Chapter Nine

T hatcher sat alone in the sparsely lit room of his townhome, a small and shabby dwelling tucked away in a corner of London that had seen better days. Faded tapestries clung threadbare to the walls, bearing witness to a time when the Goodrich family had known wealth and status. Now, only a few pieces of well-worn furniture remained, surrounded by the echoes of faded memories.

His cook and valet—well, his man-of-all-work, truthfully—a tough and brooding older man who had fought against Napoleon on the Continent, moved quietly about the room. The clinking of dishes and the crackling of the fireplace provided a comforting backdrop to Thatcher’s solitary musings.

Thatcher himself was a man of contrasts. At thirty, he bore the weight of experience in his smoky eyes and the lines etched on his face. His raven-black hair framed a countenance that often wore an enigmatic mask. He was not a man who readily shared his past or his emotions, preferring to bury them beneath layers of wit and cynicism. The son of a lowly drunkard peer, Thatcher had grown up with the harsh reality of limited resources and shattered dreams. He was the youngest of his siblings, born into a family that had long since squandered their noble inheritance. His father’s vices had left them destitute, and young Thatcher had quickly learned that survival meant using his wits and words as weapons and defense. He had scraped by, living like a poor artist, penniless and hungry. His sharp tongue and keen insight had become his only assets, allowing him to earn a meager living through his writing. Those early years had been marked by hardship and uncertainty, but they had also forged him into a man who could navigate the treacherous waters of London’s High Society with ease.

His rise to prominence as a playwright had been a long and arduous journey, filled with rejection, disappointment, and relentless determination. He had clawed his way up from the bottom, overcoming the skepticism of the elite theatre world that had seen him as an upstart with no pedigree.

Now, seated at his worn wooden desk, a flickering lamp casting a warm glow over the parchment before him, Thatcher wrote furiously. His quill scratched across the paper, leaving behind a trail of ink that would soon become his latest contribution to his and Lottie’s play. For once, the words flowed from his mind to the page, a torrent of ideas and emotions that had been building up inside him.

Writing was his refuge, his sanctuary from the harsh realities of his past and the weight of his ambitions. It was his way of dealing with the hardships he had endured, a way to channel his frustrations and insecurities into something beautiful and profound. Through his words, he could create worlds and characters that transcended the limitations of his own life.

As he wrote, Thatcher lost himself in the world of their play, and the characters came to life in his mind. He became so engrossed in his work that he momentarily forgot the small, shabby room around him and the lonely hours of the evening.

The soft voice of his man, Simms, broke through the silence of the room. “Another late evening of work, eh?” Simms’s tone held a mixture of concern and familiarity as he approached the desk with a tray bearing a meal.

Thatcher paused in his writing, setting down his quill and taking a deep breath. “Yes,” he replied, his voice tinged with weariness. “The creative muse strikes at the most inconvenient of hours, it seems. But at least she’s bloody striking again.”

Simms placed the tray on the desk, revealing a hearty plate of roasted chicken and a steaming bowl of vegetable soup. “You ought to take better care of yourself,” he admonished gently, his weathered face creased with worry lines. “You can’t keep burning the midnight oil like this.”

Thatcher chuckled wryly, a faint smile touching his lips. “Ah, you sound like my mother. She used to say the same thing when I was a boy.”

The older man’s eyes softened with understanding. “Your mother was a wise woman, sir,” he replied. “She knew the importance of balance in a man’s life.”

Thatcher’s smile faded as he picked up his fork and began to eat. The food was simple but comforting, and he appreciated Simms’s efforts to look after him. “Balance is a luxury I can ill afford, my friend,” he admitted quietly. “Not when I’ve come this far.”

Simms leaned against the desk. “You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I’ve seen it myself,” he said. “But don’t forget to live a little along the way. There’s more to life than the stage and the applause of the crowd and making coin to pay off your father’s debts.”

Thatcher’s eyes met Simms’s, and for a moment, he felt a pang of longing for the simple pleasures he had sacrificed in his pursuit of success. “Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded, his voice softer than usual.

As he continued to eat, Thatcher’s mind drifted back to Lady Lottie and the unusual partnership that had been thrust upon him. He couldn’t deny the intrigue she stirred within him, both as a woman and as a writer. There was a fire in her eyes, a determination to prove herself in a world that often dismissed the talents of women. He experienced far more attraction to the woman than he well should.

“Thatcher.” Simms’s voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. “Is there something troubling you?”

Thatcher hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal to his loyal servant. “It’s nothing, Simms,” he replied evasively. “Just the usual challenges of creative endeavors.”

Simms studied him for a moment, as if sensing there was more beneath the surface. “If you ever need to talk, sir, I’m here,” he said quietly before retreating to the shadows of the room, leaving Thatcher to his thoughts.

Alone once more, Thatcher returned to his writing, the words flowing more smoothly now. But as he crafted the dialogue between his characters, he couldn’t help but wonder how this unexpected collaboration with Lady Lottie would change the course of his life and whether it would ultimately lead to the recognition and fulfillment he had long sought. His quill scratched across the paper, but his thoughts were far from the words he penned. Her image lingered in his mind, her striking blue eyes and fiery spirit refusing to be ignored. He couldn’t deny the attraction that simmered between them, like a slow-burning fuse threatening to ignite.

The notion of a romantic entanglement was both tempting and treacherous. He had always prided himself on his self-control, on not allowing emotions to cloud his judgment. But there was something about Lottie that unsettled him, that made him question the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart.

With a frustrated sigh, he set his quill aside and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. This was absurd, he scolded himself. He had no time for distractions, especially not the romantic kind. His focus should be on the play, on making it a success that would secure his place in the world of theatre. But try as he might to push those thoughts away, they persisted. He couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to hold Lottie in his arms, to taste the sweetness of her lips. It was a dangerous fantasy, one that threatened to consume him if he allowed it to take root.

With a sharp shake of his head, Thatcher forced himself to return to his writing. He berated himself for such frivolous daydreams, for allowing a woman to distract him from his work. It was a weakness he couldn’t afford, not in his line of business.

As the night wore on, the lamp burned lower, casting long shadows in the dimly lit room. Thatcher’s determination to finish his work grew stronger, fueled by his irritation at his own wayward thoughts. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by romantic notions, not when there was so much at stake. But deep down, he couldn’t deny the spark that had ignited between him and Lady Lottie. It was a fire he would need to keep carefully controlled, lest it consume them both. And so he resolved to focus on the play, to channel his passion into his work, and to keep the dangerous allure of romance at bay.

With renewed fervor, he was determined to create a masterpiece that would overshadow all distractions, no matter how tempting they might be. The room was stifling, and the pressure to produce weighed heavily on Thatcher’s shoulders. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and brought it to the parchment, but as hard as he tried, no words flowed. They had dried up once again. The blank page mocked him, a stark reminder of his own inadequacy.

Frustration welled up inside him, and he slammed the quill down onto the desk. The ink splattered, forming an ugly blot on the paper. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair in agitation. It was as if the harder he tried, the more elusive inspiration became. His mind again felt like a barren wasteland, devoid of any creative spark.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Simms inquired from down the hall.

Thatcher sighed heavily, his frustration giving way to a sense of defeat. “No, blast it,” he admitted. “It’s as if my mind has gone completely blank once again.”

Simms, ever the practical and loyal servant, entered the room and offered a suggestion. “Perhaps a walk might clear your head, sir? Some fresh air might do you good.”

Thatcher considered the idea for a moment. He knew he needed to step away from his desk, to break free from the suffocating grip of his own thoughts. With a nod, he agreed, “You may be right. A walk could be just what I need.” He rose from his chair and donned his coat, preparing to venture out into the cool night air. Perhaps a change of scenery would help him break through this new creative block, and he could return to his work with a fresh perspective.

As he made his way to the door, he felt a twinge of frustration and disappointment. He had always prided himself on his ability to craft stories, to bring characters to life with his words. But it seemed that talent had deserted him yet again, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty and self-doubt. Bloody fun, that.

With a heavy heart, he stepped out into the night, determined to find the inspiration he so desperately needed.

*

Later, Thatcher stepped into Flatt’s Gym, a dimly lit space in the heart of Covent Garden. The familiar sounds of grunting, the thuds of punches landing, and the cheers of the spectators welcomed him. He had come here seeking a brief escape from his renewed writer’s block, and the gym had never failed to provide both distraction and inspiration.

Sometimes all a man needed was a fist upside the head. Rattled things about and cleared the thoughts.

In the center of the ring, two bare-knuckle boxers sparred with a controlled violence that was both captivating and brutal. The crowd gathered around the ring roared with enthusiasm, their voices blending into a symphony of support and excitement.

His eyes were drawn to one of the boxers, a giant of a man with fiery auburn hair that seemed to catch fire under the dim lighting. Thatcher recognized him instantly, for he was a friend through Rainville, who had brought them together. The boxer moved with a graceful ferocity, his punches a testament to his skill and power. Each strike landed with precision and force, and Thatcher couldn’t help but be captivated by the sheer athleticism and determination on display.

As the bout unfolded, it became increasingly clear that the opponent was outmatched. The inevitable outcome drew nearer with each passing second, and the crowd’s cheers grew even louder, urging the auburn-haired fighter on. With a final, thunderous punch, the giant delivered the knockout blow, sending his opponent sprawling to the canvas. The gym erupted in cheers and applause, and the victorious boxer raised his arms in triumph, a grin of satisfaction on his bloodied face.

Thatcher joined in the applause, genuinely impressed by the performance he had just witnessed. As the gym began to clear out, he approached the victorious fighter, a sense of camaraderie between them due to their connection through Rainville.

“Bravo, Aaron,” Thatcher called out, his voice carrying over the bustling gym. “That was an impressive victory.”

The boxer turned to him, his hazel eyes filled with a mix of pride and exhaustion. “Thatcher Goodrich,” he said, offering a crooked grin. “Never thought I’d see you here again after I bested your arse into utter humiliation last time.”

Thatcher chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, my rather pathetic performance aside, your place is a welcome escape from my own battles,” he replied. “You were magnificent in there.”

Aaron Longfellow wiped sweat and blood from his face with a cloth as they exchanged pleasantries then chatted about the evening’s match and shared stories of their daily lives. Thatcher appreciated the value of such straightforward friendships. In the worlds of theatre and bare-knuckle boxing, they had discovered an unlikely but steadfast kinship.

Aaron’s grin widened as he wiped more blood from his face, revealing a set of teeth that seemed to gleam even in the low light of the gym. “You know, playwright,” he said, his tone playful, “I’ve seen you wield words like a master swordsman. How about trying your hand at something a bit more physical? How about another round?”

Thatcher chuckled, the offer both tempting and daunting. He had never been much of a boxer, his talents lying in the realm of words and wit rather than fists and brawn. “As much as I’d love to,” he drawled, “We know that I’m no match for you in the ring. I’ll stick to my quill and ink for now.”

Aaron laughed heartily, slapping Thatcher on the back with a firm hand that seemed twice the size of his own. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “But the offer stands if you ever change your mind. It’s always good to have a backup plan, especially in the rough-and-tumble world of the theatre.”

Thatcher nodded appreciatively. “Indeed,” he agreed. “And if you ever find yourself in need of a cleverly crafted line or two, you know where to find me.”

With a final exchange of friendly banter, Thatcher bade farewell to Aaron and the gym, leaving behind the exhilarating world of boxing for the quieter, more contemplative realm of words and stories. As he left Flatt’s Gym, the lively sounds of the boxing match still echoing in his ears, inspiration rose in him, bolstered by the display of raw determination and skill he had witnessed that evening.

Night blanketed London. The gas lamps lining the cobbled streets flickered in the dark, casting an amber glow that painted the buildings and cobblestones in a soft, ethereal light. He walked on, taking in the intoxicating blend of scents that wafted from the food vendors and flower stalls. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked bread, roasting chestnuts, and exotic spices. It was a sensory tapestry that spoke of life and vibrancy, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude of his thoughts.

Thatcher passed by bustling theatres, their marquees aglow with the promise of captivating performances. Actors and actresses in elaborate costumes hurried to their respective venues, their laughter and animated conversations filling the night air. The city seemed to come alive after dark, its pulse quickening with a vibrant energy.

As he strolled, Thatcher couldn’t help but feel like a character in one of his own plays, moving through a world of endless possibilities and hidden secrets. London, with its dark alleys and grand boulevards, had always been a source of inspiration for him, a place where stories lurked around every corner.

Finally, he arrived back at his modest townhouse, nestled in a quiet corner of a once sought-after neighborhood. The faded grandeur of the building was evident in the chipped paint and weathered stone, a testament to its neglected history. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and inviting, with antique furnishings and well-worn books lining the shelves.

Thatcher settled back into his study, a room filled with the scent of aged leather and old parchment. He sat down, his quill poised over a blank sheet of parchment, ready to pour his thoughts onto the page. But as he dipped the quill into the inkwell, images of Lottie filled his mind once more. The memory of her quiet determination, her piercing blue eyes, and the spirited way she spoke about their collaboration lingered in his thoughts. He couldn’t escape the feeling that she was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who refused to be ignored.

Unable to resist the urge, Thatcher began to write, letting his imagination carry him away into a world of moonlit meadows and mischievous fairies. The words flowed effortlessly, and he lost himself in the act of creation. It was a refuge, a place where he could escape the demands of the world and find solace in the magic of storytelling.

The hours slipped away, and the first light of dawn began to seep through the curtains. Thatcher blinked, realizing that he had written through the night. He looked down at the pages covered in his words, a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment washing over him. It was in these moments, amidst the quiet solitude of his study, that he truly felt alive.

His gaze lingered on the words, and a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The character he had crafted so vividly, a fair maiden in a moonlit meadow, bore an uncanny resemblance to Lottie. He had described her without even realizing it, and now he couldn’t un-see the image.

Frustration and anger welled up inside him. How could he have been so foolish, so careless, as to let his thoughts wander in that direction? He berated himself for allowing his mind to conjure such intimate imagery, for blurring the line between reality and fiction. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed his chair back from the desk and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. The ink on his fingers smudged as he scrubbed his face, as if trying to wipe away the unwanted thoughts. It was maddening, this inexplicable attraction he felt toward Lottie.

Thatcher had always prided himself in his discipline and control, both in his writing and in his personal life. But Lottie seemed to unravel him with every encounter, and he despised the way she made him feel—vulnerable, exposed, and utterly out of control. He couldn’t deny that there was a magnetic pull between them, a simmering tension that had been building since their first heated exchange. But he had no room for distractions, especially one as beguiling as Lady Lottie.

As the realization of his folly settled in, Thatcher clenched his jaw in frustration. He knew he needed to focus on their collaboration, to deliver a play that would satisfy the king’s desires and secure his own position. The last thing he needed was the complication of tangled emotions.

In the quiet solitude of his study, he vowed to himself that he would keep his distance from Lottie, that he would quash any romantic notions that threatened to surface. He had come too far and worked too hard to let an attraction, no matter how undeniable, derail his ambitions.

With a renewed determination, he turned his attention back to the pages before him. There was a play to be written, a story to be told, and he couldn’t afford to let anything—or anyone—stand in his way.

Thatcher couldn’t remain still, and paced back and forth in his study, muttering to himself in frustration. “What a fool I am,” he grumbled. “How could I let this happen?”

His ramblings grew increasingly agitated, and he couldn’t contain the turmoil that churned within him. The image of Lottie, the fair maiden in his written scene, haunted his thoughts, and he couldn’t escape the realization that he had unwittingly poured his desires onto the pages.

As he continued to berate himself, his voice grew louder, and the usually soundly sleeping Simms stirred in the adjoining room. With a groggy mumble, his servant shuffled into the study, blinking against the dim light of the low-burning lamp. “Is something amiss, sir?” the valet inquired.

Thatcher turned to him. “I can’t believe I let this happen,” he confessed, though it was more of a self-admonishment than an explanation.

The valet, having served Thatcher for years, was accustomed to his moments of restless agitation. He fetched a glass of water from a nearby table and offered it to his employer. “Perhaps a drink of water will help clear your mind, sir,” he suggested.

Thatcher accepted the glass and took a long sip, the cool liquid momentarily soothing his frazzled nerves. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of embarrassment at having his valet witness his inner turmoil. “Thank you, Simms,” he said. “I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

Simms, ever the loyal and understanding servant, shook his head. “No need for apologies, sir. It’s my duty to attend to your needs, day or night.”

Thatcher sighed, setting the glass aside. “I appreciate your loyalty. But I fear I’ve allowed myself to become entangled in a most unfortunate situation.”

Simms, ever the patient listener, waited for his employer to continue.

“I’ve been writing romantic nonsense when I should be focused on our upcoming play for the king.”

Simms raised an eyebrow, curious but not judgmental.

“And the worst part is,” Thatcher continued, “I realized that I’ve inadvertently penned a scene that…resembles someone I know.”

Understanding dawned in Simms’s eyes, and he offered a sympathetic nod. “Matters of the heart can be quite vexing, sir.”

“Indeed. It’s a distraction I can ill afford. I must remain focused on our work. The play demanded by King William.”

Simms, ever the voice of reason, offered a reassuring smile. “You’ve always had a way of finding clarity in your writing. I have no doubt you’ll overcome this.”

But what if he didn’t?

Thatcher nodded, appreciating his valet’s unwavering support. “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll return to my writing. Perhaps the answer lies in the words themselves.”

Simms returned to his room, leaving Thatcher alone in the dimly lit study. As he settled back at his desk, he was determined to regain control of his thoughts and emotions.

There was a play to be written, a story to be told, and he couldn’t afford to let anything—or anyone—stand in his way.

Only…what if he stood in his way?