Jane.
She
will
never
take.’
Euphemia gave her charming, rippling laugh and glanced sideways at Jane, and then frowned. For there was no hurt look on Jane’s face.
Jane was lost in a dream.
For by simply going to London, she might see
him
again.
The fact that
he
might be married after eight long years never crossed her mind.
She had first seen Beau Tregarthan in the summer of 1800 when she was ten years old and had dreamed of him ever since.
The normally sleepy village of Upper Patchett had been alive with gossip about the great prize fight that was to be held on the downs. Sir Bartholomew Anstey was putting his man, Jack Death, into the ring against an unknown contender, promised and sponsored by Beau Tregarthan. The odds were running ten to one in Jack Death’s favour, although many would have loved to see the most savage bruiser of the English boxing scene get his comeuppance. He had beaten his last opponent to death. But very few wanted to stake money on an unknown.
Bored with endless lessons given by a governess who was strict towards herself and dotingly lenient towards Euphemia, Jane longed for adventure. Finally, on the day of the prize fight, she slipped from the house with one of her father’s old beaver hats down about her ears and a muffler up to her eyes. She wore one of her father’s old coats, which trailed on the ground at her heels. She hoped anyone seeing her would take her for some village boy.
She reached the outer edge of the crowd that had gathered that hot August day on the downs. For several minutes, she stared despairingly at the row of masculine backs blocking her view. Then retreating up the slope of the downs, she saw a small tree and, hampered by her heavy coat, she managed to climb it with difficulty.
The ring was in the middle of a hollow, the slope of the downs all about forming a natural amphitheatre. In the very middle stood the Master of the Ring, Gentleman Jackson. Jane fished out her father’s telescope from one capacious pocket and put it in her eye. Jackson was a splendid figure in a scarlet coat worked with gold at the button-holes, a white stock, a looped hat with a broad black band, buff knee breeches, white silk stockings, and paste buckles. He had a hard, high-boned face and piercing eyes, in all a magnificent figure with those splendid ‘balustrade’ calves that had helped him to be the finest runner and jumper in England as well as the most formidable pugilist.
Around the edge of the ring stood the beaters-off in their high white hats. Their job was to wield their whips and stop any spectator setting foot in the ring.
A cheer went up as a white hat with scarlet ribbons sailed into the ring. Jack Death had arrived, and, amid a roar from the crowd, he followed his hat into the ring. His chest was bare, and he wore a pair of white calico drawers, white silk stockings, and running shoes. Round his waist was a scarlet sash, and dainty scarlet ribbons fluttered at his knees. He was broad-chested and swarthy. There was something almost ape-like about his long slingy arms and his thrusting jaw.
Two men below the tree in which Jane crouched were becoming anxious that the fight might not take place. ‘Lord Tregarthan’s man has not arrived and there’s only five minutes to go,’ said one. The crowd craned their necks this way and that. Soon, there was only a minute left.
Then a jaunty black beaver hat sailed into the ring. The cheer that followed its appearance was so loud, so exuberant, that Jane clung onto the branch on which she was lying, afraid it might throw her off her perch like some great wave.
‘Who’s his man?’ asked the man below her.
‘’Fore George,’ cried his companion, ‘it’s Tregarthan himself.’
Jane peered down her telescope and then held her breath. The cheers of the crowd had become mixed with laughter. A London exquisite had strolled into the ring. Beau Tregarthan himself. He drew off his gloves and tossed them to a stocky man,
She
will
never
take.’
Euphemia gave her charming, rippling laugh and glanced sideways at Jane, and then frowned. For there was no hurt look on Jane’s face.
Jane was lost in a dream.
For by simply going to London, she might see
him
again.
The fact that
he
might be married after eight long years never crossed her mind.
She had first seen Beau Tregarthan in the summer of 1800 when she was ten years old and had dreamed of him ever since.
The normally sleepy village of Upper Patchett had been alive with gossip about the great prize fight that was to be held on the downs. Sir Bartholomew Anstey was putting his man, Jack Death, into the ring against an unknown contender, promised and sponsored by Beau Tregarthan. The odds were running ten to one in Jack Death’s favour, although many would have loved to see the most savage bruiser of the English boxing scene get his comeuppance. He had beaten his last opponent to death. But very few wanted to stake money on an unknown.
Bored with endless lessons given by a governess who was strict towards herself and dotingly lenient towards Euphemia, Jane longed for adventure. Finally, on the day of the prize fight, she slipped from the house with one of her father’s old beaver hats down about her ears and a muffler up to her eyes. She wore one of her father’s old coats, which trailed on the ground at her heels. She hoped anyone seeing her would take her for some village boy.
She reached the outer edge of the crowd that had gathered that hot August day on the downs. For several minutes, she stared despairingly at the row of masculine backs blocking her view. Then retreating up the slope of the downs, she saw a small tree and, hampered by her heavy coat, she managed to climb it with difficulty.
The ring was in the middle of a hollow, the slope of the downs all about forming a natural amphitheatre. In the very middle stood the Master of the Ring, Gentleman Jackson. Jane fished out her father’s telescope from one capacious pocket and put it in her eye. Jackson was a splendid figure in a scarlet coat worked with gold at the button-holes, a white stock, a looped hat with a broad black band, buff knee breeches, white silk stockings, and paste buckles. He had a hard, high-boned face and piercing eyes, in all a magnificent figure with those splendid ‘balustrade’ calves that had helped him to be the finest runner and jumper in England as well as the most formidable pugilist.
Around the edge of the ring stood the beaters-off in their high white hats. Their job was to wield their whips and stop any spectator setting foot in the ring.
A cheer went up as a white hat with scarlet ribbons sailed into the ring. Jack Death had arrived, and, amid a roar from the crowd, he followed his hat into the ring. His chest was bare, and he wore a pair of white calico drawers, white silk stockings, and running shoes. Round his waist was a scarlet sash, and dainty scarlet ribbons fluttered at his knees. He was broad-chested and swarthy. There was something almost ape-like about his long slingy arms and his thrusting jaw.
Two men below the tree in which Jane crouched were becoming anxious that the fight might not take place. ‘Lord Tregarthan’s man has not arrived and there’s only five minutes to go,’ said one. The crowd craned their necks this way and that. Soon, there was only a minute left.
Then a jaunty black beaver hat sailed into the ring. The cheer that followed its appearance was so loud, so exuberant, that Jane clung onto the branch on which she was lying, afraid it might throw her off her perch like some great wave.
‘Who’s his man?’ asked the man below her.
‘’Fore George,’ cried his companion, ‘it’s Tregarthan himself.’
Jane peered down her telescope and then held her breath. The cheers of the crowd had become mixed with laughter. A London exquisite had strolled into the ring. Beau Tregarthan himself. He drew off his gloves and tossed them to a stocky man,
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