Page 23 of The Return of the Rake

“Come in, come in, my boy. I’ll ring for tea, or would you prefer coffee, or perhaps something stronger, hmmm? It is so good to see you and looking so well. You have prospered, just as I knew you would,” the reverend said, bustling his unexpected guest along on a tide of merriment and determination that it would have taken a better man than King to escape.

Confounded and uncomfortable at having been received like the prodigal son when the reverend must be very well aware of just how he had prospered, King wondered what the devil he’d been thinking in coming here today. Yes, the vicar had been one of the few people to ever show him a mite of kindness or understanding, but… but he was still a clergyman, for heaven’s sake. Was he really going to sit in the fellow’s front parlour and take tea?

It appeared he was, for a short time later, King found himself with a plate filled with a selection of biscuits and cake balanced upon his knee and a cup and saucer in his hand.

“Haha! You are regretting the impulse to come and visit me,” Honeywell said sagely, reminding King of the fellow’s uncomfortable knack for knowing what one was thinking before one thought it.

Most especially, he had always seemed to know precisely what wickedness the young louts from the fishermen’s cottages were about to perform in the moments before they put their plans into action. In that instant, he remembered Honeywell had thwarted so many of their schemes he could only wonder what it was about the fellow he had remembered so kindly. But perhaps thwarting them had been a kindness, he thought with belated clarity.

“I—well, maybe,” King admitted with a snort. “I’m not sure why I’ve been greeted with such warmth when I’m very sure I’ve done nothing to deserve it. You’ll cop it from your congregation if they discover you’ve encouraged me to stay.”

The reverend grinned at that and then turned his back, opening a cupboard and rifling about inside.

“If you think my job is to keep the good folk of this town happy, then I am sorry to say that you have gravely mistaken my role. Now where is—aha! That’s the ticket,” he said with triumph, straightening with a dusty bottle in his hand.

“I brought this up a short while ago to celebrate a marriage, or commiserate, truth be told,” he said with a wry smile. “But happily, the fellow went off and made a much better choice for all concerned.”

“He stayed single?” King suggested.

The reverend cast him a reproving glance. “No, dear boy. He married my daughter. One of my daughters, that is. I have three, if you remember. But it means this little beauty is still languishing all alone. Finish your tea and cake and we shall open it and see how well it strikes us.”

“It strikes me that there is a deal of fine brandy and wine in this town,” King said nonchalantly. Even as a lad, he had been aware of the way the reverend straddled the line between the good, respectable folk of the town, and those who lived on the fringes, eking out a living as best they could. Honeywell had never seemed to judge, certainly not harshly, and no one had ever been turned away from his door that King knew of.

He'd tried to help King too, but at the time King had been too distrustful, unable to shake off his father’s scathing opinions about do-gooders and too determined to play merry hell with everyone simply because he could, because he was too angry to do otherwise. With remorse he realised he’d been less than kind to the old man, the only person who had ever tried to help him and had thrown his kindness back in his face with a good deal of abuse to go with it.

Was that why he’d come? To make amends?

The reverend, who had sat down and placed the bottle beside him, eyeing it with fond anticipation, turned a reproachful expression upon his guest. “That is dangerous talk in these parts, lad. I don’t know where you’ve been all these years, but I’m certain you’ve not forgotten that much.”

“No, I have not. Especially with a riding officer turning up at the hotel this morning.”

Honeywell’s expression fell. “Ah, yes. Captain Rowe Underwood. I have spoken to him. A charming fellow, most agreeable, and honourable too. I fear there will be trouble ere long.”

“You mean he’s too straight to take a bribe,” King guessed.

“Lamentably honest,” the reverend agreed with a sigh. “Not that I don’t applaud honesty in everyone and almost every circumstance, but many of those poor fellows who risk their lives on smuggling do so to feed their families. What else is there for them, I ask you?”

“You are preaching to the wrong congregation, reverend,” King replied with a snort. “I left here and landed in the Seven Dials. I can tell you a tale or three hundred of good men swinging for nothing but a chance to put a crust in a babe’s mouth.”

A sorrowful light filled the reverend’s eyes as he regarded King, forcing him to look away.

“I’m not one of them,” King added darkly, hoping the man would realise he was not here for salvation, and his soul was long past saving, if ever he’d possessed such an article. He’d done nothing to make those good men’s lives better over the years, and if he slept ill at night, well, he deserved no less. Though he intended to do better, to make changes, he had no illusions about redemption when it was far too little, too late.

“No. No indeed, you have prospered, Jasper, that much is clear, but I always believed you would. There was something about you, a liveliness of mind and a strength of character that was obvious to me.”

“Then you were the only one,” King replied scathingly.

Honeywell drained his teacup and set it aside, reaching for the dusty bottle. He commenced cleaning it on his sleeve with complete disregard for his clothes. “Sadly, that is not so far from the truth, but I wish it were not so. Now, have a taste of this and tell me what you make of it.”

With evident glee, Honeywell uncorked the bottle and poured them both a generous measure, handing one to King. Then he sat, lifting the glass to the light and turning it this way and that and making sounds of approval. Finally, he gave it an expert spin in the glass, held it to his nose and sniffed. A sigh of deep content then emanated from his portly frame before he took a sip, smacking his lips appreciatively.

“Oh! Oh, ho, that—” Honeywell pointed at the glass in his hand. “That is jolly good. Jolly good indeed. Now, then, you strike me as a man with a discerning palate. Drink up, my good fellow, drink up.”

King laughed and did as he was told, savouring the sweet, mellow flavour of a well-aged cognac. “Well, I’ll not contradict you,” he said with a smile. “It’s the best I ever tasted.”

“I concur.”

They communed in amiable silence with the fine French brandy as they sipped and appreciated and King relaxed a degree. The Reverend Honeywell was just as he had always been. He was somewhat plumper about his middle, and greyer than he had been in King’s memory, but his easy warmth, his lack of judgement and his unending kindness were still evident and abundant. King knew now why he had come and forced himself to say the words out loud.