Professor Legrand’s tabby cat, a sweet-faced, friendly animal, especially beloved of the children in Eden Street, liked to sit between the railings on the knee-high wall and stand on her toes, rubbing a cheek against the black uprights, purring to be stroked.

That morning little George Goodman spotted Minmou from across the street and before his nursemaid could prevent it, he hurried over, paying no attention to the dairyman’s horse waiting outside number eleven. The two-year-old’s chubby hands were held aloft, ready to feel soft fur. ‘Pusstat!’ he called.

It was only Violet and the nursemaid who saw what happened next.

The horse, who wore blinkers, turned its head and must have caught a glimpse of a flapping shape rushing towards its hindquarters. It bucked violently, causing the dairy cart to rock, rattling crates of milk bottles, tossing one or two out to smash on the road. Its right rear hoof caught George, so that he was lifted, spinning, into the air. His hat flew off. His sailor collar flapped. Violet had the image in her mind for weeks afterwards; a plump body, arms wide, legs pedalling, tossed high into the air, rotating slowly, seeming to hang aloft a moment, then beginning to fall towards the elegant row of cast iron arrowheads pointing upwards along the top of the railings.

In Violet’s account there was a long silence as the child landed, jerking as his trajectory was interrupted by the sudden catch of a spike. She reached him first, dropping her books, and stepped between the boy and his shrieking nursemaid, instinctively wanting to spare her the sight. The sharpness of the upturned spikes, the undefended softness of George’s little body, the swift momentum of his fall, it seemed to Violet, as her mind struggled to take everything in, that the most terrible injuries were inevitable. And she was there first. What should she do?

The nursemaid staggered and fell wailing to her knees, leaving Violet to take the weight of the boy’s hanging body and lift it to release the pressure. George was at shoulder height and limp, his face a little blue. She called to the dairyman, now running towards her, to help. As she did, George shuddered and came to life, uttering a short roar of outrage. His face reddened as Violet watched because his clothes were tight at the neck, where she now saw the sharp black point protruding close to his left ear.

‘Hold him up,’ Violet called, and climbed onto the wall to fumble at George’s neck. Finding three tiny buttons, she struggled them clear of their finely crocheted loops. It seemed to take far too long. The boy was now making a gurgling sound and flailing his arms and small buttoned boots. In the background the terrified cries of his nursemaid echoed around the street. Neighbours ran to their windows in alarm. At last the square blue collar came away from the jacket. The boy drew a long breath. His cheek was pressed against the sharp black arrowhead.

‘We must lift him up and away,’ Violet told the dairyman. ‘You take him under the arms. I shall push from underneath.’

She so dreaded the wounds that she quailed and felt like closing her eyes, but the dairyman did not see this and followed her instructions. Between them they raised the boy clear of the spikes and set him on the pavement.  He lay there silent and rigid, his eyes tightly shut, his hands in fists, the golden curls his sisters so admired a tangle on the muddy flagstones.

Violet pulled off her shawl and set the boy on that. Turning him over, pulling his clothing aside, dreading the sight of ripped flesh, the spread of scarlet blood into the crisp pleated undershirt, she found only a long reddening line running down his spine. It had barely even broken the skin. The arrowhead had missed George entirely. Instead of being skewered – the injuries too catastrophic to imagine – he had been hung like a coat on a hook by his sailor collar. Later examination found that apart from this long graze his most serious injury was a curved bruise on one hip, presumed to be the first impact of the horse’s hoof.

 Most of the railings in Eden Street had their arrowheads removed soon afterwards. Professor Legrand kept his; a single man and a mathematician, he declared the probability of a similar accident in Eden Street to be impossibly remote. Neighbours thought him a cold fish, even if he happened to be right.

Mrs Goodman, George’s mother, had seen her baby son hanging from the railings from her drawing room window and, once recovered, she declared Violet a heroin and told her husband and all her friends about the girl’s admirable presence of mind. The sailor collar was framed and hung in the hall, its ragged hole forever reminding children to be more careful than Georgie as they crossed the street. The nursemaid left and went to work in Newmarket, in a street without railings.

Another consequence was that Violet, even while the little boy was being marvelled over and a small crowd had gathered to tut and re-tell the tale – he was already being tossed higher and further with each telling – Violet decided that she must know more. She never again wanted to feel the helplessness she had felt as she ran towards the little body hanging from the railings. What if the spike had not missed him?

When Georgie’s father, Dr Goodman, a short, intense Welshman with a booming voice, called that evening to express his gratitude, she confessed as much.

‘You must attend my First Aid classes!’ he boomed, his thick fist encircling the tiny sherry glass Aunt Louisa had offered. ‘Thursdays at the Emmanuel Hall.’

‘Are these ladies’ classes?’ Aunt Louisa wondered.

‘The skills of rescue and resuscitation are vital for everyone, Mrs Brocklehurst, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ Dr Goodman declared, swallowing his sherry in a single gulp.

It was difficult to disagree with the booming vigour of Dr Goodman.

‘I should like to come, if my aunt permits it,’ Violet told him.

‘I shall persuade her,’ he said, as if her aunt were not standing next to him.

#

The first class in First Aid was full of unfamiliar anxieties for Violet. What should she take? Would a notebook and pencil seem too presumptuous or would it be the barest minimum? What should she wear? Would there be strenuous activity? Her aunt watched her dither in the hall, fiddling with her hat, picking up and then putting down her notebook, and could stand it no more. 

‘Are you ever going to leave, dear? It seems half an hour that you have stood there in the hall.’

‘I am suddenly unsure, Aunt. I have never attended a class. Not in anything. How am I to behave?’

Aunt Violet looked the girl up and down and decided now was not the moment to mention the lace trim that had ripped along one sleeve, or the dab of mud on her skirt. ‘At Ladies Debating Society lectures, it is quite normal to take a notebook and pencil and to wear exactly the plain outfit you have chosen. Your manners are excellent, dear, you will know what to do.’

‘The others are all policemen, Dr Goodman says.’

‘Yes. That is unfortunate, but they will at least be well-behaved, one imagines, even if they are not strictly speaking gentlemen.’ Louisa opened the front door and stood expectantly beside it. ‘You know the way. And Violet, if it becomes...uncomfortable in any way, thank them politely and come home. You need not subject yourself to First Aid classes if they include unpleasantness of any sort.’

It was the word ‘unpleasantness’ that set Violet’s feet in motion. She hurried down Eden Street towards the Church Hall, clutching her notebook. It was not that she wanted to hurry towards unpleasantness, or hungered for it, but she passed the now blunted railings where Georgie had once hung and was reminded what had led to this.

Twelve young police officers, in full uniform, were already sitting in a row of chairs when she peered round the arched wooden door. They reminded her of pins in a child’s bowling alley. Dr Goodman pointed Violet to chair at the end of the row. ‘Come in, Miss Carew. Gentlemen, I hope you will join me in welcoming our newest recruit. Now, this evening’s subject is How to Stop Bleeding. Charlie here,’ he indicated a boy of about ten sitting to one side, ‘is our victim, and we are going to practice the main methods of preventing severe loss of blood after an injury. We will begin with injuries to the limbs and then move on to dealing with wounds to the torso and head.’

It was a chilly hall. The chairs were not comfortable and the tea they brewed half way through the lesson was not particularly good either, but Violet remembered that lesson for the rest of her life. She learnt to raise bleeding limbs above the heart and apply pressure to wounds on the torso and head. She came away with a booklet and a pile of bandages to practice with before the next class. 

#

Eden Street in Cambridge in October 1903 is generally a peaceful enough place at half past seven on a Wednesday morning. Maids are about their work, early deliveries of food and coal are beginning, but on the whole you are more likely to hear the song of blackbirds or the boots of passing workmen on the cobblestones than a loud scream.

This particular scream came from number 14. A passer-by might have analysed it as a short, shocked cry, more a bellow than a wail, expressing outrage rather than fear. If the same passer-by had waited a short time (not passed-by, in other words, but lingered) he or she would have heard a slammed door followed by raised voices and within the half-hour, the same loiterer would have seen a large and angry woman carrying a bulging Gladstone bag flounce down the front steps and march determinedly off towards the city centre.

‘Mrs Teague gone?’ Aunt Louisa asked, over breakfast, ‘why would that be?’

Violet looked down at her plate, ‘It was a dissection. I thought I’d covered it. She screamed when she saw it in my study and said she could not stay in the house if that sort of thing was going on.’ She buttered a piece of toast and reached for the honey. Her aunt stirred her tea carefully.

‘What kind of dissection would it have been?’

‘A frog.’

‘You know I won’t have anything that smells unpleasant, don’t you, Violet? It isn’t fair to the servants or the neighbours.’

‘I use formaldehyde, Aunt, it really doesn’t smell unpleasant. Not once you’re accustomed to it.’

Her aunt, who had experienced the effects of the chemical as it drifted down from Violet’s rooms in the attic, took a sip of her tea, raising an eyebrow.

‘I suppose it’s essential, dear, for your studies, this cutting up of things?’

‘Edward’s professor says it is the only way.’

‘But aren’t there books?’

‘Of course, but one must learn the practical skills as well. It’s very delicate work. The blood vessels and the nerves are tiny. It takes great precision.’

‘I’m sure it does, Violet, but if it frightens the staff away we shall be in great difficulty.’

‘I regret that, but who could have predicted that Mrs Teague would be so sensitive? She looks as if she could wrestle a bullock, frankly, and my frog is nothing horrifying. In its own way, it is in fact very beautiful.’ Violet glanced up, caught her Aunt’s eye, and quickly added, ‘I apologise. Perhaps I could help you find a new maid?’

‘It is not easy to find good servants, Violet, especially in a city like Cambridge, where they can so readily find work at the colleges. We must take care not to offend any more of them. Be sure to cover up your dead animals and lock your study door in future.’

‘I will, Aunt, and I regret causing Mrs Teague to leave so dramatically.’

Aunt Louisa sipped her tea. She was a neat woman, mostly dressed in black, but with a white lace cap on her silvering hair. Her hands, holding the decorated bone china teacup, were delicate, but often paint-stained. There was a piercing quality to her light blue eyes, which even now, whilst expressing concern, if not actual irritation, shone with a steady enjoyment of life.  She was inclined to encourage her niece’s scientific interests, because Violet’s energies were so evidently renewed by them. Louisa’s great domestic fear was that she might lose Monsieur Picard, her French chef. Monsieur’s cooking was supreme. No guest ever left a dinner at Louisa Brocklehurst’s hungry or unimpressed. Maids came and went, but nothing must ever offend Monsieur, for his dinners attracted the great and the good to Mrs Brocklehurst’s table, and an excellent dinner encouraged them to commission the portraits that supported the household.

‘Not everyone can appreciate the beauty of a frog split open, dear,’ Louisa remarked, ‘I imagine the young gentlemen carry out such procedures in a laboratory, or some such, instead of at home.’

‘They do,’ Violet said with a sigh.

#

The crash of a bicycle thrown to the ground outside and footsteps bounding up the steps to the door alerted the ladies to the arrival of a young man, who swept into the room and began immediately to butter a piece of toast.

‘Good morning, Edward dear,’ said Aunt Louisa, unconcerned by this Viking raid on her breakfast table.

Edward leaned over and hastily kissed the cheeks of his Aunt and his sister before taking another huge bite of toast. His aunt handed him a cup of tea which he drank in one gulp.

‘Morning ladies,’ he said, ‘I must hurry to my 9 o’clock lecture, it’s Professor Rusbridge and he’s a stickler. I need my Anatomy books, Violet.’

‘They’re ready on the table in the hall,’ Violet told him, ‘what will Rusbridge be lecturing on this morning?’

‘Osteology of the cranium, I think it is. Something of the sort, anyway.’

‘Are you well-prepared?’

‘Well, obviously not, as my sister has had my books, but I’ll do my best.’ He crammed the last of the toast into his mouth and reached for more.

‘Will you come for tea, Edward?’ called his aunt after him. ‘I’ve ordered a few cakes from Fitzbillies.’

‘Is it a special occasion?’ Edward asked, leaning back round the dining room door, now holding several large textbooks.

‘I have invited Professor Rusbridge,’ his aunt replied.

‘Rusbridge? Whose lecture I am almost late for?’

‘Yes. He. I thought you might want to be introduced. He is a very influential man, and I wanted to present you to him, now that you are in your second year.’

‘Aunt! Are you pulling strings on my behalf?’

‘I am simply inviting a friend to tea and hoping my nephew will join us. Will you?’

‘How can I refuse?’

The door slammed and the ladies watched Edward leap onto his bike and pedal off, the books bouncing in his basket.

‘The cranium,’ Violet said, wistfully.

‘Is the cranium an interesting topic?’ asked Aunt Louisa.

‘Very,’ Violet said.

‘Do they feed them at Trinity College? The manner in which Edward eats when he visits suggests to me they are not generous. He is always hungry.’

‘Edward has been hungry since he was born, Aunt Louisa. I’m surprised you hadn’t observed that before. Besides, he does physical training every day, the exercise makes him even worse. His trainer told him to eat raw eggs. A dozen a day, I think it was.’

Her aunt was silent for a moment, imagining the impact on her modest domestic budget of a dozen eggs a day. ‘Do you have plans today?’

‘We are resuscitating the drowned in First Aid this afternoon. Until then I shall continue with my frog.’

‘Don’t frown, Violet, dear, you’ll get lines. My committee is raising funds for the poor children of East London this morning. Will you be here for tea? I have ordered quite a generous number of cakes.’

‘I’d give all the cakes in Fitzbillies for a chance to examine a cranium.’

‘What is a cranium, exactly, Dear?’

‘A head.’

‘I see.’ Aunt Louisa set down her tea cup and rose from the table, ‘Well, I hope you won’t be tempted to dissect any heads in your room, Violet, that really would frighten the servants. I rely on you to call at Pearson’s Agency in Regent Street. Mrs Pearson is very trustworthy. Her agency scrutinizes the references of all applicants. One hears such terrible stories of maids gone bad. Oh, and Violet, do write to your Papa, he asks after you.’

#

It was while waiting to buy stamps in the Post Office that Violet’s attention was drawn by the Situations Wanted advertisements. There were perhaps a dozen cards on the noticeboard but the one that took Violet’s eye was written in a bold, curly hand, with flourishes top and bottom, as though the writer had given some thought to its presentation as well as its contents. Experienced General Maid, it said, new to the city, seeks position. Very good references available. Please apply to Meeks’ Haberdashers, during shop hours.

Meeks was nearby, so on impulse Violet called there immediately. Once she had explained her mission, she found herself being scrutinised from both sides of the shop by Mr and Mrs Meeks, who were busy serving customers themselves but ordered a small boy apprentice to go and find someone they called ‘Tabs’. He disappeared down a tiny twisting wooden staircase hidden behind a door in a corner and soon after returned, panting, and told Violet Miss Tabs would be with her shortly and would meet her out the front.

The young woman who came round the corner and curtseyed politely to Violet was about her own age, with dark hair and eyes and the healthy bloom of someone who had lived until recently in the country. She looked, however, a little anxious and tired. She introduced herself as Tabitha Miriam Hindcote, from Cawsand, Cornwall.

‘Cornwall?’ said Violet. ‘You are a long way from home.’

        ‘I am, Miss, I grew up on a farm but I worked as a housemaid after I left school. I set my heart on seeing something of the world. Mr Meeks is a distant relation, he said I could stay until I found a position. He said he’d have me in the shop – I can do figures – but his wife does not care for my country way of speaking. I don’t sound right to the ladies and gentlemen, you see. They don’t want to buy their ribbons or their french lace from someone who sounds like a country bumpkin straight off the farm, do they?’

        ‘I suppose not,’ Violet agreed, feeling that this was unfair, but nonetheless true.

        ‘So, I am in hopes I might find a position as a housemaid. I done the work before, at the Reverend Harcombe’s house in Plymouth. They were always satisfied with me there. I have a reference.’

        ‘My father, as it happens, is rector of a parish not far from Plymouth.’

        ‘Oh! Then he will most probably know Reverend and Mrs Harcombe,’ the girl said, smiling at the mention of home. ‘They will always give me a good character. They were full of regret when I had to leave their employment before, but my mother took ill and I had to help on the farm for a time.’

‘Would you be willing to come and meet my aunt later today?’

‘If you don’t mind my asking, Miss, how many are there in your household?’

‘Only my aunt and I.’

‘Oh! Only two ladies.’

‘Yes. We keep a cook, a French gentleman, but no other servants.’

‘Oh, French!’ said Tabitha, surprised. ‘I never met a Frenchman before.’

‘He is elderly, and not very sociable, I’m afraid,’ Violet said, ‘but his food is most acceptable.’

‘I never tasted French food,’ said Tabitha.

‘Nobody has ever complained,’ Violet said, ‘in fact, my aunt’s guests vie for an invitation. Now, will you come to us this afternoon to meet my aunt?’

‘Gladly, yes. But, Miss, there is one thing…’ Tabitha began to say something, but

Violet was distracted by the bells of Great St Mary’s chiming the half hour, reminding her of her First Aid class. She looked back at Tabitha’s hopeful face and handed her one of her aunt’s cards.

‘Come this afternoon at 2 o’clock and my aunt will speak to you,’ Violet said and hurried off towards the church hall which was a good twenty minutes’ brisk walk away.

Tabitha frowned briefly and read the card before tucking it into her apron pocket and following another customer back into Meeks’.

#

#

Inside the richly-coloured store, Tabitha passed the long counter where bolts of fabric were spread and measured and let herself into the back room where she had been folding offcuts out of sight of the public. The dim store room was three steps down from the polished mahogany counters and glass fronted display cases the public saw.

Mrs Meeks, tiny and brisk in a lace-trimmed apron, came from the shop floor to find her. ‘Did she offer you a position?’ she asked, looking over Tabitha’s shoulder to inspect her work.

‘I am to go and meet the mistress of the house this afternoon,’ Tabitha told her.

‘Did you mention your reason for leaving?’

‘I said I did not speak in the ladylike way that was expected.’

Mrs Meeks pursed her lips. Her busy hands straightened the pile of offcuts. ‘That is true. Did you mention the other matter?’

‘No.’ Tabitha said, ‘I meant to, but the lady hurried off.’

‘It is my duty to inform another employer, if you do not,’ Mrs Meeks told her, sharply. ‘There is the reputation of the shop to consider.’

‘I have done nothing to harm the reputation of Meeks, surely?’

Mrs Meeks did not look at the girl directly. She reached a pile of paper bags from a shelf nearby.

‘You were deceitful, Tabitha. It is not what we expected of you. I will tell her myself, if you do not.’

A tiny bell rang summoning Mrs Meeks to a customer. She smoothed her apron and, adding a professional smile of greeting to her face, stepped back up into the shop.

#

#

Louisa Brocklehurst was completing the portrait of a professor of Philology that afternoon and so immersed in the complexities of his generous beard that she did not hear the knock on the door and had to be reminded of the interview. She carried the smell of turpentine into the drawing room with her.

‘My niece tells me you are from Cornwall,’ she told the girl.

‘I am, Madam. I came to Cambridge only two weeks ago.’

‘And what do you make of the city?’

‘I have not been out a great deal, as I work in the shop. The parks are pleasant for walking. I miss the sea, though. And the hills.’

‘Yes, poor thing, you would. So, you are looking for a maid’s position? And you have references from your last employer in Plymouth, my niece says.’

‘Yes, Madam.’ From her small handbag, Tabitha produced a folded letter and handed it over. Louisa read it with care.

‘This is a very good reference, but it is nearly three years old, have you none more recent?’

‘I had to leave that position at the vicarage and go home, you see, after my mother took ill. I was needed to look after my brothers and sisters and help on the farm. I am the oldest of seven.’

‘I see.’ Louisa smiled at the girl. ‘And who is caring for your brothers and sisters now that you have left?’

‘My sister is sixteen now.’

‘You chose to move a very long way away.’

‘I have relations here: the Meeks at Meeks Haberdashery.’

‘But you do not want to stay there in the shop?’

‘As I told Miss Violet, they do not like my country way of speaking.’

Louisa looked down at her hands and rubbed at a spot of brown paint. ‘And when you worked for Rev and Mrs Harcombe, Tabitha, what sort of household did they keep?’

‘They had four children, a maid and a gardener.’

‘And they were clearly most content with your work. Their reference is excellent.’

‘Yes, Madam.’

There was a reserve about Tabitha that made Louisa hesitate and want to ask more, but there seemed very little else to ask, so she switched to informing her instead. ‘We are a small household here, as you see. My niece and I are the only residents, although my nephew is a frequent visitor, especially at mealtimes. We keep a cook. I believe my niece has mentioned him, but no other servants. I undertake portrait commissions, and I have a studio, which I will not ask you to clean. You will rarely need to enter it. And my niece is pursuing an interest in science in her room upstairs. She has a kind of laboratory up there and carries out…procedures occasionally in connection with her studies. She would prefer it if you did not move anything in that room.’

‘Yes, Madam, I understand.’

‘The other consideration, and it is very important, is that my chef, Monsieur Picard,’

‘…the Frenchman?’

‘Yes. He is absolutely in charge of the kitchen. His standards are high. He can, perhaps, seem a little brisk or even impatient from time to time. Or so the other maids have told me.’

Louisa was watching the girl closely to see her reaction and was pleased to see that Tabitha remained steady in the face of this description.

‘It is not that he is unpleasant to work with, or unkind. If he takes to you, you can learn a great deal from Monsieur. He does not live in, he has his own apartment. Your room would be in the attic, it is a pleasant room with a fire and a good view, and there is a small room in the basement you can use to store your trunk.’ Louisa could see that Tabitha was happy with all she had heard.

‘So, Tabitha, would you like to think the position over for a day or two?’

‘No, Madam, I do not need to think it over. I would be happy to accept the position if you offer it to me.’

‘And you are happy with the terms? £20 salary, Sunday evenings and a half day a week off by arrangement?’

‘Very happy, Madam.’

 ‘And the usual three month’s trial?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘In that case, welcome to 14 Eden Street, Tabitha. You may move into your room at your earliest convenience.’

‘Would this afternoon be too soon Madam? Only I should be glad to begin my duties as soon as I can. Mr Meeks will send my trunk round on a trolley with one of his storeroom boys.’

‘I don’t see why not. He can bring it round to the back gate and through the garden most easily. Violet will show you out that way. I have guests for tea at 4 o’clock, would you be able to help with that? Monsieur Picard – we always call him Monsieur - does not begin work until 5, but I have ordered cakes from the bakery.’

‘Yes, Madam. I shall be glad to start my work as soon as my trunk can be brought round.’

Violet took notes of this conversation. The last line reads ‘Appears willing and indeed eager to start. Aunt L. asked about references. Write to father and confirm Harcombe employment.’  

#

Tabitha’s first duty was the re-arrangement of furniture in the sitting room to allow the afternoon’s special guest to sit on the small sofa whilst remaining within easy reach of the pastries. She was strong, lifting chairs and sofa with little effort, so Louisa could be reassured that the Professor’s considerable bulk would be comfortably accommodated whilst her best chairs remained undamaged.

On previous visits, Professor Rusbridge’s bulk had indeed loosened the jointed arms on her favourite stick-backed Windsor chair, but that was because he was sitting for his portrait, which meant a longer period of stillness with all 23 stones of him bearing upon the narrow spindles. The Professor had been pleased with his portrait and his recommendations had kept Aunt Louisa in commissions for several years. Professors loved having their portraits made almost as much as Mayors and Masters, and Louisa Brocklehurst’s way of capturing their air of authority, whilst managing also to imply generosity of nature, good humour and profound wisdom, meant she had a waiting list eager to pay her unashamedly high fees.

Professor Rusbridge was a single man, his life having been devoted entirely to Science. Most of the gentlemen whose portraits formed Louisa Rusbridge’s commissions were single. She had a theory about this, which was that the hours spent being scrutinised, captured and immortalised in oils in her studio acted as a sort of compensation for the lack of female attention these gentlemen received in their private lives, but naturally this was not a theory she cared to share, or even to examine in any great detail in her own thoughts for fear of unpleasant implications.

Tabitha laid the table using the best lace cloth and the household’s finest china and silverware, adding a small vase of late roses from the garden, which pleased her new mistress, and, having been instructed not to lay out all the cakes at once, but to keep some back and produce them as a second helping, went to the kitchen to boil the kettles.

Professor Rusbridge, expected at 4, arrived by cab at half past three, though it was at least ten minutes later that he finally eased himself with a sigh onto the little sofa. There had been a great deal of maneuvering needed to extract himself from the cab – both the driver and his young groom were needed to assist him down the small steps to the pavement, even after he had passed sideways through the narrow cab door. Then there was the single step of the pavement and three more, rests taken on each, up to the front door, where he rang the bell with such a flourish that Tabitha, in the kitchen below, jumped and almost dropped a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

‘Professor! How good of you to come,’ Aunt Louisa offered her hand and it was taken in a plump ringed one and brought to the Professor’s prominent lips. Having painted his portrait, his hostess recognised each of his features like a group of old friends; the small grey eyes, the prominent down-pointed nose, the chins overlapping the high stiff collar – she knew each individually and could recall the colours she had needed to capture the way the light fell across them in the studio. The mouth, she remembered had taken a lot of work, needing plenty of blue. It had been a challenge to suggest the way the lips seemed to reach forward from his face. Smiling at him now, she was still not sure she had done it justice. She had seen an etching in the Fitzwilliam Museum of a rhinoceros recently, its top lip reaching for a branch, and been reminded of the struggle.

‘Delighted, my dear Mrs Brocklehurst, always a pleasure!’

‘Come and make yourself comfortable,’ Louisa led the way and indicated the carefully placed sofa. She rang for tea. ‘We will be joined by my niece and nephew,’ she said. ‘My nephew, Edward, I think I may have mentioned, is in his second year of Natural Sciences at Trinity.’

‘Ah yes, I remember,’ said the Professor, who had not remembered and whose attention was now directed towards the cake stand.

‘And my niece, Violet, whom you have not met.’

‘Ah,’ said the Professor, ‘a niece who has followed her brother to Cambridge. She is not the first young woman to do so, Louisa, nor will she be the last. Bees to the honeypot. We can hardly blame them.’

A slight rigidity crept into Louisa’s smile, but she overcame it.

‘Violet is taking a very close interest in Science herself, as a matter of fact. She follows her brother’s studies very closely…’

‘Dear me,’ interrupted the Professor, ‘I do not think that should be encouraged.’

Louisa decided to redirect his attention. ‘How has your health been, Professor? I do hope the damp summer did not disagree with you. Did you take your usual vacation in Yorkshire?’

‘I did indeed. The most agreeable month at Whitby. I have been working for some time on bivalves, as you know, and made several very useful observations there in my laboratory. The bivalve anatomical structures are particularly promising as an avenue for further study. Your nephew would be interested in this work, no doubt.’

‘And my niece too,’ Louisa added, mildly.

Tabitha arrived with the tea tray and set it on the table, leaving swiftly to answer the door to Edward and Violet, who both entered slightly breathless having cycled in one case and run in the other.

        The Professor lumbered to his feet and the introductions were made.

        ‘I was just telling your Aunt about my most recent work on molluscs, young man,’ continued the Professor, once the formalities were over. Edward’s name had already slipped his mind and Violet’s had never lodged there at all.

        ‘A fascinating field of research, I am told,’ Edward replied, taking the plate his Aunt offered and looking searchingly toward the cakes.

        ‘I never fail to return from a field trip renewed and eager to continue my research,’ continued the Professor, ‘there is nothing so stimulating or so engrossing as daily observations, painstakingly recorded. They are the source and the essential basis of all science. I am sure you will agree.’

        ‘Oh certainly,’ said Edward, ‘absolutely, yes indeed, although if it is painstaking records you like, they are my sister’s speciality.’

        ‘Your nephew will make a fine scientist, I see, Louisa,’ remarked the Professor, accepting a cup of tea.

        The sandwiches were offered. The professor nimbly took three, noting in passing that they were rather small and that he had eaten only a very meagre lunch. Edward and Violet took one each. In Edward’s case this required enormous self-control.

        ‘And tell me, young man, what field do you intend to pursue? Have you set your life’s course? Perhaps you are too early in your studies to have discovered your academic intentions.’

        Edward finished a mouthful and was about to answer when his questioner continued, ‘I, of course, would urge you to aim for research in the biological sciences above all. Get a fellowship, make your mark. There is new work under way of the most promising kind here at Cambridge. Why, my own department is constantly in need of talented young men.’

        ‘I was considering Medicine,’ said Edward.

        ‘Medicine?’ The disclosure made the Professor blink and cough slightly. ‘That is an unusual choice. Perhaps it runs in the family. Is your father a medical man?’

        ‘He is rector of a parish in Devon,’ Edward said.

        ‘And yet you mean to practice medicine? How very unusual.’

        ‘I would simply like to put my training to use in some beneficial way,’ Edward told him.

        The professor smiled, causing a particle of salmon paste in his moustache to bob. ‘You surely do not mean to suggest that it is only in Medicine that science is beneficial?’ he asked and reached for a few more sandwiches.

        ‘More tea?’ asked Louisa.

        ‘Not at all,’ Edward replied, ‘I am well aware that the benefits of scientific research are subtle, interconnected and often only obvious long into the future. I have simply always felt that I had a calling to be a medical practitioner.’

        The Professor was mollified by this at first, but then a tiny moment of suspicion clouded his expression. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘if you have a calling.’

        ‘Do take a cake, Professor, the Florentines at Fitzbillies are particularly well-regarded.’

        ‘Thank you. I will,’ he said.

        There was a moment’s lull, interrupted by the sound of more water being added to the teapot.

        ‘I have been taking First Aid classes with Doctor Goodman,’ remarked Violet.

        The Professor chuckled. ‘Admirable, I’m sure,’ he remarked, turning his gaze to her for the first time. ‘First aid is very popular. Though I for one have walked this earth for more than half a century without once observing any kind of accident!’

        ‘By law of averages you may see one quite soon, then,’ Violet said quietly.

        ‘Personally I believe a qualified physician would be of far greater use than a young woman with vague ideas about first aid, however well-intentioned,’ the Professor replied. His little finger coiled as he sipped from his teacup.

‘There may not be a doctor nearby.’

‘In Cambridge one can hardly throw a stick without hitting a medical man,’ said Rusbridge, eyeing the last of the florentines.

Edward coughed quietly. ‘My sister recently witnessed an accident herself and acted very bravely.’

‘I do not doubt that,’ said Rusbridge, ‘but, as I say, it is a properly, scientifically qualified medical man one really needs in an emergency.’

‘A scientifically trained woman might also be passing. There are women at Girton and Newnham studying Medicine, I believe,’ Violet added.

        ‘Yes. It does happen,’ said the professor, ‘I have even encountered one or two of these ladies in my lectures, though I am sure they didn’t understand a great deal, despite the extraordinary rate at which they take notes. I swear they were attempting to write every word!’

He looked to Louisa to share this joke, but she was engaged with the cream jug.

‘I have attended one or two very interesting lectures myself, recently,’ Violet said.

‘I would discourage it, frankly,’ the Professor went on, ‘where is the value of struggling your way through the lecture series only to be unable to carry out any serious practical work? The laboratories are too small. They are crowded enough already. Why, my students have to occupy them long into the night, in shifts, already. Where would we be if we had to fit the ladies in too? Women cannot qualify. They do not need this sort of training for the only profession they will be able to pursue – school teaching – I really can’t see the point of their getting under the feet of my undergraduates at all.’

‘Young women do have to support themselves in life sometimes, though, do they not?’ Aunt Louisa asked, smiling and passing the cakes over again.

‘Well, only if they do not marry, or if, like yourself, they have the misfortune to be widowed. They are nearly always the daughters of clergymen.’

‘As am I…’ Violet added.

‘Quite. The daughters of clergymen whose main ambition is to run a little school somewhere in order to subsidise a future husband’s stipend in a remote parish. What good is a first class education to such women?’

Violet froze, her teacup hovering.

The Professor paused, chewing audibly and swallowing before addressing his remarks to Aunt Louisa. ‘I recently read a well-researched paper arguing that the health of young women is badly compromised by intensive study.’ He paused and lowered his voice confidentially, ‘It re-directs their vital energies. The details are not suitable for the tea table, Louisa, but I can assure you that the ability of a young woman to fulfil her natural destiny in life, to bear healthy children and remain strong enough to raise them - this essential womanly ability - is at risk when young women choose to go against nature and devote themselves to over-prolonged study. I can think of examples of this among my personal acquaintance, I am sorry to say, and I would certainly counsel your niece to avoid any such course of action.’

Everyone looked at their plate for a moment.

‘But you do not oppose the education of women in general?’ Louisa said, mildly.

‘No indeed! I welcome the inclination some women have to educate themselves so as to be more of a companion to their husbands. An intelligent, cultivated woman is one of life’s great joys. And you are a fine example, if I may take the liberty of saying so. No, it is the unhealthy fixation of some young women upon matters unsuitable to the very constitution of the female brain that I so regret. Original research, medical investigation, that sort of thing. No good can come of it.’

He turned at last to Violet and directed his final remarks at her. ‘You would be far better, in my considered opinion, to follow the example of your admirable Aunt by acquiring a ladylike skill such as painting. Apply your energies where nature intended; leave Science to the gentlemen.’

#

After the Professor’s visit, the atmosphere at number 14 darkened. If disappointment could be seen - in the form of a dark ribbon, perhaps - it would have trailed low and limp along the skirting board from under the closed door of Violet’s room and wound its gloomy way around the house. The source of this despond was rarely seen, shutting herself up with her books and her attempts at dissection, but finding little energy for either activity. It was not that she believed intensive study would ruin her femininity, she did not believe it for a moment. It was just that she was unprepared for such a solid and utterly self-confident dismissal.

        Aunt Louisa, as she worked in her studio, was aware of the blow that had been dealt to her niece. The dear creature, naturally inclined to vitality and energetic enthusiasm, seemed limp and oppressed. But how was an aunt to react? She tried taking Violet with her to one or two of her own social gatherings, but it was clear that the Ladies’ Philosophical Circle and the lecture series on Tintoretto were not what her niece needed. Diversion seemed the answer, but Violet had few friends of her own in Cambridge so far. Nature had not equipped the girl for handiwork of any sort; her embroidery was a nightmare of knots and a bear cub could probably produce more pleasing flower arrangements. She had no interest in fashion, scarcely remembering the colour of a dress or the pattern of a shawl and reading even the most elevating novels made her sigh and fidget her feet. And then there was the question of the girl’s future life. She had grown solitary in Devon after her mother’s death, and in her aunt’s view had spent far too much time cataloguing her father’s moth collection and recording bird migrations and the weather. She wanted to study, and it was not out of the question – there were two women’s colleges - but the expense was impossible; their fees were high, and they were poorer institutions and less able to offer the scholarships and bursaries available at men’s colleges. Meanwhile, all Violet could do was pore over her brother’s books and sit in on lectures often as an unwelcome observer.

It might perhaps be preferable, Louisa thought, leaning in to perfect the line of a Regius Professor’s nose on her canvas, to discourage Violet gently, the better to protect her from disappointment. Rationally this was so, but so ardently did Louisa’s instincts resist it, that the muscles in her jaw and arm clenched, adding a painted twitch that took an hour to correct and left the professor with a more distinguished profile than ever he had in the flesh.

But if apathy and depression pervaded the upstairs rooms of the house, the kitchen and scullery were free of both, and full of Tabitha’s brisk labours. Even Monsieur, having welcomed her with cool reserve, and tested her with a few unpleasant tasks: cleaning the most fiddly silverware and blacking the kitchen range, for example, found little to condemn. His only slight reservation was that Tabitha was so much on the move. He was secretive about his age, as about most things, but was well into his seventies, and wondered whether he had ever, even in his prime, had Tabitha’s energy. Her vigour made him feel elderly.

The ladies only noticed that Tabitha rose at dawn and seemed to be hard at work and running up and down the stairs all day long. Once or twice Violet, who liked to study in the very early morning, was surprised to hear Tabitha letting herself out of the back gate before the sun came up, but she always returned in plenty of time to light fires and prepare breakfast.         

On this day, in particular, a Friday, the maid had risen very early the better to complete all her duties in good time and now she presented herself, bobbing a curtsey, at Aunt Louisa’s studio door.

‘I was wondering, Madam, whether I might leave a little early this afternoon. I changed my half day, if you remember?’

Louisa had lost track of the time, as she often did when she was painting.

‘I have left the luncheon ready, and I will be back in time for dinner, but I had hoped to leave by noon and get to the station in time to meet a train, Madam. I shouldn’t want to miss it.’

‘Have you a friend arriving?’ asked Louisa.

‘A relation of mine, from Cornwall. My cousin.’

‘Is he coming to visit you?’

‘Oh no, Madam, he is coming to box. He is coming for a fight. Jack Fitzsimmons, the pugilist, perhaps you have heard of him. He is well-known to people who follow boxing.’

‘Goodness!’ said Louisa, turning her eyes away from the portrait and looking at Tabitha for the first time, ‘A pugilist for a cousin!’

‘He is a distant cousin, but I do remember him from back home. I would like to go and say hello. He is newly married and his bride is travelling with him. I should like to be introduced to her.’

‘Then of course you must go.’

#

‘I saw a poster outside the Corn Exchange advertising a boxing match,’ Violet said, when Tabitha’s absence was explained over lunch, ‘isn’t he called Jack the Cornishman? Perhaps it will be in the newspaper.’

Violet brought the newspaper from the hall table and they consulted it, finding a notice of the fight on the front page. Cambridge’s Annual Assault-at-Arms. Special engagement of Jack Fitzsimmons, ‘The Cornish Wonder’, contender for Heavyweight Champion of Great Britain and Sam ‘Cockney Boy’ Shepherd, former Heavyweight Champion of New Zealand and Australia. Rare visit to Cambridge of these two famous champions. Full programme including sword fencing, bayonet exercises, and drill by members of the Cambridge University Volunteer battalion. Displays of single stick, quarterstaff, Indian clubs and dumb bells. Tug-of-war, vaulting horse, weight-lifting and gymnastics displays including a human pyramid by University, Police and Army teams. Reserved seats may be booked at the Star and Garter, Petty Cury.

The Cornish Wonder was pictured, fists raised in a boxer’s pose. His face was fine featured and apparently undamaged. Cockney Sam Richardson, pictured beside, was a different matter – he stood, glaring out at the reader with his arms folded and a sneer on his lips. His nose was large and misshapen, his ears stood out like jug handles and his thick dark hair was oiled flat on either side of a forcible central parting.

‘What faces. I should enjoy painting their portraits!’ Aunt Louisa said.

‘Have you ever seen a boxing match, Aunt?’ Violet asked.

‘I have, as a matter of fact. In London. It was some time ago, of course. Your uncle was invited. I expect it was something to do with his work.’

‘What was it like?’

Aunt Louisa shrugged and moved back to her easel, ‘I remember that it was a very long evening. You do not see only one fight, there is a long sequence running up to the most important contest. Perhaps they have changed it nowadays.’

‘But weren’t you terrified by the brutality of the fighting?’

‘Not terrified, no. It did not appeal to me. But many others were obviously enjoying the spectacle. And there were a great many ladies present, as I recall.’

#

Although Aunt Louisa was widely held to be an advanced thinker, she had her limits. One of these concerned bicycles. To be precise, it concerned young ladies riding bicycles. Of this she wholeheartedly disapproved. She had once mentioned, in passing, a newspaper story about evil men who lay in wait and pounced on bicycling ladies, throwing them to the ground and robbing them – or worse. Perhaps it was that. Or perhaps it was the vexed issue of the divided skirt. Aunt Louisa couldn’t abide a divided skirt and don’t even mention pantaloons, she considered them an abomination and hardly acknowledged their existence. So a bicycle was out of the question for her niece, which meant two things: firstly Violet had to walk everywhere, and secondly, surrounded as she was in Cambridge by cyclists of both sexes, bicycle shops, newspaper articles about cycling excursions and posters offering bicycle club expeditions, there were few things she longed for more than a bicycle of her own and the freedom it would bring; the rides along the river, the picnic parties with friends, and above all the ability to reach a 12 o’clock lecture in Mill Lane after an 11 o’clock lecture in Tennis Court Road without having to run all the way and arrive red in the face and panting like a racehorse.

It had taken Violet several attempts to attend a lecture. At first she was too afraid to do more than watch from the street as boisterous crowds of young men surged into the lecture buildings their gowns waving behind them. ‘Don’t block the door, there’s a good girl,’ one of them said when she dared to approach a lecture room, ‘this is Physics, it isn’t for you.’ Violet could, by arriving early, find a seat right at the back, where the young men were less likely to stare, and where there might even be one or two Girton or Newnham ladies to keep her company. If she was late she could not bear to go in, it would mean opening the heavy double doors and walking to wherever a seat was free in full and hostile view of everyone already sitting in the raked seats of the lecture hall – a fate too awful to be contemplated.

So generally, arriving breathless to find the doors closed and the lecture under way, Violet sat outside on the stairs. In many ways this was not such a penalty. The lecture was quite audible and she could spread her papers out and sit comfortably taking notes on her knee, but there was the major disadvantage that the diagrams on the chalkboard could not be seen. Once or twice already this had meant that her notes, when she re-read them, made very little sense.

        ‘As you will see here, and here,’ she would hear the lecturer say, ‘there are clear differences…’ but they were frustratingly not clear to her.  She waited until everyone had left at the end and crept in to see if anything was left on the board. It usually was. Lecturers rarely stooped so low (or rather stretched so high) as to clean their own blackboards.

        Cambridge was lovely that morning. Autumn was turning the leaves and a high wind the night before had tossed them into orderly golden puddles at the foot of each chestnut tree in the gardens of Downing College. Clutching the music case she used to carry her books, Violet hurried on, the chill in the air catching her breath and the tailwind of the previous night’s storm snatching at her hat, making the hatpins tug at her hair. The clocks chimed 12 while she was still only half way, so she was resigned to another lecture spent on the stairs, but when she reached them she found another young woman already settled in her place, writing.

        The girl was leaning intently forward, her ear turned to the double doors, trying to hear the lecture. Without interrupting, Violet sat beside her, taking her notebook out as quietly as she could. Together they listened to Mr Montgomery’s description of the process of titration for the duration of his lecture, then with practised efficiency, the moment he finished with, ‘Thank, you gentlemen, until next week, then,’ both stuffed books and pens back into bags and slipped off the stairs, out onto the street and into a doorway, before the jostling crowd of young men elbowed their way out and dispersed on foot and by bike, heading hungrily back to their colleges for luncheon.

        It was only then that the two young women had a chance to speak.

‘Do you usually go inside and copy the diagrams afterwards?’ the other young woman asked Violet.

‘I do if I’m certain nobody is still inside,’ Violet said.

So after peering round the door the make sure the coast was clear, they went into the lecture room and quickly began to copy Montgomery’s diagrams into their notebooks.

‘I’m Violet Carew, by the way,’ Violet said, offering her hand.

‘Clara Benn,’ said the other. They shook hands, smiling, and would have said more, except that the doors burst open and a pair of young men strode in.

‘I swear I left the damned thing on the bench…’ one was saying, but they fell silent when the saw the girls and sauntering over, looked over their shoulders at what they were doing.

‘Ah, copying things down, ladies?’ one said, ‘this is Science, you understand. Science. Titration.’

‘Oh, come on Tubby, leave them to play at being bluestockings, I want my lunch,’ said the other, clambering up the bank of seats and finding his pen where he had left it.

‘They always scribble away,’ Tubby went on, speaking as if the ladies were not there at all, despite being close enough for them to smell the tobacco on his breath as he leaned between them. ‘I have a whole row of them in my elementary Anatomy lecture and they take the most painstaking notes. I don’t believe they understand a single word. I swear they’ve come to the wrong room and think they’re studying Divinity!’

‘They’ll soon realise their mistake when they reach certain parts of the anatomy, I daresay. Food! Come on!’ said the other, and they banged out again.

‘Well,’ said Violet, ‘I’m glad I did not have to face those two alone, Clara, I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘And I you,’ said Clara. ‘They’re harmless enough. You’ll meet a lot worse than them, but you get used to it. One thing they said made perfect sense, though, lunch is a very good idea. Would you join me for something? There is a tearoom nearby.’

‘Good for you,’ Clara said, over mushrooms on toast in the steamy tearoom. It was the first time anyone had ever reacted to Violet’s plan to study with spontaneous warm encouragement. The shock made Violet blink hard and fumble with her knife. ‘It’s pure science for me, Anatomy in particular,’ Clara went on, ‘I’ve always been fascinated. My father is a veterinary surgeon. I’ve been assisting him in his practice for years.’

‘Have you been attending lectures here for long?’

‘This is my second year. I’m at Girton. There are nine of us scientists there altogether. And you?’

‘Just a few weeks. My brother is at Trinity. The fees would be too high for both of us.’

‘That’s very unfortunate. There are numerous scholarships, had you thought of that?’

‘For women?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure I would be eligible – or clever enough.’

‘I’ll make some enquiries at Girton, if you would like,’ Clara said. ’And if you could study more formally, would it be Natural Sciences? Perhaps you are interested in Medicine?’

Violet found it difficult to reply. The idea had been hidden inside her own head for so long that she was shocked to hear it spoken aloud.

‘You can’t graduate or gain a medical certification,’ Clara continued, ’but I know some women who have travelled to Switzerland or Paris, you can qualify there.’

‘Switzerland?’

‘Lucerne, to be precise.’

‘And they go alone? They study alone?’

‘They do. The expense is considerable, obviously. And one must learn the language to a high standard. I have known several ladies who have done so. And one who went to Paris. I have a friend at the Women’s School of Medicine at London, too. She can’t qualify formally, but she is content to work without it.’

‘I fear the expense. My father would fear it, anyway.’

‘I understand,’ Clara said, ‘but you should not allow that on its own to prevent you from pursuing your calling, if it is a genuine calling.’ She set her knife and fork together on her plate and touched her napkin to her lips, smiling.

Violet sighed, ‘I may not be able to set my own course, I am afraid,’ she said.

‘That’s something we all have to learn. It comes more naturally to some than to others. It was a pleasure to share the stairs - and lunch - with you, but now I must be getting along, I have work to do this afternoon. No doubt we shall meet on the stairs again. Here…’ she pulled a crumpled document from her bag and put it on the table. ‘You can keep this, but do not part with it. It is a private newsletter circulated only among women students. We try to keep it to ourselves.’

#

#

The man who made his way through the throng of enthusiasts at the station was broad, and sharply suited. He wore a bowler hat, rakishly angled, and the lady on his arm – his new American bride, Kitty Loftus, was far more fashionably dressed than anyone else on the station, and possibly anyone else in the whole city that day. Her hat, black and white with a long, waving ostrich feather, marked them out from the crowd at a distance, which was useful as Jack Fitzsimmons, though enormously strong, was rather shorter than average and might otherwise have been difficult to spot. Camera flashes flared on either side as they paused to speak to the waiting reporters.

As she approached, Tabitha could see the spectacle from a distance. She  immediately recognised her cousin and watched with wonder as he struck poses for the photographers, laughing with them and pretending to square up to a little boy in the crowd. He was the same cousin, but much changed. She remembered a shy boy, quietly spoken and rather timid among the bolder boys in the family, but here she saw a showman perfectly at home among his admirers.

From the perimeter of the crowd she waved, but he did not see her, until she called. Hearing a familiar accent he glanced over and greeted her across the moving wall of black coats and bowler hats.

‘Is that you, young Tabby?’

‘Jack!’

‘Come here and say hello!’

Somehow the girl pushed through and Jack shook her warmly by the hand. ‘How’s my little cousin? Grown into a lovely lady, I see! Tabby, may I present my wife, Kitty? Kitty, my dear, this is my cousin Tabitha from Cornwall, we grew up together, didn’t we Tabby? Her family lived three streets over and our fathers fished sometimes in the same boat.’

‘Good afternoon,’ Kitty said. Her white-gloved hand moved as if to extend itself towards the girl, but she changed her mind and drew it back under her shoulder cape where it stayed.

‘Come with us, Tabs,’ Jack said, taking both ladies’ arms, ‘we can all have tea at the hotel and you ladies can get better acquainted. All aboard!’

#

#

Tabitha, not being used to either cab rides or admiring crowds, was quiet on the short journey to the Red Lion Hotel. Kitty, too, said nothing, looking out of the window. The wide brim of her hat hid her expression. Two powerfully built, dark suited gentlemen, evidently part of the boxer’s party, sat between them. At the hotel, Kitty said she had a headache and would rest.

‘I’m sorry she could not stay,’ Tabitha said, looking after Kitty’s elegant figure as it was escorted up the grand staircase.

‘Kitty is very business-like when we prepare for a fight. She means nothing by it. Come, we’ll have a drink,’ Jack said.

Tabitha, awed by her surroundings, chose a table in a corner and sat so that she could take in the lavish decoration of the whole salon. She cut an odd figure in her faded maid’s dress among the shining glasses and polished silver. Jack attracted the attention of many other customers, but only smiled and waved a casual greeting when someone caught his eye.

‘And what brings you here to Cambridge, Tabs? You are a long way from Cawsand.’

‘Do you remember the Meeks? Cousins of my mother’s? They have a shop here, and offered me work. I didn’t stay though. Now I have a maid’s position.’

‘You always wanted to travel, I remember you saying that, even when we were children,’ Jack said. ‘You used to say you’d join the Navy if you were a lad.’

‘I thought the sea would be an adventurous life,’ she said, smiling. She looked suddenly down at her glass and her face grew suddenly serious. ‘It was always hard at home, I was always planning to get away.’

‘I was sorry to hear about your father. They wrote and told me.’

‘It was a relief to us, Jack, if I’m honest.’

‘He always was a stern man.’

‘He was. He sent my sister, Eliza away when she was expecting. You probly heard.’

‘I did hear something of the sort.’

‘After father passed on, I went to find her. I thought I could give her some money at least. Maybe bring her back. But when I got there they told me she had died. It was pneumonia. The baby girl was already sent to the orphanage at Devonport.’

‘I never knew any of this,’ Jack said.

‘You were away in America then.’

‘What became of the child?’

Tabitha drank her lemonade in one, distracted, her hand trembled as she set the glass back on the table. ‘I went to find her. I meant just to get a look at her, and maybe leave a few shillings, but it was a terrible place, Jack. If you’d seen it you’d have done as I did. I walked away with her. They shouted at me that they would send a policeman, but they did not. They had no care for her. They were glad to have one less mouth to feed. Her ribs all sticking out. She was dirty and hungry.’ Tabitha looked away, ‘I had nowhere to turn but Reverend and Mrs Harcourt, they were always kind to me when I worked for them. I took her there. Mrs Harcourt found a place for the girl with a woman she knew through the church, here in Cambridge. She is there now. I thought I could pay for her board from my wages at Meeks, but they found out about the child. They said people would think I was lying and the child was my own. Why would I go to the trouble else? Mrs Meeks said it would hurt the reputation of the shop, if people knew, so she put me out.’

Sitting across from her, his shoulders tight in his suit, the boxer took all this in.

‘But I have a new mistress now and she seems kind. Her house is not far from the child, so I can walk by now and then, and give her a wave. They won’t let me talk to her, they say it makes her too upset. They will find someone to adopt her soon.’

‘You were always kind, Tabs. I remember you bringing us food many a time when my mother was ill.’ Jack held his glass and looked into it. ‘Is she well now, the little one?’

‘She is healthier now. She has the look about her of…’ The girl trailed off and concentrated on her own glass for a moment. Jack waited. ‘…well, she is red-headed and freckled.’

‘My brother,’ he said, ‘she looks like my brother, William. He and Eliza were sweet on each other, I remember that.’

‘She does look a lot like him, to be quite honest.’

There was a silence while both studied the patterns in the damask table cloth before them. Laughter and the sound of tea cups on saucers drifted from tables nearby.

‘Does my brother know?’

‘He knows that my sister died, whether he knows about the child there is no telling. Eliza never said a word to anyone about the father.’

Jack looked across the salon and out of the window. ‘Well, I shall call myself her uncle,’ he said, drawing himself up, ‘and you are her aunt. She is not quite alone in the world.’

‘I’m sorry, Jack, but it is costly, paying for her board. I have only a maid’s wages and they pay in arrears.’

‘Let me give you…’ Jack reached into his pocket, but then said, ‘no, I will draw some real money from the bank. Come to the fight tomorrow. See me afterwards and I’ll give it to you then.’

‘I did not mean to ask you for money, Jack.’

‘I want you to have it, but it would be better if Kitty did not know about this, Tabs. I hope you will understand. I will tell her in my own way.’

‘Yes. I understand.’

One of the men travelling with the boxer’s party approached the table. He said something quietly to Jack, who nodded.

‘I am wanted. I must prepare,’ he said. ‘Here, these are a few tickets for tomorrow. You shall be at ringside with Kitty, right up close. The others are for anyone you might like to bring – good seats they are, mind. Now I must go and get my preparations started.’

 ‘I don’t know if I should like to see you hit, Jack,’ Tabitha told him. ‘I never saw a boxing match. Only street brawling and that was not something I enjoyed.’

‘Boxing to Queensberry Rules is not like rough fighting, my word no,’ Jack said, laughing. ‘Some ladies do not enjoy it, I daresay, though Kitty always comes to my fights, and watches my training. She knows about fighting.’

‘Oh, but she looks so…’

‘...so delicate and ladylike?’ he said, ‘she does, and she is, but two of her brothers and her father are all in the boxing line and she knows the fighting world through and through. The Loftus’s are a big fighting family in America. They’ve done well out of it. Look, I’ll give you these tickets, Tabs, and you can decide whether to come or not. I shan’t take it badly if you give it the go by, but you’re welcome if you choose to come.’

‘And do you think you’ll win?’ she asked, looking sharply into her cousin’s blue eyes.

‘Win? You can bet your boots on it. Poor old Sam couldn’t punch the skin off a custard!’

#

#

When Tabitha served the soup at dinner that evening, Aunt Louisa asked about her afternoon.

‘Did you meet your famous cousin?’

‘I did, thank you Madam. He was in the best of health.’

‘And his bride?’

‘Yes, Madam, I met Kitty too, but she was not feeling well.’

‘Oh, that is unfortunate.’

Tabitha moved around the table ladling one of Monsieur’s pale, fragrant soups. Edward was at the table too, and very interested in the food, as usual.

        ‘My cousin is fighting in the Corn Exchange tomorrow. I should like to attend, Madam, with your permission.’

‘Who will accompany you? It is not a place for a young girl on her own,’ said Aunt Louisa.

‘I shall go with Mrs Fitzsimmons, Madam. I can sit with her at ringside.

‘As it happens, I shall be at the Corn Exchange tomorrow myself,’ Edward put in, spreading his napkin on his knee. ‘I shall be fencing for the University team.’

‘You made no mention of this before, Edward,’ Violet said.

‘I did not think it would be of any interest.’

‘I should very much like to see the Assault-at-Arms, Aunt, if you will allow it!’ Violet said.

Her aunt looked doubtful. ‘Your father would not approve. With all due respect to your cousin’s profession, Tabitha, a spectacle such as an Assault-at-Arms and the crowd it attracts is likely to be most unsuitable.’

‘Excuse me, Madam, but my cousin gave me tickets for the best seats,’ Tabitha said, ‘You will not have to be jostling among the crowd, if you take them.’

Aunt Louisa hesitated, then saw that her niece looked more lively than she had in many days, and sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we might go,’ she said. ‘I should like to see you fencing, Edward, and I happened to hear several of the ladies mention this event in church on Sunday. Now, shall we say Grace before the soup goes cold?’

At about midnight that night, Violet, reading in her room, heard footsteps climb the stairs. The light of a candle moved beneath her door. She went back to her reading and forgot about this until she was roused at 5am by footsteps passing again. She thought she should ask her aunt to remind Tabitha of the house rule against carrying candles on the stairs. Her aunt had once been in a fire and prohibited it.

#

The Assault-at-Arms in the Corn Exchange drew crowds from all levels of Cambridge society; town as well as gown crowded the raked seats. Violet and her aunt were ushered past jovial queues waiting for the cheaper seats and standing places, into a roped off enclosure right in the middle of the stand - the best seats in the house - reserved for special guests. Two rows behind sat the Lord Mayor in his full regalia of gown and gold chain of office, as well as several dignitaries from the University, similarly gowned.

Aunt Louisa and Violet settled on their cushioned seats - more spacious and comfortable than the plain wooden benches opposite, and very shortly a hush fell, the master of ceremonies strode into the arena, the lights were dimmed and the display began with a demonstration of broadsword fighting. Twelve young men in pairs fought at different stations around the arena. They wore white outfits with armbands, light blue, for the university men, red, for the men representing the town, green, for the army team and dark blue for the police. Each pair’s moves were closely followed by an umpire and by the crowd in the nearest seats, with cries and sudden bursts of applause as particularly daring moves were displayed. The method of scoring was beyond Violet to understand, but the umpires signalled marks to the scorer after each bout. The young men moved fast, upright and unflinching with one hand behind their backs. Their huge blades whistled around their heads and bodies and the metallic sounds of blade hitting blade rang out. At one end of the hall the points were tallied by numbers on a scoreboard.

When the broadsword fighters had bowed and marched away to cheers from the crowd they were swiftly replaced by the first set of gymnasts. Vaults and leaps then followed, with tumbles and rolls from the height of the shoulders of as many as four men. Again, umpires in the ring awarded marks for each jump, considering its style and the perfection of its execution. Soon the Army and City of Cambridge teams were drawing ahead. The City team of gymnasts stole the hearts of the crowd by making a human pyramid so high that the small boy (the crowd held its breath) who climbed to the top seemed to touch the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the Corn Exchange and look down upon the chandeliers. The men lower in the pyramid trembled and grimaced with exertion as the weight upon their shoulders grew, and ladies were looking through their gloved fingers at the spectacle by the time the boy began his nimble descent and the human pyramid resolved itself once more into a row of men, who bowed, smiling at the cheers. This was followed by bayonet demonstrations using straw-filled dummies. Such was the ferocity shown to these imaginary enemies that most were disemboweled and several were headless by the end of the display. The first interval came after a military band had led troops of men in full uniform from the local regiments in a display of precision marching. The ladies, half exhausted already with applauding, drew breath and fanned themselves with their programmes as they contemplated the events to follow.

‘When is the fencing that Edward will be taking part in?’ Aunt Louisa asked.

‘I believe he said it was the epée.’ Violet said, consulting her programme. ‘He will be coming on soon, I think.’

‘When was it that he began fencing, Violet? Was it an interest he had when he was at home in Devon?’

‘No indeed, Aunt, our father is particularly unenthusiastic about any form of combat, as perhaps you remember.’

‘Perhaps I do wrong in allowing Edward to pursue these interests,’ said her aunt, waving politely at someone in the crowd opposite, ‘I had imagined he was free to choose his own pastimes whilst at university.’

‘He is, Aunt, truly. Father would not wish to prevent Edward from following his own interests, even though he might wish they were different. Edward boxed at school.’  

In front of their stand, posts and ropes were being assembled for a display of tight-rope walking. As the lights were lowered again, the University team of rope walkers led the others out and began. One young man, carrying a pole for balance, stepped gracefully out onto the narrow rope ten feet above their heads. The crowd, though, was already distracted by the boxing ring taking shape on the ground below, and although they applauded the tight-rope walkers, there was a distinct feeling that they, and the other demonstrations that would follow, were sideshows to the main event.

Edward’s fencing was the last display before the next interval. He marched on with this team and took his fencing stance with his opponent just to their right, so that the ladies had an excellent view.  Before they began, the Master of Ceremonies explained, as he had done for each of the events, the basic rules of the combat. In épée, he told the crowd, the opponent’s whole body from the tips of the toes to the top of the head was a valid target. Each sword had its tip rubbed in soot, so that it would leave a mark if it touched the opponent’s white suit. Edward was masked, and only recognisable by his light blue arm band, but as soon as they began their lunge and parry movements, it was clear that a large group of supporters was cheering him  on. Although they had little understanding of the rules, the ladies could soon also see that Edward’s attacks seemed faster and more effective than those of his opponent. With each burst of activity, the cheering of his supporters grew, until, in a mighty crescendo, the two panting swordsmen took their elegant poses opposite each other and moved in for the final flurry. This time Edward sprang forward with his leading foot so sharply that it was all over in an instant and his fine flexible sword came to rest bent in an arc with the tip pressed to his defeated opponent’s chest, directly above his heart. Both men immediately stepped back, removed their helmets, shook hands, bowed to the crowd and walked away to roars of approval from the university team’s supporters as the score on the board was brought level with the army team.

The ladies, who had hardly drawn breath throughout the display, turned to each other in dazzled amazement. ‘I believe the dear boy won!’ Aunt Louisa declared, ‘How very impressive!’

‘He won by several points, I think,’ Violet said, looking at the scoreboard. ‘I had no idea that he was so good at it.’

‘And it was so fast! His reactions were like lightening. The eye could hardly follow. He is truly welcome to all the breakfasts, dinners and teas he can eat at my table in future!’

There was now a lull in the evening’s events as stage hands put finishing touches to the boxing ring. The hum of keen anticipation filled the Corn Exchange hall. While ladies fanned themselves and waved to acquaintances, gentlemen pressed their heads together in groups. Money changed hands in subtle exchanges as they wagered on the outcome of the match.  One or two ladies were seen to leave, but most seemed content to stay. The muttering tones of the audience deepened, as though the serious business of the evening were about to begin. Arc lights on posts illuminated the ring so that its canvas seemed to glow. Chairs were set around it for the boxers’ corner teams and for the umpires who sat three in a row with their backs to Violet and her aunt.

All the cheering that had filled the Corn Exchange until now was as nothing to the mighty cheer that erupted when, at last, the announcer sprang into the ring and bid the audience welcome the contender for Heavyweight Champion of the Commonwealth, Mr Jack Fitzsimmons, to the ring. The boxer, in a hooded gown, skipped into the hall followed by a black-suited team of seconds. He trotted towards the ring with one glove raised to acknowledge the crowd, many of whom jumped to their feet and cheered before he had even cast his gown aside. Fitzsimmons was a pale, freckled figure with sandy hair and a lean frame. He wore white shorts and boots laced above the ankle. His finely-featured face was famously unblemished and he was smiling and appeared relaxed and even playful. He turned a slow circle greeting each side of the hall in turn before saying something to the announcer, who held up a hand to the arena, calling for quiet.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Before he begins this night’s main demonstration fight, Jack Fitzsimmons would like to issue a Hero’s Challenge. He challenges any gentleman here to go three rounds against him. This is an all-comers challenge, just present yourself to the seconds outside the ring.’

There was a deep roar of approval from the crowd at this declaration. A great stirring rustled about the hall, as people looked to and fro to see whether any sportsman would be willing to face the champion.

‘Surely it would be madness to do such a thing,’ Aunt Louisa said.

Violet agreed, ‘Of course it would. Nobody would stand a chance…’

But as she spoke a figure approached the bowler-hatted men in shirtsleeves surrounding the ring and spoke to them. They gathered round and began fitting his hands into boxing gloves. All the ladies could see was that the volunteer was wearing white trousers. He was bare-chested, as was the boxer. Soon he was climbing into the ring. The seconds were giving him what appeared to be urgent instructions, he was nodding and moving his hands as if to get used to the feel of the gloves.

‘Oh Aunt!’ Violet gasped and raised her hands to her mouth, ‘Oh, Aunt Louisa! It’s Edward!’

At a signal the seconds withdrew and the announcer took the young man’s hand and holding it aloft announced, ‘We have a challenger! Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Mr Edward Carew of Trinity College!’

A roar of excitement surrounded the two ladies, who sat in frozen silence.

#

So little had they anticipated this turn of events that they could do little more than stare mutely as the fight began in front of them. A bell rang and the men took their stance and circled one another, eyes locked. The same gang of supporters who had cheered so loudly for Edward as a swordsman now took his side again and began urging him on. At first, the two men in the ring were both smiling. Fitzsimmons, in particular, appeared to be playing a good-natured game with his upstart challenger, darting in, throwing a punch which only just landed, and darting out to wink at the crowd or dance a few playful steps before moving back. Edward responded by stepping forward himself and managing to land a mild touch on Fitzsimmons’ jaw. Fitzsimmons, clowning for the crowd, pretended to reel, touching one glove to the supposed injury to his chin, but then sprang back and speedily delivered another jab to the side of Edward’s head. It was a light punch, as champion’s punches go, but it reminded the crowd, and Edward, what a presumptuous amateur was up against. And so it went on for a few more minutes of the round, with Jack Fitzsimmons springing in to deliver the suggestion of a real blow and Edward receiving one touch after another.

Edward was beginning to pant for breath. His sides were heaving and, tired perhaps from his earlier fencing match, his dancing movements were slower and his attempts at moving forward and landing a punch on Fitzsimmons were fewer. Then suddenly, he summoned a bust of energy and using the footwork the crowd had seen him use as a swordsman, he lunged forward and landed a blow square on Fitzsimmons’ left cheekbone. The boxer responded at the half volley, hardly seeming to move. His right arm shot out in a reflex and hit Edward on the side of the head. Edward’s knees crumpled, he hit the canvas limp and heavy and didn’t move.

There was a pause that seemed endless, as the umpire stood over the fallen figure and counted him out, then seconds leapt into the ring from all sides, flapping towels. Fitzsimmons was the first beside the young man, swiftly followed by his wife, who climbed into the ring over the ropes. From then on the crowd could see little but white towels waving and the backs of the bowler-hatted seconds who crowded the ring.

All cheering stopped in the hall as under the bright lights men appeared to be working on the young man, to try to bring him round. This was not the show that was intended. A light-hearted display meant only as the overture to the serious fight had gone badly wrong. The entire audience held its breath.

Violet and her aunt, too horrified to speak, could only watch. Louisa’s hand was covering her mouth and Violet clung tightly to her aunt’s arm with tears standing in her eyes.

A shout rang out and men in the ring began to gesture towards the door from where four men ran carrying a stretcher. Before they could reach the ring, however, there was a movement among the crowd of black suited men leaning over the fallen boxer. Kitty Fitzsimmons and several cornermen backed away and climbed out, and Edward could be seen, standing, head bowed, between two seconds. They appeared to be holding him steady as the umpire took one of his arms and one of Jack Fitzsimmons’ and announced, raising Fitzsimmons’ gloved fist, that the champion had beaten his challenger by a knock-out. The applause that rang round the hall for the winner was half-hearted but grew louder and followed Edward out of the ring, as, still propped up by two seconds, he was led away, awake, but with his feet stumbling and his head low.

Anxious for his welfare, Louisa and Violet immediately prepared to leave the stand to follow. Just as they were gathering their cloaks about them, however, a young man pushed through the throng and darted across. He addressed them after an elaborate bow.

‘Excuse me, ladies, but do I address Mrs Brocklehurst and Miss Carew?’

‘You do,’ said Aunt Louisa, alarmed in case this messenger brought bad news.

‘I have a message from your nephew,’ said the young man. ‘If I may introduce myself, I am Aloysius Derbyshire, his fencing instructor. I have just left his side. He is recovering, and none the worse for his injuries.’

‘How do you do, Mr Derbyshire and thank you,’ Aunt Louisa said, ‘but we would prefer to come and see Edward for ourselves.’

‘That is precisely what he wants to prevent,’ Derbyshire told them. ‘There is very little room backstage and the doctor has advised him to rest and remain quiet for a short time. He asks me to beg you to stay where you are, and not concern yourselves. He will regain his strength and join you at the door in time to walk you home.’

The ladies looked at Mr Derbyshire in confusion, and then at each other. ‘Well, if he would prefer us to stay here,’ Violet said, ‘and it would give him the chance to recover himself a little…’

‘That is exactly what he asked,’ Derbyshire assured her.

‘Then we must remain, I suppose,’ Aunt Louisa agreed, ‘but Mr Derbyshire, can you reassure us that he was well, and in his right senses when you left his side?’

‘He was sitting up and making jokes. Quite his old self, I promise you,’ said Derbyshire, ‘but I too think he would be well advised to sit where he is for a short time under medical supervision.’  

‘Well, then, we shall stay here,’ Aunt Louisa told him, ‘please send Edward our best wishes and tell him we will find him outside the door when the show is over. It seems the most sensible thing. And thank you again.’

The fencing instructor nodded politely and hurried back to the behind-the-scenes area of the arena, leaving the ladies to resume their seats, only partially comforted.

#

Afterwards Violet’s recollection of the big fight was clouded, of course, by these prior events. Even at the time, the roaring crowd and the smell of sweat and damp coats and pipe smoke, along with the brightness of the lights around the roped-off and raised boxing ring, made it pass in a dazzling blur from which only a few tableaux stood out: the men springing out of their corners at the ring of the bell; the umpire counting over a fallen figure, struggling to stand; the crescendo of shouts as one boxer’s victorious arm was held aloft.

To Violet’s eye, unless one man beat the other to the floor or knocked him out, there was no way of knowing who was winning. But she could see that Fitzsimmons seemed lighter on his feet, more fluid and agile than his opponent. Sam Richardson’s punches, the few he managed to land, seemed punishing, the gentleman on the row behind called him a ‘slugger’, but for every punch that made contact with the Cornishman, five or six were ducked or sidestepped. Fitzsimmons seemed reluctant to return blows. More expert spectators than Violet began to notice this and swiftly the air was filled with male voices urging Fitzsimmons forward ‘Give him one, Jack!’ they called, ‘Come on man, land one on him!’ but the Cornishman’s head was low, his shoulders hunched and he seemed reluctant to do more than jab at the big man swinging at him. Again and again a series of blows ended with the two fighters against the ropes or in a clinch, being separated by the umpire. The crowd was dissatisfied. The atmosphere had changed; where once it had been playful, it was now harder, more serious. Men were roaring at the fighters, shouting them orders, standing in front of their seats, punching the air.

Shepherd was soon breathing hard, his ribs discernibly pumping and his shoulders low. Sweat shone on his face and sprayed around him as he swung his heavy fists. At the end of round four, Fitzsimmons returned to his corner still bouncing on his toes, whilst Shepherd slumped to his stool, seeming close to exhaustion. It was only then that Violet saw Kitty in the Fitzsimmons corner, calling urgently through the ropes to her husband. This was a different Kitty altogether from the fashionable lady of the newspaper photographs. She wore the plainest white shirt with her sleeves rolled, and a dark skirt under a workmanlike brown apron. One arm held the middle rope as she leaned in to bark orders into Jack’s ear. He nodded, swigged water and leapt from his corner as the bell rang again.

Both fighters immediately laid into each other with a swift determined violence unseen in any of the earlier rounds. Violet found herself looking away to avoid seeing the viciousness of the blows. Instead her attention was drawn to Kitty Fitzsimmons who was on her feet at ringside, darting along the side of the ring with her face at knee level to the fighters. She was shouting instructions and her voice could be heard, a rare female note piercing a chorus of masculine shouting. Violet could not make out her words, but Kitty’s face lit by the lights above the ring was distorted with what seemed to be rage as she punched the air and shrieked orders through the ropes to her husband fighting above. The hall rang with the repeated sound of glove on rib, jaw, cheekbone and grunted exhalation as breath was pounded from chests. Neither man stepped back now, neither broke the rhythm of punches, and then it came: the decider; an uppercut from the Cornishman catching Shepherd  on the side of the jaw, jerking his head round with force enough to send his shoulder and finally his feet twisting after.

He crashed to the canvas on his side and was counted out before his men ran over, waving towels, slapping his face and lifting his head to give him water.

‘I don’t like the look of him,’ a man sitting behind them said. And many in the audience seemed to agree. A collective gasp at the repetition of the sights they had seen earlier sounded around the stands. The noise died away as the seconds worked with increasing desperation to bring the fallen boxer round.

        ‘Is he waking?’ Violet asked.

        They peered towards the ring, but so many figures were now crowded there that nothing could be seen.

        Soon a stretcher was run in from the side, passed over the ropes empty and back out again, bearing Sam Richardson, still senseless. He no longer wore boxing gloves, but one hand, still bandaged at the knuckle, hung limply over the side. The sight of this drew a collective intake of breath from the audience.

 Almost unnoticed, Fitzsimmons was urged through the ropes and led away from the ring in a crowd of seconds.

         The ladies waited in their seats for a while, then followed the muttering crowd out of the hall.

* * *