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 roofwould 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.
CHAPTER 9
The great oak lay across the path like an enemy brought down at last—the thick trunk pinned into the earth, branches splayed in tangled ruin, leaves flattened and soaked. It had not merely blocked the lane to the town; it had severed Belair House and the Admiral’s cottage from everything below. No cart could pass, only humans who came on foot and climbed like goats.
Edmund had spent the first daylight hours ordering what could be ordered.
The Admiral’s roof had been covered with a tarpaulin for the moment—ingenuity with canvas and rope had prevented the worst, but Edmund knew very well how temporary such measures were. A tarpaulin would keep out the rain only as long as the wind permitted it. In a coastal winter, that was to say not long at all. The roof had to be repaired first; the interior could be mended afterward.
He had found a carpenter at dawn, offered coin without haggling, and secured a promise that men and timber would be sent up that morning.
Then he had come back to the fallen tree.
Soon, two labourers worked beside him—Tom Headley, square-shouldered and steady, and a younger fellow named Prowse who possessed more enthusiasm than skill but made up for it by refusing to be discouraged. Between them they had procured a saw the length of Edmund’s arm, a wedge, a mallet, and stubborn patience.
“You be ’aving the arms for it, Mr. Leigh,” Headley observed, as they set the saw to the trunk and began the slow, punishing rhythm. “Not like some gentlemen. Most would look at that tree and send for six more men to do it whilst they watched from a window.”
