Chapter Three

BAWDY REVELING SPILLED into the roadway at spontaneous intervals as Rosemary Younge weaved her way towards the Whitby Pub. A bar wench by eve with favors to share if a sailor’s purse be heavy enough, the woman knew how to survive. Ducking her head as a bulky object sailed in her general direction from across the avenue, her anger at such a near injury distracted her momentarily. She collided directly with a drunken patron leaving her place of employ.

“Don’t you watch where you’re going?” Her petite hands quickly shoved the offending patron back a few inches, enough to make him stagger a step and fall against the door frame.

“Is that any way to greet your Georgie?” The slobbering drunk was none other than Mrs. Younge’s former co-conspirator, George Wickham. Where the man possessed ample amounts of charm and flattery, he rather lacked any shreds of loyalty or honesty.

“Leave me be. I played your tricks once before and I shan’t do it no more. Quick to retreat as I remember in Ramsgate, leaving me high and dry to foot the bill.”

“Aye, but I see you landed on your feet. And I had to make quick to keep that bit of muslin from her brother. Worked too, her last name now shares mine.” George Wickham grinned as an unflattering belch escaped his gut. Mrs. Younge leaned away from the offending smell and moved aside as the man calmly pivoted his position while holding onto the door jamb.

“You’re drunk, find yer home, George Wickham, and never darken this inn again!” Rosemary Younge had no patience for Wickham’s lies.

“I speak truth, I married the girl last November.”

“Where have you been the last six months?” Mrs. Younge entered the establishment with George staggering on her heels. The owner of the pub, a burly man by the name of Alfie, was no one to trifle with on a good day. He raised a bushy eyebrow at the well-dressed man hounding his top earner in both drinks and dearies.

“Skag off, I already told you there’s no more drink for you here.”

“Patience, patience, my good man. I have business with the lady.”

“Lady? There ain’t no lady here.” Alfie roared, to the laughter of other men sitting at the bar. Rosemary Younge scowled but didn’t say nothing. Alfie didn’t take too kindly to being corrected.

“I just need a word.” George pleaded with Mrs. Younge as she grabbed a dirty cloth and began serving customers. She dodged George Wickham as he continued to pursue her while Alfie’s shouts became more unpleasant. The pub began to take an interest in the fine-clothed stranger, too much of an interest.

“Go away,” she hissed, smiling at Old Man Shaughnessy as he swatted her backside in appreciation for a fresh drink.

“Ye need help there, lass?”

“No, I will manage. How about you, ‘nother ale?” Rosemary asked the next table as George continued to pester her.

“I can make it worth your while.” George flicked a gold coin onto the crude tray Mrs. Younge held to serve multiple mugs. The glittering piece made her sigh, but she schooled her features and frowned.

“Wait outside until I come out when I’m done for the night.”

“But that will be hours,” George Wickham pleaded.

“I said for you to get out!” Alfie roared, beginning to move his wide girth from around the bar, making Mrs. Younge smile.

“Either you’ll be there or not. I’ll know what your mettle be then.” She sidestepped her employer as George Wickham dashed out of the Whitby Pub and hot stepped half the block before Alfie reached the door to keep yelling at him.

Rosemary Younge, a widow of war though hardly married when it happened, went about her business that night serving a jolly good time to all. No woman of a proper upbringing would relish her position though it was better than selling herself blindly in the street. Alfie saw all right by her and never let any man get too rough. But George Wickham. The man clouded her thoughts and her heart sang the familiar tune of love she had so hoped to quell after the last time he abandoned her for another.

Married was he? He couldn’t be living too high up on the hog if he was coming to her in the armpit of London looking for aid. She tried to keep that thought first in her mind as the wee hours of the morning sprung and her job was over. Taking the little pittance that Alfie offered as her cut of the proceeds, Rosemary Younge half hoped and half dreaded that George Wickham would be waiting outside for her.

As she left the bar that night and walked down the lane, she was two blocks away and feeling relieved until she heard that velvety voice float in the air.

“My sweet Rose, sweet Rose, your thorns prick too fierce.” Wickham stumbled out of the alleyway, clutching his chest as though he were properly injured.

“I have no use for a silver tongue.”

“Oh, but it has many uses for you.” George leered over her, inhaling her scent and his own inflamed Mrs. Younge’s senses.

“I’m done with all that. Tell me what you need or be off. I’m dog-tired.”

Wickham pulled out a handful of coins and pressed them into Rosemary’s hand. “I need a warm bed and your friendship. In exchange, I will have much more to offer than this.”

Rosemary Younge looked about her and realized the street was far too public a place for any plans a well-lined Wickham would have to impart. She hesitated for but a moment before nodding her head.

“Come along, I live but a stone’s throw this way. And you can tell me what you are up to now, but I won’t say that I will be of any help.”

Wickham kissed her hands and gallantly slipped her arm in his to escort her properly down the lane. “A rose so sweet, so kind, a talented find who shall be mine.” His voice lowered to a husky promise on the last word.

Mrs. Younge involuntarily shivered at his breath so close to her neck and she smiled. The night would be a fun romp, what was left of it, even if she had to endure the poor poetry of George Wickham to partake.