A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Read online

  This is a work of fiction and any names, characters, events, or organisations are either a product of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is purely coincidental.

  © Alice Coldbreath, 2020

  This book is dedicated to TW. I have missed your company this past year my friend and look forward to the time when we can get together again. AC.

  1

  Sitwell Place, Pimlico, London 1845

  “A toast,” said Uncle Josiah jovially. “To the prospective bride and groom!”

  Everyone scrambled to pick up their tumblers of water. Lizzie Anderson raised hers aloft like the rest of the company, though she thought there was precious little to celebrate. Cousin Betsy had lost her mind. Why else would she go and throw herself away on a reprobate like Benedict Toomes? There could be no other explanation for it, Lizzie thought, as her gaze traveled from her pretty, dimpling cousin to the dark male specimen lolling in his seat next to her.

  Benedict Toomes’s shoulders were twice as broad as any other man sat there, and maybe that was supposed to excuse the fact he had seen fit to remove his jacket in polite company and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. To Lizzie, it just looked slovenly. Uncle Josiah would never sit to supper in his shirt sleeves. Then, too, he had barely spoken a word throughout dinner, though his every pore radiated an ill-bred arrogance that set Lizzie’s jangling nerves on edge. Instead of trying to ingratiate himself to the company at large, like a decent man would, he looked, if anything, rather bored.

  How did he dare to sit there so silent and scornful, she fumed, when he was surrounded on all sides by good Christian folk? Lizzie’s bosom swelled with indignation as she unfolded her napkin. She knew full well he had only been released from prison two months ago for common affray, yet instead of looking even remotely abashed, he sat there bold as brass with those cool, hazel eyes of his and a faint curl to his sensual full mouth that spoke of pride and disdain.

  What did he have to be arrogant about, that’s what she’d like to know! From what Betsy had told her, he was nothing more than a common prizefighter, and though her cousin had airily talked of his having money to invest and enough put by for a house of his own, Lizzie would believe it when she saw it! Men like that were soon parted from their money by fast living. She only hoped that Betsy would not rue the day she had decided to let flashy good looks overrule good sense.

  Lizzie could not for the life of her understand why Uncle Josiah had permitted the man a seat at his table, let alone to become engaged to his only daughter. Of course, she knew a repentant sinner must be welcomed back into the fold, but Benedict Toomes did not look remotely repentant, and besides, he had never been part of their fold! Sometimes, she even wondered if he was a regular churchgoer at all!

  Her gaze sought out the reassuring presence of Reverend Milson, who sat at the opposite end of the table in his somber black robes. From her seat, she could just about make out his melodious voice informing his neighbor of the charity fundraiser he was currently devoting his energies to. Lizzie hoped the rich Mrs. Lessing would prove receptive to his cause. Although a wealthy widow, she could be extremely mean with her largesse and liked to keep her prospective beneficiaries dancing constant attendance on her.

  How shocked dear Reverend Milson must have been to find himself having to share a meal with the likes of Benedict Toomes, Lizzie thought, yet you could not tell from his wonderfully serene expression. Everyone knew the good reverend had regretfully declined to read the banns in his own church after Benedict had refused to formally pledge himself a member of their congregation. Lizzie had never been so shocked as when she had learned that poor Betsy was having to be married out of a neighboring parish. Lizzie did not know how Betsy could bear the indignity after being raised in the same church all her life. It must have been a cruel blow, yet her cousin seemed determined to forge ahead on this dubious path in life.

  The only consolation was the proof that their pastor was indeed a man of principle, she thought, looking at how Reverend Milson’s pale hair swept back from his noble brow. He knew a sinner when he saw one, and he did not flinch from his duty. Fortified by this thought, Lizzie reached for her water glass and took another refreshing sip. It was overcrowded tonight in the Anderson’s dining room, and she was starting to feel a little hot in the face.

  “Lizzie, my dear,” Mrs. Hedgcomb addressed her with a kindly smile. “I wanted to thank you for that pretty shawl pattern you dropped by yesterday. Why, it’s just the thing for my niece Hilda’s new baby.”

  Lizzie leant forward. “I’m so glad, Mrs. Hedgcomb,” she replied. “I’ve made it several times, and it always turns out very nicely indeed. ”

  She turned and apologized to old Mr. Scott, who she had inadvertently jostled. There were so many extra seats crowded around the dining room table tonight, it made it hard to avoid scraping elbows.

  “Not at all, my dear,” he assured her, patting her arm. “Don’t give it another thought.” Lizzie smiled back at him and steeled herself to ask after his elderly father who suffered from the gout.

  She was not sure at which point her attention started to wander. Mr. Scott always went into so much detail about his father’s maladies, and the buzz of conversation around the table somehow made it easier to disassociate from the gently plaintive voice as it unhurriedly ran through the elder Scott’s various ailments.

  Lizzie nodded absently, her thoughts miles away as her eyes wandered over the flowers and the dishes of wax fruit stacked down the center of the table. She had just noticed that someone had spilled gravy on Aunt Hester’s pristine table linen when her eyes were dazzled by a flash of light. Glancing up, she saw the candlelight had caught Mrs. Lessing’s diamond brooch as sly fingers plucked it from her black lace shawl and dropped it into a discreet breast pocket.

  Lizzie started, her disbelieving eyes travelling up from the breast pocket up to the serene features of Reverend Milson as he smoothly continued his conversation with Mrs. Lessing without even pausing to draw breath. She blinked. What just happened? Her eyes traveled back disbelievingly to Mrs. Lessing’s plump bosom. The shawl was bare of adornment for the brooch was gone.

  “Lizzie, my dear?” She turned back blankly to Mr. Scott. “You must not take on so, my child,” he said with an indulgent chuckle. “He is a very old man, and it’s only natural that he feels his years at ninety-one.”

  She nodded dumbly. “It s-seems hard the old gentleman should have to suffer so,” she managed to stammer from lips that felt strangely numb. Her mind was reeling. What had she just seen? Could Mrs. Lessing have asked Reverend Milson to take her brooch for safekeeping? she wondered. Could the brooch pin have become loose? Or a stone have fallen out? Madly, she scrabbled for a reasonable excuse for the vicar to have legitimately removed the brooch, but all the while, in the back of her mind, she kept remembering how his lips had flowed with speech while his fingers surreptitiously removed and pocketed the brooch.

  Lizzie’s spirits plummeted. A horrible, cold voice told her it was undoubtedly theft. But it could not be! She argued with herself all through the next course as her hands turned clammy and she felt herself starting to perspire. She pushed the food around her plate, unable to put a single forkful into her mouth. What was she going to do? She had no choice. She would have to ask Reverend Milson to explain himself, she thought desperately. She would draw him quietly to one side and ask him what his purpose had been. There must be some reason she was not aware of; some motivating factor that would become clear to her with time.

  It was as the last course of marbled j
elly and cheese straws was being tidied away that Lizzie heard Reverend Milson clear his throat. “But my dear Mrs. Lessing,” he said in an upraised voice. “Where is your brooch? I could have sworn you had it on before supper.” Lizzie caught her breath in her throat as all eyes turned toward Mrs. Lessing.

  “My brooch! My diamond brooch! It’s gone!” the shaken widow shrieked. There was the sound of chairs being hurriedly dragged back as people inspected the floor and immediate area for the missing jewel.

  Aunt Hester stood up and, in an awful voice, called Annie back into the room. The unfortunate maid had only reached the hallway and was still holding an empty tray of crumbs. She hurried back and was soon reduced to incoherent tears.

  “Every time I turned around you were hovering at my shoulder, girl!” Mrs. Lessing squawked.

  “That was just to serve you vegetables, madam!” Annie wailed.

  “Turn out her pockets!” Uncle Josiah ordered direly. Aunt Hester had soon whisked around the table and divested the servant of her starched white apron and turned out the pockets of her black cotton gown.

  Lizzie sat in stupefied silence, her heart pounding, her pleading gaze barely leaving Reverend Milson’s composed face. She kept expecting him to reveal the location of the pilfered brooch, like a conjuring trick. Was there some kind of moral they would be expected to draw from the way they were conducting themselves? she wondered dumbly. Was this a lesson in false accusation? Was Reverend Milson, even now, composing next Sunday’s sermon?

  Poor Annie had collapsed into a heap and was sobbing into her apron. It struck Lizzie suddenly, that as the unfortunate maid had briefly left the room, her name was not really cleared by her pockets being found empty. Suspicion would remain hovering over her, and glancing around, she could see their guests were starting to whisper behind their hands at each other.

  “Annie has been with us for over ten years,” she heard herself say weakly to Mr. Scott, but it was at this point she saw it was not Annie he was eyeing askance but Benedict Toomes, and he was not the only one. As though in a nightmare, Lizzie saw the hardening gazes of the company directed as of one accord toward the outsider sat among them. Of course, she thought dully. He was the only relative stranger in their midst. Everyone else present were friends of long standing and belonged to St. Joseph’s church. As though on cue, Uncle Josiah stood up, tugging on his waistcoat, his expression very grave.

  As he cleared his throat to speak, old Mr. March jumped up from his seat. “I won’t sit idly by while we all eye our neighbors with suspicion. We have only one stranger in our midst this night, and I beg pardon Josiah, but we all know he’s a relative heathen!”

  Lizzie froze as murmurs of agreement filled the room. She would have to act now, or things would be said that could never be undone. She surged to her feet. “I saw who took the brooch!” she announced croakily. “I saw the whole thing.” She felt her color rise as all eyes now swiveled to look at her.

  Both Mr. March and her uncle dropped back into their seats, leaving her with the floor.

  “That’s it, girl, speak the truth and shame the devil!” Mr. March uttered.

  Feeling her mouth suddenly dry, Lizzie turned in mute appeal to Reverend Milson, willing him to take over now with some explanation for his seemingly inexplicable actions.

  For the first time, Lizzie saw a crack in his tranquility. A little color crept into his cheeks and his eyes darted left to right. Oh no, she thought incredulously as her heart sank. There was no reasonable explanation, and he wasn’t going to confess. The realization was like a cold bucket of water being poured over her head. She felt as though she were in the midst of some awful nightmare.

  “Speak out, Lizzie!” her uncle ordered strictly. “As the good book says, ‘Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed.’”

  Lizzie raised a trembling hand, before dropping it again. “It was Reverend Milson,” she said hopelessly.

  Those who did not gasp, drew in sharp breaths of disapproval. Mr. March uttered a faint cry.

  “Lizzie!” her aunt burst forth in shocked censure.

  “It’s in his breast pocket,” Lizzie added, briefly closing her eyes against the angry, hard stares of her family and friends. “I saw him put it in there. I believe it is there still.”

  “I believe I speak for all present,” her uncle said shakily, after a moment’s stunned silence, “when I say that nothing could induce me to ask the good reverend to turn out his pockets!”

  “Not quite,” cut in a cool, hard voice. It was Betsy’s fiancé, Benedict Toomes. Lizzie felt his sardonic gaze dwell on her for a moment before he turned it on the vicar. “If no one else will, I believe I’ll have to insist upon it.” The room was instantly silent as the grave.

  “Oh no, Benedict!” Betsy protested, turning toward her fiancé and plucking at his sleeve with agitated fingers. He neither acknowledged her words or actions with so much as a glance.

  “Empty it,” he said in a voice that could cut ice. “Now.”

  Reverend Milson turned an unflattering shade of puce. “I really must object…” he bleated, even as his fingers obeyed the demand, fluttering to his breast pocket. He licked his lips and pulled out the corner of a large white handkerchief and in the process dislodged the brooch, which fell with a heavy thud onto the tablecloth where it glittered up at him accusingly.

  Shocked silence reigned for one awful moment, and all that could be heard was the steady tick of the grandfather clock. Then Mrs. Lessing pounced on her brooch with a suppressed squawk and lifted it to press it to her lips. “Thanks be!” she breathed reverently.

  Reverend Milson drew himself up. “How did that get there?” he blustered, raising his eyes heavenward. “Good gentlemen, I assure you I have no earthly notion.”

  He was lying. As her faith in her idol withered away, Lizzie dropped like a stone into her seat and sat winded as the babble of excited conversation rose in a deafening swell. She felt like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Her limbs felt weak and strangely heavy.

  “Someone must have placed it there!” said Mrs. Hedgcomb shrilly. “It’s an outrage to try to discredit a man of the cloth and besmirch his blameless character. Hester Anderson, I’ll not set one foot in this godless house again, and I’ll warrant I am not the only one!” Her words were greeted with a chorus of indignant agreement from the company at large.

  Aunt Hester’s mouth fell open, and she looked about in dismay at the angry faces of her guests. “B-but, Ada!” she stammered, wringing her hands. “No one could think that dear Reverend Milson could ever do such a wicked thing!“

  “You seem to forget,” Benedict Toomes’ voice cut across them all like the crack of a whip, “that there is a witness here present who saw Reverend Milson steal the brooch.”

  Lizzie drew a pained breath as, once again, she felt the burning gazes of reproach fall upon her of everyone present. She raised her eyes from contemplation of her hands in her lap to meet them.

  “Lizzie,” intoned her uncle sternly. “Do you mean to say you stand by this outrageous assertion of yours?” He was coldly furious, Lizzie realized. Furious with her.

  Lizzie stiffened her spine. “I do,” she said simply. “I must. I saw Reverend Milson take the brooch and slip it into his own pocket.” She met first her uncle’s eyes, then slowly went around the table meeting everyone else’s. All fell away from hers, save for Benedict Toomes. His bored into her so searingly that she felt almost scorched.

  “May the good Lord forgive you,” said Reverend Milson piously, though he gazed at some point over her left shoulder, steadfastly refusing to meet her eye.

  “And you,” Lizzie responded automatically, as though in church.

  “Lizzie!” her aunt choked, deeply shocked.

  Benedict Toomes gave a nasty laugh, and the whole table erupted into chaos.

  2

  He must have been mad to think he could marry into this lot, Benedict reflected, watc
hing the polite folk filing their way out of the Anderson’s hallway, from his seat just inside in the drawing room. A bunch of meek-faced hypocrites, the lot of them. Not one of them had the guts to look the devil in the eye. No, that wasn’t quite true, he thought musingly, one of them did. That sanctimonious bitch, Betsy’s cousin, had courage enough, though precious little else to recommend her to a man.

  He had felt Lizzie Anderson’s disapproving gaze on him all through supper, when she wasn’t gazing starry-eyed at that thief of a preacher, that was. There was a rich irony to the fact her fervent admiration had led to the man’s unmasking. Ben savored the fact for a moment. That stricken look on her face as she had denounced her idol would have been enough to wring sympathy from the flintiest heart, but all it afforded him was a dark sort of amusement. He knew damned well she had counseled Betsy against marrying him.

  His fiancée came hurrying back into the room, the color high in her cheeks. “I’m so vexed I could scream,” she said, crossing to stand by the window. She hitched a lace curtain and watched their guests pouring out into the street. “If Mama does not handle this, we will be given the cut direct by all our friends and neighbors!”

  “And just how do you suggest she ‘handles’ it?” Benedict drawled.

  Betsy turned to look at him in astonishment. “Why, Lizzie must be forced to retract her ridiculous claims, of course!”

  Benedict reached into his jacket pocket and extracted his silver cigarillo case. “Your cousin saw him take it, Bets. It was in his pocket.”

  Betsy shook her head so vehemently her blonde ringlets bounced. “It’s all a plot against Reverend Milson. A conspiracy! Papa agrees with me.”

  When Benedict raised his eyes to hers, she flushed and turned away. “Why would there be a conspiracy against Reverend Milson?” he asked coolly. “You know your cousin was keener on him then anyone. Didn’t you tell me, she spends her spare time embroidering him slippers and handkerchiefs?”

  “Exactly!” Betsy said, eagerly seizing on the fact. “He must have spurned her affections, so she turned against him. Old maids can be bitter, you know.”