Chapter 8 #2
The girls shrieked with laughter; even Elise felt her lips tremble toward a smile.
His voice was a good one—low, steady and expressive without theatricality. When he described falling into a duck pond, the Admiral slapped his knee.
“You see, Mrs. Larkin?” he cried. “A natural storyteller!”
Elise gave a composed nod, but inside she felt the slightest flutter. He was a natural storyteller indeed.
And entirely too agreeable.
When the tale ended, the Admiral demanded another. Elise obliged with one of Charles’s—an anecdote from his midshipman days involving a mistaken signal and a near collision in fog. She relayed it carefully, for Charles had told it to her so many times she could hear his laughter still.
As she finished, silence fell over the room—a warm, thoughtful silence.
Mr. Leigh regarded her with an expression she could not decipher.
“Your husband,” he said softly, “was an extraordinary man.”
The words pierced her unexpectedly. She forced a calm smile.
“He was,” she said simply before adding, unable to resist the hint of warning, “He also despised dishonesty.”
Their eyes met briefly, Elise felt it intensely, nonetheless.
He inclined his head slowly. “A quality I admire more than I can express.”
Elise looked away first. Why had she made such a remark?
When the girls were finally tucked into their beds, the Admiral settled in his chamber, and Jane occupied with checking the roof for leaks, Elise lingered for a moment in the empty drawing room.
The storm had passed but the house still creaked with its memory. Rain tapped faintly at the window-panes. She sat at the writing desk and stared at the inkpot. Her mind would not be still, and she had to decide what to do. Someone who knew the code had not died with Charles.
She must protect Blake, the girls, the Admiral, Jane, and herself—and she must do it under the watchful gaze of a man who was far too perceptive for her comfort.
She told herself again and again that she must maintain her distance, her caution and her carefully guarded secrets.
Nevertheless, when she remembered the sight of Mr. Leigh lifting the Admiral as though he weighed nothing… and tending the old man through the night… and speaking so gently to the frightened girls… and laughing at Jane’s keen wit… her resolve wavered.
You cannot trust him, her rational mind insisted. But you want to, whispered something traitorous inside her.
She pressed her hands to her eyes. If she was wrong about him—if she falsely suspected a good man—she would never forgive herself.
If she was right—and he was here to uncover her knowledge of the cipher—then she must tread with exquisite care.
A soft knock broke her torment of thought.
“Elise?” Jane’s voice sounded in the doorway. “You left your candle downstairs. Are you retiring?”
Elise rose at once, smoothing her skirts. “Yes. I am coming.”
She glanced once more at the empty hearth, where the fire had burned down to a sleepy glow. Perhaps she had been wrong to suspect Mr. Leigh so quickly. Perhaps she was merely frightened—more than she had allowed herself to admit.
Yet she could not forget Blake’s grip on her wrist nor the note hidden behind the lining of her jewellery box.
Until she learned who had resurrected the cipher—and why—she could permit herself neither trust nor tenderness.
Not even for a man whose presence steadied her in ways she did not wish to examine.
And especially not for a man whose quiet gaze made her feel… seen.
Now that the worst of the storm damage to Belair House had been repaired, tomorrow she would first ensure the Admiral’s cottage would be repaired and then visit Blake to see if he had discovered anything else.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her candle casting long, wavering shadows along the walls. When she reached her chamber, she closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, her forehead resting against the cool wood.
The cipher returned to her thoughts at once. It had never truly left.
The symbols were branded upon her memory now, each letter etched with Blake’s fear. He had not been a man given to exaggeration. If he said someone was asking questions, then they were not idle ones. If he said the cipher had resurfaced, then it was not a rumour but a fact.
Charles had designed that cipher with almost obsessive care.
It was not merely a substitution of letters or a clever rearrangement of numbers; it was layered, contextual, dependent upon lived experience as much as written knowledge.
It could not be guessed. It could not be stumbled upon. It had to be known.
Only three people had ever truly known it. Charles, Blake and herself.
Charles was dead. Blake was broken and hidden. Which left—Elise closed her eyes.
If someone was using the cipher, they must believe one of them to be still active—or they were attempting to flush one of them into the open. Either possibility chilled her.
And now Mr. Leigh slept in her house.
She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the candle flame, watching it sway gently in the lingering draught. It was easier, she thought, to be afraid of the storm. Wind and rain announced themselves. They broke what they touched and passed on.
Men were far subtler hazards… and yet she could not reconcile the man she had watched that day—the one who had carried the Admiral through debris and darkness, who had scrubbed mud from the school steps without complaint, who had laughed easily with the girls and listened with genuine patience—with the idea of a man sent to ensnare her.
“You are tired,” she told herself firmly, “and fear makes monsters of coincidences.”
Tomorrow would bring clarity. Tomorrow always did. There was nothing more she could do tonight.
She extinguished the candle and lay awake for some time, listening to the wind ease its grip on the eaves. At last, sleep claimed her—not deeply, but enough to stop the tumult of her thoughts.
Morning arrived pale and tentative, the sky showing no evidence of the storm’s violence. Sunlight filtered through low clouds, catching on puddles and broken branches like reluctant hope.
Elise rose early, her purpose settling into place as naturally as breath. There would be no indulgence in dread today. Work was required. Decisions must be made.
After a quick circuit of the house—confirming the girls were safe, Cook presiding over her domain and Jane already ushering the girls to their tasks—Elise excused herself then left to survey the Admiral’s cottage herself now that the initial danger had passed.
As she approached and surveyed the damage with fresh eyes, she saw it was extensive but not catastrophic.
Half the roof would need replacing. A tarpaulin was in place, holding out the worst of the elements.
The south wall required rebuilding. The fallen tree across the path was already being attended to by several tradesmen—and Mr. Leigh.