He closed his notebook with a snap, tucked it beneath his arm, and strolled after them.
By the time he reached the top of the harbour slope, they were already halfway down, skirts lifted a little from the tar-stained stones. The evening light struck the water into sheets of dull silver. Men moved among the moored boats—mending, stowing, calling to one another. A dog barked at a gull. Somewhere, someone laughed.
The ladies did not go all the way to the water’s edge. They stopped beside a coil of rope near one of the pilings, where an elderly seaman with a face like carved oak sat upon an upturned crate, pipe in hand. His hair was grey, his jacket patched, but he did not rise at their approach.
Edmund drew back slightly, placing himself behind a stack of empty fish crates. From here he could see without easily being seen.
He watched Mrs. Larkin greet the old sailor with the cordiality of long acquaintance. The man touched his forehead, half salute, half blessing. Miss Archer stayed back next to a hut.
Mrs. Larkin set her basket on the crate beside him, lifted the cloth, and took out a small, wrapped parcel.
He nodded and said something that made Mrs. Larkin’s eyes narrow in the way of one considering unwelcome news. She laid a hand on his arm—a fleeting, respectful touch—and spoke a few low words. Then she turned away, leaving the parcel where she had placed it.
The sailor slipped the bundle inside his coat with a speed and sureness that did not belong to comfortable old age.
Edmund’s pulse beat harder.
He could, at that moment, have stepped forward. He could have approached the old man under pretence of seeking a guide for a coastal walk, spoken a few careless words, and measured the man’s reaction…
… but Renforth’s instructions beat in his mind like a drum. Observe. Confirm. Do not engage.
He stayed where he was, his hands loose at his sides yet every sense sharpened.
The ladies did not linger. Having concluded whatever business had brought them to the harbour, they turned back up the slope, Miss Archer talking, Mrs. Larkin listening with that thoughtful little furrow between her brows.
As they passed him—still hidden in his shelter of crates and shadows—Edmund caught a fragment of a voice, carried on the wind.
“… cannot bear to think of him going back to sea in such weather. There is a storm brewing?—”
“—he chose it,” Mrs. Larkin’s lower voice replied, “as all of them did. We may only choose how we care for those they leave behind.”
It was not the speech of a conspirator. It was the speech of a woman who had stood too often at the edge of loss to pretend otherwise.
They disappeared up the lane, back towards the school.
Only when they were gone did Edmund quit his post. He walked, not towards the sailor, but towards the furthest end of the quay, as if to look out upon the horizon. From there he could watch the old man without seeming to do so.
The sailor did not move at once. He sat a while longer, tamped his pipe, lit it with careful fingers, and stared at the water as if reading some code written in the shifting light. At length he rose, joints protesting, and shuffled—not to any of the taverns, not to the row of cottages—but to a small boat moored at the end of the quay.
He stepped aboard with sudden agility, cast off the line, and pushed out, his oars biting cleanly into the water. He headed, not for open sea, but for a small cove further along the headland, half-screened by rock.
Edmund watched until boat and man were swallowed by the angle of the coast.
Then, and only then, did he turn away.
He walked back to the Admiral’s house with his hands in his pockets and his jaw set.
The Admiral’s windows glowed with lamplight. The smell of dinner and tobacco lingered once he stepped inside. Everything appeared as innocent town life should.
CHAPTER 4
Elise could not quite shake the feeling she had felt on the previous evening. She had walked the path often enough to know its every curve, its every sudden dip, and the weight of its solitude. Since her husband’s death—and Blake’s improbable survival—she had made this journey twice weekly. Recently, Jane had discovered her errand’s purpose of sending supplies to a debilitated sailor and often accompanied her. Elise was especially grateful that evening, for it was the first time she had ever felt the sensation of being watched.
As they walked together while the day thinned into dusk, a basket between them, Jane chattered about the litter of kittens born behind St. George’s that Mrs. Bradley was trying to convince her to take to the school for the girls to enjoy.
It was all very soothing—until a sensation came upon her so swiftly, so distinctly, that her body acted before her mind could shape a thought. She turned her head, scanning the quiet slope behind them. Nothing moved save the grasses bending in the wind.
“Whatever is the matter?” Jane asked, pausing beside her. “Have you forgotten something?”
