They went to a little Bermondsey alehouse Solomon knew, where men of all sorts came to drink: ostlers and postilions from the coaching inns, lightermen and bargemen from the river, weavers and carders from the garrets.
As he led Wallace through the dark and crowded room, he ran into a group of watermen with whom he had a passing acquaintance.
“Hey, Sol,” one of them called.“Who’s your friend?”
There were three of them, half-full glasses of porter on the table between them.They moved over to make room for Solomon and Wallace to sit with them.
As Solomon had expected, Wallace, with his burly good looks, was instantly popular.Solomon amused himself watching them jockeying to get closer to Wallace, until he was distracted by another waterman who took the seat next to him.
“I’ve seen you here from time to time,” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“I mind you’re a coachman, en’t you?”
“No, an ostler.”
The man let out a mock sigh of relief.“Thank the Lord.That en’t half as bad.”
Solomon chuckled.London’s watermen had a hereditary hostility to the use of coaches and carriages within London Town.“You must learn to move with the times, friend.”
The other man had a fine head of curly dark hair, and thick muscular forearms that drew Solomon’s gaze every time he moved.They talked in a desultory fashion until they’d both drained their glasses.
The man leaned closer to speak into Solomon’s ear.“Like to take a walk with me?”
Solomon rarely left the alehouse alone if he didn’t choose to.But tonight was different.He had been watching Wallace out of the corner of his eye.A few minutes earlier, Wallace had received a very obvious invitation from his most ardent admirer, but had shaken his head firmly.
“I don’t like to leave my friend alone,” Solomon said.
“So bring him with us.”
Briefly, Solomon considered it.But it wouldn’t do to put Wallace in a position of perhaps feeling obliged, out of nerves or an excess of politeness, to say yes.There’d be other nights, other men.
“Sorry, no.”
“Your loss,” the waterman said with a shrug.He picked up his empty glass and peered into it.“You won’t take offence if I bid you farewell?”
“Of course not.”
Noticing that Solomon was now alone, Wallace moved closer to him.“I’m going to head back to the Crown.I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll come with you,” Solomon said.
Wallace looked surprised but didn’t object.
Outside, the night air was a cold shock after the smokey little room.They walked briskly, threading their way through the dark streets of Bermondsey.Wallace was silent.He seemed to be turning something over in his head, and Solomon didn’t force conversation upon him.
“I’m sorry,” Wallace burst out after a few minutes.
“What about?”
“I know—you brung me with you tonight because—and it should have been, it was”—he let out a strangled laugh—“it was the moment I’ve been dreaming of since I was scarce thirteen and couldn’t take my eyes off the blacksmith’s son.”
Solomon made a noise of understanding.
“I just… couldn’t work up the nerve, I suppose.You see, I’ve never—” He broke off.
Solomon stopped walking and turned to face him.“Hey.There’s no call for all this.If you didn’t want to, you didn’t have to.”
