Page 22 of The Return of the Rake

Her soft laugh held a touch of exasperation to King’s ear, but she did not quarrel with the old fellow. “Very well, Major, but just for a moment.”

“Let me prepare you a cup of coffee,” the other fellow said, reaching over and taking the spare cup and saucer from King’s table, which had been set for two. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” King replied, meeting Mrs Adamson’s eyes as she turned towards him, as if seeing him for the first time.

King smiled, not believing that for a moment. She knew he was there. She knew it very well. “Good morning,” he said politely.

“Mr King,” she replied, inclining her head before turning back to the Major and his companion, who was stirring her cup.

“There, just as you like it, Anne, with cream and sugar,” he said with satisfaction, and King did not doubt he was being given a message.

There, see, old fellow, no use looking here, I know just how she likes her coffee. Run along, now.

If he’d been a fool, King might have dropped a remark about their upcoming dinner tonight, just to put the fellow in his place. But King was not a fool, and so he ordered his breakfast from the young maid who came to take it and drank the coffee she set before him whilst he waited.

As he did so, a blast of cold air and the scent of the damp morning outside entered the room in a sudden gust, creating a stir of interest among the diners. Mrs Adamson looked around and set her coffee aside, standing to greet the new arrival and the source of the disturbance.

King regarded the man, seeing a poor fellow who looked wet through and chilled to his bones. He had the look of a soldier too but was far younger than the two men sitting close to King and was obviously still about his duties. His greatcoat dripped a growing puddle upon the polished wood floor and, noticing the mess, the man removed it, holding it awkwardly. King studied him, noting the military cut of his dark blue coat and the brass buttons, and concluded he must be a riding officer.

It was a dangerous and rather thankless job; the fellow spent his nights and much of his days patrolling the coast, on the lookout for smugglers. He wondered if his appearance here had anything to do with the mysterious Boreas he’d met the previous night and did his best to listen in on the conversation the same as the rest of the diners were doing.

“—a landing in the early hours—witnesses—cast to the four winds—some towards Winchelsea—reward of ten pounds for information.”

The brief snatches King caught hold of told him the smugglers had been busy in the early hours of that morning, landing a large cargo which then dispersed in all directions. This officer seemed to have tracked some of them towards Winchelsea, where he lost them. Ten pounds was a hefty reward indeed, if anyone was brave or stupid enough to tattle upon such men. King wondered if any fellow daft enough to do so would ever live to spend his blunt.

“I’m afraid I can tell you nothing and would have nothing to do with such dreadful fellows. How worrisome it is to know such desperate men are running wild around the countryside,” Mrs Adamson said, holding her hand to her breast and looking so utterly appalled that King could only smile.

He’d bet those lovely rubies that the brandy he’d drunk with her last night was the same as he’d been served in The Dog and Duck, and if Boreas hadn’t had a hand in that, King would eat his hat.

“But won’t you sit by the fire and warm yourself? You are wet through and look to be perishing cold. I’ll have you brought a pot of coffee to warm you, and something to eat,” she said, deftly guiding the fellow to an empty table close to the fire.

“There’s really no—” the riding officer protested, though he was no match for Mrs Adamson, who was having none of it.

“Please, sir,” Mrs Adamson coaxed. “You have my respect for the job you do, out in all hours, and doing your bit to keep up all safe. Let me show my and my staff’s appreciation in this small way and offer you breakfast on the house.”

Nicely done, King mused as he tucked into the large plate of breakfast that had just appeared before him. Nicely done indeed.

After breakfast, King was at a loss to know what to do with himself. Mrs Adamson had disappeared downstairs, and he was in no mood to face Mrs Fairway, who would certainly take him to task for his audacity in setting foot in her private arena—most likely with a griddle pan aimed at the back of his head.

Returning to his room, he sat down to read, picking up Guy Mannering once more and enjoying the story until midday, at which time Repton brought him a plate of roast beef sandwiches. After that, restlessness set in, for he was unused to sitting idle, and he paced the room, wondering how to fill the time until that evening when he’d dine with Mrs Adamson.

He toyed with the idea of going back to London but dismissed it at once. Mrs Adamson’s company was far too strong a temptation to miss, and he still had not repaid his debt to Alfred Marwick who would not be back for another two days. The idea of coming all this way and rousing ghosts for no good reason was one that gave him no pleasure. No, he would see this out, but what to do in the meantime?

Memory lane had proven to be nothing more than a morass of wretched reminiscences and the town was still inhabited by people he’d prefer to spit upon than bid a good day. There was only one man he deemed worthy of his time and a certain amount of affection, and so it was that King retraced the once familiar and leaf-strewn path through Winsham Woods.

Though he tried hard to fight the recollections the familiar landscape gave rise to, King could not help but remember these woods as a lad. That tree there, he’d climbed so often, the place in the little clearing where he’d slept many a night rather than let his da work him over with belt or fists, and that one yonder that Jimmy Parker had fallen from and broken his leg. The fellow had walked with a limp ever after and never came to play with those rough boys again.

They had been rough boys, fair enough, King knew, rowdy and troublesome and loud and always looking for a fight or game, though games turned to fights quick enough. Though he had never been cruel, nor vicious.

A fight, once done, was over in his mind. He bore no malice towards any man who did him no ill, nor would he ever hurt a dumb animal, nor a fellow smaller and feebler than himself. Not like Bill, who purported to be his friend. Looking back, King knew he had never been Bill’s friend. He was more akin to a burr or a barnacle, stuck fast and impossible to shake off. He’d simply been there, a part of King’s life that was impossible to deny, like his father, or the mother who had run off and left him to the care of a man not fit to keep a dog.

King shook his head, as if he could deny the memories, or throw off the feeling they gave him of being once again poor and alone, an unwelcome misfit in a pretty town, there only to be reviled and despised.

The vicarage was in front of him before he was ready for it and so suddenly, he almost turned around and walked away again, but a voice hailed him before he could give into cowardice.

“Jasper? Jasper King, is that you? Good Lord above, I had heard you were in town, but I hardly dared to believe it.”

Before King could confirm or deny the accusation that he was indeed Jasper King, his hand had been grasped by the Reverend Honeywell, who shook it with such gleeful zeal King was quite taken aback.