He bolted into action and climbed far enough up the tree to where the limb was splitting. He found purchase on a neighbouring branch, then pushed at the breaking limb until it gave way.
When he descended, she was watching him—her eyes not wary now, but thoughtful, as though she found him puzzling… and perhaps not entirely unwelcome.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps the young ladies should not work beneath the trees until all have been examined for safety.”
“Thank you, sir.” The faintest warmth reached her expression. “It appears you have arrived here just in time.”
“I used to believe we are where we are meant to be.”
She angled her head with inquiry. “You do not believe that any longer?”
He shook his head in dismay. “Perhaps it remains true. The war made me question it, however.”
She gave a swift nod of understanding. “The war made me question my purpose, certainly. Well…” She broke off, perhapsbecause the conversation drew closer to uncertain waters—and just as they were finally making headway. “A storm will provide authenticity to your story about the area.”
“Indeed it will.” He bent his back to the work and felt the familiar hum of discipline settle into his muscles.
He had needed a pretext to draw near her world without intruding too openly. It seemed the weather had decided to oblige him—violently and comprehensively, but effectively. He had wanted opportunity. Now he had it.
CHAPTER 8
The storm had given her a brief reprieve from the cipher, but it was never far from Elise’s thoughts. Misfortune could uproot trees, fling roof tiles far across gardens and tear gates from hinges, but it could not scatter fear. Fear lodged in the bones as tenaciously as ivy clinging to ancient stone.
She moved through Belair House with a steadiness she did not feel, directing girls to tasks, reassuring Cook and soothing the nervous smaller children, but through it all her mind circled the same thought:
Someone was using Charles’s cipher, and someone was asking questions.
She must not speak carelessly around Mr. Leigh—not when Blake’s safety hung on silence, and not when her own knowledge could place her in the very danger Charles had sought to prevent.
Yet it was difficult to remain suspicious of a man who worked so hard, so quietly, and with such competence that half the school already adored him. Elise herself was not immune to the effect—not entirely.
More than once she caught herself watching him: sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair wind-tossed, back bent as he hauledaway rubble or righted a fallen shutter. When he straightened, she saw the controlled power of a man accustomed to command, yet here he performed the labours of a farmhand without complaint.
He was dangerous, she reminded herself firmly. A man like that could lower defences without ever intending to, and yet… he was astonishingly easy to talk to. Too easy, in fact. His quiet manner invited conversation; his replies were thoughtful, sometimes dryly humorous, and always just warm enough to unsettle her.
She must mind her tongue. She must not let him draw her into candour. She must not—must not—allow herself to feel the faint pull she experienced whenever his eyes met hers. Charles had been gone for some time now, and the emotions were eliciting a strange sensation within. It would come to nothing, of course, but it was the first time she had even had such a thought.
With a determined breath, Elise took up a tray of broth and bread rolls Cook had prepared and climbed the stairs to call upon the Admiral.
She knocked softly on the guest-room door.
“Enter!”
He sounded more robust than she had expected. She pushed the door open.
The Admiral sat propped against pillows, wrapped in blankets like a venerable sea captain enthroned upon the quarter-deck. His white brows furrowed as he examined the bandage around his wrist, and Mrs. Grealey hovered at the bedside with the expression of a general defending her post, and she ran to take the tray from Elise.
“Mrs. Larkin!” he boomed when he saw her. “Ah, my dear! We are survivors of a naval calamity—Leigh and I weathered the night like two mariners lashed to the mast!”
“I can quite believe it,” Elise murmured. “How do you feel, sir?”
“Older,” he said frankly. Then, with an approving glance at his surroundings, “And vastly comfortable. Your school is a fine ship, ma’am—solid walls, warm fires, well-trained crew. I am half-tempted to move in permanently.”
Mrs. Grealey sniffed. “Do not speak nonsense, sir. You will go home as soon as the roof is mended.”
This brought the Admiral’s worry to the fore. Elise saw it flicker across his face even before he spoke.
“My house,” he murmured. “My poor cottage. It has stood since Queen Elizabeth reigned, and that great wretched oak cut it near in half.”
