“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.
