A blush rose to her cheeks at his compliment regarding the stew, it could be worse. It could be black and charred, she’d had that problem earlier in her life when cooking, and on occasion, when she had forgotten she was cooking altogether under the influence of the pipe. She didn’t bother thanking him for it, rather, she simply listened to him speak, it was evident in his voice, his Irish accent that is. Certainly noticeable, and different when she spoke, but hey, in comparison to some Irish folks, at least she could understand him right clear. For her, hearing Shay’s actual blood relations to the Wallis’, indeed, did clear up some questions she had in the beginning when Sam explained briefly the connections between the Wallis’, Nettie Parish and Shay. Even more importantly, his father, was one of the original founding members of the Jolly Roughers. As he spoke, she put off eating her stew, giving it time to properly cool, while her brows knitted together, listening intently. So the Wallis’ father was a half-brother to Shay’s father, she presumed that the mother to them must have remarried along the way, and around came the Alden’s. Interestingly enough, at the mention of times turning for the worse, Shay’s father fled to Ireland in a rash attempt to avoid the consequences of his actions under the scrutinizing eye of the British law, clearly not giving a damn about any of his family that remained behind in England. From furrowed brows, they rose in unison at the letter he intercepted in the mail from Clint. She scoffed quietly under her breath at the encounter with Leonard from the shop earlier that evening, that was an event that would be hard to forget. Something she took for granted really. As a British woman, she never had to worry about insults of her origins, unlike Shay, where just opening his mouth to say a few words would garner the attention of the general public. When he admitted to the loneliness he felt in his life, a commiserating smile touched the corners of her lips, the thick brows lowered in recognition, she understood that, to be sure. What with the death of her mother, no close friends to confide, save for Sam, or even the confirmation of any other living relatives, Vera truly felt alone in the world, if Sam passed away, it would be only her that remained, and then what would she do?

“Even if you were French, I don’t think I would give a damn, unless of course, you smelt like piss.” She bantered, “I have to admit, I find it highly intriguing to know that your father was one of the founders of the Roughers, of course, now I know what Sam means when he says that your kin to them. I suppose that’s a good thing in a way, at least you have a big family.” What she did say of course, is what it felt to hear Shay say that were it not for her brother, or her, for that matter, no one else really had taken the time to know him as a person, and not as a living, breathing hunk of human flesh. So to speak, the honor to know him, when no one else took the time, lifted her spirits, it made her feel like a caring person, or at least a being with a good-natured soul. Mother would be proud, she was certain.

“And come now, you’re one of the nicest Irishmen I’ve encountered in a while, eh?” She hid a smile behind the tumbler full of whiskey, already, her head felt warm, and she could feel the burning in her cheeks, she could feel the numbness in her lips and tongue emerge; she would have to be careful, Vera wasn't one to hold her liquor well. “I’ve not seen you fully blown off the seat either, as I’ve seen a few others in the Tawdry. So, as I’m rather curious to know… If you don’t mind my asking that is, I’m sure you hear this question rather frequently, but, what did you do in the war? Or rather, how did you learn to shoot so well? Blowing the head off that Jepson fellow in the pouring rain surely must’ve been a daunting task, hm?” Sam never spoke directly to her about [i]what[/i] he did in the war, hinted at it yes, but never came out in the clear and told her what he had done, how many people he killed, what he suffered through, no, he kept it all bottled up. Sure, he wrote letters to mother and her, before mother’s passing of course, but he never alluded to the travesties he experienced. Hell, she didn’t even know really, where he had traveled to. Most of the letters they received were dotted with black ink blots concealing his location or key information; an obvious attempt by the military to prevent giving away troop locations were those letters to fall into the wrong hands.