Page 85 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

Dora tactfully made no reply to this, but Clem caught sight of Allsop at The Eagle twice that week, looking a damn sight more out of place than she ever did. He managed to nod at Clem before lowering his eyes to his music and keeping in Dora’s shadow.

For some reason, Clem felt himself bristle all over like an alley cat, seeing an interloper in his territory. “Keep an eye on that new pianist,” he told a startled Jim. “If he puts one foot wrong, sling him out.”

“He seems inoffensive enough,” Jim protested, throwing a bewildered look over his shoulder. “Besides, I thought he was a friend of your wife’s.”

Clem gave him a pointed look. “Precisely,” he muttered and flung off before Jim could respond. Collecting his jacket from his office, Clem went out to get some fresh air. He had to face facts. He was bloody dreading Dora’s debut at The Eagle.

She was going to be disgraced and he was going to have a problem with it, because for some reason she had brought out a protective streak in Clem that he hadn’t even known he possessed. He needed to be careful how he handled this disaster, so everything did not blow up in his face.

Maybe if he made her think he had a need of her, that she was somehow useful to him then she could carve out some other role in his organization. Maybe in some advisory capacity, though God knew she was not remotely qualified to even set foot in the place, let alone have any authority there!

Still, if anyone said anything, he could soon let them know they’d be out on their ear. How did one console a distraught woman anyway? Clem’s past liaisons did not cover such eventualities, for they had been in no way serious. Jewelry? Would that do the trick? He stopped to gaze in a passing window. None of the trinkets displayed seem appropriate for Dora.

She admired his cufflinks, he knew that, but once she realized her male impersonation was a failure, they would hardly be useful to her. Maybe they would even be an unpleasant reminder. Still, he found himself drifting toward the window displaying gentleman’s wares in any case. He had already taken Charlie Finch’s advice and bought her a pair of smart leather men’s shoes and hidden them in the bottom of the wardrobe along with his own.

Perhaps he could pick her up a tie pin or some such trifle. Anything to assuage the guilt that was starting to gnaw at his gut. Some of them were decorative enough for women to wear. He could imagine Dora pinning one to her breast. Perhaps the more ornate among them could double up as a bar brooch?

On impulse, he made his way inside and a smiling assistant swooped down on him. Clem asked for a closer look of a cerulean blue pin with six seed pearls set down the middle. “It is a pretty pin is it not, sir? There are cufflinks to match.”

Clem found himself exiting the store with the full set in his pocket. Ah, what the hell. She would need cheering up. He slid the gift box into his pocket and made his way back toward The Eagle, his expression still set and stern.

It was strange how much the business was playing on his mind, but he could not be easy about it or seem to relegate it to its proper place. It did not matter how much he tried to put it out of his mind, feelings of impending doom kept creeping into his head. Every day he seemed to wake up with a gnawing sense of unease about it. God damn it. He was far more concerned about Dora’s upcoming humiliation than he had ever been about getting seven bells beaten out of him in the ring.

He shook his head. He needed to get a sense of proportion about the business. After Friday night, Dora’s theatrical aspirations would lie in tatters around her. What could he do about it? Realistically, he knew there was nothing he could do to spare her. She needed to face up to harsh reality and the minute he had agreed to uphold his side of the bargain, he had known she would face this.

Somehow, though, he had not realized it would eat away at him the way it was. He almost felt guilty, which was fucking ridiculous. He wasn’t the one who had insisted on putting her on a music hall stage where she would be a fish out of water. It was Dora herself who was hell-bent on the scheme. Maybe it was better that she faced a short humiliation at The Eagle than suffer slow disillusionment over a number of years at The Parthenon?

He had watched her carefully this past week. If she had voiced the slightest misgiving about the scheme, had admitted to any second thoughts, he would have been there, coaxing her out of this disastrous course of action, but there was none. She had not even the smallest or momentary doubt regarding the wisdom of it.

When the subject was broached, her eyes gleamed, her voice grew warm and whenever she pulled out her notebook, to hastily scribble some new idea in it, she was practically vibrating with excitement. Reluctantly, Clem was forced to conclude that Dora possessed not one ounce of sense when it came to this subject.

It was her blind spot. He might almost call it an obsession. The only thing that would snap her out of it was the short, sharp shock of a bad reception. He had no doubt that the audience of The Eagle and Sun would give her that like a sock to the jaw. All he could do was be around to pick up the pieces. He slowed his step as he considered this.

Yes, he would focus his attention on that. She would need a bolt hole to retreat to, in order to lick her wounds. Very well, he could provide that for her. What would be best? A hotel suite? Or the familiarity of her own home? Perhaps her home on Juniper Row would be better, he decided on reflection. It was not as though anyone there would have borne witness to her humiliation.

Well, except for him of course, but he could assure her on that score. It wasn’t as though he was some arbiter of taste when it came to the stage. She needn’t worry that he would judge her and find her wanting. He just knew what the rank and file wanted, that was all. He could assure her his opinion didn’t count for much. Either that or just lie and say he’d loved her act.

He called in at a couple of places on the way back to the concert rooms. First out he finally hired a painter and decorator to come and paper those walls in their sitting room. Dora had deliberated over those samples many times. Each time she said regretfully that the blue and gold was too overpowering and that they should likely go for something plainer like the cream, but all the same, her eyes kept returning to the blue and her fingers reaching out to brush the textured surface.

He knew she preferred it. Dora’s tastes were no more timid than his own. If it was brash, then what of it? It was their sitting room at the end of the day and no one else had to sit in it. Hang the expense. Next stop was his acquaintance in Clapham. He had sent him word at the concert rooms the previous day, saying he’d had some fancy couches fall into his clutches, something like Clem had described.

On inspection, Clem liked them very much and paid for them on the spot. Dora’s safe harbor was coming along nicely. Last of all he put in orders for flowers to be delivered both to Juniper Row and the concert rooms for Friday. Then he called it a day. All he could do now was make sure he caught her when she fell.

TWENTY-TWO

The Eagle and Sun

Clem paced uneasily up and down the length of noisy hall. The seats were already spilling over with customers and the performers were not due on stage for another half hour. The tone was rowdy and loud. Most of their guests had spent at least an hour in the public house before transferring their patronage to The Eagle and Sun, where the beer continued to flow.

Clem’s growing tension had risen all week until it was now at an all-time high. He had been unable to spend longer than five minutes in the dressing room where Dora had been in raptures over the shiny leather dress shoes he had wordlessly presented her with.

She had almost started crying when he had produced the jeweler’s case. “Clem, you are too good to me,” she had said, jumping up from her chair and attempting a clumsy embrace. Clem had moved away, so all she managed was a brief hug of his arm. He could not bear her affection in this moment, not when he was about to betray her trust by setting her before a baying crowd.

“It’s nothing, Dora, just a … good luck gesture,” he had said, awkwardly. He hated this. Hated that she was in a dressing room marked “Misc” and that she was so fucking grateful for her secondhand props and the opportunity he was giving her to humiliate herself. “I’ll be out front.”

“I’ll look for you,” she promised, her eyes bright and shining.

Jesus Christ, he felt like he was going to be sick. He could not quell the twist in his gut whenever he thought of Dora coming out on that small stage and exposing herself to the scorn of the crowd. He supposed the place always had the same undercurrent of hard-edged, hectic gaiety on a Friday night, but strange to say he had never really noticed it before.