If Morning Never Comes - Episode Four
In Which: Charles Encounters a Fight, a Girl, and an Invitation
Welcome to If Morning Never Comes, a serial adventure from and proudly published by . If this is your first time, catch up before you begin this chapter:
Please enjoy!
~ The Editor
The fighter’s nose collapsed under the quick right cross. Blood spurted and he stumbled back to the clamor of the crowd. He shook his head to clear his vision, fighting to keep his hands up. But the relentless attacker connected with twin shots to the body. Bare fists drove into his ribs with flat thuds. The audience leaned over the wooden barrier, booing and cheering. With a last uppercut, down went the battered man. The winner raised his bloodied fists high, sweat glistening on his arms and dripping from his black mustache. The referee came out and officially declared him the winner.
Money changed hands rapidly and reluctantly. The men surrounding the ring were a press of bowler hats, suspenders and hoarse shouts. Charles himself made nothing on this last bout, his money gone from the previous two fights. His companions laughed and jostled each other. He could hardly move his shoulders as he fought to keep his place near the ring.
“Bad luck, Charles!” shouted Tom, waving his winnings from a few feet away.
Tom had agreed to take Charles with him on his night off, promising to show him some of the livelier haunts in town. Charles liked him, he was brash and fun. This breach of protocol probably made him a bad servant, but if it did, then Charles was just as bad a master. In truth, he did not have much choice of companion. Not if he wanted to do something more vigorous than sip tea with his mother.
The defeated brawler was carried out, and the announcer was calling for all to place their bets for the next fight. The two men in the ring had stripped down to their trousers and were rotating their tough shoulders and cracking their gnarled knuckles in preparation. The low-ceilinged room was dim, lit with lanterns and what sunlight managed to filter through the grimy windows.
As much as Charles loved the fights, he always felt frustrated there. He could lose himself in the roar of the crowd with the rest of them, but all the time he was forced to swallow his jealousy. What he wouldn’t give to stand in that ring himself! To face down another man, hands upraised, ready to do battle.
He looked this pair over. One was a tall brute with thick burnsides. He was big and mean, but he did not look disciplined. A paunch hung over his waistband. The other was not tall, but he was wiry. He bounced from foot to foot. He looked fast. The mismatch was probably the appeal of the fight. The big fat one or the little quick one?
Charles nudged Tom and gestured with his head. “I could beat the big one.”
Tom barked laughter, “So long as he didn’t sit on you.”
“He’d never catch me.”
“Go on!”
The fighters squared off, feet scraping the sawdust on the floor. They raised their arms in front of their faces, dominant hands back. The tops of their hands were presented to their opponents, elbows curved in the proper stance. The referee stepped between them and asked if they were ready. They nodded.
“Come on, fatty! Let’s see his brains!” shouted Charles.
The fight commenced.
Later that evening, Charles, Tom and two others ambled down the avenue. One of the men (also named Tom) had purchased a bottle of gin from a street vendor and the four of them passed it around as they strolled.
Charles never asked for the bottle. He drank when it was offered to him, but only small sips. He was determined to retain control of his senses this night. To be honest, drunkenness terrified him, despite his apparent compulsion to face that fear at every opportunity. To save face in front of the group, he tipped the bottle back and make the liquid swish around so it sounded like a much larger gulp. However, too much came through and he felt the burning liquor make a dash for his windpipe. He immediately bent over, coughing and sputtering. His companions laughed and slapped his back while he recovered.
“Here, your lordship, give us it back before you spit it all up,” laughed the other Tom, taking the bottle back.
The third fellow was named Frank. Frank looked even younger than Charity, but Charles couldn’t be sure. He snorted through his piggy little nose when he laughed. Charles’ servant helped him up.
“There we are, Charlie. Don’t leave me to be the one to explain your drowning to your mum, eh?”
Charles wiped his mouth with his bare forearm. He had rolled up his sleeves early in the night. The shirt smelled of sweat from the tight press of the boxing match. His coat was in his arm, hat in his hand, discarded symbols of his status.
He tried to distract from his embarrassment, “Well then, gentlemen, where to now?”
“What difference do it make? We’ll end up somewhere, I’d wager,” Frank philosophized.
Tom ventured, “How much have you got left, Tom? Could we see the show tonight?”
While Tom checked, Frank complained, “I’m tired of the show, they ain’t changed the songs since Christmas.”
The country town was a ride of some distance from Ashwood. Charles did not want to be seen anywhere near his home, so he came here when he needed a little debauchery. The place had its share of diversions, but he had run through them quickly.
Tom shook his head, “Not enough for all four.”
“I told you not to put so much on that last fight. We could’ve been eating steak tonight,” said the other Tom.
“Go on,” said the other, “If his lordship would pull his own weight we could have steak every night.”
“I lost mine before the third fight,” said Charles.
“Well, they don’t hand out brains with riches I suppose.”
They laughed, Charles too. He could take a joke. They continued down the wooden sidewalks, coming to the end of the town and turning to head back in. Charles was still restless after watching the bouts. He did not want to see a show, he wanted more combat. It had been a particularly tense week at home.
“Tom,” he asked, “are there any other fights tonight?”
“You heard him, sir, they closed up the ring.”
“Well, it’s still early. Can’t we find something else?”
“Depends on if you ain’t picky about the species what’s doing the fighting.” teased Tom.
“What, like horses?” asked Charles.
The men laughed. Tom took a swig from the bottle, “Or women. I’d pay to see two women fight.”
“Come to my house around tea time,” said Charles.
Tom (the one from Ashwood) nudged Charles and said, “Yeah, I’d pay a penny to see Misses Eleanor and Charity finally come to terms!”
“Especially if they was just in their trousers,” said Frank.
Charles turned on him, but Tom shoved Frank into the street, headlong into a puddle of mud. The boys laughed and passersby shook their heads. Charles tried to keep his face down so he would not be recognized. Frank sat up and wiped off his face.
“What you do that for?”
“Serves you right, talking about a man’s sister like that. Piss off, you newt.”
Charles and the two Toms kept walking. Charles thanked the stranger Tom for his kindness, he said it was nothing. He handed Charles the bottle and he took another drink. Carefully this time.
His friend Tom took the bottle and clapped him on the back, turning him around and walking with his arm around his shoulder. “Come on then, we’d best go see Gerald.”
“Gerald?” asked Charles.
“If there’s something un-gentlemanly about, he’ll know where to find it.”
The trio found Gerald grooming a horse in a dirty stable. The fat man cursed their mothers for bothering him at work. Tom asked him if he knew of any special attractions available that evening, and they were given directions to a place down by the lumber mill.
“Thank you, sir,” said Charles as they left.
“Keep your ‘sirs’ to yourself, gibface,” answered Gerald.
Charles was unaccustomed to being spoken in this way, but he almost enjoyed it. He did not know much slang, but something about these brushes with the lower classes stirred his soul. He knew he ought to be proud of his position. Tom and the others never gave him reason to feel badly, but he did just the same. He felt that these men here, poorer than him to a man, knew more about life and living than he did. In flagrant violation of all credulity, he was impressed – even jealous – of men like Gerald.
Down at the lumber mill a crowd was gathering for a cockfight. Charles had never been to one before, but he had heard of their supposed brutality. The thought thrilled him.
“Well now, this will be a sight worth seeing!” he said, rubbing his hands together.
His friend Tom guffawed and slurped what was left of the gin. It was starting to affect his speech, “Look here Tom, his lordship wants to watch hens peck each other on his night off!”
Charles straightened his shirt and tried to ignore the teasing.
His friend Tom’s friend Tom asked, “Here now, Charlie, is that all you think we do down here? Drink and go to cockfights?”
Charles started to apologize, but Tom waved him off. “It’s all in good fun, your lordship. Truth is, that is about all we do. Eh, Tom?”
And so it was that Charles found himself with two drunk men named Tom, watching a cockfight among strangers.
Charles wasn’t sure what to expect, but he did not have to wait long. The two gamecocks faced each other, their neck feathers ruffled, eyes an inch from each other. The men egged them on, kicking dirt into the ring. One jumped and flapped its wings furiously, slashing its talons towards its opponent. The other jumped and did the same, to the cheers of the men. The two birds rested their necks on each other, squaring off.
“Come on, don’t dance with him, kill him!” yelled Tom.
The crowd joined in, “The spurs! Get the spurs!”
Two men reached forward and grabbed the squirming birds. They attached metal spurs onto their feet and threw them back into the ring. Charles hooted and clapped with the rest.
This time it was different. The roosters slashed and ripped each other bloody. The metal blades chopped up the animals. They grew more wild as the blood flew. Eventually one gained the advantage and pinned the other to the ground. It shredded the other cock to pieces, blood everywhere as the men stamped and cheered.
Charles looked at what was left of the bird. He thought of the sheep he’d found out on the moor with Georg Stryker. He looked around at the jeering, drunk men as two more unhappy fowl were brought out. All at once, he was very uncomfortable. He lost interest in the game. He did not belong there.
He located his servant and called his name. Tom did not hear. Charles shouted again. He did not even look up. He seemed to have forgotten Charles completely. So Charles Ashley of Ashwood put on his tall silk hat and walked off.
Back on the main street, he pulled on his jacket. It was late, but the long summer day persisted, the first shadows of twilight beginning to reach out from the alleyways. Charles buttoned his coat and tried to assume something of a dignified appearance in spite of the rumples. His shoes in particular would be a real headache for his valet tomorrow.
Couples passed him. Old men with their plump wives, youngsters holding hands. Charles sighed and tried not to pay attention. He had moved out of the seedier part of town and was passing the finer town houses. They were not as large as the country estates he was used to, but they were well-kept.
This was the part of coming to town that he did not like. The part that almost kept him away every time. The shame. The knowledge that, once again, he had given in to his baser instincts and acted like a fool. The relentless realization that despite his age he had not really matured since his adolescence. In fact, he could not even say with surety that he had ever left his adolescence. At least he had managed to stay sober this time. That was progress, he supposed.
Hunger drove him to make a turn towards the marketplace. He bought an apple as the vendor closed up her cart. He bit into it and continued his stroll. The shopkeepers were drawing the shades and locking their doors. The lamplighters would be out soon.
Charles knew he should go home, but he resisted the inevitable. Day after day, he had to listen to them all bicker. He was surrounded by frills and flowers and his frivolous family. Eleanor and her pompous self-righteousness, Charity and her silly antics. Worst of all, his mother. His large, loud mother.
He had dreamed of running away since he was Charity’s age. He had no shortage of radical plans. Running away to sea, living as a highwayman, joining the circus or the Church. Perhaps he’d go to America and be a cowboy. But he knew he would never leave. This little runt of a town was as far as he would ever go. A runt of a town for a runt of a man. He threw away the core of his apple.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked up. A young woman was walking slowly towards him, her arm in a basket. Charles recognized her face and froze.
She came closer. She was not looking at him, so she had not recognized him. Charles hoped she would not, but knew she would. It was too late to dash away, he would only draw attention. He would have to keep his eyes down. Maybe he could tip his hat and hide his face?
He did so and growled in a false voice, “Good evening, madam.”
She whirled around, skirt spinning. “Charles?”
He thought for a moment of continuing as if he had not heard. But he had. So he did not. Instead he turned around and smiled.
“Charles Ashley, is that you?” she asked. Her voice was high and clear like the bells on Easter morning.
“Hello, Genevieve,” he said.
“Oh Charles, you must call me Jenny!” she cried, running up to him and taking his hands. “It’s been so long, Charles. How are you?”
Her hands were warm. He knew that his were dirty. “I am well, Jenny. It is so good to see you.”
They stood, arms-length apart, holding hands still. She was beautiful. Her dress was white with blue ribbons. Her hair was prettily arranged, a white hat pinned in place. Her skin was pale and smooth, and her eyes were the brightest blue. She smiled and Charles felt the sun rise in his heart.
“What a wonderful surprise!” She squeezed his fingers, “How is your family, Charles?”
“Well. Thank you for asking. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear that I found you.”
“Found me?” she teased. “Have you been looking for me?”
Charles laughed and pulled his hands back, fighting the urge to wipe them on his coat. “No, but I wish I had. Jenny, you look lovely.”
She smiled and swished her dress. “As kind as ever. You look dashing yourself – Charles, what have you been doing?”
“What?”
“You look as though you’ve been in a battle!”
There was no accusation in her voice, only curiosity. Charles tried to stammer an excuse for his bedraggled appearance, but she only laughed and apologized for noticing. He moved away from the subject quickly.
“Are you home for the summer, then?” he asked. “When do you return to school?”
“Oh, I’m home for good now,” she said, gaily. “Father needs me at home, and I’ve missed him so dearly.”
“Yes, how is your father?” asked Charles.
Jenny continued to smile, but there was melancholy in her voice.
“Same as ever, you know his condition. He’s bedridden more and more these days, but he tries as hard as he can. We’ve had to make some changes, but we still have the house.” This last statement was full of optimism, and Charles felt sorry for the poor girl and her kind father.
“But it’s really for the best, you know!” she added. “I’ve been reading and drawing, and it’s so nice to be able to sing when there’s not an old thundercloud criticizing your every mistake.”
Charles smiled, “That sounds wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy.”
“And what of you, Charles? How does the master of Ashwood spend his days?”
Charles laughed. He thought about telling the truth: days spent reading and re-reading old books, squabbling with his family and finding time to sneak away to boxing matches. Perhaps he could regale her with the story of how he had found a dead sheep near his house?
Instead, he said, “Oh nothing really. Life is really frightfully dull without you.”
Jenny giggled and blushed. Charles blushed himself, surprised at his boldness.
They caught up on the latest local news. Charles found talking with her to be effortless. He had been terrified to see her, but now he was chatting and giving compliments like he was good at this. He didn’t feel the need to hide or run like he always did with his family. Genevieve Tarrant had left for finishing school years ago, and he had all but forgotten his childhood friend. But now the thought of her leaving again was distressing. Too soon, she reluctantly indicated her need to hurry home.
“It really was so good to see you again, Charles.”
“I must see you again soon, Jenny. When I’m not quite so shabby from a long day.”
Jenny laughed and agreed.
“Were you planning to attend the ball at the Raines estate tomorrow?” he ventured.
“We received an invitation. They are a mysterious sort, aren’t they? I don’t know anyone who’s ever met them in person. Then of course it’s been ages since I’ve seen anybody. I haven’t danced since I can hardly remember.”
Charles took the bait, “Well then, we shall have to remedy that tomorrow night. I’d be delighted to meet you there and reacquaint you.”
“Such a gentleman!”
He blushed, “Such a lady!”
Jenny’s eyes crinkled at the edges when she smiled. She held her basket in front of her with both hands and shrugged up her shoulders.
“I’d like that, Charles. I’ll see you there, then?”
“Of course, Miss Tarrant. Give my regards to your father.”
“And mine to your mother. And your dear sisters. Goodbye, Charles!”
“Goodbye!”
She continued on her way. Charles turned around and continued on his. He had nowhere to go so he let his feet decide for themselves. He could catch up with Tom later. He had to think about what had just occurred. His heart felt fit to burst. He picked up his pace. After he was sure she was long gone, he let out a whoop and leaped into the air. A group of boys playing in the street laughed at him. He grinned and stuck out his tongue.
