Page 39 of The Return of the Rake

Slowly, Clara raised her head again, meeting Eustacia’s eyes and giving a small but definite nod of agreement.

“Oh! Capital!” Eustacia exclaimed in delight. “I am so glad. Can we begin tomorrow?”

“Very well,” Clara said, looking a little more confident than she had. “B-But only between one and three thirty. My aunt naps then and so she w-won’t miss me until four o’clock, but I must be back in time to take her tea up.”

“Absolutely,” Eustacia said at once, willing to agree to anything to ensure she came.

“Well,” Anne said with a smile. “That is all settled. I must warn you, Eustacia, that it is likely you will have another guest calling upon you very soon too.”

Eustacia, who had begun pouring out the tea, looked up in surprise. “Oh? More of the Venturesome Ladies?”

“Well, quite possibly those too, for I know Miss Honeywell was most eager to visit you, but I was speaking of Captain Rowe Underwood.”

“Whoever is he when he’s at home?” Eustacia asked with a laugh. “And why on earth should he call upon me?”

“I believe he is a riding officer of the Preventative Waterguard. You are new to these parts so perhaps you do not know, but there is a good deal of smuggling in the area, and Captain Underwood is determined to rout it out,” Anne told her frankly.

Eustacia, who had felt herself pale somewhat at this information, shook off her concern, for her brother was not and never would be a smuggler, but she could not help but fear his association with that wretched pub might have been taken notice of.

“I see,” she said, somewhat diffidently. “And how does this concern me?”

“Oh, it doesn’t, not in the least,” Anne said, and with such conviction Eustacia relaxed again. “Only you have a tremendous view of the coast from up here, and I rather think Captain Underwood might seek to take advantage of that. Of course, whatever arrangement you make with him is your own affair, but I believe I would be remiss if I did not advise you that the people of Little Valentine have a rather er… open minded view of smuggling, and you would do well not to be seen to help the good captain overly much.”

“You mean I would become a social outcast,” Eustacia replied, startled and rather amused by this discovery.

“Well, perhaps not quite that, but you might find the price of things goes up when you shop and that the shopkeepers themselves were not quite so polite to you as you might expect them to be.”

“And living on top of a hill so far from town and much farther from any other commerce, I should find that most inconvenient,” Eustacia supplied before the lady could suggest it.

Anne accepted her cup of tea, smiling ruefully as she lifted it to her lips. “Just so,” she agreed placidly.

“Well, well,” Eustacia said with a delighted laugh. “I do believe I shall enjoy living in Little Valentine far more than I ever anticipated.”

Chapter 8

The caprice of fate.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 5th October 1815.

Disgruntled to discover Anne still had not returned to the hotel, King ate lunch in his rooms, reading a little more of his book before restlessness overtook him. He was not a man used to sitting idle and usually had a good deal to occupy him. He had left his legitimate business affairs in expert hands, however, and if Harold Lawson was making mischief with the less lawful ones in his absence, so much the better.

There was still some time until he was supposed to present himself at the vicarage, and with nothing better to do, King decided to take a walk about the town. Such ghosts as there were here were already awake and lively in his mind so he may as well look about him and see how the old place had changed, if at all.

Though the rain that had threatened had still not made itself known, glum looking clouds clustered overhead, and a blustery wind attempted to snatch bonnets and hats that were not securely in place.

King walked slowly along the main high street, looking in shop windows and remembering days when he had done the same thing as a lad, his belly snarling with hunger as he looked upon displays of fat sausages in the butcher’s shop and huge rounds of cheese displayed by Mr Muddel. Often had he salivated outside the baker’s, tormented by the delicious scents, until Mr Twort chased him away. Twort was a bad-tempered old curmudgeon and would give him a thrashing just for breathing if he caught hold of him.

A canine yelp reached King, chasing the memory away, and he turned to see Mr Bagot, the butcher, throwing a bucket of cold water over two skinny dogs who’d been lingering outside the door, their noses lifted hopefully.

Grinning suddenly, he turned on his heel, walked into the butcher’s, and ordered two pounds of the best sausages. Mr Bagot, who clearly recognised him and resented seeing the worthless little bastard he’d once known in his shop, and dressed so finely, said nothing, but made a good show of slamming his heavy cleaver into the butcher's block before he made up the order.

“Thank you, Mr Bagot,” King said politely, handing him the money. He then went next door and bought a loaf of bread. Rather to his dismay, Mr Twort was not in the shop, but a boy he did not recognise. King knew the scene he was about to enact would find its way to the fellow’s ears in short order though, so was satisfied enough.

Walking outside, he stood in full view of the shop, unwrapped the parcel, and whistled at the two mangy dogs, who were still skulking about despite their soaking.

King crouched down, handing each a rope of sausages and laughing heartily as the dogs snatched them and began gobbling them down as fast as they could. Having devoured several sausages in quick succession, they grabbed the remaining links and ran off to eat them in peace. Next, King tore up the loaf of bread and threw it onto the beach where the seagulls shrieked and dived upon it, snatching up every crumb in a matter of minutes.

King stood, turning to see Mr Bagot glaring at him from the doorway of his shop and delighted as he saw Mr Twort, the miserable beggar, had joined him. The old devil looked mad as fire. But King was not the skinny, malnourished boy he’d once been, and as he turned and walked towards them, an enquiring expression on his face, Mr Twort decided it was none of his affair and scurried back inside his shop.