Chapter 18
Midnight came and passed without fire, which was only a minor comfort.
The house had never felt so large, nor so empty. Even in winter, Belair House was normally full of life inside. Tonight, there was only the wind, and the wind was a poor companion.
Elise moved through the lower rooms with a candle and the quiet efficiency of habit, though habit could not quite disguise the fact that she listened at every window and measured every shadow. She had done what reason had demanded—what her conscience had demanded—and sent the girls away.
Some had been claimed by fathers and uncles in the village, brusque men whose affection expressed itself in stern instruction and awkward pats on small shoulders.
Several had gone to the vicarage, where Mrs. Bradley’s motherliness had instantly expanded to accommodate any number of frightened children.
A few—those with nearby relations—had been bundled into carts and sent down the lane to the habitable portion of the Admiral’s cottage; with scarves wrapped up to their noses, the girls had looked back at Belair as if it might vanish the moment they stopped watching it.
Against every instinct in her to remain, Jane had gone too.
She had argued, of course. Jane was made for arguing when Elise needed it least and loved her best. The Admiral and Mrs. Grealey had understood enough to know it was necessary, and Elise had reignited the old gentleman’s sense of duty to protect.
Only Cook and Sophie remained, and they were watching over Blake, who lay hidden in the small room they had made into a refuge, heavy with laudanum, his breathing shallow but regular.
This was Elise’s little garrison, and now she found herself standing at the foot of the stairs in a house waiting—dependent—on another to arrange her future and that of the girls. She was unused to depending on another.
She had just set her candle down on the hall table when she heard the gate. A careful sound it was: a latch pressed and a quiet opening, as if whoever entered meant not to alarm the sleeping or invite the watching.
Then she saw Mr. Leigh—and the sight of him brought an unaccountable, wretched relief that made Elise want to strike herself for weakness.
He stepped inside the house and closed the door behind him with deliberate care. A gust tried to bully its way in but he kept it out. He looked as though he had walked through the cold with his coat fastened, for his hair was wind-ruffled but not disordered, and yet he brought warmth.
“You returned,” she said, in a low voice.
“Of course,” he answered, as if it were not possible he might have chosen otherwise.
Her gaze searched his face at once for the only question that mattered. “Did it reach them?”
“Mr. Grey will pass the note to Holt. He will not come here tonight.”
An involuntary breath left Elise—not a sigh, not quite, she hoped. Relief threatened to loosen her knees. “Then we have time,” she managed to whisper.
“A little,” he corrected softly, and his gaze flicked upward as if he, too, heard the memory of girls’ footsteps in the empty upper floors.
His gaze moved quickly through the hall, seemingly noting the absence of clutter, the way a house looks when it has been stripped of daily life. “Do Cook and Sophie know?”
“They know enough,” Elise replied. “Cook knows what she must to keep Blake alive, and Sophie knows how to carry messages without asking questions.”
“And you?” Mr. Leigh asked, his voice lowering. “Have you slept at all?”
Elise almost laughed. “No.”
He regarded her steadily. “You must.”
The audacity of that instruction might have provoked her in any other circumstance. Tonight, it landed upon her like a hand pressed gently against the back of the neck: not a command, but a necessary insistence.
“How? I cannot,” she said.
“You can,” he returned, “and you will. Your mind must needs be clear in the morning. We cannot afford you to be half-faint with exhaustion.”
Elise frowned. “You speak as if you are certain we will not be alone.”
His eyes held hers. “We will not be alone.”
It was not merely confidence, it was information. Elise’s pulse quickened. “Your men?”
He hesitated only an instant, which was somehow worse than evasion. “Men are here who can help.”
“That is not an answer,” Elise said.
“It is the safest one,” he replied quietly. “The fewer people who can be compelled to speak, the better.”
‘Compelled’. Elise felt the word like ice. She thought of Holt’s hands. She thought of the torch at her door and the note that had threatened to burn her world down. She thought of Blake, battered into silence, and began to tremble with the reality of her situation.
Mr. Leigh watched her face as if reading what she tried to keep hidden. “You did right to send the girls away,” he said again, softer now. “You have done everything you can. Let the rest be mine.”
Elise’s temper stirred again at the implication that she might surrender control. “This is not your house,” she said.
“No,” he agreed, “but it is your life.”
Then—without any flourish, without any gallantry—he stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, only enough that his voice did not carry.
“Elise,” he said, using her name as if he had earned it, “you are not alone tonight. Not truly. Men are close. If anyone comes near the house, they will be taken before they touch your door.”
The certainty of it sent a shiver down her spine. Yet fatigue dulled her senses and fear honed other instincts: the instinct to accept help when it came, because pride could not keep one alive.
“How close are they?” she asked, hating that she needed to ask.
“Close enough,” he said.
Elise stared at him, trying to reconcile the man before her—the one who spoke of men and taking and gates as if he had done it a hundred times—with the man he had claimed to be. She could not.
“Will you not tell me what you are?” she whispered.
A faint shadow crossed his eyes. “Not tonight.”
It was an infuriating answer. It was also—she knew with bitter clarity—probably the only sensible one.
Elise turned away, because if she kept looking at his face she might see something in it that would undo her entirely: concern, perhaps, or that disquieting tenderness he occasionally let slip when he thought himself hidden.
Cook appeared from the kitchen doorway as if she had been stationed there, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression severe enough to frighten a regiment.
“He is back, then,” Cook observed, looking Mr. Leigh up and down as though assessing his usefulness.
“He is,” Elise replied, “and he insists I retire to sleep.”
Cook’s eyes narrowed. “As well he should. You look like a ghost.”
Elise felt a reluctant flicker of amusement. Cook had always been unimpressed by delicacy.
Then, abruptly, Elise closed her eyes for a moment, because if she did not she might actually weep. How absurd—how humiliating—to find herself nearly undone by the simple fact of being ordered to rest.
Mr. Leigh watched her with that steady, infuriating gaze of his. “Two hours,” he said. “Three if you can. I will wake you before we go.”
“Promise you will not leave me,” Elise begged, feeling like a child.
“Yes,” he said. “We will set out early, before there is proper light. We must be in place at the wharf well before Holt arrives. If we are late, we will lose the advantage.”
Elise nodded once, stiffly. “Very well.”
She turned toward the stairs, then stopped and looked back at him. “If I sleep—if I close my eyes—and you…”
He did not let her finish. “I will not go without you.”
There was no arrogance in it, only resolve.
Elise forced herself to climb the stairs. Each step felt like betrayal—betrayal of vigilance and betrayal of the fear that had kept her alive. Yet by the time she reached her chamber and shut the door, her body remembered fatigue as if it had been waiting for permission to collapse.
She lay down still dressed, having removed her boots only because Cook would have scolded Elise in her dreams. The bed was cold. Elise told herself she would close her eyes only for a moment. She woke to a quiet knock and the faintest light seeping through the curtains like watered milk.
Mr. Leigh stood just inside her door, hat in hand, expression grave but not alarmed. “It is time,” he said.
Elise sat up at once, her heart hammering as if she had been asleep for a week instead of an hour or two. “Have they come?”
“Not to the house,” he replied. “The note has done its work.”
Elise swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cold biting at her feet. “Where is Cook?”
“Below,” he said, “with Sophie. Blake is still quiet.”
Elise nodded and climbed off the bed with determination. Sleep had not cured her fear, but it had put a razored edge on her mind. It felt like drawing a blade.
She followed Mr. Leigh down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. Cook had a lantern prepared, its light shielded, and a small serving of bread and cheese, as if they were going on a picnic rather than into danger.
“You will eat summat,” Cook said, pressing it into Elise’s hands, “or you’ll drop like a sack of flour at the worst moment.”
Elise wanted to argue. She did not. She took a bite and swallowed because Cook’s logic was unimpeachable.
Sophie hovered near the door, clutching her shawl. “Ma’am—”
Elise touched her arm. “You will stay with Cook. You will not open the door to anyone. If there is trouble, you must go at once to Mrs. Bradley at the vicarage. Do you understand?”
Sophie nodded, her hazel eyes shining. Cook straightened. “I will keep watch, and if anyone comes sniffing about, I’ll pour boiling water on their heads.”
For a moment Elise was grateful for Cook’s stubbornness. It was a strange comfort, this domestic defiance in the face of danger.
Mr. Leigh turned toward the door to the cellar. “To the tunnel,” he said.