“It must have been hard on Mrs. Larkin,” he remarked carefully.
Headley’s jaw clenched. “She don’t speak of her husband’s death, sir. She keeps a school; she looks after girls who already ’ave fathers in the ground or in the sea.”
“’Tis admirable of her to help others.” Edmund felt the faintest prick of shame, but it was necessary to discover all that stood between this woman and whomever had the cipher now.
They worked on until the cut finally deepened enough to allow the wedge. Edmund drove it in with the axe, each blow ringing up his arm. The trunk groaned—wood complaining like an injured thing.
Headley leaned his weight. “There. She be a-going now.”
With a final crack, the section they had been cutting gave way. A thick limb shifted aside and the lane opened by a foot.
Prowse whooped. “Another hour and we shall have it passable!”
Edmund wiped his brow and looked up. Mrs. Larkin stood at the edge of the lawn.
She had come quietly, without the fuss of an announcement. Her cloak was pinned neatly at the throat; her bonnet was plain and practical. A basket hung upon her arm as naturally as a part of her. She surveyed the work with an expression of composed appraisal, as if she were reviewing soldiers.
When her eyes met Edmund’s, something like relief flickered—and swiftly vanished, smoothed away before it could become gratitude too plainly shown.
“Mr. Leigh,” she called, her voice carrying without strain.
He went to her, careful to wipe his hands upon a cloth before he came close and offered a polite bow. “Mrs. Larkin.”
“You have done a great deal,” she said. “I feared I would need to climb over the tree.”
“It will be cleared enough for a cart soon,” he replied. “By afternoon, if the men keep their strength.”
Prowse, overhearing, swelled with pride. “We shall do it, ma’am. Mr. Leigh works like he’s bein’ paid double.”
Mrs. Larkin inclined her head to the men. “Then I am grateful to you all. Cook will give you bread and stew when you break from your labours.”
Prowse looked as if he would like to break from them immediately.
Mrs. Larkin’s gaze returned to Edmund. “I am going down to the town.” Her lips pursed faintly. “We require—supplies.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
She hesitated a fraction—just long enough that he felt it rather than saw it. “You need not trouble yourself further with the tree,” she added, as if offering permission to withdraw. “You have done more than enough already.”
He heard what she did not say: You have done enough to make yourself welcome. You need not press further… but his whole purpose was to press further.
“I shall help to finish opening the lane,” he said, keeping his tone easy. “It would be impractical to abandon a half-cleared road.”
Her eyes held his. “Practicality is rarely the reason gentlemen do things,” she said, and moved away before he could answer.
Edmund stood for a heartbeat, watching her retreat—the steady line of her shoulders, the sure steps that did not hesitate even on muddy ground.
Then his instincts spoke, swift and urgent. She was going to Blake. He could not allow her to go unwatched—not if Blake was indeed the key to the cipher’s use, not if someone was asking questions, not if the Revenue men were hovering near.
He turned back to Headley and Prowse with the air of a man making a simple decision. He needed an excuse. A gentleman did not follow a widow into the town without reason unless he wished to be noticed for it.
“Headley—your arm is steady. Keep the saw going. Prowse, fetch the rope and pull the smaller branches off to the side. I am off to fetch more help.”
“Aye, sir,” Headley said, readily now, as if Edmund had already earned the right to command.
Edmund wiped his hands, drew his coat on, and forced himself to walk—not hurry—toward the town.
He left, keeping his pace measured until he reached the bend in the lane where the path dipped and the harbour came into view.
