In the blink of an eye, Prattle unleashed a powerful left hook to the liver, and the blow staggered Gibby. Prattle took advantage of Gibby’s weakness and went at him again, with another quick left-right combination, which sent Gibby slumping to the ground.
Race and everyone else in the dignitary seats jumped to their feet. The crowd yelled for Gibby to get up.
The referee quickly held Prattle at bay with his arm. Race felt Susannah’s comforting hand touch his, and he briefly squeezed her fingertips.
Gibby scrambled to his feet and shook his head as if to clear his vision and then started his fancy footwork again. The whistle blew before he and Prattle could resume the fight, and they each retreated to their corners again.
“Shouldn’t we stop this madness?” Morgan asked in an angry voice as they retook their seats and the crowd quieted down. “Haven’t we let this go on long enough now?”
“No,” Race said reluctantly. “This is Gibby’s wish. Not ours. We have to let him fight it out.”
“Much as I hate it,” Blake said, “I agree with Race. We can’t intervene.”
“But that man looks like a bull, and Gib looks like a plucked ostrich. I’m afraid the man’s going to kill him.”
“It’s still Gibby’s fight,” Blake said.
Race remained quiet and satisfied that he hadn’t told his cousins about his talk with Prattle. From the way the fight was going, it didn’t look like the man was going to keep his end of their bargain, anyway.
The whistle blew and the boxers returned to the center of the ring and started their wary dance. Prattle was sweating profusely and sucking short, shallow breaths, appearing completely winded. After only a few jabs, Race could see the bigger man was giving out fast. Gibby hadn’t let his knockdown dampen his spirit or aggressiveness. He advanced on Prattle again, looking as composed and unruffled as he had when he exited his coach. Race had to hand it to the old man. He had grit. And he had certainly found his bottom where his courage was stored.
The two men circled each other and soon started throwing short jabs and long punches, neither of them very good at hitting their mark. It wasn’t long before the whistle blew, and they retreated to their corners for rest, for water, and for a pep talk from the men waiting for them ringside.
The fourth round started, and it seemed as if Gibby and Prattle were evenly matched in the amount of punches thrown by each of them. Prattle had an eye that was almost swollen shut, and Gibby had blood at the side of his mouth. All of a sudden, Prattle connected with a strong, fast right to Gibby’s stomach, and he doubled over, clearly in pain. Race watched as if in slow motion as Prattle moved in close with his right arm cocked, ready to wallop Gibby and finish him off.
Race, Susannah, and the rest of the entourage sprang to their feet and yelled, “Gibby!”
Sir Randolph Gibson must have heard them, because he straightened and as he came up he landed a stunning right uppercut to Prattle’s double chin.
Spittle flew from his mouth, sweat flung from his body as Prattle’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he landed on the grassy mound with a heavy thud.
Gibby froze.
The crowd fell silent.
The referee bent over Prattle and tried to rouse him.
Race’s heart hammered like a stick on a drum. He looked at the man sprawled motionless on the ground. Was Prattle faking the knockout? If so, he was doing a damned good job of it. Race had seen enough fights to know that it looked as if Gibby had somehow literally knocked the man cold.
The official rose and yelled, “He’s out!”
The crowd went wild with loud cheers and thunderous clapping.
Gibby held both fists into the air and gave a victory shout as the two men who stood with him wrapped his jacket around his shoulders.
Race felt limp with relief. He didn’t know why he had ever worried about Gibby. The man lived a charmed life and was obviously more than able to take care of himself.
Not caring at the moment who in the crowd might see or what they might say, Race reached down and hugged Susannah to him briefly. She would be his wife soon enough. Somehow, he was going to make sure of that.