Page 49 of The Return of the Rake

With desperation growing in his chest, King swam on, fighting the tide, fighting his own desperation for rest, and clinging to the desire to stay alive. Driving him on more surely than any beacon glowing on the horizon ever could, was the memory of Anne’s words, the knowledge that such a woman could take pride in him, that she would call him her own, and gladly. These words kept him afloat, kept him swimming, even when the tide snatched at his limbs, endeavouring to tow him down to the gloomy depths.

“Thank God! Thank God!” Dearborn exclaimed, rushing into the waves to haul King out.

He was so exhausted he could hardly stand, his legs trembling beneath him as the cold stole any vestige of remaining energy. Too weary to do much more than stand for the moment, King allowed Dearborn to rub him briskly down, trying to bring some much-needed warmth back into his skin.

“Here, take this,” the captain added, pressing a silver flask into his shaking hand.

King grunted his approval and drank deeply, the brandy puddling in his belly and giving off a little glow of warmth around which his body seemed to huddle.

“I did what you said, kicked over any traces, made sure nothing was left. Then I went home and lit the lamps and put out glasses and brandy and made it look like a card game in process. I invited you over, you see, to play,” the captain said, breathless himself now as he threw the towel he’d brought over King’s hair. “Now, if you’ll get dressed as fast as may be, then come home with me, you may recover your strength. We’ll say it was a good night, you drank a bit too much, and fell asleep on my sofa, shall we say at around five thirty? You were with me all night, if anyone asks, as I was with you.”

King snorted as he tugged on his trousers. “Captain,” he said, his voice hoarse from swallowing such a quantity of seawater. “You’ve missed your calling; you’d have made an arch rogue and no mistake.”

The captain grimaced and ignored this sally, only urging King to make haste. King did as he was bid, too eager to be indoors by a warm fire, and away from prying eyes, to linger.

They walked back to the captain’s home quickly but without undue haste lest anyone be abroad at such a late hour and remark upon it. But all was quiet, the good people of Little Valentine were abed, and Bill Jenner would be lost to the tides until the sea decided to give him up.

Chapter 10

A new leaf.

Shingle Cottage, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6th October 1815.

King had regained some feeling in his fingers and toes by the time they had trudged back to the Captain’s home, but exhaustion settled heavy on his shoulders. Every muscle ached and burned, but he refused to dwell upon the recent exercise that had come closer to seeing him washed up beside Bill Jenner than he cared to consider.

With a little surprise, he discovered the captain lived in the first of a row of terraced cottages, of which the next but one belonged to Alfred Marwick.

“Well, that’s a happy circumstance,” he murmured as the captain opened the back door and hurried him inside.

“What is?”

“Your neighbour, Alfred Marwick, he’s a good fellow. He’ll stand our story if it comes to it.”

The captain gave him rather a hard look. “By good fellow, do you mean he works on the wrong side of the law?”

King glowered, moving closer to loom over the captain. “I mean, that he’d save your neck, you devil, and how folk who grew up with nothing to call their own keep their skin and bones together is none of your bloody affair. He’d not hurt anyone but to save his own skin and if he’s taken it’s from those who can afford the loss.”

“I beg your pardon,” Dearborn said, frowning over King’s words. “I suppose there are those who would condemn me as a murderer. I… I ought not judge, you are quite right. Please forgive me.”

King grunted. “It’s of no matter, only you’d do well to treat Marwick with respect. His sister too, for she’s innocent of his world. He’s making a life for her here, away from the poverty they were born into, and that’s admirable, don’t you think?”

“I do.” Dearborn nodded gravely. “Now, come and sit down before you fall down. You can sleep on the sofa there, unless you’d like a bite to eat first?”

“I would, I’m famished,” King admitted, relieved when the captain hurried away and began searching for food in the kitchen.

He returned a short while later and handed over a plate filled with thickly sliced bread and butter, cheese and pickles, and slices of ham.

King ate ravenously, relieved to quiet his clamouring belly.

“You’re not eating?” he asked Dearborn, who blanched and shook his head.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I keep thinking about… about the body. Is there any chance it will never be found?”

King shook his head. “Unlikely. The tide will take it down the coast and it will wash up somewhere between Camber Sands and Dungeness, I reckon. It might take a few days, four or five at most, but as to when it’s discovered, that’s another matter. But better sooner than later.”

“Why?” Dearborn asked, horrified.

“Because that poor wife of his won’t be able to declare him dead without a body,” King said, watching the captain with interest. “But when her lout of a husband is washed up, she’ll be free, free to start over, to marry again if she chooses, though I pray she does better the next time. The poor young woman needs someone kind to look after her.”