Chapter 4
Elise could not quite shake the feeling she had felt on the previous evening.
She had walked the path often enough to know its every curve, its every sudden dip, and the weight of its solitude.
Since her husband’s death—and Blake’s improbable survival—she had made this journey twice weekly.
Recently, Jane had discovered her errand’s purpose of sending supplies to a debilitated sailor and often accompanied her.
Elise was especially grateful that evening, for it was the first time she had ever felt the sensation of being watched.
As they walked together while the day thinned into dusk, a basket between them, Jane chattered about the litter of kittens born behind St. George’s that Mrs. Bradley was trying to convince her to take to the school for the girls to enjoy.
It was all very soothing—until a sensation came upon her so swiftly, so distinctly, that her body acted before her mind could shape a thought. She turned her head, scanning the quiet slope behind them. Nothing moved save the grasses bending in the wind.
“Whatever is the matter?” Jane asked, pausing beside her. “Have you forgotten something?”
“No,” Elise murmured. “Nothing at all.”
Yet she knew her tone betrayed unease.
Jane peered back over her shoulder. “I see no one. Why, the path is completely deserted.”
It was true. The fishermen had long since returned home. The town was settling for the night, save for the usual custom at the tavern. The cliffside lay in its usual desolate serenity and yet Elise could not shake the conviction that unseen eyes lingered somewhere beyond the wild gorse and stone.
Jane resumed her light, pleasant talk, praising the beauty of the evening, quite unaware that Elise heard none of it. She was listening instead to the soft scrape of stones, the hiss of grass bending, the faintest rustle far behind them.
She listened… and measured the quiet.
No footsteps followed.
No voice called out.
No movement betrayed pursuit.
The stillness might have reassured another woman. It did not reassure her.
The next day dawned with none of the foreboding that had haunted the previous evening.
The school was already alive with purposeful bustle.
Elise began her day as she always did, making certain everything was running as it should.
Each morning, three girls would take turns at helping in the kitchen.
Cook—a stout, cheerful woman with opinions as strong as her tea—presided over the baking lesson.
Elise merely offered quiet encouragement from the edge of the warm, fragrant kitchen.
“Not so heavy with the currants, Miss Clara,” Cook instructed briskly. “A gentleman likes his tea-cake sweet, not leaden.”
Clara obeyed at once, and the others tittered softly.
Elise smiled, though she kept her hands primly folded.
She never interfered in the cook’s domain; indeed, Cook would not suffer it.
Her own role was to guide the girls’ deportment—gentleness in correction, steadiness in hand, and the quiet grace required in all household matters. Jane oversaw the girls’ education.
When the cakes were at last drawn from the oven—golden, fragrant, and triumphantly declared very nearly perfect by Cook—the girls wrapped several in a clean cloth and offered them to Elise.
“Would you be taking these to the Admiral, ma’am?” Clara asked, cheeks pink with pride. “He likes these on Tuesdays. He told me so at church.”
“He likes the cakes because you make them,” Elise corrected softly.
The girls beamed, satisfied with this distinction.
Twice a week—always on the same steady rhythm—Elise visited the Admiral.
Her husband had served under him as a young officer, had held him in high esteem, and had often said that no commander could shape finer men.
It seemed to Elise a sacred obligation—one she could not neglect—to honour those early bonds by ensuring the Admiral was never left too long in loneliness.
The Admiral’s dwelling, a white stone cottage with blue shutters and a slate roof, appeared peaceful in the late-morning light. The housekeeper, Mrs. Grealey, opened the door to her knock, standing taller than usual, as though she had been listening for it.
“Mrs. Larkin,” she greeted her with a curtsy. “The Admiral has a new guest.”
“Oh?” she replied, stepping inside. It had been ages since she could recall him having a boarder.
The Admiral brightened the instant she entered the drawing room. It appeared to be one of his good memory days, unlike some when he was distant and babbled nonsense.
“There she is!” he cried, his lined face creasing into delight. “Do you know, my dear, your visits do me more good than a full complement of naval surgeons?”
“I doubt they would approve of your sweet indulgence,” she said, placing the cloth-wrapped cakes upon the table, and carefully smoothing the folds as though the occupation gave her hands something to do besides betray feeling.
“They may frown and fuss,” he scoffed, waving one hand in lofty disdain, “but Charles always said that a man who has earned his comforts should not be denied them. Bless his memory. Come, sit, sit. You must tell me everything the school has been about.”
Elise took her usual seat—she never tarried long, yet she always stayed long enough to satisfy the Admiral’s desire for company.
Of late, she had begun to recognize the swing of his humours and his faculties: there were days when his mind ranged as briskly as any young officer’s, and days when it drifted like a ship the anchor of which had slipped.
This was one of the former. His eyes were clear, and his speech, though rambling, was connected.
She folded her hands in her lap, prepared to answer his inquiries about the girls, the headmistress, and Cook’s tyrannical rule over the kitchen, when a slight movement near the doorway caught her attention.
Turning, she saw his guest standing at the door.
He had stepped back a little when she turned, as though unwilling to intrude upon the Admiral’s greeting, and the posture had placed him half in shadow. Now, with the Admiral beckoning him nearer to the fire, she had leisure to look properly at him.
He was of middle height, perhaps a little more, but carried himself so straight that he seemed taller.
His coat was plain and dark blue, but of the highest quality; she recognized in his stance that peculiar mixture of bearing and ease which belonged to men more at home upon a horse than upon a carpet.
His shoulders were broad without being bulky, his frame lean and fit, and his hair—dark and somewhat rebellious—refused to lie as neatly as his careful brushing had clearly intended.
There was a faint weathering to his complexion that no London winter would have bestowed, and at one temple she thought she saw the pale trace of an old scar disappearing beneath his hairline.
However, it was his eyes that struck her most. They were a caramel brown that changed hue as the light chose, clear and steady, and just now darkly intent.
He coloured slightly when she looked at him, as though caught staring; but the impression remained that this was a man who saw more than he wished to speak of.
“Zounds!” the Admiral exclaimed, suddenly striking his knee with the flat of his hand.
“Listen to me, chattering away, and I have behaved like a lubber. My dear, I have not made you known. You must forgive an old man’s neglect.
” He turned in his chair with an air of ceremony.
“Mrs. Larkin, allow me to present Mr. Leigh—he is down from London to write a story about our sleepy little town.”
The gentleman stepped forward at once, bowing with proper gravity, though his mouth twitched at the Admiral’s description.
“How do you do, Mrs Larkin?”
She rose and curtsied. “Very well, I thank you. I had not understood you were living here, sir.”
The Admiral forestalled any answer. “He is here because I am old and gouty, and my niece is married to a half-pay colonel in Dorset who cannot be trusted to send me more than one letter a month. Sit down, both of you. We must not allow the tea to become quite cold before it arrives.”
As if summoned by his words, the housekeeper entered with the tray. Mrs. Grealey was as much commander of the domestic front as ever the Admiral had been of His Majesty’s ships.
“Tea, ma’am. Sirs,” she said, setting the tray down with practised ease. Elise moved at once to assist, uncovering the little cakes and arranging them upon a smaller dish. The fragrance of sugar and spice rose to greet them, homely and comforting.
“Mrs. Larkin has brought us bounty,” the Admiral declared. “Anything that comes from those industrious young ladies at the school must be excellent. Leigh, sit, sit. You will hover like a ghost if you are not compelled to a chair.”
Mr. Leigh obeyed, taking the straight-backed chair a little aside from the hearth, as though reluctant to place himself too forward where she was concerned. Elise poured the tea—first for the Admiral, then for their guest, and lastly for herself—and offered the plate of cakes.
“Pray allow me, Mr. Leigh,” she said, falling into the slightly more formal mode of address that a room and tea-tray demanded, “to press one upon you. The girls will be vastly pleased to know you approved their efforts.”
“I can hardly expose myself to their displeasure,” he replied, accepting a small, neatly cut piece with a hand that looked capable of much rougher employments than holding fine china. “I am obliged to you—and to them.”
He took a bite of the confection, seeming almost surprised at its lightness, then smiled—a small, unguarded expression which softened the firmness of his features.
“If I live to be ninety,” the Admiral announced, “I shall attribute every additional year to the cookery of that school and the attentions of my two guardian angels—Mrs. Larkin and Mr. Leigh.”