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Chapter Twelve
“Let us look at vice, naked, stripped of every trapping of birth and fashion, and we shall only feel horror ourselves at the sight.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Down the hatch,” Mr Finlay toasted, clunking Matilda’s stationary tankard with his own.
She squinted at the pewter vessel that had been placed before her on the table, a brown and exceedingly murky liquid sloshing, clouds of beige froth drifting.
Matilda’s gaze sloped back to the two men sitting opposite, both watching her with rapt interest and no small amount of concern.
In order to experience a flavour unknown, she had chosen the popular Porter Ale, which her confidante, Evelyn, had once declared tasted of horse blankets dipped in pond water. But reasoning there must be some explanation for its fame, Matilda sipped, maintaining a watchful eye upon the precipitous froth.
Smoky, bitter, deep.
As she swiped a top lip with her tongue, she noted Mr Hawkins follow the movement: doubtless it had been vulgar, but no serviettes were provided.
She sampled again. Silky and full. A gulp. Toffee and roasts.
“We can get yer a pale ale if yer prefer?” prodded Mr Finlay. “’Tis a dab sweeter.”
“No…” She took a further gulp and the two sets of eyebrows opposite ascended. “I rather like it. The beverages for ladies are oft too sweet for my palate. I appreciate the bitterness.”
Mr Hawkins’ gaze remained hooded in the nebulous light, but Mr Finlay nodded in approval and once more clunked her tankard in what she assumed was some sort of maleness ritual.
Feeling inordinately pleased with herself, Matilda sat back as best one could upon the bare wooden bench set against a stone wall that she’d been shepherded to when they’d entered.
Beneath blackened beams, tables and chairs were spread in no discernible pattern, the patrons ranging from rough to refined, a tangled room of class and accents.
No doubt the scabby Miss Appleton would clout any governess with her three-hundred and twenty-six page book for being so audacious, but so much life could be viewed within an ale-house, and how else was Matilda to teach the evils of immorality if she knew not its forms.
Being a lady of the haut monde, she now realised, was similar to a fragile china tea service. Kept in a cupboard until genteel company called, made to do one’s duty, granted a delicate clean and then put away again, watching whilst the hard-wearing pewter tankards were used each day with love and purpose.
Rather purple prose, to be sure, but this evening, Matilda wished to be a tankard…
Still, it was dreadfully improper to be sitting here, and the thrill of it shook her to her very boots – ones that rubbed as they belonged to Betty, her own mustard kid-leather footwear having been rejected as too elegant for an ale-house.
In addition to the boots, Father’s ancient cloak concealed her saffron gown and one of Chloe’s old caps her hair, so she felt toastier than Icarus. But that had been the strict condition laid down for this adventure, hence she wrapped the cloak tight, not wishing to give her chaperones any excuse to send her home.
“Another, Kian?”
Goodness.
Matilda glanced to their empty tankards and realised that while she’d been whimsically wool-gathering, they had been studiously supping.
A nod, and Mr Hawkins rose, stripping off his jacket in the convivial warmth.
At the bar, a small flock of males greeted him: back slaps – that would knock her to her knees – traded for manly punches to the stomach.
How peculiar a male’s social interactions and habitat, which perhaps explained why he’d not been overly effusive at a female’s presence here.
“Why the sigh, lass?” Mr Finlay stared with those soulful blue eyes from the seat opposite. A handsome man, yet his striking raven plumage affected her not.
“I believe Mr Hawkins would prefer I wasn’t here.”
Mr Finlay chuckled. “We’ve been friends since we were whippersnappers, Miss Griffin. He has an easy-going nature on the surface but beneath there’s a will of iron.” With a wink, he leaned close, inducing no pleasurable prickling whatsoever. “Seth wanted to be a prizefighter, and so he was the best. He wanted a club, now he has dukes squabbling in a queue. If he dinnae truly wish yer here, Miss Griffin, yer’d be safely tucked up in bed dreaming of ribboning yer bonnet. I’d say he’s merely on edge cos he’s worried for yer welfare.”
