ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Eleven | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

Never in her life had buttons caused Rose so much trouble. Her fingers fumbled clumsily to do up the back of her frock with no success. Ultimately, she tossed the dress aside and picked another without buttons.

Daphne had already left for her shift at the newspaper, so there was nothing for Rose to do but fret, and pace, and fuss with her hair. She considered penning an entry in her diary — seemed advisable, in the instance that she should suddenly go missing — however she was far too antsy to sit and write. Additionally, her latest entry had been about August, and she didn't want to dishonor him by writing about William Mercer on the following page.

The myriad of nervous activities ceased at a quarter to noon. Her ‘meeting’ was in forty-five minutes. Rose was determined to arrive at the arranged venue before Mr. Mercer.

She left her cousin's flat and began her walk to The Sparrow, her nerves growing increasingly worse with each step. Why did Mr. Mercer wish to meet with her? What could he possibly have to say that he had not said the day before?

The trek to the pub passed in a blur of dingy streets choked by the pungent odors of charred meats and heated metals. An industrial city by all accounts, Manchester was cloaked in an ever-present blanket of smog and smoke that hung in the air like a pestilence, creating the illusion that the town existed in a perpetual state of twilight. The dreary views and constant stench often made Rose long for the blue skies and open fields of Yorkshire.

By the resounding chime heard throughout the streets, it was a quarter past twelve when Rose arrived at The Sparrow. She walked through the front doors and glanced around. As she remembered from her previous visit, the interior was spacious, clean, and sparsely populated by a smattering of nondescript people engaged in quiet conversations.

Making her way past the large picture windows, she took a seat at a table in the corner. From her vantage point, she had an unobstructed view of the entrance, and no one would be able to walk up behind her. Ideal setting, for a meeting with the enemy.

Now all she could do was wait. She was tempted to order something. Tea, biscuits, an obscenely large glass of wine... Anything to create the illusion that she'd been here and waiting for quite some time. But there was no point. Mr. Mercer would likely see right through the ploy for the ruse that it was, or worse, draw conclusions about Rose based on what she chose to order.

No, there was no sense in playing his game. Best just to sit and wait.

She drummed her fingernails against the wooden tabletop and searched the wall behind the bar for a clock. How much time had passed since she'd arrived? An hour? No, two minutes.

Don't fidget, she scolded herself. It's a sign of weakness.

Just as she was shoving her hands into her lap, the front door opened.

William Mercer entered.

All conversation ceased. Every eye in the restaurant turned to look at him. A server carrying a tray of beverages let out a high-pitched squeak.