Epilogue
The puffy clouds morphed from one shape into another as the sun cast gentle rays across the raised ring. From shopkeepers to sheepherders, thousands of spectators showed up at the old mill. Carriages continued to trickle in as last-minute preparations were made.
A few feet from the ring, a dais had been constructed from sturdy planks. Jonathon, Agatha, and Tristan sat front and center, the elite members of the Fancy surrounding them. Agatha waved and smiled. Josie’s quivering lips refused to turn upward. However, she managed a subdued wave.
Trying to steady her nerves, Josie inhaled the fresh country air. She’d been delusionally confident these last few weeks, and now that she faced Lady Paulsgrove, a million doubts settled in.
What if she wasn’t as fit a fighter as she had once been because the infamous wager had waylaid her training and nutrition?
What if Lady Paulsgrove knocked her out with her first punch?
What if she made such a pudding-headed fool of herself that people scoffed and refused to attend her new gymnasium?
What if she disappointed Coach and Franny?
Even worse, what if she disappointed her husband, who made time to spar with her every day after he got home from work?
Her dark hair pulled back in a tight plait, Lady Paulsgrove approached Josie.
The breeze fluttered the duchesses’ silk pantaloons and kimono-like tunic as she extended her hand in companionable sportsmanship.
The genteel lady was a refreshing change from fighters like Ruth the Jewel, who shamelessly pandered to the crowd.
Earlier, when the duke and duchess had first greeted Josie, Lady Paulsgrove had offered her a similar outfit. “My modiste designs them for me, specifically for ease of movement. I have an extra if you wish to borrow it today?” her opponent had said.
Since Josie had not trained in the finery, she declined.
She’d also feared anything designed for the duchess would be entirely too large for her since the woman outweighed her by almost two stone and was as tall as an oak tree; her shoulders were as broad as a brawny man’s.
Therefore, Josie stood before the crowd in a gray round dress, her chemise exposed, and her sleeves tied around her waist while the beloved duchess wore a peacock-colored outfit fit for a queen.
“Don’t be nervous, Josephine,” Lady Paulsgrove whispered to her. “’Tis all in fun.”
Easy for Lady Paulsgrove to say since she was both the reigning champion and an Amazonian queen. “I ain’t nervous,” Josie lied, her nerves overriding her voice training.
Lady Paulsgrove squeezed Josie’s wrapped hand. “Good luck.”
If only all opponents were this courteous. Josie tempered her attitude. “Good luck to ye, me lady.”
“Remember the rules agreed upon by Lord Griffendale and Lord Paulsgrove,” the referee said.
“Irish fighting style. No kicking, biting, weapons, or hair pulling. No direct hits to the mouth. The round ends when someone goes down. You have ten seconds to get back on your feet. Thirty seconds between rounds. I will call the mill if I think either fighter’s life is in jeopardy. Do you agree to these terms?”
They both nodded.
“The fight will begin in a few moments. Are you both ready?”
Again, they nodded.
Josie returned to her corner and plopped onto her husband’s knee. “Nicolas, what if I lose?”
“Where did that come from?” His brow furrowed. “Because I have no doubts. You will win.”
“But what if I don’t?” she asked.
“Then you don’t.” Dimples resplendent, he gave her a reassuring smile. “But you will have given it your very best, and I will be proud of you all the same.”
Coach squatted next to her and double-checked her hand wraps. “I’d heard the rumors, but I honestly thought they were just that. She is a right proper boulder. Jojo, stay close to her. Jam her reach.”
Franny leaned in through the ropes and handed Josie a cup of water. “Drink.”
Josie sipped the warm liquid as two referees climbed up the side posts and waved to the bell master. The crowd went wild.
Josie’s heart slammed against her ribcage and then pumped wildly. It was time.
“Lady P.,” some people chanted.
“Jabbing Josie,” others yelled.
An umpire motioned for the fighters to come forward. Josie again met Lady Paulsgrove in the center of the ring, where they tapped wrapped knuckles.
Josie placed her toe on the line, lifted her fists, and listened to her blood whoosh in her ears as Nicolas’s words echoed in her mind. “I have not a single doubt. You will win.”
“Round one,” the bell master called.
Josie’s back crashed into the ropes as a barrage of punches knocked the wind from her lungs.
Attempting to protect herself from the punishing blows, she covered her torso with her forearms, but it was no use.
The duchess was strong, and her arms and legs were almost twice as long as Josie’s.
The woman had landed the very first blow and, ever since then, had dominated the ring.
Every attempt Josie made to get inside the duchess’s reach was met with a lead-like jab that forced her backward.
“Jojo, get off the ropes,” Coach yelled.
No shite!
But it was no use. Josie’s resolve had fled after about the thirtieth brutal blow, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t conjure her energy. She was going to lose her first fight, and she was about to disappoint everyone, including both her husband and herself.
“Josie,” Franny shouted. “Uppercut.”
But there was no breath left in Josie’s lungs. The second she stopped protecting her abdominals, Lady P. would strike hard and fast, and Josie would go down hard.
“I have not a single doubt. You will win.”
Josie had to pull herself together. She couldn’t give up. Nicolas believed in her, so she had to fight back.
Leaving her midsection unprotected, Josie’s knees bent, then straightened as she extended her arm up and all the way through.
Her fist made contact with Lady P.’s chin.
The second the duchess’s head flew back, Josie ducked and came out on the other side of her.
She dropped into her stance and slid back and away.
“Jabbing Josie,” the crowd chanted.
“You’ve got this, Jojo,” Coach yelled.
Lady P. pivoted and charged toward Josie with so much force that she couldn’t evade the human cannonball. A powerful fist caught Josie’s nose. Blood spattered as she stumbled backward and landed on her arse.
“Jabbing Josie is down,” yelled a referee from his post as the crowd erupted into a thunderous roar.
“Lady P. Lady P.,” echoed off the surrounding hills.
Nicolas only had thirty seconds to care for his panting wife, which would not be nearly enough time. He guided her onto his knee and tenderly wiped the blood from her flushed face.
Franny shoved a protein beer under Josie’s nose. “Drink,” she demanded.
Josie pushed the cup away, which would not do. If she didn’t hydrate, she wouldn’t last another five minutes.
“Drink,” Franny demanded again.
“Darling, drink,” Nicolas encouraged.
With unfocused pupils and the blood stains growing on her chemise, Josie sipped.
Despite his rising panic, Nicolas had to remain a voice of reason. He tilted her head back and stared into her eyes. Thankfully, she focused on him. She was simply exhausted, not seriously injured.
Couch squatted so that he was at eye level with Josie. “She is twice your size. I’m gonna call the fight.”
Perhaps it was her coach’s words, or maybe it was the protein beer, but a spark lit in Josie’s eyes. “Don’t you dare, Coach.”
“Jojo, I’m doing what I think is best for you,” Coach said.
Josie grabbed Nicolas’s hand. “Don’t let him call it, Nicolas. Please. Even if I lose, I want to finish.”
Watching his wife suffer a beating was the toughest thing Nicolas had ever done.
He’d cheered her on enthusiastically, but every hit she took was a knife in his gut.
Blood caked her face, and purple bruises were already appearing on her creamy skin.
What kind of husband watched another person beat on their wife?
He, for one, couldn’t watch a second longer. “Josie, there is no shame. You have given this fight your best.”
“Don’t let anyone call the fight. Whatever you need, my darling. Forever and ever,” Josie said, using his own words against him.
He exhaled long and slow. “Don’t call the fight, Coach.” At least not yet, although if things continued on their current path, Coach would eventually have to.
Nicolas lifted Josie’s chin, stared into her eyes, and spoke so quickly that his words ran together.
“She is bigger and stronger than you, so you have to be faster than her. I keep telling you that you are too heavy on your feet. Dance on air. Tire her out. Corner her. Quickly move in. That is when you ground yourself and punch like hell.”
“You and your bloody air dancing,” she repeated as she lumbered to the scratch line.
“I love you, Josie,” he called to her back.
“I adore our girl, but she is stubborn as hell,” Coach said as he held up the rope for Nicolas to slide under. “Tell her to do something, and she does the opposite. Bloody impossible woman.”
“That is an understatement,” said Josie’s just-as-stubborn best friend.
The second the bell rang, an invisible knife pierced Nicolas’s chest, and he prayed like hell that she wouldn’t be seriously injured. One thing was for certain—the woman he loved would be inconsolable when she lost.
But she hasn’t lost yet, you bloody idiot.
She was a champion. A queen. Resilient as hell. And the short break had infused her with renewed vigor. Shockingly, she was doing exactly as Nicolas had advised. She was light on her feet, floating and dancing around the ring, keeping the duchess at a distance.
Eventually, the larger woman’s cheeks reddened, and she began to pant. Josie had done it. She’d tired the duchess out.
“Get in there, Jojo,” Coach yelled.
“The corner,” Nicolas called.
Josie’s gaze briefly flicked to Nicolas.
“A corner,” he repeated.
Her feet fast, Josie wove around the duchess, luring her into a corner.
“Quick,” Nicolas yelled. Please let these one-word cues remind her of my proposed plan of attack.
As if she were a comet streaking across the sky, Josie moved forward and caged the duchess against the ropes.
“Settle and punch,” Nicolas yelled.
Josie’s knees bent as she hammered on Lady P.
’s midsection. Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab, cross.
Cross. Jab, jab. Jab, cross, hook, hook.
Cross. Josie’s brilliant onslaught held no deducible pattern, making her unpredictable and potentially lethal.
The duchess attempted to punch back, but Josie was so close that her opponent couldn’t put power behind her fist. Lady P.
’s taps were akin to pesky flies buzzing about Josie.
“Jabbing Josie,” the crowd screamed.
From beside Nicolas, Franny leaped about, calling directives and coaching alongside her father. From behind him came Griffendale and Davenport’s booming cheers. Meanwhile, Lady P. appeared to be shrinking as Josie seemed to be growing larger than life. Could it be that Josie was going to win this?
And then, for some inexplicable reason, Josie stepped back, giving the duchess time to straighten and catch her breath.
“What the bloody hell?” Coach said.
“No,” Nicolas yelled.
Lady P.’s fist shot out, cracking Josie’s cheek. Seeming undaunted, Josie lunged, and while the duchess’s chin was unprotected, she landed a right uppercut that sent her opponent tumbling against the rope. In quick succession, Josie landed a left-right-left uppercut combination.
Holy bollocks! Nicolas’s brilliant wife had only feigned the retreat.
Lady P. slid down the ropes, and her arse hit the ground.
Raucous cheers erupted.
Nicolas held his breath.
“One. Two. Three…” the umpire counted. When he reached ten, Lady P. still sat with her back against the ropes.
Josie helped Lady P. onto her feet. The women clung to each other as the umpire lifted Josie’s hand into the air. Josie’s gaze instantly found Nicolas’s, and she grinned. He beamed back.
“She won,” Franny screamed as she leaped about. “Josie won.”
Brilliantly, heroically, and against the odds. Wanting nothing more than to congratulate her, Nicolas crawled through the ropes and dashed to his wife at the same time that Lord Paulsgrove rushed to his duchess.
Josie’s legs gave out beneath her as she collapsed against Nicolas. “Can I have an orange and some water, and then can we go home?”
Nicolas chuckled. “Yes, darling.”
“I’d like a bath and a back rub. I smell, and I hurt.”
“I think you smell delicious. Like victory,” he said.
She playfully punched his shoulder.
He pretended to rub out the sting. “A bath and a back rub it is.”
“Now you can write an article about women’s pugilism since that arse, Egan, refuses to talk about us,” she said.
The woman was beyond single-minded. “I shall call it Women’s Pugilism, The Rise of the Female Warrior,” he said.
Her cheeks red from exertion and caked with blood, she grinned at him. Unable to control his urge, he gently brushed his mouth over the split on her swollen lips. His brave warrior didn’t even flinch.
“And then tomorrow, let’s make a baby,” she said.
“Nothing would make me happier.” Especially if they had to work at baby-making night and day. Nicolas wrapped his wife in his arms as an enthusiastic crowd cheered, “Lady Jabbing Josie.”
“Do you hear that?” he asked. “They adore you.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. “They are calling me a lady. All I ever wanted was to be taken seriously. Thank you, Nicolas.”
“Then it seems we both got what we wanted,” he said.
“What is it you wanted?” she asked.
“Do you even have to ask?” Nicolas smiled, hoping she noticed his dimples. “All I’ve ever wanted was my very own pretty pugilist to love and cherish.”
The End