Page 40 of The Return of the Rake

Disgusted by the coward who would thrash a starving boy but not face a man, King waited until the bastard turned around to glance over his shoulder. He said nothing, did nothing, but stared at the man. It was a look that had turned many a hard man’s bowels to water and Mr Twort was only a miserable bully. So, King felt certain it had the desired effect here too, not displeased to see the fellow turn the shop sign to closed, and to hear the slam of bolts sliding home.

Mr Bagot saw the man’s hurried departure too and shook his head in disgust.

King turned away, still grinning, but stiffened as he saw the ingratiating captain who seemed so enamoured of Anne, watching him.

“Something to say?” he asked politely, though there was a tone to his voice that unmistakably suggested the correct answer was ‘no.’

“I can only imagine there is no love lost between you and our local tradesmen, but it seems to me, if you are going to waste perfectly good bread and sausages, you might have given them to someone who was hungry,” the good captain replied mildly, proving he was not in the least craven, unlike Mr Twort.

“Have you ever been hungry, captain?” King asked.

The man considered this. “Yes, actually. A few times whilst fighting abroad I knew what it was to feel my belly had stuck to my spine.”

King nodded, unsurprised, for he had never doubted the fellow was honourable, a fact that did not make him feel any warmer towards him. “And did anyone ever thrash you or despise you for being hungry?”

The captain looked surprised by this. “Why… no, why should they?”

“That was my question too, when I was a boy growing up in these parts. When a mite of kindness or a piece of stale bread would have seemed like manna from heaven, and when instead I got the skin taken off my back by Mr Twort for having the temerity to even look in the window of a shop I could not afford to enter.”

The fellow looked utterly appalled by this information and King cursed himself, wondering what on earth had induced him to speak of his past. He never did so, had never done so, and now he was explaining himself to a man he didn’t even like.

“I-I did not know,” the man stammered, shaking his head. “How…damn me. How wretched. I have not lived here for more than a few years, but I am aware Mr Twort is not a man with the sunniest of dispositions, but I did not realise he would treat anyone with such cruelty.”

King, thoroughly out of temper now, both because the captain had proven himself a decent fellow and because he had revealed something of his past he would rather have died than let the fellow know anything about, merely grunted.

“It’s of no matter,” he muttered gruffly, and strode away, but the captain followed him.

In normal circumstances, King would simply have ignored and outpaced him, but a glimpse out the corner of his eye showed him that the captain limped, leaning heavily on his cane. No doubt the result of some heroic activity during his serving years. Cursing inwardly, King moderated his stride so the fellow could keep up with him.

“So, you were born here?” the captain said.

“For my sins, or rather, my father’s,” he replied with a shrug. “He was a fisherman.”

The captain nodded. “Ah, yes, I believe I remember hearing that.”

King snorted. “I doubt very much that’s all you heard.”

To his credit, the fellow smiled. “No, but I’m not one to listen to gossip. This town is small, and the inhabitants have too much time to pick over their neighbour’s business, especially in the winter months. I make my own mind up before condemning anyone on hearsay.”

“Good of you,” King remarked dryly, wishing the fellow would leave him be.

“I’m Dearborn, by the by. Captain Dearborn as was, but Dearborn is good enough,” he added, holding out his hand.

King sighed inwardly but took the fellow’s hand and shook it. “King.”

“Your servant, sir,” the good captain replied politely.

King grunted, having used up all the polite small talk he was capable of for one day. He was just racking his brain for an excuse why he must part ways with the captain when they passed the lane that led back down to the shore. There was a row of small cottages on one side of the lane, where the more prosperous fishermen—those who didn’t spent all their blunt in The Dog and Duck—lived with their families. These properties were newer and better built than the leaky shack that King and his father had inhabited when he was a boy. Now a ruckus of some description was in progress, though, and both men turned, starting as they heard a feminine scream of distress.

Glancing at each other in concern, they looked back at the cottages in time to see a woman running from the front door in apparent terror. A moment later, the lumbering figure of a man followed her, bellowing and waving his fist as the neighbours came out to watch the debacle.

“Christ,” King muttered, immediately recognising Bill Jenner.

“Good Lord,” the captain exclaimed. “I do believe he means to—”

King was moving before the captain could finish his sentence, running towards the cottages. Bill had caught hold of the woman’s hair and delivered a back-handed blow that sent her staggering, then sprawling on the ground. Bill lurched forward, about to have another go when King stepped between them.

“Why don’t you try that on someone who can fight back?” he growled furiously.