Chapter Twelve
After announcing that he was in desperate need of coffee, Lord Davenport disappeared for the afternoon. “He is conducting interviews,” was all that his mother said on the matter.
Genevieve couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding from her.
He’d been so dismissive when she’d tried to write him notes.
Of course, she hadn’t realized how inebriated he was until he’d shown up in her room.
When he’d fallen and smashed his head against the door, the blow to the back of his head had been so hard, she’d feared he’d seriously injured himself.
Having no idea what to do, she’d placed a pillow beneath him, covered him with a counterpane, and let him sleep.
At one point, the viscount had mentioned kisses—but only because Horatio had been zealously licking him. But she’d puckered up and almost kissed him. The poor man had been saved from her presumptuous lips when he’d instantly fallen asleep. Even now, her cheeks heated from humiliation.
And yet, he was still sponsoring her! She was going to be a pugilist, earn her own way in the world, and eventually send for her siblings. Sophia could join her in London and have a tutor again. And Genevieve would ensure that Christopher could return to his studies at Eton.
Once the viscount left, Genevieve took Horatio for a walk in the small garden behind the townhouse.
His pleading eyes, indignant woofs, refusals to do his business, and attempts to herd her toward the street were pointless.
It was anyone’s guess as to how she would find the courage to leave the premises and go out for a morning run on the morrow.
But Jonathan will be with you, she assured herself.
And you can outrun and outpunch Kilsby. The obnoxious lord clad in striped breeches and leaning on his walking stick would be hard-pressed to catch a turtle.
Genevieve chuckled, and some of her trepidation dispersed with the wind, but not enough for her to leave Greenpark House.
“Horatio, go wee,” she demanded, for the third time. “’Tis chilly.”
After a dramatic sneezing fit, the pup lifted his leg and did as he was told, watering a shrub.
She and Horatio entered through the servant’s door and strolled to her chamber to retrieve the copy of Emma.
By the time they’d returned to the drawing room, Horatio had forgiven her.
He hopped onto the settee, turned in a circle, and rested his nose on her lap.
Thereupon, they settled in, Lady Davenport joining them for a cozy afternoon of books, biscuits, and tea.
’Twas late afternoon when Lady Davenport cleared her throat. “Would you still like to attend the Ladies Autonomy League meeting this evening?”
Genevieve wanted to be in the presence of powerful women more than anything. Therefore, she would fight her nervous inner voice that insisted she remain in hiding. She didn’t have to talk; all she had to do was perform athletically while in the gymnasium, which she could do.
Yes. Please tell me more about the meeting and The Silk Knuckles Saloon, she wrote. I want to know everything.
“In my humble opinion, ’tis the best boxing school in the city.
As you saw, both men and women can study to be prizefighters, and there are female defense and exercise sessions that meet at special times.
What the general public does not know is that women socialize in the upstairs parlor.
This is also where the Ladies’ Autonomy League meets. ”
Dare Genevieve tell her that she’d heard rumors about such a society even in her secluded corner of England? Although maybe there were numerous secret groups of scandalous women all over England. Now, that would be splendid.
“I have no doubts, Franny and Josie would have opened an all-female establishment, but Coach Calder Valentine—” the dowager’s eyes took on a far-away look—“Franny’s father, owns one-third of the gymnasium, and he wanted his male champions to stay with him.
Of course, his girls agreed. ’Tis an extraordinary place, which is why Lady Siddons and I hold our meetings in the parlor.
We pay generously to rent the space, mostly because we want the business to thrive.
Men have so many places in London. Women have so few spaces when they are up to subversive things. ”
Subversive things? Do tell, Genevieve wrote.
“Equality for the sexes, better educational opportunities for women, and changes to coverture laws. Occasionally, we discuss thought-provoking books. Some of the younger ladies would like to see a woman run for parliament.”
Maybe someday even vote, Genevieve wrote.
Lady Davenport beamed. “Yes, you shall fit in quite nicely. Lady Siddons takes our ideas to Tristan, who wields considerable sway in parliament. The man is much more intelligent and compassionate than he lets on. And I tell Jonathan our ideas. Jonathan and Tristan gently try to persuade their peers of the importance of women’s autonomy.
Nicolas takes up our cause in his newspaper column.
Calder has done his part by raising two fierce females and supporting their dream of owning a business that supports women.
Edward Robinson has convinced a few lawmen to take an interest in protecting and frequenting the establishment.
Bear, the fight promoter and the ringmaster at The Purple Rabbit, supports lady fighters and our cause, as does Bessie Dove Lyon, the notorious owner of The Lyon’s Den. ”
Viscount Jonathan Davenport was an enigma.
He was a rake who fought behind the scenes for female equality, and an aristocrat who treated a woman and a dog he found on the street as his equals.
He pretended not to take anything seriously, even though Genevieve suspected he felt deeply.
However, he’d dismissed her messages and was avoiding her.
Because he was drunk, and you tried to kiss him.
Sighing, Genevieve wrote, Lord Davenport is also more intelligent and compassionate than he lets on. Hopefully, Genevieve’s observation wasn’t too forward since she was speaking to his mother. Yet she felt she should say something kind and truthful.
Lady Davenport’s eyes misted over. “They are good men, trying to navigate a world where aggressiveness and a desire to control women are seen as positive. However, they are discovering that these traits are not what is best for themselves, the ones they love, or society.”
Genevieve’s father and Lord Kilsby exuded negative controlling qualities.
Such wise words, my lady, she wrote.
’Twas early evening when Lord Davenport entered the drawing room, looking devilishly handsome, although not anymore well-rested.
“Gen, why don’t you ride with my mother? I will meet you at The Silk Knuckles,” he announced. “Unfortunately, I have interviews scheduled.”
“Gen can also ride home with me,” Lady Davenport said. “We have a ladies’ only meeting.”
The viscount frowned as if this was distressing news. “I forgot about that.”
“I had Cook prepare an early meal,” Lady Davenport said. “Do you have time to join us?”
“I do not.” He gagged and his face turned a putrid shade of olive green. “I find I don’t have much of an appetite. Serves me right for over imbibing, I suppose.” He patted Horatio, then strolled away.
Genevieve’s heart sank. He was definitely avoiding her.
After a light but satisfying dinner of roasted goose and vegetables, Genevieve changed into Jonathan’s shirt and breeches.
Although many of the ladies had worn loose-fitting dresses, and Franny and Josie knotted the sleeves of their gowns around their waists, chemises showing, Genevieve preferred the anonymity and freedom of movement that male clothing afforded her.
She also tucked her hair into the hood of Jonathan’s wool cloak for her carriage ride across town.
Hopefully, this kept Kilsby from recognizing her if he was lurking nearby.
Perhaps she should have been nervous, but the second she entered the gymnasium, effervescent bubbles seemed to infuse her blood.
She had definitely grown bolder since running away.
If only she could regain her voice. As she made her way to Franny, people waved and called hello to her. Smiling, she waved back.
Franny presented her with leather shoes with cork soles, and a pair of linen hand wraps.
Overwhelmed by the perfect gifts, Genevieve squeezed Franny’s hand.
She slid out of her boots, and into her new shoes, which fit perfectly.
Franny chatted away, explaining their upcoming session as she bound her wrists, then tucked and secured the strips of fabric around Genevieve’s hands.
“Your hands are soft, and these will keep the skin from tearing,” Franny explained. “They give your wrists a bit of support. We can also get you a pair of mufflers for when you start sparring. We don’t recommend you use them all the time because you won’t be able to wear them in an actual fight.”
Genevieve pointed at Franny’s mouth. Luckily, her coach seemed to understand the unasked question. Franny exaggerated her smile, showing off her pretty teeth.
“We do not allow our fighters to punch each other in the face during sparring sessions because facial bones and teeth are quite hard on your fists. Not to say you won’t get hit in the face during a mill, because you will.
It helps that Bear insists his lady fighters not get hit in the mouth.
He thinks men wager more on comely women.
And keep in mind, aiming for the breadbasket will knock the wind from your opponent, which will debilitate them more than knocking out their teeth. ”
As much as she wanted to fight, Genevieve did not favor having her teeth knocked out, so this was comforting information.
She started her session by performing one hundred deep knee bends, fifty lunges, fifty squats, and fifty push-ups. Franny joined her, counting every repetition out loud.