The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

CHAPTER 3

At three o’clock that afternoon, Sylvia found Kit Cavanaugh waiting on the steps of the building housing his office. He smiled as she approached, and her pulse fluttered.

Studiously ignoring that and the inexorable tightening about her lungs, she briskly nodded as she halted beside him. She made a production of consulting the list she held in one hand, then announced, “Our first possibility lies in Puddle Avenue.” She swiveled and pointed to the south. “It’s that way—off Queen Square.”

With a graceful gesture, he waved her forward. “Lead on.”

She started walking, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her slightly shorter ones. While in the company of other women and, indeed, most men, she felt on the tallish side, with him, her head barely cleared his chin, leaving her feeling...more feminine than usual. She was glad he made no attempt to take her arm; she wasn’t sure what she would do if he tried. Just walking beside him was entirely close enough; her senses were skittering as it was.

She drew in a breath—one rather too restricted—and reminded herself that she would need to keep her wits about her, especially now she’d been forced to drop her previous haughty mask.

They crossed to the south side of King Street and took to the eastern pavement of Princes Street. In an attempt to keep her mind from wandering his way, she glanced down at the list she’d prepared for this excursion. On leaving their earlier meeting, she’d visited several leasing companies. Through them, she’d identified a total of eight presently untenanted buildings that lay within the area the boys could reach and that sounded large enough to house the school.

She’d listed the buildings in order of desirability based on her general knowledge of location, but as she had no way by which to gauge Cavanaugh’s commitment—how much he was truly willing to commit—she’d decided to start at the bottom of the list.

They reached the corner of Puddle Avenue and paused. She looked up, searching for numbers on the nearer buildings. “It’s number fifteen.”

She glanced at his face; his expression was impassive, but she sensed he wasn’t impressed with Puddle Avenue.

Nevertheless, he gestured her onward and kept pace beside her as she walked slowly along the street.

Number 15 Puddle Avenue proved to be a run-down building wedged between two warehouses; the flanking buildings appeared to be holding Number 15 up. What paint still clung to its timber facing was peeling away in curls, and there were visible cracks in the stone foundations.

She cleared her throat. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have relied on the property manager’s description.”

Cavanaugh grunted. “Obviously not.” His features were hard as his gaze swept the exterior of the building. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. “Where’s the next place?”

* * *

The hall off Bell Lane was only marginally better than the Puddle Avenue building.

Regardless, Kit felt compelled to look inside before passing judgment, and the feisty Miss Buckleberry agreed—although she hung back as, after pushing through the slightly warped door, he walked into the musty space.

He stopped two paces in, looked around, then turned and walked back to where she stood on the threshold.

Jaw firming, he met her eyes. “Next?”

* * *

The third place she took him to was, he supposed, a possible venue for the school. At a stretch. But the hall was dark, overshadowed by taller buildings on either side and on the other side of the narrow street, and a telltale odor of mildew and mold rose from the ancient lining boards, leaving him in little doubt that the timbers behind were rotting.

The notion of setting young boys to work through their days in such surroundings...he simply couldn’t see it.

He glanced at Sylvia. She’d been watching him—his face—but had glanced down at her list of potential properties.

On impulse, Kit reached out and, with a quick tug, filched the list from her gloved fingers.

She sucked in a breath, but then pressed her lips tightly together and clasped her hands before her.

Kit focused on the list. “There has to be somewhere better.”

He ran his gaze down the entries and, despite his lack of knowledge of Bristol, realized there definitely was. From the addresses, it appeared that the inestimable Miss Buckleberry had started at the bottom of her list of possible places...

He could guess why—she wasn’t sure he would sponsor the school properly.

For a second, he considered being annoyed about that, but then decided that, with a female like Sylvia Buckleberry, seeing would be believing.

His expression impassive, he held out the list. “Let’s look at the place in Trinity Street.”

If she was surprised, she hid it well. Taking back the list, she said, “I have to warn you that the Trinity Street property is the most expensive option. It’s owned by St. Augustine’s Abbey, and the rent is...well, in keeping with that and the location, which is on a street between the Abbey and the Frome.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I can afford it, and such a location—and landlord—sounds much more like the sort of accommodation I’d want a school I was sponsoring to have.”

Facing her, he waved imperiously to the door. “I suggest we go directly there.”

Although her gaze stated she was still uncertain, she allowed him to usher her outside.

* * *

It was close to five o’clock when they reached Trinity Street, but the instant they halted outside the old hall, Kit felt certain they’d found the right place. Judging by the expression on Sylvia’s face as she stood beside him and scanned the front façade, she thought the same.

In keeping with the Augustinian creed, the building had few ornate features. Built of stone and weathered oak, it was solid and functional—the sort of place that would easily withstand the rigors of hosting a school. Although he’d gone to Eton, Kit doubted that boys whose fathers worked on the docks would be any less vigorous than scions of the nobility.

A small tiled porch protected the oak door. Without thinking, Kit touched his palm to the back of Sylvia’s waist, urging her toward the porch steps. She froze for a fraction of a second, but then, with a rather tense inclination of her head, walked forward and climbed the three steps to the porch.

After fishing in her reticule for the key, she unlocked the door and led the way inside.

Kit followed her into a comfortable space, well-lit despite the time of day, with the last rays of the westering sun pouring through high, clerestory windows. The floor was well-worn oak, smooth and clean. Kit glanced around. “No drafts.”

Sylvia had halted in the middle of the good-sized hall. “That will make a huge difference in winter.”

Kit nodded at the three small fireplaces built into the side walls. “And there’s those, too.”

Sinking his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he started on a circuit of the hall—following Sylvia as she did the same. They poked their heads into the small kitchen at the rear of the hall.

“This will be an added boon,” Sylvia said, and he could hear the building excitement in her voice.

He hid a smile and ambled at her heels as she proceeded to open the back door. He looked out over her head at the decent-looking privy standing in the small, cobbled rear yard.

Everything was neat and clean—and solid and enduring.

Sylvia shut and locked the back door, then turned and faced him; he had to wonder if she knew her hopes were shining in her eyes. “This will do admirably,” she said.

He almost looked to see if she’d crossed her fingers.

He contented himself with an easy smile and an acquiescing nod. “How much is the rent?”

Sylvia held her breath; now she’d seen inside the hall, it was even more perfect than the outside had promised. It would be a huge improvement over their current quarters. She could so easily see the boys and the school prospering here, she was almost reluctant to tell him how much it would cost for fear of hearing him say it was too expensive.

But...she cleared her throat, forced herself to meet his eyes, and stated the price the Abbey’s prior, sympathetic to her and the school’s plight, had named.

Then she hurriedly added, “Unfortunately, that’s the lowest price the Abbey can accept, and it’s still significantly more than the second place on my list.”

She looked down at the list, still clutched in her hand—only to see Cavanaugh’s hand come into view. He closed his fingers—broad-tipped, strong fingers—about the edge of the paper and gently tugged. She watched the list slide from her grasp and wondered what he was thinking—what decision he’d made.

“I don’t believe we need to look at any other places.”

Hope leaping in her chest, she looked up and saw him tucking the list, now folded, into his pocket.

He glanced around. “This place is ideal, and the rent seems reasonable and fair.”

He brought his gaze back to her face and lightly arched his brows. “So who do we see about the lease?”

* * *

The following morning, Sylvia set out for the school, light of heart and eager to tell the teachers and students of their good fortune.

She was especially glad to be able to lift the pall of doubt and uncertainty that had descended on both staff and pupils when she’d told them of having to quit the warehouse. Indeed, she felt like skipping at the prospect.

The meeting with the prior, with Kit Cavanaugh by her side, had gone extremely well. Not only was the Abbey happy to have the hall put to such use, but the prior had gone so far as to suggest that if the school ever needed medical assistance, they could call on the Abbey’s infirmarian.

She was worldly enough to know that she and the school had Cavanaugh—Kit—to thank for that. He’d stood like a rock—a distinctly noble rock—at her back throughout the process of leasing the hall.

She hurried across the end of Bell Lane, then cut between buildings to reach the Grove. Looking ahead, she spied a tall, greatcoated figure leaning against the bole of a tree opposite the warehouse the school presently occupied.

She blinked and looked again, confirming that the figure was indeed Kit. He saw her, pushed away from the tree, and ambled to intercept her.

Was she surprised? She wasn’t sure she was. After all, at the end of their successful foray yesterday, in return for his help in getting the prior to commence the lease on the Trinity Street hall immediately, she’d agreed that the school would move premises today, allowing Kit and his men access to the warehouse tomorrow, a day earlier than they’d hoped.

He’d said he would notify the Dock Company, and she had no doubt he had—or would. He was efficient and effective—she would give him that.

He’d halted, waiting for her, and as she neared, she discovered an entirely spontaneous smile of greeting had taken up residence on her face. “Good morning. Have you come to help me break the news?”

Kit drank in that smile—the first sincere smile she’d ever bestowed on him. He returned it with an easy smile of his own, nothing to get her bristling. “Good morning to you—and no.” He glanced at the warehouse. “You can do the honors. I’ve come to lend a hand with moving the school.”

She blinked in surprise, and he couldn’t stop his smile from deepening. To hide it, he glanced vaguely around. “Do you know of any men we can hire to help?”

“Hire?”

From her tone, the notion hadn’t entered her head—probably because she wasn’t accustomed to having the wherewithal to pay for such help.

But after several seconds, she said, “The boys will help, of course. And some of them will have older brothers out of work and possibly fathers as well...”

He nodded. “We can ask.” He waved her on. “Let’s go in, and you can break the good news.”

Kit followed her through the door. He halted just inside. In his mind, he could already see the transformation of the space that he and Wayland had planned. While Wayland busied himself checking on his orders and interviewing men for the key role of foreman as well as hiring a small team of carpenters to make a start on their necessary alterations, Kit had elected to devote himself to ensuring that the school’s vacating of the warehouse went smoothly.

Ahead of him, Sylvia came to a halt before the two rows of desks that were now lined up across the warehouse floor. Two gentlemen—Kit judged them to be much of an age with himself—both neatly and conservatively dressed, had been standing before the desks, one to either side, addressing the boys before them; having heard Sylvia’s heels on the boards, they, along with their pupils, had turned their attention to her.

She tipped her head to each man. “Mr. Jellicoe. Mr. Cross. If I could have a moment of everyone’s time, I have an announcement to make.”

Her expression gave away her news—or at least, it’s nature; the looks on the boys’ faces as they stared at her could only be described as ones of rising hope.

Assured of everyone’s attention, her hands clasped before her, she stated, “Yesterday evening, courtesy of Lord Cavanaugh”—she glanced back at Kit, still standing just inside the door, gracefully waved in his direction, then turned back to her audience—“the lease on a hall in Trinity Street was secured for the school. We have new premises, and they are a great deal better than this warehouse.”

The cheer that erupted from the boys and staff matched the joy and relief that suffused their faces.

Several of the older boys thumped on their desks, and the others took up the drumbeat.

The teachers glanced at Kit, and he inclined his head to them, and they nodded politely in return. Then at a smiling word from Sylvia, both teachers turned back to their charges and waved them to silence.

Somewhat to Kit’s surprise, silence returned quite quickly.

Into it, Sylvia said, “Lord Cavanaugh is the owner of the business that has leased this warehouse, and once he learned of the school, he kindly agreed to fund the lease for our new school hall. In return, I agreed that we would move to our new hall today. I’m therefore declaring today a holiday—at least from your studies. However, I expect every one of you to assist us—me, Mr. Jellicoe, Mr. Cross, and Miss Meggs, too, once she comes in, and Lord Cavanaugh, who has come to help as well—to move all the school’s furniture, books, boards, slates, supplies, and all to our new hall.”

Wily Sylvia. Kit had already noted the curiosity that had flared in every boy’s face at the revelation that he was a lord; for such boys, nobles were a rarely encountered species. By mentioning that he would be helping with the move, Sylvia had ensured that every single boy would remain to do their part.

Eager agreement abounded, and when Sylvia asked if any of the boys had older male relatives who might be free to help for a price, five hands shot into the air.

Kit raised his voice. “You can tell anyone who agrees to help that the rate will be three shillings for the day.” That was the current rate for laborers on the docks.

The boys who’d raised their hands leapt to their feet.

Sylvia gave them leave to run home and ask and return to the warehouse promptly with anyone willing to help. The other boys she directed to start gathering their books and slates.

Kit walked forward, allowing the boys leaving free access to the door. They grinned at him as they passed, and some bobbed their heads and murmured, “Your lordship.”

Kit grinned back at them, which sent their grins even wider, then they were gone.

Jellicoe and Cross approached as Kit halted. He had no difficulty in pegging both as younger sons of the gentry who’d had to make their own way; from their families, they would have received a sound education, but little else.

Jellicoe held out his hand. “Thank you, my lord. We were fearing that the school would close, and that would have been the end for these boys’ educations.”

“Indeed.” Cross waited until Kit released Jellicoe’s hand to offer his own. “You might not realize it, but this is a very good deed you’ve done, my lord.”

Kit shifted, uncomfortable with the praise. “Don’t credit me with too much altruism, gentlemen—I wanted the warehouse as soon as possible and finding the school new premises seemed the easiest way to that goal.”

Neither Jellicoe nor Cross looked as if they believed him, and in truth, gaining the use of the warehouse early had never been Kit’s primary objective. Acknowledging that, he added, “However, I do support the notion of education for the masses, so I was happy to help in this way.” And seeing the transformation in the faces of the boys and the teachers had already been sufficient reward.

That, both teachers accepted. As Sylvia came to join them, they looked at her with an eagerness to rival their pupils’.

“How should we do this?” Cross asked.

Kit listened as Sylvia outlined a plan to move the heavier items first—the desks and the two blackboards; Kit assumed the latter had been brought in by the teachers—they hadn’t been there when he and Wayland had viewed the space.

“Once we have those arranged in the new hall,” Sylvia went on, “we can return here and ferry everything else across.” She paused, then added, “I don’t want the boys struggling with anything they might drop while they’re crossing the Frome.”

“No, indeed.” Jellicoe looked at the boys who had remained in the warehouse; they were busily emptying the desks and stacking books, slates, chalks, and papers on the tops. “We’ll need at least two trips for the smaller stuff, and depending on how many men turn up, at least two for the desks and boards. Even emptied, those desks are too unwieldy for any one man to manage on his own—even a dockyard navvy.”

Just then, a thin, faded older lady, gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, walked into the warehouse.

“Miss Meggs.” Sylvia went forward to greet her. “I’m relieved to say that we’ve had some excellent news.”

While Sylvia explained about the new school hall, bringing a relieved expression to Miss Meggs’s face, Jellicoe murmured, “Our assistant. She’s a good soul and handles the boys surprisingly well.”

Cross softly huffed. “I think the boys see her as a vague but doting aunt they need to take care of—which is not a bad thing.”

Jellicoe laughed softly. “I think she plays up to that—when it comes to organizing our lessons, she’s as sharp as a tack.”

Kit watched Sylvia animatedly explaining the school’s change in circumstances to the older woman. Their meeting with the prior the previous evening had gone much as he’d anticipated, with one major difference; the prior, Sylvia, and Kit had discussed various payment options, and, in the end, in order to avoid any future onus falling on Sylvia regarding the rent, they had agreed—Kit reluctantly—to put the lease in his name, with him making payments directly to the Abbey, rather than having Sylvia’s name on the lease, with him standing as formal guarantor, and the payments routed through her. While she’d been perfectly content with the arrangement, Kit had to wonder if she realized just how much at his mercy that left the school. Of course, he would never do anything untoward, like renege on payments or cancel the lease, but she didn’t know that. He’d ended with the distinct impression that Miss Sylvia Buckleberry, clergyman’s daughter, trusted too easily for her own good.

Except, of course, when it came to him, but he was working on that.

One of the boys who’d gone to fetch family members returned, towing his older brother by the sleeve. The pair were quickly followed by the other four boys with their willing elders in tow. Most weren’t fathers but older brothers and cousins, hale and strong from working on the docks. When all were assembled, they had twelve men, in addition to Jellicoe, Cross, and Kit himself.

Kit glanced at Sylvia, and she stepped forward. In a clear voice, she thanked the men for coming and outlined the proposed sequence of ferrying items to Trinity Street. “I’ll go ahead and open up the hall there. Please, before you leave the warehouse with anything, notify Miss Meggs”—Sylvia waved to the school assistant, who now stood by the warehouse door, board and pencil in hand—“so she can ensure that we successfully get everything to its new home.”

The men nodded readily.

One said, “We’re pleased to help, miss. But about our money...?”

Kit stepped forward. “Come to me at the end of the day for payment—at that time, I’ll be at the Trinity Street hall.” Kit ran his gaze over the boys and men alike. “And the end of our day is as soon as we clear this building and ferry everything to the new hall.”

The boys cheered, and the men looked eager to start lifting and carrying.

Kit waved them forward with the stipulation “Two to a desk. We don’t want any dropped and broken.”

The move got under way, with everyone in high good spirits. The men could easily handle a desk between two, and the boys loaded their arms with books and slates.

As Kit had suspected, Jellicoe and Cross folded the stands of the two big blackboards, then carefully set the boards into strap-like slings and set off, each carrying one of the boards slung on his back and the folded stand in his hands.

There was no spare man with whom Kit could partner. He looked around, amid the chaos of boys arguing over who should take what, trying to assess what item would be most useful for him to cart.

Sylvia had paused to speak with Miss Meggs and ensure that everyone was having their loads noted. Kit lifted a pile of slates, which was surprisingly heavy; wrapping his arms about the stack, he hoisted it and joined Sylvia as—apparently realizing how many men and desks had already passed out of the warehouse on their way to Trinity Street—she somewhat distractedly farewelled Miss Meggs. Seeing Kit with the slates, she waved him on and bent to lift a smaller box of chalks. Miss Meggs made a note and smiled and nodded to them both to proceed. Kit stepped out, pleased to find Sylvia falling in beside him.

“We’ll have to hurry.” She was, indeed, bustling along purposefully. “There’s no sense in the men reaching the hall before us. They won’t know where to leave the desks.”

Smiling, Kit inclined his head and, lengthening his stride, easily kept pace.

They strode quickly up Princes Street, electing to avoid the busy quay for as long as they could. She glanced sidelong at him several times, then said, “I didn’t expect you to carry things yourself. Your coat is likely to get chalk dust on it.”

He bent a faintly teasing smile on her. “My man will tut, but I really don’t care. A coat is a coat, after all.”

When she continued to look as if him carting things was something of a social solecism, he sighed. “Think of this as me ensuring that the warehouse is completely cleared by day’s end.”

At that, she looked openly disbelieving. “You didn’t have to help carry things to ensure that—you’ve already done more than I expected.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then quietly said, “Is it so hard to believe that I honestly like helping people?”

The way she blinked at him before she faced forward suggested it had been, despite her “Of course not. I just...hadn’t expected it.”

He hoped she was readjusting her image of him—one of his less-obvious motives.

Their procession had to cross the drawbridge over the Frome, and as the bridge was presently raised, they caught up with their eager helpers there, in the shadow of Viell’s Tower. The instant the ship had passed and the bridge was lowered, everyone set off again. Less encumbered than the other adults, Sylvia and Kit drew ahead.

When they got to the hall, he reached across and lifted the box of chalks from her arms. When she looked about to protest—the chalk!—he grinned. “I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”