She stared at the old route for half a breath. Then she wiped it away. There would be no restoring the morning they had planned. She would have to build a different one.
Across the board she drew three columns in thick chalk: Ready now, Finish on east side, Hold for next lot.
The estate's own decorative bolts sat near completion in the west cottages. The contracted Brighton order still needed tying and rolling. There were not enough hands to finish both before the collection wagon arrived.
Ma crossed out the estate bolt.
A carter nearest Valentine stared. "His grace's own order."
Valentine's eyes came to Ma, not the cloth.
She said, "It waits."
The carter still looked doubtful. Valentine's answer carried the length of the yard. "On clothwork, Miss Marsden's board is the order."
Something inside Maud went still—not soft, still.
She pointed to two names. "Those weavers leave the estate bolt and go to tying and rolling. Split the heavy finished load between two smaller carts. First cart leaves in 10 minutes. Second leaves 10 minutes after that. Edwina finishes the east side roll and sends it with the second."
"Yarn for number six?" a runner called.
"Holds for the next lot."
"What about the upper carts?"
"Empty to the gate. They collect only what I mark ready."
The answers moved outward, repeated by runners and carters until cottage names were passing down the lane faster than Maud could hear them return.
Valentine held the road open. He placed fresh horses where she required them, stopped one impatient driver from overloading a small cart, and closed the soft bridge approach before a wheel reached it. He never changed the order of a single bolt.
The crunch of iron-rimmed wheels on gravel cut through the yards, shouting. A smart carriage rolled up beyond the east gate as the sky began to pale. Desmond Moberry stepped down.
Maud saw him only in fragments between moving wagons: the clean coat, the lifted cane, the confidence of a man arriving where he expected his old authority to be remembered. He started toward the east cottage lane and raised the cane to signal a driver.
Valentine stepped into his path. "You have no business in that lane, Mr. Moberry."
Desmond looked past him toward Ma. "I am trying to assist Miss Marsden. The woman plainly cannot manage her pegs. Someone has put the carts into chaos."
A carter leading a fresh horse slowed. "Pegs were sound yesterday, sir."
The carter added, "Saw your carriage by the lower fence after midnight."
Ma's chalk stopped for one beat.
Valentine did not turn the revelation into a scene for the yard. His voice became flatter. "Did you alter the route board?"
"I am a recognized factor. I corrected a foolish arrangement."
"You have no authority to correct anything on Elmsworth land."
Desmond laughed once. "You would take a weaver's word over mine?"
Valentine looked toward Ma's board where three more carts had just moved at her signal. "I take the evidence of my own yard."
He pointed to the gate. "You will leave. The steward will remove you from the list of factors authorized to collect Elmsworth cloth. Any future business with this estate comes through the steward in the ordinary way. You do not enter Miss Marsden's working lanes. If you damage estate property again, I will lay the matter before the magistrates."
Desmond's face went red. "Your grace—"
"Leave."
That was the only order Valentine gave him. Desmond returned to his carriage. Ma did not watch it go.
What warmed her was not the Duke's rebuke. Valentine had not answered contempt with praise or taken her board to prove her worth. He had kept the road she assigned him and left her free to finish the work.
The second small cart was late. "Where is Edwina's roll coming now?"
Four people emerged from the cottage lane with the finished bolt properly tied on a carrying pole. They heaved it onto the cart, roped it tight, and sent the driver forward.
At the upper gate, the first Brighton collection wagon appeared just as Ma's final cart cleared the posts. No one cheered until the receiving clerk had checked the count. Then the yard broke open with sound.
Ma stood by the board with chalk whitening both hands. The winter's contracted cloth was gone down the road. Not perfectly, not according to the original plan, but on time.
A driver turned instinctively to Valentine. "Next estate batch, your grace."
Valentine gestured toward Ma. "Miss Marsden directs the cloth. Ask her."
The driver turned to her. So did the runners.
Edwina called from the West Bay, "Well, which cottages get the next warp?"
No one looked back to the Duke for permission. Maud studied the board, then moved the first peg. "Not today," she said. "Today you all sleep. Tomorrow numbers 2, 5, and 8 begin the next lot."