Chapter 12 #2
Twenty faces turned toward her—some expectant, some wary, some with that mischievous glint that suggested she would need every ounce of firmness she possessed.
“Today we shall continue our lessons in etiquette,” she announced. “Your posture, your manner of entering a room, your deportment in company—these things speak before you utter a word.”
Several girls straightened at once; others exchanged despairing glances.
Elise hid her amusement. She had once believed, before life had taught her otherwise, that calm authority was something easily learned.
Now she knew it was a discipline—one she had cultivated out of necessity, and which these girls would desperately need if they were to step into the wider world with confidence.
“Elbows tucked in, shoulders back. Miss Jones, kindly do not look as though someone has placed a weight upon your head. Imagine, instead, a ribbon drawing you upward—yes, like that. Much better.”
A ripple of improvement ran through the room. Elise paced slowly among them, adjusting a posture here, correcting a chin there, smoothing the anxieties of those who tried too hard and curbing the pride of those who did not try at all.
In the midst of this gentle chaos, she heard the faintest scrape of the door at the far end of the hall.
A moment later, young Sophie, one of the kitchen girls, slipped inside with the stealth of a child trying not to be seen.
She held a tray, though the way she clutched it made clear that the tray was merely a disguise.
“A note has come for you, Mrs. Larkin,” Sophie whispered.
Elise frowned. A note—here? During lessons? And delivered by Sophie rather than the post? That alone made her pulse quicken.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the folded paper and dismissing the girl with a nod.
The moment Sophie had gone, Elise returned her attention to the girls, willing her heartbeat to settle, but the weight of that note burned against her palm like a warning.
The paper was smudged with damp from sea mist, the edges slightly frayed.
It bore no name, no direction—only a certain fold done in a manner she recognized at once.
Her stomach clenched, though she did not allow her expression to betray it.
“Ladies,” she said in a calm voice that felt borrowed from some wiser, steadier woman, “continue practising your curtsies for a moment. Miss Adderley, lead them, please.”
There was a chorus of murmuring, a shuffling of slippers, but no one objected. Elise slipped toward the opposite door with deliberate ease and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her before her composure could crack.
Once alone, she unfolded the note.
At first glance, the writing appeared merely untidy—an uneducated hand, the lines wavering like those of a man unused to pen and ink.
Elise did not read the words, however; she read the way they were formed.
A slant meant danger. A blot meant urgency.
A particular misspelling meant code for a location, a symbol for a time of day.
The letter spoke in a language few knew.
She read the contents quickly.
Something is about to happen. Protect yourself at all costs. Don’t come to me— B
Blake—
She folded the note and pressed it to her chest. Then she composed herself, smoothed her skirts, and returned to the classroom. The girls continued their imperfect curtsies with admirable determination, though Miss Jones leaned rather too far to the left.
“Ladies,” Elise said, being calm but brisk, “I must speak with Miss Archer immediately. Please continue practising until I return. When Miss Adderley is satisfied, you may make a turn about the garden until it is time for watercolour painting.”
There were protests, questions, a few disappointed sighs. Elise ignored them with gentle firmness and departed before her thoughts could betray her too openly.
Miss Archer listened to her excuse—about visiting a sick friend—without suspicion and sent her on her way.
Elise collected her cloak from the boot room, winding its familiar warmth about her shoulders, and stepped out into the brisk morning, the wind tugging at the hem.
If Blake thought she could simply ignore him, he was mistaken in her resolve.
Hopefully, he had not rowed away directly or she would have to go through circuitous routes to get a message back to him.
Only vaguely did she know where he lodged.
The path toward the coast was narrow and uneven, and she kept her pace steady so as not to slip. From time to time she looked behind her, but no one else was about.
She reached the abandoned net-menders’ hut, a place she and Blake had used countless times when messages had needed passing. The door hung half open, creaking faintly on its hinges.
“Blake?” she whispered.
There was no answer.
A moment later she heard it, a low groan. Elise’s breath caught. She pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.
On the floor, half-lifted against the wall, lay Blake. His shirt was bloodied, his breath shallow, his skin waxen beneath the grime and stubble. His leg had been roughly bandaged with what looked like the remains of a torn sailcloth—and poorly bandaged at that.
“Oh, Blake,” she breathed, dropping to her knees beside him. “What have they done?”
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the dim light. “You… should not be here…”
“Hush,” she said firmly, pressing a steadying hand to his shoulder. “Save your strength.”
Yet she knew, with the clarity of dread, that he would not survive the journey to any town physician—not in this state, not with his wounds bleeding through the makeshift dressing he had made.
The school, however… the school had rooms that could be secured, including a quiet chamber which was unused except for storage.
It was a place where she might tend him herself until he could be moved without risk.
It was nothing she had not done before during the war, when she had cared for dozens of wounded men, but now? While it was foolish in a dozen ways, it was necessary—yet how to move him?
She had strength, but not enough to carry a grown man unaided.
She steeled herself to try anyway, sliding her arms beneath his shoulders and bracing her legs— A shadow moved across the doorway. Her heart stopped.
“Mrs. Larkin?” Mr. Leigh stood at the threshold.
Of all the men to find her here—of all the moments for him to appear—it had to be he. His expression held a mixture of surprise, concern and something keener, something that saw more than she wished.
“What has happened?” he asked quietly, stepping inside.
Elise gathered her composure like a suit of armour.
“A man has been hurt,” she said simply. “I must get him to shelter.”
Mr. Leigh’s gaze swept over the wounded sailor, and in an instant the indecision vanished. His jaw set with the determined resolve of a man accustomed to danger.
“Allow me,” he said.
“No. Mr. Leigh, I cannot involve—”
“I am here,” he replied, kneeling beside her before she could protest further, “and you cannot carry him alone. I can.”
There was no room for argument. He lifted Blake with the ease of a former officer accustomed to hauling wounded men from battlefields, she thought immediately. Steadying Blake’s head, she murmured reassurances as they made their way from the hut.
Every step felt like a betrayal of her carefully ordered secrecy. Every moment Mr. Leigh walked beside her with Blake in his arms felt like a thread pulling loose from the fabric of her careful life.
“Where?” he asked.
She hesitated—a second too long, and he noticed. Of course he noticed.
“The school,” she said finally.
He nodded and said nothing more, though she could feel questions radiating from him like heat.
The school loomed ahead—grey stone softened by ivy, the windows reflecting the pale sea light. Elise quickened her pace, unlocking the hidden side entrance with the worn key in her pocket.
Along the narrow corridor they went, down and into the old storerooms where Miss Archer seldom ventured, moving quickly, silently and efficiently.
She did not wish to involve Jane unless it could not be avoided.
Mr. Leigh laid Blake gently upon the narrow bed that had once housed wounded during the war, and had not been used for some time.
Elise set immediately to work. She fetched cloths and her small store of medicinal supplies.
She then removed the makeshift bandage, cleaning the wound with careful hands.
Keeping her attention on Blake, she was grateful for the excuse to look away from Mr. Leigh.
The sailor’s breathing had steadied, though his face remained pallid beneath the grime.
“We must remove the rest of the sailcloth,” she murmured, more to herself than to Mr. Leigh. “The wound cannot heal under this.”
Mr. Leigh nodded, already rolling up his sleeves. “Tell me what you need.”
She hesitated—habit, instinct, fear—but necessity warred with all three.
“Water,” she said quietly. “There is a well just inside the gate to the right.”
He fetched it without question. Elise soaked a cloth, pressing it gently against the blood-matted bandage around Blake’s thigh. The man flinched, groaning.
“Be at ease now,” she murmured, steadying Blake’s shoulder with a woman’s sure touch. “You are safe.”
As she loosened the makeshift dressing, the full extent of Blake’s injuries revealed itself. A deep gash carved across the muscle of his upper leg—clean in places, ragged in others—as though inflicted by a blade hurriedly withdrawn.
Mr. Leigh inhaled. “That was no accident.”
“No,” Elise said, her voice constricted by emotion. “It was not.” She had not noticed his return.
“And the bruising around his ribs—look here.” Edmund shifted slightly to examine Blake’s side. “Boot marks. More than one.”
Elise clenched her jaw. This was her fault.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Elise turned back to the task at hand. She cleaned the wound with practised hands, mixing her herbal tincture of calendula and yarrow. When she poured it into the gash, Blake winced violently, his fist clenching in the sheet.
Mr. Leigh did not hesitate. He took the man’s hand, bracing it.
“Steady, now.”
“You have done this before,” Elise murmured.
He did not look at her. “Once or twice.”
Only when the bleeding slowed and the fresh bandage lay neat and secure did Elise step back. She wiped her hands, forcing her breath to slow.
“Thank you for your help,” she said quietly, feeling more composed. “I could not have managed without you.”
Mr. Leigh gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I am glad to have been of use.”
She looked away, unwilling to meet the warmth in his expression.
“You know him,” Mr. Leigh said softly. “And he knows you.”
Elise said nothing. A beat of silence hung loud in the dim room.
“Does he know the cipher?” he asked.
She shook her head at once—too quickly, she knew. “Please… do not ask that of me.”
Her voice trembled on the last word, and inwardly she cursed herself for it.
Mr. Leigh’s eyes softened with a concern that made her feel unsteady in ways she could not tolerate. He lowered his gaze, accepting—for the moment—the boundary she placed between them.
“Very well,” he said softly. “I shall not press you. How else may I help? I can fetch something from town, if you require it. Medicines? Spirits? Bandages?”
Elise hesitated.
To allow him further involvement was dangerous, although she feared it was too late for that. She needed supplies—and he was able to help without involving Jane.
She folded her hands, choosing with care.
“The apothecary,” she said at last. “If you would please go there… I require willow-bark powder, and a small vial of laudanum. Only a small one,” she added quickly, “for emergencies.”
Mr. Leigh nodded gravely.
“You must tell no one,” she said, again aware she spoke too curtly.
“I will not betray you.” His voice was quiet but steady. “You have my word.”
Elise lowered her gaze, unable to bear the sincerity in his eyes. “Very well. I will remain here with him.”
He gathered himself, pulling his sleeves back down and wiping the dust from his hands, but he did not leave immediately. He paused at the door, his expression troubled.
“Consider confiding in me. I believe this is just the beginning.
On those words, he left.
Elise waited until his footsteps faded before allowing her composure to slip, just for an instant. She pressed her shaking hand to her chest; her breaths quickened and uneven. She turned back to Blake, relief flooding her when she heard the gentle rasp of his breathing.
“Rest now,” she whispered.
Involuntarily, her gaze turned toward the door, where Mr. Leigh had disappeared moments before. She exhaled with slow deliberation.
“You fool,” she whispered to herself. “You should never have allowed him near.”
Yet what choice had she had? She could not have moved Blake alone.
The weight of him—even half-conscious and willing—would have been impossible, and she would not have left him to die in that ruined shack like refuse.
Elise prayed he would not die. She needed Blake now more than ever, but she feared this was just the beginning of what Holt meant to do to get what he wanted.