Page 5 of My Fair Lord

“Really this is enough! I’m not going any further.”

“You don’t have to,” Blake said, looking at her and smiling easily, as if nothing untoward had happened. Unlike Florence’s, his heart was presumably not thumping a hundred beats per minute because she’d been in his arms.

“I don’t think he spotted us. I can wait it out here if need be. The landlord knows me and will deny I ever came through the door. I’ll even find you a boy to escort you safely back to your friends.”

“Oh. Well … in that case…” Florence looked around, curious at what the inside of a British pub looked like, her indignation at being surplus to requirements momentarily forgotten. Small tables were set higgledy-piggledy and a long bar ran the length of one wall with men standing at it.

“So this is a pub. I thought there would be a piano for some reason.”

Blake barked a laugh, sounding a little like a performing sea lion.

“Have you never been in a pub before?” he asked.

Florence shook her head. “This is only my second time out of America. The first time was for my sister’s wedding and we went straight to her husband’s estate in Cheshire. It’s fascinating here. But look at them,” she said, gesturing around to the tables. “Is everybody completely drunk in the middle of the day?”

“Drinking but not necessarily drunk,” Blake said.

“Don’t they have better things to do? A city as big as Liverpool must be screaming out for men and women to work.”

“Oh yes, it is. If you don’t mind slave wages and harsh conditions.” Blake’s voice was bitter and his lips, which Florence was suddenly conscious were distractingly well shaped, curled scornfully. “I suppose in the glorious post-war utopia of America everybody is paid five dollars an hour and eats roast beef for every meal.”

“Of course not! You’re deliberately talking poppycock,” Florence snapped.

There was a slight flicker of his eyelids. Surprise that she answered back, no doubt. She’d been told repeatedly how meek and well-behaved English young ladies were and had intended to follow suit. It was a shame she had barely lasted a week into the trip before getting into an argument. She took a breath and counted to five before speaking again.

“No, there are plenty of poor workers in America too but that doesn’t make it right and it doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be properly paid.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so.” Blake’s lips lost their angry curl. They really were very nice lips. Not too plump but not too firm. Very kissable.

“You need to go now,” he said. “You’ll be perfectly safe. They won’t connect us, and besides, their beef is with me.”

“What exactly is that beef?” she asked. “I really am aching to know what you won.”

“I’m afraid that is going to have to remain one of life’s mysteries,” Blake said. He tapped the side of his nose. “State secrets. Here, Alfie!”

He whistled, and a small Black boy sauntered over from a table.

“Take this lady back to Lewis’ department store. See she gets safely to the window with the hat display and there’ll be a cup of mother’s ruin for you.”

Florence was certain she must have misheard the promise. The boy could be no more than seven.

“Gin! You can’t give a child gin!” Florence exclaimed.

“He can if he wants me to take you,” Alfie retorted with a cheeky grin.

“The gin is cleaner and safer than the water,” Blake answered. He held out a hand to Florence. “Thank you, Miss Wakechild. I’m indebted to you. If I can ever return the favour…”

He left the sentence unfinished, leaving Florence to wonder exactly how he would repay the favour or what favour she might require of someone like him. She shook his hand briefly.

“Come on, miss.” Alfie tugged at her skirt. “Let him get on with what he needs to do. Don’t let them crack your head, Ned.”

They left through the door they had entered through. Turning back, Florence saw Blake weaving his way through the tables towards a staircase. As they left, she risked a glimpse to the corner where Whiskers had stood but he had gone.

Alfie trudged along beside her kicking at bits of rubbish and stones as they walked. His shoes were scuffed and the laces mismatched.

“Will he really buy you gin?” Florence asked, still not able to quite believe it.

Alfie must have misinterpreted her question because he nodded eagerly. “Course he will. He keeps his word, Ned does. He’s a good one that one. Looked after me when me dad got so drunk he didn’t know which of me to thump.”