Drink was the comfort of fools and sots, or so her mother had said. Catherine had been taught moderation, had had it woven into her like thread through the tapestry of her life. She denied herself pleasure in her appearance, she denied herself pleasure in food, she denied herself pleasure in her body. In many ways she felt akin to a nun, and if it were not for her worship at the altar of Art over Christ, maybe she would have become one. But time away from home, from her mother, from her father, was doing wonderful – strange – peculiar things to Catherine. Things like driving her to drink.
The Lamb was not a place she thought she would ever find herself. It was dark, and quite cramped, and stank of pipe smoke. Harlots stood at the bar, waiting for lonely men to walk in, or else sat in the laps of culls already hooked. Outside, Bridges Street bustled with foot traffic to-and-fro between The Strand, Russel Street, and Covent Garden. Every table was full, every chair taken – but for one.
With her drink in hand, Catherine shuffled her way between tables, chairs, and legs, until she reached it. At the table sat another tall and dark and broad, and so she placed her hand upon the back of the chair she had her sights on, and leant forwards to address him. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked, catching his eye.
