There was a lantern lit under the clock arch, and a travelling chariot standing in the middle of the cobbles with its lamps burning, and four post horses in the traces stamping and blowing, and two postboys in yellow jackets and white hats sitting on the near horses with their whips across their knees. The Duke was standing by the open door of the chariot in a caped greatcoat, with his watch in his hand.
He looked up as she came out, and saw the bag, and the boy, and her face. He shut the watch.
"You were going," he said.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Away. Back to Norwich, and then somewhere else." She stood quite still in the doorway with Robin's head heavy on her shoulder. "Where are you going, Your Grace?"
"To Wychcombe," he said. "I sent to the Angel at Norwich for horses at midnight. I have left a letter for my mother. I meant to leave one for you, but I couldn't think what it ought to say." He came across the cobbles to her, and stopped. "Miss Blakeney. If you go, I am still going. You understand that. If the book's there, it's there whether you're standing next to it or not."
"I know." And she did know; she had known since the muniment room; that was the whole of the trouble. "I thought if I took him away, at least it would be you who decided, and not me. I thought it would be easier for you. If I wasn't there watching."
"It would not be easier for me," said the Duke. "It would be a great deal harder. I don't know how to read an old register. I should stand in the vestry like a fool and let the clerk tell me whatever he liked." He held out his hands. "Give him to me. You'll drop the bag."
She gave him Robin. He took the boy as a man takes a wounded comrade off a horse, all at once and carefully, and Robin woke, and looked up into his face in the lantern light, and said, "Major," in a voice of perfect content, and went back to sleep.