Page 8 of The Return of the Rake

“Do you indeed, you old reprobate? I suppose you think I should pack my bags and hightail it down to East Sussex to warn him.”

“I think it would be wise, sir. One never knows when Mr Marwick will get it into his head to er… go back to work.”

“Hmph.” King glowered. “And I suppose you’re angling to go with me?”

“I should never be so bold, sir. Only, as you are temporarily without a valet, now that you have dismissed—”

“Yes, yes,” King grumbled, though in truth if he really had to face returning to the place of his birth he would far rather do it with a man like Repton at his back. The old fellow would rather die than speak a word against King and could shrivel better men than him with his snooty manners if the desire took him. “I suppose you’ve been learning how to valet in the days since the dreadful fellow left.”

“I took the liberty of procuring a book, and of asking Mrs Keller for a few—”

King held up his hand to stop the otherwise inevitable flow of information. “Fine. You can come. We’ll leave first thing in the morning, and you’ll have to see to my packing. But don’t blame me when your elevated status crashes to earth with a bump. The inhabitants of Little Valentine remember Jasper King as a bastard and a seducer of innocents, and they won’t welcome me with open arms, nor at all. So you can look down your nose at them all you like, and they’ll still pity you.”

“That, I very much doubt,” was the austere reply, delivered with such icy contempt that King could only laugh.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 2nd October 1815.

“Reckon I should make more scones?” Mrs Fairway looked uncertainly at the regimental rows of the gold-topped delicacies that marched the length and breadth of the massive kitchen table. “Not like we haven’t jam enough to go round.”

“Good lord, Hilda!” Anne exclaimed with a laugh. “There’s seed cake, shortbread, hundreds of your famous Ratafia biscuits, and gingerbread too. If we have the same meagre turnout as we had last month for our club meeting, we may as well resign ourselves to fattening up like the Christmas turkey, for we’ll be eating nothing but sweets from now until the New Year.”

“All right, all right, keep your hair on, I was only asking,” the lady said, sitting down with a groan. “Oh, that’s better! My poor feet. You too, Anne; take the weight off for a bit. Martha, make us a nice cuppa, there’s a good girl.”

“Yes, Mrs Fairway,” the maid said obligingly, and swung the kettle into place.

“So, I hear her ladyship’s granddaughter is playing piano. Reckon she’s any good?” Mrs Fairway asked sceptically.

“I expect she’s exceptionally good.” Anne smiled, remembering with an inward shudder the taskmaster her own music teacher had been. She could only imagine the exacting standards to which a duke’s daughter would be held. “Her grace is excited about it too.”

“Aye, you can tell because she’s sharper than ever,” Mrs Fairway said fondly. “Miss Isabelle said she nearly got her head snapped off last time she visited the hall.”

“Well, Izzy does go out of her way to provoke her,” Anne remarked, stretching her toes out towards the fender to warm them. The day, which had begun sweetly enough, had turned cold, with a chill wind blasting up from the sea that had almost taken both her and Mrs Fairway’s hats from their heads on their way home from church.

“She’s a funny one,” Mrs Fairway agreed, smiling. “Always telling me daft stories, she is. Pirates and smugglers and I don’t know what. Such a lively mind she’s got, though I worry what trouble she’ll land herself in. Girls with too much imagination are bound to find mischief if they’re not watched careful, like.”

“A good job I’ve none, then,” Anne said dryly, though bearing in mind how Izzy’s sisters had gone on, she entirely agreed.

“Ooh-hoo, what a plumper!” Mrs Fairway said, snorting with laughter. “No imagination, my eye! Oh, Martha, be careful, you clumsy goose. Those are Mrs Adamson’s best cups.”

Martha blushed, darting Anne a pained look as the fine china rattled urgently on the tray before she set it down.

Anne smiled reassuringly at the girl. She was young yet and rather in awe of Mrs Fairway, who appeared a good deal more terrifying than she really was. “Don’t fret, Martha. Sit down and share a cup with us. You’ve earned it too.”

“Thank you, Mrs Adamson,” Martha said with relief, as Anne poured them all out a cup of tea.

“I think we’ve earned a scone too,” Anne said, eyeing the neat rows lined up before them before plucking an especially plump one away from its companions. She winked at Martha before getting up and fetching the butter and several jars of jam. “Well, tuck in. I doubt we’ll get a look in tomorrow so we may as well enjoy them while they’re still warm.”

Anne watched with amusement as Martha took her time selecting the perfect scone before sending Anne a grateful smile. It was cosy in the kitchen on a chilly autumn afternoon, and she felt a sudden swell of contentment.

This was her home, a place she had made for herself, with good friends and with Hilda Fairway, who had pushed into her life to save her from disaster, and taken up a space in her heart she could not put a name to. A dear companion, certainly, and something like a surrogate mother, though she was not entirely the motherly kind. Outwardly, Hilda could be prickly, and her sharp tone might make one think her cold and hard, but the truth was more complicated than that.

All Anne knew was that she loved the dear woman far more than she had ever loved her own mother, who had been beautiful and remote and far too in awe of her own husband to take Anne’s side in anything. Anne had at once pitied and resented her, understanding the difficulty of her situation whilst despising her weakness.

But that was the past, and this was now, and Anne was happy. Yet as she thought the words, a sudden tug of dissatisfaction nagged at her, a sense of something lacking that she could not put a name to. She shrugged it off. No one was entirely happy, she reasoned. But she had a life that was busy and fulfilling, especially since both Beaumarsh and Stonehaven had told a few discreet people—the kind who would inevitably chatter to everyone—how they had discovered the most select and delightful little hotel in the entire country. Her bookings for next year were quite overwhelming, and some of the illustrious names she had written in the diary were remarkable.

Now, however, with winter upon them and the weather closing in, the roads would become harder to traverse, making none but the most determined traveller eager to visit Little Valentine until late spring at the earliest.

“It will be nice to have a bit of peace after the excitement of the past weeks,” Mrs Fairway mused, her thoughts having taken a similar turn to Anne’s. “It will give us the chance to give the rooms a good clean, too.”