Responsibilities
Feb. 10th, 2012 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Responsibilities
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Bess and George Thompson, and Lil Baker, belong tosharpiefan.
Summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU. A Marine corporal looks out for a boy and his mother. Chatham, 1789.
Author's Note: This is a mostly pointless nonsense ramble.
Sometimes, George Wicklow felt that he wasn’t quite used to living ashore. It would happen suddenly, usually when he was busy or thinking of other things, or even not really doing or thinking of anything much at all. From out of nowhere would come the feeling that he was only ashore for liberty, or some temporary detail, and a boat would arrive before long to fetch him and his mates back to their ship. This never lasted more than a second or two but it never failed to leave him with a distinct sensation of wistfulness. He wouldn’t go back to sea for a fair while and he knew it.
This was not to say that he objected to being a shore-based Marine. Far from it. There was plenty to keep him occupied, between his duties at the Dockyard and the lads at the barracks. It wasn’t unusual for the latter to prove more demanding on his time, in fact. But that made his leisure time activities that much more enjoyable. He and Eddie Tomilson had become regular visitors to The Ropemarker’s Arms, though unlike Tomilson this was the only place Wicklow saw fit to go. Most everything he cared to have on a liberty were there, all in one establishment.
It helped that he was on good terms with the women who worked there. They were an all right lot, if they were treated fairly. In particular he had a fondness for Bess Thompson, which was something Tomilson teased him endlessly about. He took the ribbing in stride and usually good humour, even if he couldn’t see anything so very wrong with showing preference for one woman over the others who worked at the brothel. Certainly it was no crime. Anyway, he couldn’t help it. She had been kind during their first meeting, when he had fumbled around a bit like a boy who’d never used his tackle before. Not being mocked for his uncertainty, after having spent so long at sea, had been a great relief.
He and Tomilson were bound for The Ropemaker’s Arms now, taking advantage of half a day’s liberty. This was definitely one benefit to living ashore. It was possible to go anywhere he wished when he was not on duty, instead of being confined to a ship. He didn’t miss having to rely on Wives and Sweethearts being permitted in order to enjoy a woman’s company. Besides. Having a tavern to go to regularly was a comfort on its own.
“So who’re you gonna pick today?” Tomilson wanted to know, a smirk playing about his lips. “There’s a new girl in the place, I’ve heard. She might be lovely.”
Wicklow rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you give her a roll then?”
“Oh I might, sure. Just makin’ sure me corporal’s got first pick of the stable, s’all.”
“You’re lucky I don’t box yer ears, talkin’ like that,” he remarked and pulled open the tavern’s door. Tomilson at least had the sense to wait until Wicklow had entered the taproom before following, but that was usually as far as his sense went when it came to visits here. Every now and then Wicklow wondered why he let this idiot come along with him.
Tomilson lingered a moment or two near the door, while Wicklow made his way directly to the bar. It hardly mattered to the corporal what Tomilson got up to now they were here. For his own part, he was mostly interested in a drink or two. Not every visit here was for a tumble, after all. Not for him, anyway. His mate had an entirely different opinion. But he would, really.
“Aft’noon’, lads,” Lil Baker greeted, already serving up Wicklow’s usual fare. A frothing tankard of ale with a dash of brandy added. The mixture cost him extra, of course, but he was happy to pay for it.
“Afternoon,” Wicklow replied, handing over the necessary coins after receiving his drink.
Tomilson had finally come to join them, having apparently decided he ought to be courteous and buy a drink too. “Who’s about?”
“Most of us. Polly’s in the backroom, the others are upstairs or out. Who’re you lookin’ for?”
“There a new lass in here? Lads are sayin’ so. Be nice to have a lass who ain’t wore out yet.”
Some day, Tomilson would learn to think about what he said before he said it. Until then he would always find a way to make himself sound more thoughtless than he intended. Wicklow hid a grin behind his tankard. If he knew Lil Baker at all, she wouldn’t take too well to the implication that she was ‘wore out’.
“I’ve a mind to turn you out on yer nose, Edgar,” the big woman said curtly. “You’d do well to be mindin’ yer manners in here!”
“But I ain’t bein’ rude!” Tomilson protested, wide-eyed.
“No. Just bloody disrespec’ful.”
This time, Wicklow did grin, though he was quick to smother it. As often as they came in here, it was obvious that Tomilson had not yet completely grasped the danger of crossing Lil. Her influence here was formidable. Then again, his mate never had been very good at recognising such things.
“He’s just brainless, Lil,” Wicklow explained. “Wears his necker too tight or somethin’.”
She rolled her eyes but appeared to be mollified. “He best not expect no bi’ness with me any flamin’ time soon, mind.”
There was little danger of that, really. “Sounds fair. Fetch him a tot, wouldja? Shut it, Eddie.” He fished the money out of his pocket and laid it on the bar counter. The next round of drinks would be Tomilson’s to pay for and then it would be equal. “Anyway, even if there is a new lass here’bouts, I reckon she wouldn’t want anythin’ to do with you.”
“Hmph!” Tomilson downed a mouthful of ale and shook his head. “I ain’t like you, Corp’ral. Keepin’ one of ’em all to m’self. Ain’t sportin’, that. Hey, lookit. There’s the scamp.”
Wicklow twisted partway around to see a skinny, tousle-haired boy coming into the taproom from outside. There wasn’t much to the lad, was there? Skin and bones and rags. Poor beggar. He shook his head slightly. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the lad around, but crossing paths here in the tavern was an uncommon thing.
“Aye, that’s Bess’ boy,” Lil said, speaking more to Wicklow than Tomilson. “He comes an’ goes.”
The boy seemed to be aware they were talking about him, for he glanced at them with thinly disguised curiosity. But he didn’t speak and instead beat a retreat for the backroom. Wicklow gazed after him thoughtfully before shrugging and turning his attention back to his tankard. “Aye. He hangs ’round the barracks a fair bit. The lads are good for givin’ out scraps of food, like. Seems he could do with more’n scraps, though.”
“What’re you sayin’, that we don’t feed him?”
The Irishman lifted an eyebrow slightly. “No. I ain’t sayin’ anything of the sort. But a boy needs reg’lar feedin’, so he does.” Or else he wasn’t likely to grow up properly. Shrugging, he added, “Ain’t meanin’ you lot ain’t lookin’ after him. More like...” his voice trailed off and he shrugged again. It really wasn’t his place to criticise, was it? He took another drink of ale and thought he was likely to get a clip around the ears or something for being so bold.
Instead, Lil made a noise like dismissal. “He gets what he needs. Anyways. Either of you gonna want one of the girls or what?”
“I does,” said Tomilson, with a sidelong glance at his corporal. “Don’t be mindin’ him. He’s just thinkin’ he’s got some sorta ’sponsibility for that nipper.”
“Stow it, Eddie.”
“No, c’mon, Wick. You been lookin’ out for the lad since I said he looked a bit like you.”
Wicklow frowned and, despite himself, glanced quickly toward the backroom. “He don’t. No more’n he looks like you or any of the other lads ‘round the barracks.” He sighed. “I were a foundlin’, see. Ain’t anythin’ like proper for a lad to grow up on his own, so it ain’t. Throwin’ a bit his way now’n then helps. Better than nothin’ anyway.”
He finished off his tankard and pushed it slightly toward Lil. “ ’Nother, please. Eddie’s payin’ for this one. Then he’s goin’ to have his pleasure upstairs.”
Whatever protest Tomilson might have made was neatly prevented by Lil’s grabbing up Wicklow’s empty tankard. It was just as well. If he’d wanted to have a roll himself, the desire had gone quite completely. Instead, he thought he would sit down here and drink for a while before shoving off back to the barracks.
“Cheers,” he said, once his refilled tankard was delivered to him. He said nothing more while Tomilson grudgingly produced the money to pay for his corporal’s drink, with the additional cost of a tumble. Once the coins had changed hands, Lil headed for the backroom. The creak of floorboards above their heads suggested that somebody would shortly be coming down the stairs. Wicklow found he wasn’t in the mood to be very curious.
Soon enough, Bess herself appeared, prompting a smirk from Tomilson that Wicklow ignored. “Hullo, you lads,” she said, making her way over to them.
“Afternoon.”
”Well if it ain’t Blushin’ Eddie,” Polly declared as she too approached. “Ain’t seen you in an age. C’mon then, I hear you’s all keen for a bit of fun.”
The flush in Tomilson’s cheeks was too perfect. Wicklow chuckled as the younger Marine was quickly drawn away toward the stairs. It was his own fault for annoying Lil, wasn’t it? Not that it mattered. Tomilson would overcome his embarrassment swiftly enough. He usually did. Allowing himself to grin slightly, Wicklow claimed his mate’s abandoned tankard and passed it to Bess.
“He won’t be missin’ it,” was his explanation.
“You lookin’ for a roll too?”
He shook his head. “No. This’ll suit for today.” The tankard in his hand was lifted up a little to indicate his meaning. With Tomilson now gone, he felt a little more at ease. There were some things his mate just didn’t understand. Or couldn’t, was more like it. “Is the lad game for a wee bit of fetching and carrying? Only, I’m thinkin’ something to eat would be grand.”
“Aye. It keeps him busy, some.” Bess shrugged and called for the boy, who appeared at once. “This fella’s wantin’ an errand done.”
“Two pies,” said Wicklow, digging for the last of his money. Maybe he wouldn’t be drinking a while after all. “Don’t matter what sort, really.” He held the coins out to the lad, who snatched them from his palm.
“D’you want ’em for now or later, Mister?”
“Now’ll do. Thanks.”
The lad was gone in a flash, probably afraid that if he wasn’t quick, Wicklow might change his mind. Small chance of that, though in truth, he wasn’t especially hungry. Sending for a couple of meat pies was at best a thin ruse. If he ate anything at all, it would only be half a pie at most. The rest was the boy’s to claim for himself.
“Obliging sort, him,” he remarked.
“He’s a good lad, aye. The others are fond of him.”
That had to count for something, Wicklow supposed, though in a place like this, any child could only end up having a hard time of it. The sorts of visitors that brothels got... he sighed and drank down most of the rest of his ale. Maybe he would be better suited to make his excuses and go off for a walk, or even back to the barracks. It was hard to not feel the barest bit of awkwardness here and he wasn’t pleased with himself for it. His mood had been fine until Tomilson had opened his gob earlier.
“I reckon they’re right to be. He hangs ’bout near the barracks a fair bit. Most of the lads don’t mind it. There’s a couple what use him fer runnin’ about and the like.” He looked quickly at the ceiling beams, wondering how long it would be before Tomilson came back down. Then he shrugged and tossed back the remaining half-inch of ale. “Well. This’ll do me for a while. Eddie’ll be down soon. One of them pies can be his, if he’s of a mind.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You leavin’, then? What ’bout the other?”
“The lad can have it. Or anybody else. I reckon I ain’t that sorta hungry after all.” Wicklow glanced toward the stairs, even though there was no one coming down them. Good. He’d be gone by the time Tomilson was finished. Next time he came here, he was going to leave that idiot behind at the barracks. “I’ll see you.”
If he hadn’t let Tomilson tag along, he would probably be enjoying himself upstairs by now. Or he’d even still be in the taproom, taking advantage of the company available. Leave it to Eddie to start spoutin’ that tired old blarney at every opportunity. It never failed to scuttle Wicklow’s mood. He failed to see how it was any of his mate’s business anyway. He sighed and stepped out into the street. Most of the time he didn’t think that much about the lad’s origins, because it didn’t matter. At least not until Tomilson invariably brought it up.
It occurred to him then that once Tomilson realised he’d gone, his first destination would be the barracks. That meant Wicklow would be going for a walk. He turned and set off in the opposite direction, determined to wander as long as he could before having to go back there himself.
“Hey, Mister!” The boy was coming along the street toward him, both hands filled with steaming pies. “Thought you wanted these.”
Despite himself, Wicklow grinned. “Aye, maybe. Here, pass one over. No. Just one.” He accepted one of the pies and, at the lad’s questioning look, added, “You help yourself to that’n. The fellow it was meant for don’t deserve it.”
This was only the truth, as far as he was concerned. The lad gaped at him a moment before taking off at a near-run, the second pie clutched in his hands. He was probably heading straight for the taproom, perhaps to share his prize. Wicklow didn’t care who the lad shared the pie with, if he did that at all. It was enough to have made such a treat available. He resumed his interrupted walk, the pie in one hand. He’d eat it eventually, once it cooled some.
No matter what Tomilson had to say, it was a fact that Bess and the girls weren’t the only ones fond of that lad. They all simply had different reasons for it. That was all that mattered.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Bess and George Thompson, and Lil Baker, belong to
sharpiefan.Summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU. A Marine corporal looks out for a boy and his mother. Chatham, 1789.
Author's Note: This is a mostly pointless nonsense ramble.
Sometimes, George Wicklow felt that he wasn’t quite used to living ashore. It would happen suddenly, usually when he was busy or thinking of other things, or even not really doing or thinking of anything much at all. From out of nowhere would come the feeling that he was only ashore for liberty, or some temporary detail, and a boat would arrive before long to fetch him and his mates back to their ship. This never lasted more than a second or two but it never failed to leave him with a distinct sensation of wistfulness. He wouldn’t go back to sea for a fair while and he knew it.
This was not to say that he objected to being a shore-based Marine. Far from it. There was plenty to keep him occupied, between his duties at the Dockyard and the lads at the barracks. It wasn’t unusual for the latter to prove more demanding on his time, in fact. But that made his leisure time activities that much more enjoyable. He and Eddie Tomilson had become regular visitors to The Ropemarker’s Arms, though unlike Tomilson this was the only place Wicklow saw fit to go. Most everything he cared to have on a liberty were there, all in one establishment.
It helped that he was on good terms with the women who worked there. They were an all right lot, if they were treated fairly. In particular he had a fondness for Bess Thompson, which was something Tomilson teased him endlessly about. He took the ribbing in stride and usually good humour, even if he couldn’t see anything so very wrong with showing preference for one woman over the others who worked at the brothel. Certainly it was no crime. Anyway, he couldn’t help it. She had been kind during their first meeting, when he had fumbled around a bit like a boy who’d never used his tackle before. Not being mocked for his uncertainty, after having spent so long at sea, had been a great relief.
He and Tomilson were bound for The Ropemaker’s Arms now, taking advantage of half a day’s liberty. This was definitely one benefit to living ashore. It was possible to go anywhere he wished when he was not on duty, instead of being confined to a ship. He didn’t miss having to rely on Wives and Sweethearts being permitted in order to enjoy a woman’s company. Besides. Having a tavern to go to regularly was a comfort on its own.
“So who’re you gonna pick today?” Tomilson wanted to know, a smirk playing about his lips. “There’s a new girl in the place, I’ve heard. She might be lovely.”
Wicklow rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you give her a roll then?”
“Oh I might, sure. Just makin’ sure me corporal’s got first pick of the stable, s’all.”
“You’re lucky I don’t box yer ears, talkin’ like that,” he remarked and pulled open the tavern’s door. Tomilson at least had the sense to wait until Wicklow had entered the taproom before following, but that was usually as far as his sense went when it came to visits here. Every now and then Wicklow wondered why he let this idiot come along with him.
Tomilson lingered a moment or two near the door, while Wicklow made his way directly to the bar. It hardly mattered to the corporal what Tomilson got up to now they were here. For his own part, he was mostly interested in a drink or two. Not every visit here was for a tumble, after all. Not for him, anyway. His mate had an entirely different opinion. But he would, really.
“Aft’noon’, lads,” Lil Baker greeted, already serving up Wicklow’s usual fare. A frothing tankard of ale with a dash of brandy added. The mixture cost him extra, of course, but he was happy to pay for it.
“Afternoon,” Wicklow replied, handing over the necessary coins after receiving his drink.
Tomilson had finally come to join them, having apparently decided he ought to be courteous and buy a drink too. “Who’s about?”
“Most of us. Polly’s in the backroom, the others are upstairs or out. Who’re you lookin’ for?”
“There a new lass in here? Lads are sayin’ so. Be nice to have a lass who ain’t wore out yet.”
Some day, Tomilson would learn to think about what he said before he said it. Until then he would always find a way to make himself sound more thoughtless than he intended. Wicklow hid a grin behind his tankard. If he knew Lil Baker at all, she wouldn’t take too well to the implication that she was ‘wore out’.
“I’ve a mind to turn you out on yer nose, Edgar,” the big woman said curtly. “You’d do well to be mindin’ yer manners in here!”
“But I ain’t bein’ rude!” Tomilson protested, wide-eyed.
“No. Just bloody disrespec’ful.”
This time, Wicklow did grin, though he was quick to smother it. As often as they came in here, it was obvious that Tomilson had not yet completely grasped the danger of crossing Lil. Her influence here was formidable. Then again, his mate never had been very good at recognising such things.
“He’s just brainless, Lil,” Wicklow explained. “Wears his necker too tight or somethin’.”
She rolled her eyes but appeared to be mollified. “He best not expect no bi’ness with me any flamin’ time soon, mind.”
There was little danger of that, really. “Sounds fair. Fetch him a tot, wouldja? Shut it, Eddie.” He fished the money out of his pocket and laid it on the bar counter. The next round of drinks would be Tomilson’s to pay for and then it would be equal. “Anyway, even if there is a new lass here’bouts, I reckon she wouldn’t want anythin’ to do with you.”
“Hmph!” Tomilson downed a mouthful of ale and shook his head. “I ain’t like you, Corp’ral. Keepin’ one of ’em all to m’self. Ain’t sportin’, that. Hey, lookit. There’s the scamp.”
Wicklow twisted partway around to see a skinny, tousle-haired boy coming into the taproom from outside. There wasn’t much to the lad, was there? Skin and bones and rags. Poor beggar. He shook his head slightly. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the lad around, but crossing paths here in the tavern was an uncommon thing.
“Aye, that’s Bess’ boy,” Lil said, speaking more to Wicklow than Tomilson. “He comes an’ goes.”
The boy seemed to be aware they were talking about him, for he glanced at them with thinly disguised curiosity. But he didn’t speak and instead beat a retreat for the backroom. Wicklow gazed after him thoughtfully before shrugging and turning his attention back to his tankard. “Aye. He hangs ’round the barracks a fair bit. The lads are good for givin’ out scraps of food, like. Seems he could do with more’n scraps, though.”
“What’re you sayin’, that we don’t feed him?”
The Irishman lifted an eyebrow slightly. “No. I ain’t sayin’ anything of the sort. But a boy needs reg’lar feedin’, so he does.” Or else he wasn’t likely to grow up properly. Shrugging, he added, “Ain’t meanin’ you lot ain’t lookin’ after him. More like...” his voice trailed off and he shrugged again. It really wasn’t his place to criticise, was it? He took another drink of ale and thought he was likely to get a clip around the ears or something for being so bold.
Instead, Lil made a noise like dismissal. “He gets what he needs. Anyways. Either of you gonna want one of the girls or what?”
“I does,” said Tomilson, with a sidelong glance at his corporal. “Don’t be mindin’ him. He’s just thinkin’ he’s got some sorta ’sponsibility for that nipper.”
“Stow it, Eddie.”
“No, c’mon, Wick. You been lookin’ out for the lad since I said he looked a bit like you.”
Wicklow frowned and, despite himself, glanced quickly toward the backroom. “He don’t. No more’n he looks like you or any of the other lads ‘round the barracks.” He sighed. “I were a foundlin’, see. Ain’t anythin’ like proper for a lad to grow up on his own, so it ain’t. Throwin’ a bit his way now’n then helps. Better than nothin’ anyway.”
He finished off his tankard and pushed it slightly toward Lil. “ ’Nother, please. Eddie’s payin’ for this one. Then he’s goin’ to have his pleasure upstairs.”
Whatever protest Tomilson might have made was neatly prevented by Lil’s grabbing up Wicklow’s empty tankard. It was just as well. If he’d wanted to have a roll himself, the desire had gone quite completely. Instead, he thought he would sit down here and drink for a while before shoving off back to the barracks.
“Cheers,” he said, once his refilled tankard was delivered to him. He said nothing more while Tomilson grudgingly produced the money to pay for his corporal’s drink, with the additional cost of a tumble. Once the coins had changed hands, Lil headed for the backroom. The creak of floorboards above their heads suggested that somebody would shortly be coming down the stairs. Wicklow found he wasn’t in the mood to be very curious.
Soon enough, Bess herself appeared, prompting a smirk from Tomilson that Wicklow ignored. “Hullo, you lads,” she said, making her way over to them.
“Afternoon.”
”Well if it ain’t Blushin’ Eddie,” Polly declared as she too approached. “Ain’t seen you in an age. C’mon then, I hear you’s all keen for a bit of fun.”
The flush in Tomilson’s cheeks was too perfect. Wicklow chuckled as the younger Marine was quickly drawn away toward the stairs. It was his own fault for annoying Lil, wasn’t it? Not that it mattered. Tomilson would overcome his embarrassment swiftly enough. He usually did. Allowing himself to grin slightly, Wicklow claimed his mate’s abandoned tankard and passed it to Bess.
“He won’t be missin’ it,” was his explanation.
“You lookin’ for a roll too?”
He shook his head. “No. This’ll suit for today.” The tankard in his hand was lifted up a little to indicate his meaning. With Tomilson now gone, he felt a little more at ease. There were some things his mate just didn’t understand. Or couldn’t, was more like it. “Is the lad game for a wee bit of fetching and carrying? Only, I’m thinkin’ something to eat would be grand.”
“Aye. It keeps him busy, some.” Bess shrugged and called for the boy, who appeared at once. “This fella’s wantin’ an errand done.”
“Two pies,” said Wicklow, digging for the last of his money. Maybe he wouldn’t be drinking a while after all. “Don’t matter what sort, really.” He held the coins out to the lad, who snatched them from his palm.
“D’you want ’em for now or later, Mister?”
“Now’ll do. Thanks.”
The lad was gone in a flash, probably afraid that if he wasn’t quick, Wicklow might change his mind. Small chance of that, though in truth, he wasn’t especially hungry. Sending for a couple of meat pies was at best a thin ruse. If he ate anything at all, it would only be half a pie at most. The rest was the boy’s to claim for himself.
“Obliging sort, him,” he remarked.
“He’s a good lad, aye. The others are fond of him.”
That had to count for something, Wicklow supposed, though in a place like this, any child could only end up having a hard time of it. The sorts of visitors that brothels got... he sighed and drank down most of the rest of his ale. Maybe he would be better suited to make his excuses and go off for a walk, or even back to the barracks. It was hard to not feel the barest bit of awkwardness here and he wasn’t pleased with himself for it. His mood had been fine until Tomilson had opened his gob earlier.
“I reckon they’re right to be. He hangs ’bout near the barracks a fair bit. Most of the lads don’t mind it. There’s a couple what use him fer runnin’ about and the like.” He looked quickly at the ceiling beams, wondering how long it would be before Tomilson came back down. Then he shrugged and tossed back the remaining half-inch of ale. “Well. This’ll do me for a while. Eddie’ll be down soon. One of them pies can be his, if he’s of a mind.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You leavin’, then? What ’bout the other?”
“The lad can have it. Or anybody else. I reckon I ain’t that sorta hungry after all.” Wicklow glanced toward the stairs, even though there was no one coming down them. Good. He’d be gone by the time Tomilson was finished. Next time he came here, he was going to leave that idiot behind at the barracks. “I’ll see you.”
If he hadn’t let Tomilson tag along, he would probably be enjoying himself upstairs by now. Or he’d even still be in the taproom, taking advantage of the company available. Leave it to Eddie to start spoutin’ that tired old blarney at every opportunity. It never failed to scuttle Wicklow’s mood. He failed to see how it was any of his mate’s business anyway. He sighed and stepped out into the street. Most of the time he didn’t think that much about the lad’s origins, because it didn’t matter. At least not until Tomilson invariably brought it up.
It occurred to him then that once Tomilson realised he’d gone, his first destination would be the barracks. That meant Wicklow would be going for a walk. He turned and set off in the opposite direction, determined to wander as long as he could before having to go back there himself.
“Hey, Mister!” The boy was coming along the street toward him, both hands filled with steaming pies. “Thought you wanted these.”
Despite himself, Wicklow grinned. “Aye, maybe. Here, pass one over. No. Just one.” He accepted one of the pies and, at the lad’s questioning look, added, “You help yourself to that’n. The fellow it was meant for don’t deserve it.”
This was only the truth, as far as he was concerned. The lad gaped at him a moment before taking off at a near-run, the second pie clutched in his hands. He was probably heading straight for the taproom, perhaps to share his prize. Wicklow didn’t care who the lad shared the pie with, if he did that at all. It was enough to have made such a treat available. He resumed his interrupted walk, the pie in one hand. He’d eat it eventually, once it cooled some.
No matter what Tomilson had to say, it was a fact that Bess and the girls weren’t the only ones fond of that lad. They all simply had different reasons for it. That was all that mattered.