Sunset ^beta

December the 27th, 1696

It was the third day of Christmas. To the most pious denizens of the local church, the celebrations were tempered with worship. To everyone else in Tottenham, it was the third day in a row of drinking, dancing, and merrymaking – but not in Broadwater Hall. At least, not within the company of the magistrate and his children. During their Christmas dinner, Sofia’s family was waited upon by servants with clumsier hands and chattier mouths than would be appropriate any other time of the year.

Even the perpetually-stern Lord Blancheford was able to laugh when gravy sauce was poured into his glass instead of more wine – although he refused to drink it, even as his children tried to egg him on.

Mrs Belgrave had been the one to dress Sofia that morning, and she was still perfumed with the scent of mulled wine from the night before, or possibly from an early start to the morning. She had kissed Sofia’s cheek, told her she was still her sweet girl – even if she was sixteen years old, as of that day, and thus effectively a woman.

It pleased Sofia to see the workers in such high spirits, even if it no doubt mostly came from the alcohol. When she sneaked into the kitchen after supper to get another large serving of the figgy pudding, ostensibly to take with her to eat in hiding, she had hoped to see Rasselas there. But he wasn’t there with the other servants, and that meant she needed to revise her plan: rather than going straight to the stables, where she knew he would be, she went upstairs, carrying the pudding as if it was precious beyond measure. Once inside her room with the door closed, she set the pudding upon a table and set to work.

Sofia had prepared the garments she would need in advance: ones which were warm, simple enough to put on without assistance and as common as she could find. She was pleased by her own efficiency; by the independence with which she was thus far able accomplish her small rebellion.

That ease continued as she crept through the house, completely unseen – except it was not all that impressive, she knew, because the servants were using their own areas of the house; they had their own narrow staircases and corridors which allowed them to get around without being seen.

The cool air that she was met with when she got outside made her pause, but only for a moment; it was not so cold that it would make her planned trip unbearable – not that she would have let it stop her, that night, even if it was snowing. The moon was slim and did little to pierce the gloom of night, but she found it preferable to a bright night, both for the sake of secrecy and because she simply was never a girl who feared the dark.

The darkness made her walk slower, however, as she made her way towards the stables – and so did her nervousness.

As much as she wanted to see him, it had been a very different Christmas from every year before.

At the beginning of the summer, everything had changed for her and Rasselas. The only time she could remember crying harder than she did then was when her mother was on her deathbed. When they were told Rasselas would soon be put to work in the stables, Sofia had shamelessly begged for her father to change his mind; to let him stay in the house like family, like he had allowed for so long. Her father hadn’t known how to handle her pleading – and especially not her tears – and had decided that his best course of action was to not indulge her at all by continuing to talk about it; and that the servants should follow his example and avoid the topic until she could simply cry no more. Her father told her that her behaviour would only make it harder for Rasselas to adjust to his new circumstances, but that she would still be allowed to see him at times.

Every time she went to visit Rasselas, he seemed less like the boy she had grown with. He was kept busy by his tasks, so many of their conversations took place while he was cleaning hooves or coats; she was not allowed to be near him when he was doing harder labour, like cleaning the stables. He looked so small next to the horses. She would ask him questions and he would not answer, either because he did not hear her over the chore he was performing, or because he did not want to talk. What started as a daily trip to the stables became weekly, then once a fortnight, and then – Well, this would be the first time she visited him in the stables since November.

Thomas’s only concern was for himself, as he did not feel ready to leave for Eton. He had not understood why Sofia cried for the boy. The two boys had never gotten along well, as Rasselas was sensitive and gentle, while Thomas was rowdy and – at times – harsh.

In the end, what any of them wanted did not matter: Thomas would be sent to Eton, Rasselas would be put to work, and Sofia would need to grow up.

The smell of the stables was as repulsive as ever, no matter how tidy they were kept. The horses nickered and snored nearby. Sofia had already picked out which horse she would take to town. She was ready to leave at any time, except...

She had already insinuated to Rasselas that she wanted him to come with her, but he had feigned ignorance, focusing on the pudding she had brought him. She decided that she would have to be more direct.

‘Come with me!’ Sofia whispered, smiling hopefully.

The two of them were seated upon stools, side-by-side, facing towards the horses. Her cloak was pulled tightly around her. She waited expectantly for him to finally agree.

But instead, he shook his head. His chewing slowed; he did not raise his eyes to look at her.

‘I can’t.’ His voice was thick from the pudding. ‘I can’t risk it.’

‘I’ll cover you.’ She couldn’t help but laugh, because the solution seemed so simple. ‘I won’t let anyone punish you. Besides, I don’t intend to get caught.’

Her younger friend had taken to stirring his pudding – something she had seen him do countless times with all sorts of foods. It was a habit which might have been inspired by the phase Thomas went through where he would try to crush all his food as flat as possible against his plate before scraping it off, rolling it up, and trying to eat it in as few bites as he could. Thomas’s was a habit so peculiar and off-putting that their father had turned a blind eye to Rasselas’s bizarre stirring of his plate or Sofia’s pretend-eating of her boiled carrots – even after he had, more than once, caught her throwing a squashy handful into the garden after supper had finished.

‘Sorry,’ Rasselas murmured.

‘You don’t have to be,’ she said with a smile, shaking her head and sitting up straighter; doing what she could to keep the disappointment out of her voice. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’ He said it queerly, less like a question and more like an accusation.

She stared at him, trying to shake off her sinking feeling – the one that came during most visits she paid him; that feeling of loss and unfair blame.

‘Of course I do,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I wish...’

‘Thank you for the pudding, Sofia.’

It was a good-bye, a polite way to tell someone to go away. She knew it, but she couldn’t help but try – just a little more – to bring forth the Rasselas who was her brother from this unfamiliar boy who could barely stand to sit next to her.

‘Is it only me or does it taste different this year?’ When he turned his big brown eyes up at her in confusion, she continued: ‘The pudding. There’s... something different, I think – a change in the recipe. It was sweeter in the past, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think it tastes any different.’

‘Ah. Well...’ She stood up, brushing off her skirt. ‘Merry Christmas, Rasselas.’

‘Happy birthday, Sofia.’

Sofia bit her lip and turned to look in the direction of the town she would be riding to alone that night.

The ride was blessedly short and easy, despite the darkness. The chill only made her more alert, more eager to reach her destination.

The Talbot was owned by a family by the name of Trotter. They were good tenants, according to Sofia’s father, and he was usually inclined to side with them in matters which were brought to his attention. There were few families Sofia was as familiar with – albeit, impersonally – as the Trotters. It was a name which came up more frequently than most, in major part because of their ownership of the tavern.

The other reason Sofia had heard the name so often was because, as she understood it, the older of Sam Trotter’s two children was considered to be mischievous, or at least meddlesome. Even though Sofia had never met the girl, she had heard many stories of her antics.

For instance, when Sofia was thirteen, a man introduced to her as Mr Atkins had been invited to have supper with her father as part of a meeting to discuss business. The man had spent half of the meal griping about the elder Trotter girl, saying that she had taken down a wasps’ nest that had formed on the back of her house and had been in the process of transplanting it onto his property when he had arrived home – catching her in the act as she dangled like a monkey, trying to tuck the teeming nest safely beneath the eaves of his house.

Apparently, her first excuse had been that she had not realised that the house had anyone living in it; her second excuse had been that she didn’t think he used his garden enough to notice it; and her third excuse had been that she meant it as a present, and that she thought he would appreciate the honey. Whether or not she realised that wasps did not produce honey, just the thought of it had given Sofia such a fit of giggles – which spread to Thomas, of course – that her father sent her away before she could offend their guest.

Sofia had no idea if she would meet the infamous troubler or not, but she had a smile on her face when she finally found herself in front of the Talbot. As ruffled as she was from riding through the wintry night, she did not rush inside, but instead stood upon the bridge, looking over its side into the icy black water of the moat. She wondered if any drunkards had ever fallen in, if any had drowned – then she realised, after a moment, that she likely would have heard news of that, if it had happened.

She stepped back into the centre of the bridge, turning back one more time to ensure she had tied her horse properly, then finally set off towards the door.

After the first door, there was a tiny dark room, and then another entrance in the form of a narrow double-door which Sofia pushed and walked through.

Her first thought when she stepped inside was that it smelt a bit like a kitchen. It had the warmth and the smell of food and alcohol. Like the kitchen at Broadwater Hall, the beamed ceiling near the entrance was low enough that – had she been blessed with greater height – she imagined she could have touched, if she jumped high enough.

To her right was a low railing, and beyond it, the floor sank; she imagined the railing could help prevent drunken visitors from injuring themselves. The ceiling of the centre of the room opened to an upstairs, with more railings to secure the mezzanine. In front of her, there was a table by the door that was unoccupied, which Sofia gravitated towards; it would be easier for her to leave, if she lost her nerve or was recognised to be the daughter of the local magistrate.

There was a great stone fireplace decorated with swirling etchings and adorned with half a dozen deer skulls. The fire was low.

She took a seat that faced the bar, which had beams at either end and a low ceiling above it; it looked a bit like a box, but with two sides cut out, and an opening at the front for patrons to place their orders. On the wall above the bar were pictures that had been painted directly onto the yellow plaster, uninterrupted by the panels of wood that cut across them. There was a doorway behind the bar which was framed by shelves and cabinets that held numerous bottles.

The bar itself was unmanned, however, and everyone that Sofia could see – all men – had already been served.

She set her eyes downwards and tugged at the fingers of her glove to loosen it, then slid it off her hand; then she repeated it, all while trying not to look like she was watching the strangers in the room.

The men all had coarse accents – the sort even the servants in Broadwater Hall would look down upon – which were made even coarser by their recent days of Christmastime merriment and drinking. Many of the men were seated in groups of three, but many more were slumped upon tables, off on their own. None had so much as looked her way when she came in, much to her relief.

Sofia had expected the place to be more lively. She had thought people would be dancing, making toasts, or otherwise be celebrating the holiday. Instead, it was rather quiet.

Because of the quietness, Sofia jolted in surprise when a man’s voice rose up over the murmur, unsteadily warbling something she supposed could be considered music. He lifted his head and looked about the room at the other men, clearly hoping they would join in. Sofia waited, holding her breath. Seconds passed, then tens of seconds, and the man sagged in his chair. She exhaled.

‘Aw, keep trying, Hamish,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘I’m sure someone’ll oblige you eventually.’

She was close to Sofia’s father’s age. Her curly red hair seemed to fight against its tie, spilling out of it. When she glanced up and saw Sofia sitting alone in the corner, she looked surprised.

There was no doubt in Sofia’s mind that this was Elizabeth Trotter, Sam’s wife – and that, by the looks of the protrusion behind her apron, there was another Trotter child on the way.

Sofia glanced towards the door, trying to judge how quickly she could get to it if she needed to escape – although the thought of fleeing from the friendly-looking woman was laughable, and so was the idea that the woman would pursue her when she was so heavy with a child.

When the woman finished the table she had been cleaning, she came closer to Sofia and explained, ‘He’s been doing that all night, bless him. Everyone else has sung themselves hoarse now, or are too deep in their cups to even hear him trying.’

‘Oh, poor man,’ Sofia said, and by the end of the short sentence, she decided it was in her best interest not to try to put on an accent.

‘Are you here on your own, sweetheart?’ asked Elizabeth, who had come to stand directly near Sofia’s table; the way she glanced down suggested she was checking to make sure it didn’t need cleaning, too.

‘No,’ Sofia lied. ‘The person I’m with is doing business elsewhere. I’m waiting for him here.’

‘Ooh, it’s a bit late,’ Elizabeth said, looking into the darkness beyond the window behind Sofia. ‘He must be a hard worker.’

Sofia did not want to compliment the fictitious man, nor add more embellishment, so she politely smiled.

‘Has my girl served you yet?’

‘Served me? Oh, no. I haven’t seen anyone behind the bar.’

‘Ah, Nelly...’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘She works hard, but awfully prone to distraction, she is. I should say she’s around your age...’

The woman’s smile went slightly lax as she looked more closely at Sofia’s face.

‘I don’t need anything,’ Sofia said, hoping the kind woman would leave before she could potentially recognise her.

‘Just here for the scenery, then? Or maybe it’s the fire?’ Elizabeth asked with a knowing look.

‘Oh. I’m sorry, I should not be loitering –’

‘Sweetheart, I was only joking,’ she laughed. She came and gave Sofia’s shoulder a gentle pat. ‘Besides, you’re in the coldest corner. Come sit closer to the fire, won’t you?’

Sofia shook her head. There were a few men at the tables closest to the fireplace and she wanted nothing to do with any of them.

‘Ma?’ came a new voice, one which made both Sofia and Elizabeth turn towards the bar. There was a girl standing in the doorway behind the bar. She looked back and forth across the room, twice missing them.

‘Nelly, where were you?’

‘Outside.’

‘Doing what?’ When the girl didn’t answer, Elizabeth instead said, ‘Wearing that?’

Nelly looked down at herself, running a hand down the front of her brown dress. She frowned before looking back at her mother, then gave her a shrug big enough that they could see it easily from where they were.

‘Lord, I love her – I do! – but how I hope this next one will be as mild as Roxy.’ Despite her words, Elizabeth smiled at her daughter with affection Sofia hadn’t seen since her own mother died. Sofia bowed her head to hide her own sad smile.

‘Listen,’ Elizabeth said, rubbing her hand against Sofia’s shoulder, ‘you go talk to her. She can get you something to eat or drink. I don’t want anyone walking out of the Talbot with an empty stomach. I’ll be finishing these here tables, then I’ll be upstairs tucking in my youngest –’ She laughed, placed a hand on her belly, and corrected, ‘My second youngest. Nelly will take good care of you. Go on, don’t be shy.’

Not wanting to upset her, Sofia rose from her chair and forced herself to leave the shadows of the outer edge of the room. She was nervous – inexplicably so.

There she was: the infamous Nelly Trotter. Her hair was a darker shade of red than she had envisioned, and her eyes were brown, rather than green.

Nelly was staring boredly into the fire, and it appeared she hadn’t even noticed Sofia coming over until she was right in front of her, just across the bar. She had less freckles than Sofia had expected – although she wasn’t actually certain that anyone had ever described her as having freckles.

‘Uh,’ was all Nelly said, at first; her mouth didn’t move, it just hung open and allowed for a noise to come out. If she didn’t look stunned, her staring would have made Sofia afraid that she somehow recognised her. But then Nelly blinked hard, shook her head so hard it looked like it hurt, and then asked, ‘What can I get for ya, miss?’

Sofia almost laughed, because she seemed to be trying to lower the pitch of her voice to sound more mature, like Thomas had begun to do ever since he had first been sent to Eton. She had suspected he had been teased by the older boys around him who were already turning into men. But hearing a girl do the same thing felt very different to Sofia.

‘You’re Nelly Trotter, yes?’

The girl stopped smoothing down her hair and instead turned her head to look suspiciously at Sofia.

‘My friends call me Nell.’

‘Oh. Your mother called you Nelly.’

Nell Trotter wrinkled her nose.

‘Well, you’re neither my mother nor my friend, but I’ll still let you call me Nell.’

There was a slight misarticulation in her speech that made it evident that, like most people in Tottenham that week, she had been making merry exactly how one would expect from a girl whose family ran a pub.

Sofia could easily envision this boyish adolescent with a nest tucked under her arm, somehow unperturbed by the insects she was so boldly kidnapping. Sofia bit her lip and tried not to grin at her.

‘What? Why are you smiling at me?’ demanded the other girl.

‘I’m not,’ Sofia lied, covering her mouth to hide it.

She rolled her eyes at Sofia, casting a bored look around the room. Nell Trotter turned her head so far that something on the shelf behind her caught her eye. Sofia leant to peek around her, to see what she was looking at, but something else had already gotten her attention. It seemed like within the process of scanning the room – and doing a full turn on the spot – she had forgotten all about Sofia by the time she faced her again.

‘Lord, you’re still here?’ she asked, although it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. ‘Do you want something or not?’

‘Yes,’ Sofia quickly said, more eager to hold her attention than to actually place an order.

Nell raised her eyebrows expectantly at her. To Sofia’s disappointment, she could tell that she was boring her.

‘You have money?’ Nell asked, putting an elbow upon the counter and resting her chin in her palm.

It seemed almost like a rude question to Sofia, so when she reached into her pocket for it, she couldn’t help but defiantly hold the coins up a little closer to the girl’s face than she otherwise would have. It pleased Sofia a little to see Nell straighten up to get away from her hand.

‘Well? Does this satisfy you?’ she politely prompted.

She muttered something rather unintelligible, something like ‘oo-er missus’, that left Sofia wondering momentarily if they were still both speaking English. Before she could probe her, Nell reached across the bar and closed Sofia’s fingers around the coins to hide them.

‘You trying to get robbed?’ she scoffed, shaking her head. ‘What’s a girl like you carrying all that around for, eh? Don’t go flashing that about. You ain’t impressing anyone, neither.’

Sofia frowned.

The girl sighed and leant across the bar towards her, shaking her head. It put her a little too close to Sofia for comfort, but her expression was kinder. Sofia wondered if it was the sight of money that had warmed her.

‘Look, you ain’t even told me what you want from me,’ Nell said with a laugh, finally sounding less abrasive.

Sofia looked at her smile. Nell’s teeth were not crooked, like she had always – for whatever reason – imagined they would be.

‘Sorry?’

Nell threw her head back and groaned at the ceiling, back to her earlier impatience.

‘Very well. What would this get me?’ Sofia asked, passing a single coin to her empty hand and offering it to the odd girl.

The other girl guffawed, reaching out to tap the shining coin with the tip of her finger. She pitched down her voice even lower and conspiratorially told her, ‘Company for the night, in some places.’ She immediately laughed at her own bawdy joke, but then – just as quickly – her smile slid off her face. She cast a look in Elizabeth Trotter's direction, then fixed Sofia with a strong look, leaning in close and muttering threateningly, ‘If you tell my ma that I said that, I’ll throw you into the moat.’

Sofia could do nothing except stare at her.

Nell backed away, giving a plain shrug, and an equally-plain explanation: ‘Look, I’m drunk.’

When Sofia was still too stunned to respond, Nell gave her a sly look and leant back in to whisper, ‘But I mean it. You heard nothing, ya hear?’

She nodded, although she did not feel nearly as afraid as the girl no doubt would have liked.

‘Good girl,’ she flashed a grin.

‘Thank you?’ Sofia uncertainly replied.

Nell rolled her eyes and said, ‘Now, let’s get you drunk, yeah?’

‘No,’ Sofia said quickly. ‘I’m not interested in drinking.’

‘What are you –’ Nell looked as if she did not believe her. ‘Have you never been to a pub before?’

Sofia pressed her lips together. She had hoped it would not be obvious, or at least that Nell Trotter was too inebriated to notice.

‘Right.’ Nell laughed at her. ‘You’re not good at making choices, I see.’

‘I am!’ For some reason, her accusation got under Sofia’s skin. ‘I just need to know my options.’

‘To eat, or not to eat?’ Nell questioned. ‘You could just fucking –’ Her dark eyes widened when she realised she had sworn and she spun to look around; not seeing her mother, and clearly emboldened by her lack of supervision, she continued, ‘Look, I’ll just fucking pick something out for you, and you’ll have nothing to fucking complain about, ‘cause you took too fucking long, all right?’

It was not as if Sofia had never heard the word before, but she almost certainly never had heard it that many times in a single sentence, and certainly not by any girl or woman.

Clearly, Nell was enjoying saying the word. She had ducked her head and giggled, and when she looked back up at Sofia, she had a giddy look on her face.

Despite how rude she had been almost the entire time, her now-friendly smile made Sofia laugh along with her as if it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. She wondered if the heavy scent of beer of the building was enough alone to inebriate her, because she had no logical reason to blush and smile at this girl who had been so impatient with her. 

Nell stepped away from the counter and tilted her head at Sofia, her eyes narrowed in thought. Without another word, she turned around and disappeared through the doorway.

Sofia looked towards the fireplace, the men in front of it. One of them was quick to turn away when he realised she was looking. She drummed her fingers against the wood of the bar. So many minutes passed that Sofia wondered if Nell had forgotten her.

‘Oh, still here?’ came Elizabeth’s voice. She was taking the stairs slowly, likely because it was difficult to see where her feet would land, due to her belly.

‘She told me that she’d be back.’

‘Did she, now?’ Elizabeth said, almost suspiciously.

‘Yes, miss.’

A groan announced Nell’s return long before she came into view, along with, ‘We didn’t have any left of the damned tarts I wanted to give ya, so I just had to run down to the stupid fucking baker who hates me, all to get –’

When she found that Sofia was no longer alone at the counter, Nell Trotter froze in the doorway. In her hands was a bundle, which Sofia presumed was from the bakehouse.

‘Mammy!’ she said, for the first time that night not trying to pitch her voice lower; instead, her voice went up so high, it was nearly a squeak by comparison. She stood there, beaming at her mother – clearly trying to compensate for her cursing.

Elizabeth wasn’t impressed, but after a deep breath, she told her eldest child, ‘Since it’s still Christmas, I’m going to do you a favour and pretend I didn’t hear you saying those words.’

Nell glanced at Sofia out of the corner of her eye, no doubt wondering if she would peach on her for the things she said earlier.

Sofia could keep a secret.

‘You said that you got me a tart?’ she asked, nodding at the bundle in Nell’s arms. ‘Thank you.’

Recognising Sofia’s attempt at an alliance, Nell’s hazel eyes softened. Her smile was no longer impish or forced, but genuine; the kind of smile which would be at home both within a group of friends or all alone with fond memories.

After setting the bundle down upon the bar, Nell plucked at its strings and opened it to reveal several tarts, as was expected. She picked out the best-looking one – the one with the neatest crust, without any cracks from the journey – and offered it to Sofia.

‘She has the money, she showed me it already,’ Nell said to her mother without looking at her.

‘Why does the baker hate you?’ Sofia asked her as she took the tart.

Nell stifled a laugh and busied herself with plucking the almond slices off the top of the tart she had picked out for herself. Sofia found it strange that she removed the almonds, because rather than discarding them like she would if she disliked them, Nell popped the slivers into her mouth to eat separately.

‘Ah, he’s just angry that I always beat his boy in games,’ she said just before sinking her teeth into the tart. Sofia marked some jam seeping from the corner of the girl’s mouth, making her look like she was bleeding – or like she was an animal savagely biting into something that could bleed. In a strange way, it suited Nell Trotter; so well, even, that it did not disgust Sofia.

‘Games?’ she asked, forcing herself to look away from the dribble of jam. She blinked a few times before asking, ‘As in, when you play?’

Nell nodded very seriously at her.

It seemed to Sofia a rather trivial reason for an adult to be upset with a child, which led her to suspect that either Nell wasn’t sharing the whole truth with her or that people in the town truly were a different breed than those in Broadwater Hall.

Elizabeth had walked around to the other side of the counter to stand beside her daughter. She picked up a tart and raised it to her nose to breathe in its warm, sweet scent.

‘We’re lucky I went there now, Ma, because supposedly he’s nearly out of almonds.’

‘He’s been saying that about nearly every ingredient all week,’ Elizabeth laughed.

‘I don’t think he’s lying,’ Nell said with a shrug. ‘Maybe if Lord Blancheford hadn’t been stingy this year –’

‘Nelly.’

Sofia had gone stiff.

‘It’s the truth! He only sent –’ Nell wasn’t able to finish her thought, due to the large piece of tart her mother had popped inside her open mouth.

What Sofia’s father sent and how much of it he sent down to Tottenham’s villagers would be a mystery to Sofia – at least, until the next morning, when she would take a peek at her father’s ledger-book.

‘Now, you be sure to give that a proper chew, Nelly,’ Elizabeth said, smiling with such sweetness that it was clearly affected. ‘And no more beer. You’ve had enough for this Christmas. I want you sober tomorrow, you hear me?’

Nelly swallowed hastily, shaking her head in protest, but when she opened her mouth to argue, the rest of the tart was immediately being pressed against her tongue. It seemed that the girl was being given no choice but to chew her way through the tart if she wanted to argue.

Elizabeth softly giggled as she forced her daughter to eat out of her hand like an animal. Sofia took a bite from her own tart to hide her smile. The blood-red jam that had dripped down Nell’s chin – which she had swiped away, at some point – turned out to be raspberry.

Sofia swallowed and made sure her mouth was clear before asking, ‘How much do I owe for this?’

‘It’s Christmas,’ said Elizabeth simply. ‘It’s just one tart. Don’t you worry.’

Sofia worried, anyway. It seemed like something one might say to be polite, but with the expectation that the other person would be too polite to accept the charity. Not wanting to make a faux pas, she set down her half-finished tart and began to take out her money from her pocket again.

‘Did you not hear her?’ Nell asked, shaking her head. ‘Stop flashing your money about.’

‘Nelly, be kind.’

‘Ain’t I? I’m telling her to keep it.’ She shook her head bemusedly at Sofia and asked, ‘You know what free means, don’t ya?’

Sofia closed her hand once more around the cool coins, looking uncertainly between them. She didn’t know how to respond to their apparently-sincere generosity. It made her feel almost guilty for being the rich daughter of their landlord, but not guilty enough to reveal her identity.

‘You’re too kind,’ Sofia said. It was a phrase she had used many times in response to compliments, but she rarely meant it to the same extent she did now.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Elizabeth said in a teasing tone, affectionately shaking her head. ‘It’s what people here do.’

‘Not everyone,’ Nell scoffed. ‘Not –’

If Sofia were in Nell’s place, she wouldn’t want to look at another tart for a month, after being forcibly fed so many to keep her mouth busy.

‘You know, it’s quite late.’ Elizabeth scanned the tables, some of which had become vacant since Sofia last looked. ‘We’ll be closing soon. I’ve got to clean up, Nelly has to go to bed –’ She was cut momentarily off by her daughter’s groan. ‘And you should go, dear, before you get in trouble.’

Elizabeth knew. Sofia could tell by the look she gave her.

She swallowed her piece of tart a little too fast, so it dragged somewhat painfully down her throat. She hastily nodded.

‘Thank you, miss.’

‘Here, let me walk you out.’

Sofia gave Nell Trotter one last glance as she backed away from the bar. The girl’s day-dreaming eyes had been raised upwards at nothing in particular, but when they caught Sofia’s movement, Nell flashed one more smile.

Once they were nearly at the double-door, and out of hearing range, Elizabeth whispered, ‘How old are you now, Miss Sofia?’

‘Sixteen, as of today.’ Sofia sighed. ‘I’m sorry for not saying who I was.’

‘Oh, I was a girl, once. I understand.’

Sofia shut her eyes when Elizabeth’s hand stroked her hair. She was sure that as she did it, she was thinking about the passing of Lady Blancheford.

‘You’re a good girl, Sofia. Happy birthday.’

The words, simple as they were, meant far too much to Sofia.

‘Get home safe, all right?’

‘Thank you.’

Stepping outside into the wintry air, Sofia carried with her the warmth of the pub and the people there.

She never did see Elizabeth Trotter again. In a couple years’ time, she would hear news of her passing, and she would hide her tears so she wouldn't need to explain why the stranger’s death upset her so. Then, six years later, came the news of Nell’s tragic death alongside her husband during the Battle of Blenheim. From what Sofia had heard, the whole village had mourned her – even if she had been trouble when she was a girl.

Although Sofia had only met them that one time, her memory of her trip to the Talbot was one of the sweetest ones she had from a time that she would otherwise come to regard as the beginning of the end of her vanishing childhood – or, more appropriately, the onset of the misery of womanhood.

But Sofia never would have believed the circumstances under which she would next find herself setting foot inside the Talbot – around nine years later, and with a very-much-alive Nell there to hold the door open for her.