by Anne Groß
She listed sideways to the right and began to fall as her legs crumbled to the left. Falling was getting easier, she thought calmly as the ceiling receded. She reached for her beer, thinking she’d want it when she got to the floor, and it too fell, independent of the brown liquid that fell alongside it. She hit the hardwood with a thud, a splash of beer, and a cry of pain.
Elise wasn’t sure how long she had been watching grey clouds of smoke drift across the ceiling before the ceiling was obscured by Thomas’s looming face. His blue eyes were narrowed in an expression that could either have been concern, or irritation. “Hold my beer,” he said gruffly to Mr. Cooper as he kneeled down. Elise caught a glimpse of a small vial in his hand seconds before it was waved under her nose. The smell was like a slap. She gasped and sat up straight, her heart pounding in her throat.
“What’s this? Smelling salts in your pocket?” Cooper’s loud voice cut through Elise’s confusion.
Thomas shrugged. “A good publican always carries salts for the drunk sots that won’t go home.”
“That’s very convenient during a fighting match.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Cooper?” Thomas’s voice took on a dangerous edge. The question was met with a petulant silence. “Go on. Give us some air.” Thomas waved away the men who hovered. Then Elise felt his hands slide under her arms and he pulled her against his knees. “Rest for a minute,” he said gently. “I suppose you’ll be wanting another porter.” Elise tried to turn to give him a thumbs-up to the idea of another beer, but only managed to lean dangerously to the left. “Steady lass,” Thomas said. He gripped her more tightly in his arms and the increased contact alarmed her. When Elise looked up, she saw he was giving her as much of a reassuring smile as he could, but only managed to crinkle the corners of his eyes.
Cooper broke in. “So who’s the Moll?” he asked as he eyeballed Elise warily. “Are the Ferringtons looking to make a little extra with the rooms upstairs? Best watch your coin. I came across a tiny little bunter last week that fell in a swoon at my feet like yours just did and when I picked her up, the ugly wretch swiped my handkerchief.”
“Step back if you please, Cooper. You’re in our way.” Thomas offered his hand to Elise. “Let’s pour you another porter, shall we?” he asked and pulled her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily until Thomas took her elbow to lead her towards the front of the room. Cooper followed and bellied up with the others at the bar, but Elise was drawn behind the counter with Thomas. “Mrs. Postlethwaite,” Thomas bellowed through a door. There was some commotion of rattling pans before the bearish woman Elise had noticed earlier emerged from her den which Elise now saw was the doorway to a cavernous kitchen. “I could use your help. Might you keep this lass with you in the kitchen?”
Elise didn’t like the sound of that, and apparently, neither did the woman, who put her fists on her hips. One of the woman’s hands still held a butcher’s knife and it jutted out dangerously at a right angle to her stout body. “Is this the one the Ferringtons have been fussing about?” the woman demanded.
“The very same,” said Thomas.
“And where is Mr. Ferrington?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea. He asked me to watch over this one and then left.”
“Well, if he asked you to do it, then I shan’t step in. I saw the barber’s bloody nose. He was none too happy, I can tell you that. Oh, no. I’ll not be saddled with watching that one,” she waved her knife in Elise’s direction. “You can keep her yourself. It’s time for me to go home.”
“Now, Mrs. P., I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need you.” Thomas started, but he was cut short by a careless wave of the sharp blade.
“I’ve got my own family to feed, Thomas; my own babes to put to bed. I won’t stay here a minute longer than I have to just to look after vicious strays all night. It’s bad enough with all those cats in the kitchen.” She looked fiercely at Thomas. “That woman,” she paused to point her knife at Elise, who had found a stool and was studying the bottom of her empty mug as she listened, “has already brought nothing but trouble.” She gave a final huff to underline her point and then stalked into the kitchen. Thomas blew out a breath and looked curiously at Elise until Mrs. Postlethwaite returned with a shallow bowl filled with stew and a hunk of bread. “Eat,” she commanded as she handed the food to Elise. Steam rose from the bowl and carried the smell of boiled beef and potatoes, making her empty stomach rumble. “And another thing,” Mrs. Postlethwaite continued as though she’d never stopped, “so help me, if you’ve lost another I’ll whip you myself.”
“I won the match, Mrs. P.”
“Another tooth,” Mrs. Postlethwaite corrected. “I don’t care a fig about your matches.”
Elise looked up from her meal in time to see Thomas’s eyes smiling again—his mouth too swollen to perform the task. “I kept my teeth this time,” he said, making Elise wonder how many molars he had left.
Mrs. Postlethwaite impatiently slapped a bonnet on her head and tied its ribbon around her chin. “You leaving already Mrs. P.?” The waitress approached the bar holding three empty pitchers in one hand and four empty mugs in the other. She didn’t seem surprised when the older woman merely huffed and left through the kitchen door. “Where’s that Johnny?” The waitress waved the empty vessels in her hand. “We’ve drained the second cask and I’ve customers waiting.” She was flushed from running from table to table and her blonde hair curled prettily around her face where it had escaped the complicated braids pinned to her head. She rested her pink décolletage on the bar and leaned towards Thomas who maintained his composure despite a quick glance down her corset. A customer next to the barmaid was less polite and took a long look.
“It’s dry,” Thomas said, testing the tap.
“That’s what I said, didn’t I? We need Johnny to start running down to the cellar.”
“I’ve no idea where he is, Mary. I could bring a cask up.”
“The cask’s dry?” Cooper nosed in. A couple groans were heard. “You can’t bring up another one or you’ll shake it all up. No one likes murky beer. You should have brought three casks up this morning.”
“Did you look for Johnny in the yard?” Thomas suggested to Mary, ignoring Cooper.
“I’ve no time to be chasing that boy down, and I won’t start running to the cellar to fill pitchers. I’d kill myself on those steps. Johnny’s a useless bugger, isn’t he?” She heaved a sigh and turned to scan the room again for the lost boy, and instead, noticed Elise staring at her. “What’s she doing down here—did the Ferringtons let her loose?”
“More like she escaped, is how I heard it from Richard.”
“Didn’t get far, did she?” Mary’s gaze dripped from the top of Elise’s head to her bare feet, which were hooked on the bottom rungs of the stool. “So is this the latest in ladies’ fashion then? How convenient. Dressing for dinner makes dressing for bed much easier, don’t it Mr. Tilsdale?” She nudged the man on her left and laughed at her own joke. “Have you met our new tenant?”
A thin man with a patched coat half stood from his place at the bar to follow Mary’s pointing finger. “Whom do you have hidden back there with you, Mr. MacEwan?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.
“No one to concern yourself with, Mr. Tilsdale,” Thomas replied dryly.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me a beer,” Elise said, waving her mug at Mary who looked at it disdainfully before ignoring it completely.
“Cold night for her to be wearing such a light gown, wouldn’t you say, Mr. MacEwan?” Mr. Tilsdale leered, giving Elise the chills.
“Leave it be,” Thomas replied in a warning tone.
“It certainly is a cold night, Mr. Tilsdale,” Mary continued. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering loudly to be heard by everyone, “She’s not right in the head.”
Mr. Tilsdale nodded sagely. “I can understand if you like the simple ones, Mr. MacEwan, sometimes it’s easier. Just make
sure she’s a gentle simpleton and not a lunatic. It’s the lunatic simpletons you should take care with. Better she’s one of the gentle types.” He scratched his bald head as though he was thinking. “For myself, I’d not touch either, the gentle or lunatic; they’re always talking to spirits and seeing things in the shadows,” he shuddered.
“Oh, don’t think Mr. MacEwan’ll have her,” Mary quickly corrected. “I honestly can’t imagine any man sharing a bed with that one. She’s always thrashing about at night. Thrashing and screaming and vomiting—I don’t think I’ve gotten a lick of sleep these past few days. Besides, look at her,” Mary pointed and her arm jiggled. “There’s nothing to interest any man. Turn her sideways and you’d barely see her.”
Elise’s eyes burned red as everyone at the bar roared. She started to stand from the stool, but Thomas firmly pushed her back down. “I said leave it be, Mary, or I’ll turn you out on your fat tail. You won’t be so clever then, will you?”
“I hope I puked on your feet,” was all Elise could think of to say.
“She’s the lunatic type, aye, I see it now. They’re all scrawny. Never think to feed themselves,” said Mr. Tilsdale seriously.
Elise remembered the second bed and wondered if Mary had been sharing her room with her at night. She vaguely recalled someone cursing.
“There’s our Johnny-boy,” Thomas called out, changing the subject. A few customers waved empty mugs as a boy raced around the corner of the bar and nearly collided with Elise on her stool.
“Sorry Miss, I didn’t see you there,” he said with a grin. He was about to take off again when Thomas caught him by the collar. “Where have you been all night?”
“I’ve only been gone a few minutes, sir,” Johnny protested.
“That’s a few minutes longer for our customers to have to wait.”
The boy shrugged off Thomas’s grip and raced into the kitchen and disappeared through a dark doorway Elise hadn’t noticed before. She squinted into the shadows, wondering where he had gone and if she could follow suit and perform her own disappearing act. Mary turned around and leaned against the bar, elbows now resting where her bosom had, to look at the crowd of people still milling in the barroom. She tapped at the counter impatiently. Thomas glowered at a customer who was twirling an empty mug on the bar. Then Johnny appeared again with two sloshing pitchers. “Be careful with that,” Thomas scolded as he took one of the pitchers. He began filling empty mugs with one hand for those sitting at the bar, and taking coins with the other. Mary snatched the second pitcher to serve the tables and left the empty mugs on the counter for Johnny to clear. Then to Elise’s great relief, Thomas filled her mug.
Now with the porter in hand, her meal was finally served correctly. Elise dipped her spoon into the stew and raised it to her mouth with eyes closed. No one had bothered to cut the fat from the beef before throwing it into the pot and it hung from the spoon in gelatinous globs. An assortment of white unidentifiable vegetables turned the dish into primordial ooze. Instead of chewing, Elise pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to mash her meal and as she did so, the flavors spread across her taste buds and melded with the porter. It eased the tension from her muscles and pushed a sigh from her lungs.
“Close the bloody door,” the old man by the fireplace bellowed. Elise peered across the room and saw through the smoke and gloom the silhouette of a tall, wide-shouldered man. “Evening Mr. Ferrington,” Johnny’s childish voice called out, as Richard hung on the open door to greet his customers before making his way to the bar.
“She’s still here! You caught her—I thought she’d be lost to us!” The lace at Richard’s wrists fluttered with his enthusiasm as he lifted his arms towards Elise in an affectionate show of relief.
“I believe she’s still lost,” Thomas replied dryly. His battered hands were straining to complete the delicate task of filling a long stemmed pipe with tobacco.
“Don’t be daft Tom, she’s right there behind you.” He slumped onto the stool Mr. Cooper graciously offered and rubbed the back of his bruised knee. “Mother will be so relieved to see her again.” He motioned to Johnny who placed a mug in front of him and filled it from the heavy pitcher on the bar. “How did the match finish?”
“Well enough,” mumbled Thomas between sucks on his pipe stem as he held a candle to the bowl.
“Looks like you caught a few hooks to the jaw.”
“So I did,” Thomas replied nonchalantly.
Mary arrived with a tray full of empty mugs and a bow and fiddle tucked under her arm. “We’ve had a very profitable night, Mr. Ferrington,” she said enthusiastically and handed him the instrument.
“Wonderful. That’s wonderful.” He ground the bow across all four strings while turning the pegs up and down. Elise nearly dropped her stew to put her hands over her ears.
“Must you scratch at that thing every night?” Thomas asked. He pulled his pipe out of his mouth and glared while Richard pretended to be completely immersed in the task of tuning. The aural display had interested some of the patrons and a handful left their tables to gather near the bar. After nodding acknowledgement to the growing audience, Richard let his bow fly across the strings with a conviction that lent his arm grace, and a confidence that made Elise take a second look. There was a happy cheer as the patrons recognized the song’s lively introduction and chairs were scraped back for better viewing. Just as quickly as he began, Richard stopped and whirled around to face Thomas, his fiddle still at his chin, the bow still poised over the strings. The men stared at each other for a split second and then Thomas opened his mouth wide to begin a raucous verse in a clear baritone accompanied by the screeching fiddle.
Elise was startled out of her growing stupor to see Thomas and Richard had formed a duo. The melody stretched Thomas’s accent to such a degree that Elise could barely recognize the words. The song seemed to tell the story of Napoleon and a mammoth, but every time she thought she was beginning to understand the plot, the men in the alehouse would break in and bay like a pack of dogs. The song went on and on, verse after verse, with Thomas never seeming to falter in his poetic memory, and the men never faltering in their barking enthusiasm. Finally, Elise pushed her empty bowl down the bar and rested her head on its surface with her hands pressed over her ears. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was watching some highly overproduced period piece where it’s always Christmas, and someone is either being rescued from the edge of starvation, or the life of a spinster—the one being barely different from the other in terms of tragedy. When the song was finished, Richard changed keys and slowed the tempo. Thomas hummed low to himself as the fiddle introduced a new tune.
“I love this one,” Mary said softly, sidling up to Elise with another tray of empty mugs. Elise barely had the energy to move to make room for the waitress, and was irritated by the interruption as the two men started their song. Thomas’s voice lilted like black oil as Richard coaxed cool water from his fiddle. When the song came to its end, Thomas started singing another song while Richard sat back to pick up his mug. “Weep, weep for me, for my fortune is forsworn,” sang Thomas.
“For Christ’s sake, not this one again,” Richard complained.
“Let me mourn, let me mourn.”
Mr. Tilsdale, asleep with his head on the bar, let out a great sobbing snore, while Thomas continued on with his dolorous verses.
“Through the darkest night I toil,” sang Thomas, “my joys and aspirations spoiled.” That seemed to signal last call. Mr. Cooper placed his hat on his head and said goodnight and Richard poured for the last men at the bar. “Hark!” burst Thomas before dropping back to a more ominous tone, “you who would have me pale, shadowed, and worn. I reject your scorn. I reject your scorn!”
“Damn his eyes,” Richard mumbled before placing his fiddle back under his chin as Thomas replaced his pipe back into his mouth. Richard attempted the liven the mood again with a jig to retain the last customers, but soon lost his way, meandering on his
fiddle through what sounded like an anthology of lullabies, some of which Elise vaguely recognized. The thread of sweet melody wrapped itself around her like a blanket and thankfully muted all other thoughts.
When she woke, the Quiet Woman was strangely still. Elise lifted her head and wiped her face with her palm where it was slick from the small pool she’d left on the surface of the bar. The only two people left were Richard and Thomas who were sitting at a table in front of the bar in deep conversation. Richard’s face was pale, and he absently bent down to rub the back of his knee where Elise had clocked him with the cross. “Is that so?” he asked. “Well you are an experienced champion, aren’t you? I’d no doubt in my mind you’d win.”
“There’s no need to lie to me. Cooper told me Jim was a surer bet. You had your doubts, Dick.” Thomas lightly plucked a string on Richard’s fiddle, which was on the table between them. He looked as though he was trying to find the right words. “I know it’s not my place to say this,” he began, “but you need to be more careful about your gambling. No one wants to see you end up in debtor’s prison.”
Richard laughed nervously. “You worry like an old woman, Tom. You’re nearly as bad as Mrs. Postlethwaite. I’m not going to prison. I only gamble when the odds are favorable. And anyway, I’d choose the army before going to prison.”
“You? A foot soldier?” Thomas shook his head disbelievingly.
Richard’s ears reddened. “You’re quite right, Tom.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “You’ve forgotten your place.” He wrapped his knuckles on the table, as though punctuating his authority. “Look, you can stop worrying. The Quiet Woman will be fine, even with the new girl. I know you don’t think we can afford an extra mouth to feed, but she is not well, Tom. We can’t just put her out. Think of her family! They’d be appalled to know we did nothing but send their daughter back into the street, and in her condition.” Richard turned to look at her and Elise pretended to be still asleep.