The Mariner's Inn, London Docks, Wapping, East London
"Brona, you're an angel sent from Heaven, 's the God's honest truth." they'd say, when she'd bring them their pints, brandies, a hot meal, or lend a sympathetic ear.
The Inn's owner and her boss, Mr. Curlew, usually kept an eye out for her, as did a few of the regulars. She smiled as she remembered how they all tossed one overly persistent fellow right out into the street.
"Would you look at the time. About time for you to be leavin'." he'd tell them, if they seemed to be getting a little too amorous; but generally the patrons were decent and respectful, and appreciative, sometimes leaving her a gift of a small box of chocolates or sweets that she would share. Her paisley shawl had been a gift, left for her with a note by one of the sailors who would come in, who used to sit in a quiet corner reading books of poetry while having his dinner and a pint of bitter. Sometimes they would chat for a little bit. James, he was. She remembered that he was very good-looking; but she never saw him again after that and wondered whatever had become of him.
Brona's uniform was a man-tailored shirtwaist striped blouse with modest leg o' mutton puffed sleeves and a necktie; and a long black skirt, but wearing a corset underneath that accentuated her figure, and a crisp white bar apron. Her long hair was pinned up atop of her head in the fashionable, rolled updo style of the day.
At closing time, she thought she heard something outside, a bit farther up the street; loud voices and jeering drunken laughter, and the low moaning and crying out of someone in pain.
"Charlie, d'you hear that?" she asked, after they had tallied up the cash receipts for the night and locked them away in the strongbox. Charlie would take them to the bank sometime in the morning.
"Nothin' new." he said, probably thinking about getting home to his wife and family. "Leave it be, Brona. The constables'll be by to break it up."
"What if they don't come by, or don't come by in time?" she worried. "We should go check, all the same."
"All right, all right." Mr. Curlew muttered. "If it'll stop your frettin'." Brona wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
They locked away the cash receipts, closed up and went to look together, where they found a young man being beaten and robbed in the alley behind the inn.
"Stop!" she screamed.
"Clear out, lads, bitch'll wake the dead, loud enough." In retrospect, if they only knew.
They kneeled down next to the man. By the looks of him, a gentleman, well-dressed in fine clothes, clean hands, he'd have likely been a 'do-gooder' from St. George's church, or slumming and visiting the pubs, the whorehouses, the gambling and opium dens. At this hour, it was probably the latter, although they were not always mutually exclusive. She found a billfold emptied of its money and dropped in haste nearby.
"Can you stand and walk, sir?" Mr. Curlew asked him.
"Yes, I think."
They helped him to his feet, and he put his arms around their shoulders, stumbling back to the Mariner's Inn.
"Take him up to one of the rooms for the night, Brona." Mr. Curlew said. Brona had already turned down the beds. She helped him climb the rickety stairs, and with his coat, slipping it over his shoulders, and unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt so that he could lie down and rest easily, and he collapsed onto the bed, grateful.
She lit the oil lamp on the mirrored dresser; blew out the match. She could see his reflection in the glass.
"Not what you're used to, I'm sure." she smiled and said.
"It's fine. Thank you."
She had chosen the best room, one that she had freshly cleaned earlier. It was spare but comfortable, with the well-worn and mended bed linens soft and trimmed in fisherman's knot tatted lace that she thought was beautiful, and where the sun in the east shone through the window in the morning.
"I'll be back in a jiffy." she told him.
Brona left, and then came back with a wash basin filled with some hot water from the stove, and a washcloth and towels.
She sat down on the bed next to him. He sat up a bit.
"Ainm an àigh, what happened to your face, my bonny lad." she whispered, as she wiped away the blood from his nose with the dampened washcloth. His eyes were beginning to look swollen. He flinched a bit at her touch.
"A little sore, is it?" she asked.
"A little."
"It's not broken. You'll have yourself a right nasty shiner there come mornin' too." He was young and very beautiful of face, slender in build, with beautiful hands that had many rings on his fingers. They must have interrupted the thieves before they had a chance to take them.
She left again, and when she came back with a cup of tea and a brandy to help him sleep, she could have sworn his injuries didn't look as severe as when they'd first found him.
"My name is Brona Croft. I'll be right down the hall if you should need anything." she told him. "I live here, you see. Sleep well."
"Feeling better this morning, good sir?" Mr. Curlew asked when the man came downstairs the next morning.
"Yes, much better, thank you." he said, and joined them for some breakfast and coffee. In the candid light of the morning, it appeared his wounds had completely healed! Had she imagined their severity? Charlie had gone to see about getting a carriage for him, and hadn't mentioned it. Were it not for the slight blood stain on his shirt, she might never have known he had been injured. How very strange.
"How may I repay you?" he asked, before he left in a Hansom cab. "You must allow me to repay you for your kindness." Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, he took out a card and left it on the bar.
"My name is Dorian Gray."