"Of course it does," said Sophia.
Pruett looked at her for the first time. He bowed, gravely and correctly. "Lady Sophia. I've heard a great deal about you."
"Not from me, I imagine."
"No, ma'am. From the young gentleman's conversation at Sunday dinner. And from your fund's receipts." He hesitated over that last word, very slightly, as though he wished he had not said it, and Sophia's eyes narrowed. Pruett turned quickly back to the cooper. "Jem. The money's yours whatever you decide. I'll leave it on the bench. It isn't a bribe. It never was. You've earned it forty times over."
Toller had not said a word. He stood in the doorway of the long shed with the light behind him, looking from Pruett to Edmund and back again. His hands, hanging at his sides, opened and closed.
"Jem," said Edmund. He came forward across the yard and stood in front of the old man. "You know what I'm going to ask you."
"Aye," said Toller. His voice was hoarse, and he coughed. "I know. Your father's lad. You were in and out of this shed when you were no higher than a firkin. I made you a little cask once, d'you remember? Six inches high, hooped in copper. You kept marbles in it."
"I still have it."
"Do you, now." Toller looked down at his hands. "I knocked out them heads, Mr. Edmund. In the winter of 'eleven. Mr. Lisle came down to this shed and told me what was wanted. Four hundred and twelve casks, brought up from the condemned store at night on the firm's own lighters, and every one to be opened and the head knocked out and the beef turned over and fresh pickle put in, and a new head fitted and the old mark planed off and a new mark burned on. I said, Mr. Lisle, that beef's been condemned. I can smell it from here. And he said, Jem, the firm is going under and there's four hundred men in this yard, and you're one of them, and you've a wife and a sister and a sister's boy to feed. And I did it." He lifted his head. His eyes were pale blue and red-rimmed, and full. "I did every one. Me and two lads, over nine nights. I told myself the Navy surveyors would find it and send it back again. They never did."
Nobody spoke. Somewhere beyond the shed a hammer went on ringing, *tock, tock, tock.*
"My sister's boy," Toller said. "Davy Bly. He went to sea in the spring of 'twelve as a ship's boy in the *Perseverance*, out to the Leewards. Fourteen years old. He was so proud of his blue jacket he slept in it. He took the flux at Antigua in the August, and he died in four days." He put his hand to his chest, where the cough was. "I didn't know the beef in her hold was mine, not for certain. Not till I saw the cask numbers on that list your young lady brought round to my sister's in May."
Sophia came forward then, slowly. "Mrs. Bly," she said softly. "Ruth Bly, of Tanner's Hill. She's on my list. She's had six shillings a week from the fund since the autumn of 1812." She turned and looked at Pruett. "From a particular donor, Mr. Pruett. Who sends it by a man of business, in cash, and asks for no acknowledgment. We enter him in our books as *A Friend at Deptford.*"