Chapter Text
In one dank, dark corner of London stood a pub called The Selkie.
It wasn’t much to look at, the same as any regular old pub on those cobbled roads, a creaking building that only came to life at nighttime, spitting light from gas lanterns out onto the streets to lure in its patrons and relieve them of their coins. Pubs were ten a penny in London, barely a rung above the knocking-shops, bawd’s homes and brothels as places for gentlemen to seek out their good times, but The Selkie drew them in all the same and took what she could for herself.
Penelope had worked her fingers to the bone there for nearly ten years now, serving watered-down ale and soured whiskey to old men who had long lost their senses on tobacco and salt air. She’d been barely fifteen years old when she started grafting – a girl orphaned, earning barely enough money to keep her out of the whore house because she only really had herself to look out for. It was sheer luck that Charlotte had taking a liking to her, but then the landlady always did have a soft spot for girls who’d come to London for riches and found nothing but dirt under their nails instead. Penelope wasn’t any different – just fortunate enough to tug on the woman’s heartstrings and earn herself a meagre living.
Being a barmaid wasn’t a bad job, all considering. It earned her a fair wage, but she wasn’t above picking the pocket of any drunkard who pissed her off enough, or copped a feel for free either. They’d never noticed her thievery, her hands small and nimble enough for them to only realise they’d been robbed when they stumbled home to their nagging wives with empty pockets.
Saturday nights at The Selkie were her most profitable by far. Every working man was ripe from that week’s wages, all of them desperately looking for a good time, an escape that a plump barmaid was happy to set on the table in front of him. She was glad to help relieve any old goat of his misery; a bob or two from his pockets for her own trouble never much went amiss anyway.
And it was Penelope’s magnificent luck on this cold Saturday night that he walked back through the doors, his long brown coat flicking in the draft of winter cold. She’d only seen him once before, flashing his pearly white smile to the local boys and casting his eyes over her as she served her regulars. Maybe the bloke was trying to charm for his trade too, who was she to judge.
“Hark who it is, then, Penny,” Genevieve hissed in her ear with a grin, a pointed elbow digging into Penelope’s side. “Your fancy man’s come back for another eyeful of his favourite barmaid.”
Her head whipped to the entrance; Penelope watched the tall man with his smug and pretty face stride with purpose towards a table of other men around his age like they’d been waiting on him all night. His friends greeted him warmly enough, but it was Charlotte immediately flitting to his side that caught Penelope’s curiosity. The landlady didn’t do personal greetings for every Tom, Dick or Harry that walked in her pub. No, this man clearly had something her boss wanted.
The man had only been in once before, last Saturday night. She didn’t know his name, only his laugh and the rumours about the amount of cash he kept on his person, cash he doled out with relish. Smug bastard was going to get himself mugged doing that; any decent cutpurse would have him on the floor in a heartbeat.
“Best you get your end in there with your fancy man right quick,” Genevieve said with a laugh. “Looks like that old hag’s trying to get in his trousers too!”
“You hush your mouth, missus, you want to get the sack?!” Penelope hissed right back to Genevieve, pulling pint after pint as quick as she could. “He’s not my fancy man neither, I never even spoke to him.”
“Then I’ll serve the gentleman, shall I?” Gen pretended to hike her cleavage up to her chin, adjusting the front ruffles of her dress. She didn’t have much to work with in the first place, poor cow. “You think if I stick my tits in his face, he’ll shove his lovely pound note in there?”
“You’re welcome to try.” Penelope set down one last full pint glass on her serving tray, grunting as she picked it up. “Don’t think you’ll get any more than a thruppenny bit between your tits, I’ve seen beestings bigger.”
Genevieve giggled, stealing two of the pints off her friend’s tray. “And you could house the entire Bank of England between your dumplings, darling!”
Penelope shook her head, watching as Genevieve wandered into the crowd with the two stolen glasses of ale, laughing along with the boys, as good of a good-time girl as any of them.
She didn’t have time for such nonsense as flirting with men, and entertained no notions of being seduced by some dandy, swept off her feet and gussied up to suit his whims. Men were fickle and the younger ones even more so, and the handsome ones even worse. The stranger was a customer and that was where it ended. Gen and her tiny tits could have him and earn his gains tonight. Besides, it was better for Penelope to keep her distance than pick the pocket of a sober man twice her size, no matter how much cash he flashed around town.
Opportunities presented themselves when necessary, but even she had limits.
Penelope carried her heavy tray down to a table in the front of the pub, her head already pounding from the amount of noise, from bad piano music and singing to the clinking of smashed glass and groans of pain from the fighting. Saturday nights might’ve been the most profitable, but they were also the hardest ones to work her honest job, her feet aching and her back broken – and that was if she was lucky.
“What took you so fucking long, sweetheart?” one of her patrons complained, his countenance rather nasty, grizzled and sooty, smelling like the putrid air around the factories. “It’s only pulling bloody pints! You ain’t brewing them!”
“Be glad I ain’t brewing them,” Penelope snapped back, watching as the table of men snatched the pints before she could even set the entire tray down. “I’d have pissed in yours, love.”
The entire table erupted in noisy laughter at the expense of their friend. It gave her immense satisfaction to wear her wit as her armour and sword, the feeling of it coiling in her belly like a snake.
Most of the men tended to keep their hands to themselves, at least. The Selkie had a reputation for not indulging in that kind of thing on premises, even if Charlotte was happy to direct her patrons down the lane to her brothel instead. It was mutual business, she’d said, sending men from the public house to the whore house and then back again once they’d gotten bored. She held no patience for a man who didn’t respect her respectability.
“Fuck me, darlin’, I think I’d have a go if it was you pissing in my beer,” another man laughed, tugging playfully at a lock of Penelope’s wild copper curls before she batted his hands away with ease. “Bet even your piss tastes sweet.”
She rolled her eyes, smacking him round the back of his head too for good measure. He was one of her regulars, and mostly harmless; it was all fun and japes to impress his friends, teasing for giggles to see how far they could get with her before she snapped back.
No man who’d ever propositioned Penelope had ever succeeded, no matter how much they offered her in exchange for it. She was probably the only barmaid who hadn’t taken a shilling or two for a flash of her cunny or a quick servicing down the alley. It wasn’t her business what went on behind Charlotte’s back either; keeping to herself was how she survived.
“You just mind your manners, alright?” she said, pocketing all the coins the man gave her for the round before he could demand the change. She fluffed up her own tits theatrically, chin held aloft for the joke. “I’m a fucking lady…”
There was more raucous laughing as she walked away, the tension sufficiently broken with her playing into their blowsy words. Men like that were easy to manage – they knew the game, when to push and when to not. Often, they were the men who defended her against young ones who didn’t know when to stop trying their luck, thinking they were owed a bit of her body as well as her delivering their whiskey. All of them realised their mistake under the fist of another before Charlotte directed them down the street to the arms of girls who welcomed their attention and their money alike.
Penelope sighed as she gathered empty glasses on her tray for the pot washer, walking back to the bar. The entire pub was singing old sailor songs along with the piano player in the corner now, men tugging the barmaids and stewards in for a sing-song with them. It was giving her a bloody headache, though.
“Them lot in the back will want six more draughts of Guinness and rum!” Penelope shouted over the din of singing, shaking her head as she added the used glasses into the pile. “And pour me half a gin, would you? I need it.”
Agatha was an old hand at pulling a decent Guinness. She was one of Charlotte’s longest serving employees who ran the place like she was in the one actually in charge, her mouth always set in a sour smirk no matter what her mood. Penelope liked the woman enough, even if she tended to give advice where it wasn’t wanted or asked for.
“Long night – you best pace yourself, girl,” Agatha said, pouring Penelope a scant half shot of old gin for her troubles. “Don’t tell the boss I let you have that one or she’ll charge it on me.”
“As if I ever would,” she replied, tipping the gin down her throat. It was rough, burning her tongue as it went down, but it’d see her through the night. “Cheers.”
“To your health, Penny.” Agatha downed a shot herself with a shudder. “Blimey.”
The Selkie was almost as rough as that damn gin, but then so was nearly every pub in London’s east end. Wasn’t a place like it though; Charlotte and Agatha kept it running smooth without a need for a husband getting in their way. There was a new age coming, Penelope thought, one where a woman could make her fortune on her feet instead of on her back, and she was trying hard as she could to make sure that she was one of them.
Soon enough, six perfectly poured pints of dark stout and six matching glasses of rum were balanced on her tray on the bar.
“Thanks –”
“Hold your shit there, me and her are swapping, Aggs,” Gen said from her side, reaching over for Penelope’s tray before she could stop her from stealing it. “I’m having this one.”
“Hands off!” She glared at her friend, frown twisting in her confusion. Gen never stole a table, unlike some of the others who didn’t care either way. “That’s mine, get your own!”
Gen rolled her eyes instead, keeping her grip on the tray firm. “Your fancy man wants three pints, a measure of whiskey and for you to serve them,” her friend replied, snatching the tray back until the foam sloshed over the rims of the glasses. “Said there’s a crown in it, but only if you’re the one who serves ‘em.”
“You what?!”
“We’re splitting that bloody crown, by the way, I got a new dress I got my eye on. You’re welcome.”
Her mouth dropped open. A crown to split between them? Bloody Hell, Penelope thought; she could buy food for an entire week with half a crown. Perhaps this fancy man was richer than she thought if he could afford to tip that much just for drinks services.
“Deal” she said quickly. “Go, go on, these are for those pricks from the dockyards.”
“How’s that then?” Agatha asked as Penelope pulled three fresh pints as quick as she could from the creaking tap. “How come you’re getting a half a crown for serving a single table?”
“Bugger if I know, Aggie,” she replied with a shrug, blowing loose hairs from her face. “I’m not looking a pretty gift horse in the mouth. Long as he keeps his hands to himself, I’ll serve him all night if he wants.”
Agatha hummed, casting her eyes out, always suspicious. “I can’t say I know them lads he’s with either. Don’t let them get the go on you, alright?” she warned. “They want a piece of meat…”
“… the girls down the street will treat ‘em sweet, yeah, yeah…” Penelope waved her hand, swiftly pouring the single shot of whiskey with a wry smile on her lips. “I’ll tell them, don’t you worry.”
Lining up fresh pints of beer and a single glass of whiskey, she steeled herself, slipping through the crowd with solid shoulders of steel to shove her way through the din.
The first thing she noticed as she set her sights on that tall stranger sitting with his friends was his rather pretty eyes. They were trained directly on Penelope, two piercing, curious eyes made as pretty as deep ocean blues she’d ever seen. He was too pretty for a grafter, though, too pretty by far. She’d call the man a fop if it wasn’t for that deep scar on his chin that curved around his jaw, gnarled and poorly healed, nothing any fine gentleman probably would’ve gotten. Plus, no discernible gentleman of any good reputation would’ve been caught dead this far in the east end of London.
Whoever this man was, it seemed he didn’t quite fit in anywhere she could dream of.
“I heard you were asking for me, sir,” Penelope said in her caramel-sweet voice. His friends were already eyeing her up like she was on the butcher block, even if the fancy man wasn’t. They jostled around quietly as if daring each other to say something bawdy about her. “Anything else I can get you fine gentlemen tonight?”
The fancy man took his whiskey from the tray, lifting the glass to his lips as he appraised her rather than his drink. Perhaps this was what he was paying good coin for – a long ogle at her tits and a fake smile. She wouldn’t be surprised.
“That’s all for tonight, thank you,” the fancy man answered shortly, his voice far more melodic and airy than Penelope would’ve guessed. He reached into his pocket, producing a large coin. “I promised you a crown, didn’t I?” He twirled the coin over his fingertips, clearly amused. “Would you like it, Miss?”
“I’m sure I’d be happy to take it off your hands, sir,” she replied, holding out her palm for it expectantly. “I’ll see Genevieve gets her fair share.”
“Of course you will,” the fancy man said with a smirk, his friends chuckling as he flicked the coin into her outstretched palm. “How much would it cost me for your name?”
Penelope’s eyes narrowed, caught a bit off guard. He had to know it already, it’d been shouted across the bar all night between men yelling for her to get a move on and men asking for a peek beneath her skirts. Whatever game this fancy man was playing, she wasn’t in the mood for it tonight.
“A pound,” she said as if it meant nothing to her. A pound would pay her rent dues from the landlord with leftovers to spare. “Two and I’ll tell you my middle name, sir.”
The fancy man chuckled and quirked his head at her bargain, peering at her as if she were a curio in some queer shop on the strand. Silently, he delved into his pockets before producing a wrinkled one-pound note, holding it aloft to her as if it were mere paper he’d scribbled his takings on.
Christ, Penelope had never even seen a full pound note exchange hands in the pub before. No-one who ever drank there earned enough to have them, let alone give them to the staff for free. There had to be a catch – a pound note in exchange for her name alone felt like a trap, some tangled web where she was some poor fly struggling to escape.
“Just your first name will do,” the fancy man said unwaveringly. His friends didn’t even look surprised at either his antics or the amount of money in his hand. “I don’t mind earning the middle one for myself, Miss.”
Penelope eyed the note in his hand, gaze flickering to his handsome face and its gnarled scar betraying him. Whoever he was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know anymore, her senses prickling at the back of her head. Any man who handed out pound notes to barmaids in exchange for a name they already knew had no need of money at all – and that didn’t mean good things.
“Looks like she’s not interested,” one of his friends laughed, the others chuckling along. “Maybe she’ll give something else up for a pound though, eh? Good money, that.”
She snatched the note from his hands, coming to her good mind. “It’s Penelope to you, sir,” she said, picking up the empty tray. “And if you’re looking for the whore house,” she turned to his laughing friend, “it’s on the high end of the street, can’t be missed. Tell Siena I sent you. Don’t worry, she’ll help you get it up, lots of men have trouble with that sort of thing.”
Penelope didn’t look behind her as she walked away, quickly deciding to stuff the one-pound note and the crown in her dress for safekeeping. Something about that fancy man set her teeth on edge and her belly on a flip, the money burning against her skin as she slipped it between her bosom and her dress.
It was his eyes, she decided. He hadn’t taken them off her the entire time, not to wander over her body or smirk with his friends. He didn’t set right in any way she knew men to be, especially the kinds that drank in The Selkie.
And her instinct was proven right when someone grabbed her arm behind the bar, tugging her back into the rafters.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, woman!” Charlotte hissed at her, eyes blazing in fear and fury. “What you think you’re doing, mouthing back to them lot! You got yourself a wish to go swimming in the river?!”
Penelope ruffled, smoothing down her dress. “I didn’t do anything, ma’am,” she said, bristling. “I didn’t treat ‘em any different than –”
“That’s one of them Bridgertons, you foolish girl,” Charlotte whispered under her breath, caging Penelope in against the wall. “He’s green but he’s still a Bridgerton. His brother runs a whole fucking racket of gambling dens in the south, you’re lucky that boy ain’t cut your tongue out for talking back to him!”
A glimmer of fear shivered down her spine. The word ‘notorious’ was coined for that gang; she’d heard no end of tales of broken limbs, businesses set on fire, words carved into chests when men had crossed them brothers.
“He’s a Bridgerton?” she whispered, eyes darting out to the table and back again. “But he can’t be more than twenty-odd.”
“Neither are you, and look at the trouble you get into,” Charlotte hissed in warning. “Be careful with him and his cohorts, or I’ll be needing a bloody new barmaid.”
The landlady stalked away, itching at her old wig as she went.
Penelope leaned her head back against the wall, cursing herself for not seeing it sooner, for being mouthy and brassy and treating him like a regular when he was anything but. Even she had heard whispers of that outfit from down south making waves up in the cock fighting rings and poker halls popping up all over the shop. They were known for divesting working men from their money or breaking an appendage if they had none left to divest.
She had to be more careful from now on; God knows what he’d do to her given half a chance.