A Bride for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance

drink a few rounds and then I shall get Juggins to take me home to Vance Park fetch the deeds and then on to the village.”
“No,” said Nye heavily.  “First you go and fetch the deeds and then we’ll all make our way down to the church.”
“All?” Mina echoed incredulously.
The faintest ghost of a smile touched Nye’s lips.  It was not pleasant.  “Aye, all,” he said.  “Weddings need witnesses after all.”
Remembering the motley assortment of patrons in his barroom, Mina shuddered.
3
If Reverend Ryland blinked at the strange congregation who awaited him at the church door some three hours later, Mina could not blame him.  The clock struck midnight as he fumbled with the huge key in the lock and when two burly men stepped forward to help him drag the creaking door open, Mina saw blood splatter on their breeches and deduced they were likely prizefighters who had recently been brawling in The Merry Harlot’s courtyard.
“’Ere, darlin’,” said a redhead in a scarlet silk dress which clashed violently with the profusion of sausage ringlets framing her face.  “Put this on instead of your bonnet.  This is a wedding, not a funeral.”  She laughed and drew a shabby cream silk shawl from around her neck.  Mina opened her mouth to protest it really wasn’t necessary, but the redhead was already tugging on the black ribbons of her bonnet.  “It can be your somefink borrowed too, can’t it?  My name’s Effie by the way.  Jeb’s my man.” She nodded toward one of the hulking brutes who had helped with the church door.
“Is he a fighter too?” Mina asked, watching as Effie cast her second-best bonnet onto a pew.  She must remember to pick that up on the way out.
“That’s right, but we ain’t from ‘round these parts.  We only roll up in this hole in the corner every few months.”  Effie draped the scarf over Mina’s bared head.  It was still warm from being tucked about her bosom.  “There, now you look the part,” she said with a nod of approval.  Her scarf smelt strongly of perfume and some other musky scent Mina could not identify.  She peered through it with difficulty for the heavy pattern was elaborate.
“Much better.  Shame you ain’t got no flowers, though,” Effie lamented.
“Excuse me, ladies, did someone say flowers?” asked a voice on her right and Mina made out a short figure sketching a bow.  “I gathered these from the roadside as we made our way down to the village.”  Mina thought it was the older gent with the fluffy whiskers who had winked at her back at the inn but could not be sure.  Everyone presently looked like mere shadowy outlines to her now.  “Hold your hands out, my dear.”
“Ooh, them delphiniums are your somefink blue too, my dear!” Effie said approvingly.
Mina stuck her hands out blindly in front of her and felt a bunch of wet stems placed into them.  “Thank you.” She grasped the bouquet and took a few steps forward.
“’Ere, don’t you try escapin’ now, my lass,” some wag wheezed close by, and Mina deduced she was heading in the wrong direction.  She stood stock-still, then spun around in confusion, until someone caught her elbow.
“This way,” a gruff voice said and strangely enough, Mina felt herself relax for she recognized who this was.  It was quite unmistakable.  Nye marched her up to the front of the church, not relinquishing his firm hold of her elbow for an instant.
“’Old up Will Nye,” Mina heard Effie cry out.  “She ain’t got nuffink new!”
“Give her a shiny sixpence for her shoe!” someone else suggested.  Mina heard the chinking of people checking their pockets.  “I’d better get it back,” she heard someone grumble.  “Here!”
“Take off your shoe,” Nye rumbled impatiently, close to her ear.
Mina stood up straighter.  “I can’t—”
He swore and the next thing she knew, his large hand had seized her ankle and was forcibly removing her shoe.  Mina let out a small yelp as he then forced her foot, none too gently back into it.  She could now feel the intrusive sixpence against the ball of her foot.  Indignation swelled in her breast and rather imprudently she drew in a large breath, only to be overwhelmed by the scent from the scarf.
Lifting the edge of the veil, she had the presence of mind to bring the fresh wildflower posy under her nose and take a large gulp of that to dispel the fug.
Someone in front of them cleared their throat.  “I will require your full names, please and the place of your birth,” requested a ponderous voice Mina guessed must be that of the clergyman.
“William James Nye of this parish.”
He squeezed her elbow and Mina lowered the flowers to speak, “Minerva Walters of Castle Combe in Wiltshire,” she choked out, then sneezed.
Mina heard a pen scratch over paper as their dates of birth were duly recorded and the names of their parents.
“Do you solemnly swear there exists no just impediment to your marriage?”
They both swore and then the vicar’s voice rose querulously.  “Whoso giveth away this woman in holy matrimony?”
“I do,” her half-brother’s voice rang out with self-importance and Mina heard his hasty step approach.  “Let the record show Jeremy Vance, fifth Viscount Faris,” he proclaimed.
The ceremony proceeded and Mina concentrated on surreptitiously lifting her veil to get a gasp of fresh air when she could.  The church was lit only by a few candles and added to the overall impression of murky gloom.  Afterward, she could not have described the interior of the little church, not for a hundred pound.  She could see though that it was a far more rural affair than the austere limestone one she was used to attending in Bath.  St Stephens had painted ceilings, a wide chancel, and an extensive vestry whereas this poky church seemed more like a cave.