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Matilda surreptitiously surveyed that callipygian figure of Mr Hawkins once more as he roamed at the bar. Even in rougher garments he manifested power and magnificence, and personally, she felt as safe as a nugget of gold in the Bank of England.
He returned and sat with a stern air, causing an awfully wicked rumpus within. White sleeves billowed from his finely tailored emerald-green waistcoat with oval frontage, his neckcloth loose enough to expose his throat, stubble stippling his jaw.
“So, Miss Griffin, what do you think of your first ale-house?” Mr Hawkins settled back.
“Well…” She glanced to the left, then to the right.
The patrons at the bar were gesticulating merrily, tankards airborne; a table of slouched gentlemen played cards while two young women prowled at their periphery wearing bright dresses and worn smiles; and a grey-haired couple sat munching pie by a smouldering fire – hardly a scene of Hogarthian debauchery. Indeed, from the outside it had not even resembled an abode of beer, but a normal terraced house tucked in a tight alley, yellow bricked and slate roofed with three storeys.
“It’s most cosy,” she admitted. “Like Betty’s kitchen.”
“As it should be,” Mr Finlay concurred. “’Tis an old ale-house and the best in the area.”
“It’s rumoured,” her employer added, “that with St James’s Palace opposite, King Charles and Nell Gwynne used to meet here in the basement for trysts.”
“How…romantic,” she fibbed. To the best of Matilda’s knowledge, basements were inclement, with rats and mould.
“’Ere yer go, Seth lad.” And Matilda goggled as yet more brimming tankards landed on the table enclosed by a set of vast swollen hands. “So ’ow’s it with the flash set? Milled any dukes o’ late?”
Peeking at the newcomer, she noted a clean apron surrounding a broad girth.
Moving upwards, she observed an open white shirt which struggled to contain a mountainous chest. Further was a neck the size of her waist and lastly came a physog belonging to the veriest villain that had ever breathed – unshaven, an eye patch and a grin that appeared to be formed of merely three teeth.
Which, before her interview, was more or less how she’d imagined her employer would look.
“Tonks!” Mr Hawkins rose to the villain and Matilda shrank to the wall.
“And who’s this cub with yer, Seth?” growled the villain. “A new fighter? Bit of a bantling if he ain’t even finished his Porter.”
Matilda glared, her half-full tankard clutched close.
“Bloody ’ell.” He whistled, that one eye drifting over her face…then lower. “Got yerself a flash piece of trol–”
“Tonks.” Mr Hawkins stepped between them, his firm fingers gripping the villain’s shoulder before he bent to his ear and whispered something.
“Oh. Gottcha. Bloody ’ell.” And the villain whistled again.
Matilda glanced to Mr Finlay, who winked. Was that supposed to be reassuring?
But her employer moved aside and swept an arm as though a Master of Ceremonies. “Miss Griffin, meet Mr Tomkins. The owner of this ale-house and an old friend. A champion in his day, he won the 1810 Moulsey Hurst.”
Gosh.
Unsure of the etiquette in this establishment, but quite sure a curtsey would prove problematic, Matilda rose from the bench to thrust out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Tomkins.”
A Goliath’s palm swallowed hers – snug and benign. “Likewise.” He jerked his head towards her tankard. “Me missus can make yer a tea, if yer like?”
“No, no. I quite like this Porter juice.”
“Right yer are. So yer teaching little Chloe stuff.”
“I am. She’s delightful,” Matilda said seating herself again.
“Still boxing, is she?”
“Yes, daily.”
“Never rests,” added Mr Hawkins. “And still talks about your win against William of Whopping.”
