in his hand. He found another egg, this one speckled and brown, being jealously guarded by a chicken, but he managed to spirit it away. A third egg, then a fourth, and Martin’s hands weren’t big enough to hold any more, so he returned to the house.
“Where would you like these?” he asked, rather proud of himself.
The house was dark and gloomy, but still he could see Mrs. Tanner lift her eyebrows as she relieved him of the eggs. “The next time you set about collecting eggs, you might want to use a basket.” Indeed, he remembered seeing a basket by the door, but hadn’t realized he was meant to use it. “And you might consider getting all the eggs. This time of year they lay two dozen a day. I sell them at market.”
“I didn’t realize,” he said. “I can go back out and—”
“Don’t bother.” She sat at a small deal table, much worn and with one leg of a contrasting wood. Martin wondered if that were one of the items Will had mended for her. There was only one chair, although a three-legged stool stood nearby. He guessed that there had never been a second chair, and almost certainly never a Mr. Tanner.
“The next time Mr. Sedgwick is poorly, you don’t need to trouble yourself in coming by.” Her tone was not unkind, but Martin had the distinct sense that she was putting him in his place, showing him how little he knew and how meaningless his offer of help was. “Daisy’s been bringing in the eggs since she was four,” she added in a seemingly offhand way.
Yes, he was definitely being put down a peg. “I apologize for wasting your time,” he said, and tried to sound sincere. He was sincere, damn it. But he already knew he was useless and didn’t need this woman to drive home the point. Apart from the single trunk of possessions that he had left behind at his aunt’s house, he owned nothing. Even the clothing he wore was Will’s. Mortifying both of them in the process, Will had given him the coins that now jingled in his pocket, an audible reminder that he didn’t have tuppence to his name nor did he have any prospects of ever having more unless he went to his aunt, and he was determinedly not thinking of that right now. He couldn’t even gather eggs properly. He had, very literally, nothing to offer.
He walked the rest of the distance to the village and bought a pair of Bath buns at the bakery; Will had a sweet tooth and deserved something good after a hard day. He had a momentary thrill of accomplishment—he had successfully acquired buns!—that immediately dissipated when he realized that this was the single thing he had achieved in months: buying Bath buns with somebody else’s money.
He needed to start figuring out what was going to come after this. Will had a life in London, a whole future waiting for him. It was already appalling—kind, but appalling—that he had walked away from all that in order to take care of Martin. And now Martin had to make sure that Will was able to return to his life as soon as possible.
Which, really, was now. Martin was as healthy as he was ever going to be. He couldn’t in good conscience keep Will here any longer.
Will managed to thank Martin for the Bath bun, even though he mainly felt guilty that Martin needed to look after him when it was supposed to be the other way around.
“You don’t need to eat it,” Martin said when he saw Will staring gloomily at the bun. “It’ll keep until tomorrow.”
“No, I want to.” Will took a bite and swallowed. It really was good, and the sugar momentarily cheered him up. “I just—you didn’t need to go all the way to the village.”
“Obviously not, William,” Martin said dryly. “But I wanted to.” He broke off a piece of his own bun and popped it into his mouth. “You were in one of your sorry moods and something had to be done.”
Will found himself smiling. Martin could be relied on not to treat him with kid gloves even when he was at his most pitiable. It was one of the things he loved best about Martin—he never treated Will like the aftermath of a tragedy, even when Will was feeling especially tragic. From time to time he’d catch a trace of concern in Martin’s eye, but never pity. Martin