Chapter Twenty-Five
T he journey to the Oyster Inn seemed interminable. By the time their carriage pulled up to the site of the boxing match, Maggie was at her wits’ end, checking Lord Arthur’s pocket watch every few seconds.
George had been a revelation. He sniffed out the letter in ten minutes, giving the group ample time to reach the match, but traffic proved to be an unexpected issue. The earl had lived away from London for too long, and Maggie had never experienced a boxing match of this magnitude. Even though it was taking place outside the busy city, the road still became jammed with wagons and carriages the closer they came to the inn. The last mile felt like they were traversing all of Russia.
Maggie barely waited for the carriage to stop before she pushed open the door. “Hurry, I think they might have started early,” she cried, hopping down into the dark field. She could make out the match on the other side of the lot where torches and gas lamps surrounded the ring, giving the event a shadowy, dreamlike quality. But it was real enough. And Michael was still on his feet, which meant they weren’t late—yet.
Maggie twisted back to the door. She was about to bark another command at the earl when she noticed he hadn’t moved from his seat. He continued to sit there with his hands placed calmly on his thighs, his expression bordering on sheepish.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked, flashing him the crumpled letter that George may or may not have taken a bite out of. “We have to go!”
“You go,” he said, straightening his hat on his head as if that were his chief concern. “I have a feeling your legs are much faster than mine.”
Maggie blinked in disbelief. “What do you mean? You came all the way here. You can’t hold back now.”
“It’s for the best.”
“But he’ll want to see you. He’ll want you to be a part of this.”
The earl’s mouth curved up slightly, but his eyes remained strained. “You’re a sweet girl and I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I know my son. I’ll watch, don’t worry about that, but I’ll do so from a distance.”
Maggie glanced at the letter, suddenly feeling completely adrift. “I don’t want to do this on my own.”
The earl’s expression was kind. He nodded toward the crowd of people. “You’re not. Now go to Michael. Tell them to give the people the fight they came for.”
*
It hadn’t rained in days, but the soft field still tried to eat Maggie’s boots with every step. Without Lord Oliver with her, it was difficult elbowing through the excitable horde, trying to carve a path toward the front. A few times she stood on tiptoes and managed to spot Michael, but calling out to him didn’t work. The atmosphere was too charged; everyone seemed to be yelling or arguing at the top of their lungs.
Getting to Michael was like climbing a mountain that kept falling out from underneath her feet. One step forward, two steps back.
But Maggie told herself to keep going. She was making headway, however small. Five minutes into the struggle and her calves began to burn from the effort. Nevertheless, the smells buoyed her. The more she trudged through the bodies, the more pungent the tobacco and sweat-stained men became, which could only mean one thing—she was within reach.
But then the entire throng erupted in cheers as Maggie heard a decisive thud .
“No!” she screamed. It couldn’t be over. That couldn’t be Michael’s body hitting the ground. She still had time. Didn’t she?
She craned her neck, but it was useless. Everyone else was doing the same thing to see if the fallen boxer would make it back to his feet.
“Who was it?” Maggie asked anyone around her. “Who got knocked down?”
But the only answer she received was a harsh and guttural “Fuck!”
Maggie felt an insistent hand on her arm, and she twirled around to find Lord Oliver towering over her with an expression that could frighten the dead.
“What are you going here—alone?” he yelled over the clamor.
Maggie squirmed out of his hold. She couldn’t stand anyone touching her right now. Nothing could be contained, not her disappointment nor her failure. “Who was it?” she pleaded. “Who went down?”
Lord Oliver returned a curious stare. “It was Harrison,” he answered. “Michael connected cleanly with his jaw. It was gorgeous.”
Relief washed over her. “Pick me up. Pick me up,” she said, slapping the duke in the chest until he did as she asked. Holding on to her waist, he lifted her until she had the ring in her sights. Oliver had been right, though Harrison was no longer on the ground. He was limping over to his corner, where he would be given thirty seconds to contain himself before needing to meet Michael at the line for the next round.
Oliver’s voice floated up to her. “I would have expected Michael to show a little more emotion after that hit,” he said.
Maggie’s gaze shifted to Michael. He waited in his corner next to Tommy without any sign that he’d just put the champion on the mat. “He doesn’t think he’s going to win,” she whispered to herself.
“Then he’s a fool,” Oliver spat, setting her back on the ground. “You shouldn’t take a fight if you don’t believe you can win. It’s no fun for the rest of us. What’s that?”
Maggie shook her head, noticing the duke’s interest in the letter she still clutched in her hand. “Nothing. I have to go.”
“Don’t go,” he whined, pulling her back to his side. “I’m all alone. Stay and talk to me.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, wriggling out of his hold. “Where are your paid companions?”
He returned a sulk. “They’re companioning other people tonight. It’s my fault. I haven’t been particularly good company lately.”
“I’m sorry for that, Your Grace,” she replied, tunneling into the crowd with more vigor. “But I really must go.”
“How rude you are! Aren’t you going to ask me why I haven’t been good company?”
Maggie threw him a beseeching look over her shoulder. “Later, Oliver. I’ll ask you later, I promise.”
He threw up his hands. “When?”
“After Michael wins!”
Maggie was almost there. Tommy was only a few feet away, his back to her as he yelled at his fighter. “For God’s sake, Mike! Use your feet. Are you trying to let him hit you?”
She watched his shoulders slump. It had only been a few minutes since Michael had knocked Harrison down, but it felt like the entire match had changed. The air was different, as was the mood of the crowd. No one expected Michael to win, and when Harrison fell, it seemed like an upset might occur. Now, with Michael taking punch after punch and wobbling on his toes, the inevitable was happening. He didn’t have long.
Maggie stretched out her arm. She was just about to grab Tommy’s shoulder when she heard that fateful thud again, and this time she instantly saw who was on the floor.
“Stay down, fancy lad,” a man next to her yelled, waving a newspaper high above his head. Others piled on, echoing the words, proverbially kicking Michael while his body lay beaten and prone in the ring.
Tommy, to his credit, would never give up so easily. “Get up, scrapper!” he cried, hanging on to the ropes. “Get up!”
Maggie reached his side, slamming into him. Tommy gave her one bewildered stare before going back to his work. But Michael wasn’t listening to him anymore.
His eyes were fixed on Maggie.
She had to fight to contain herself. Half of Michael’s face was covered in blood; the other was shiny and swollen. One eye still worked, but the other was so puffy that she doubted it was of any use. He lifted his hand off the mat, and when he opened his mouth, blood trickled out. “Get out of here,” he yelled.
Maggie stood her ground. “I’m not leaving,” she said with unwavering intensity. “Get up, Michael. Get up. You can do it.”
He shook his head against the ground. The whole scene seemed to slow, as if the ring were underwater. Maggie watched the anguish tear at him as he considered getting to his feet, fighting on. His body wasn’t made to quit, and that realization may have chained him to the ground more than Harrison’s left jab.
“Please, Michael,” she begged. “I need you to get up. Now.” She beckoned him to her. “You need to hear something very important.”
Maggie flashed the letter, but Michael only squinted at it. However, something had clearly worked, because he started to move. Bit by bit his body snapped back together, and, to the crowd’s thunderous applause, he made it back to his feet and stumbled to his corner.
“Goddammit, Maggie,” he shouted, leaning against Tommy for support. “You shouldn’t see this. Wait for me inside the inn. I’ll be there soon.”
“No,” she cried. “I have to show you something.”
“It can wait.”
“It can’t! Just listen to me!” Maggie flung the letter at his bruised chest. “Some people can look at something one thousand different ways and not understand it, not find what they’re looking for. I tried and I failed—”
His expression crumpled in despair. “Stop, Maggie. It’s over. Just let me—”
She cupped his chin in her palm, raising his head. “But I’m not George.”
“What?”
She smiled proudly. “George only needed one try.” She nodded at the letter in his hands.
Michael stared at it for a few seconds, though comprehension was slow to come. But Maggie noticed an important clue right away—his voice got stronger. “What is this? What are you saying? Is this what I think it is?”
“I’m saying you owe my dog and me an apology. And maybe some sausages.”
His swollen eye fell on her, and Maggie bit her lip to keep from crying. She saw suffering and carnage in that eye, but she also saw hope. “I don’t have any on me,” he said.
“Then why don’t you win, and we’ll call it even.”
Michael’s hands dropped to his sides. She grabbed the letter back for safekeeping.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Maggie took his head in her hands and rested his forehead against hers. “I’m telling you to win, scrapper. Don’t be the man you were born to be. Be the man you are. Do you think you can do that for me?”
Michael leaned back, and this time when he opened his mouth, the blood on his teeth didn’t make her wince. Because he gave her a smile.
“I can do that, Maggie. I can do that.”