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“Perhaps just have them stack the packages on the porch,” Sylvia murmured.
Kit nodded and halted, facing the now-surly gang. Sylvia walked on and went up the steps and into the hall, gathering the younger boys who had been hanging about the door and shooing them deeper into the hall.
As soon as she’d passed inside, Kit tipped his head toward the porch. “Stack the packages there, and then I’d like a word.”
Warily, the youths complied, then re-formed in a close knot on the pavement before Kit, who had set his packages at his feet.
“Right, then.” He studied the four, who shifted and shuffled. He waited until they were completely still, then said, “The moral of this story is don’t pick on others smaller or younger than yourselves. It’s an easy rule to remember, and I trust you will, indeed, remember it from now on. I’ve taken up residence in the city, and should I hear of any of you being involved in a similar incident or anything worse, I’ll make a point of taking it up with the local authorities. In a nutshell, whenever you’re tempted to do something wrong, remember that there’s always a chance that someone—like me—will be watching. Do you understand?”
They shuffled some more, but managed to mumble, “Yes, m’lord.”
Kit wasn’t entirely satisfied, but there was only so much he could do. “Very well. I believe you have somewhere else to be.”
It took them a second to comprehend that they were being dismissed, then—still wary—they bobbed their heads and skirted around him, giving him a wide berth before, increasingly rapidly, walking back toward the river.
Kit watched them go, then inwardly shook his head. He’d been tempted to see if any of the four needed a job, but the likelihood was that all of them did, and he couldn’t saddle Wayland and whoever he hired as foreman with all four.
Bending, Kit scooped up the packages he’d carried and carted them into the hall.
The scene inside was one of furious activity, with the hired men shifting desks into position and boys running this way and that, ferrying stools, unpacked books, slates, chalks, and all manner of educational impedimenta hither and yon. Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs were directing the scurrying ant-like flow.
Sylvia stood to one side, watching it all with a smile on her face.
Kit set down the last two packages on a desk. Miss Meggs sent him a distracted smile, then directed two boys to untie the strings.
Kit sauntered over to Sylvia. She glanced at him, and he was again struck by the immense difference between the woman now before him and the chilly, reserved lady he’d encountered at his brother’s wedding. “I take it all is going well?” he asked.
“Astonishingly well.” After a further moment of surveying the action, she said, “Once they get everything tidied away, I believe they’ll have earned the rest of the day off.”
“They have worked diligently.”
A shadow darkened the door, and he and Sylvia turned to see the tavern keeper’s wife bearing a huge tray laden with sandwiches.
Miss Meggs hurried forward. She waved the woman to a long trestle table set up along the front wall of the hall. “If you’ll set everything down there...?”
With a grin at the boys and the men—who had all stopped to watch—the tavern wife came in and set down her burden. She was followed by three younger women carting pottery jars of cider and a basket of tin mugs. At the rear of the procession came a burly youth bearing another huge platter of sandwiches.
“There you go, your lordship.” The tavern wife, having set down her burden, turned to Kit with a huge smile. “Been a pleasure doing business, and if you need anything else, just send, and we’ll deliver.”
Kit smiled. “Thank you. This should be sufficient, but”—he tipped his head toward the boys, now gathering in an expectant pack and eyeing the sandwiches as if they were gold—“with a lot like this, one never knows.”
“Aye, you have that right.” The tavern wife beamed at the children, then looked shrewdly around. “A good idea, this—keeps them off the streets and teaches them their letters and hopefully”—she mock-glared at the boys—“some manners as well.”
The entire platoon of boys adopted angelic expressions.
“Huh.” The tavern wife turned from the boys and looked at Sylvia. “If you’d like, miss, me and Bertha can stay and take the platters and things away later. And we’ll make sure there’s no ruckus over the serving.”
“Thank you. That would be a help.” Sylvia motioned to Miss Meggs. “We’ll get the boys in order and send them to you.”
Kit found a stool against the wall, perched on it, and watched Sylvia and Miss Meggs, assisted by Jellicoe and Cross, marshal the boys into a queue in order of youngest to oldest.
Next came the men he’d hired, all good-naturedly grinning and chatting with each other and, occasionally, with the two teachers.
Once the boys and men had helped themselves, Sylvia waved Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs to the table, then looked at Kit.
He rose and ambled across to join her as she trailed at the end of the queue.
The platters of sandwiches had held up under the onslaught; there were still more than enough left to satisfy even Kit. Not that he was all that hungry; he’d enjoyed a substantial breakfast courtesy of Dalgetty, the male cook Gordon had hired, who had proved to have an excellent grasp of what men like Kit preferred to eat.
After helping himself to one of the substantial sandwiches and a mug of the sharp cider, he perched on a stool beside Sylvia and the teachers and Miss Meggs and ate.
Cross gestured at Kit with his sandwich. “Thank you, my lord. This sets the icing on our day.”
“Indeed.” Jellicoe tipped his head Kit’s way. “I have to own to being amazed. I would never have imagined we could shift the entire school in less than a day. And with no fuss, much less major dramas.” Jellicoe gestured widely with his mug. “This took teamwork—and is an excellent lesson for the boys in what can be accomplished when we all pull together.”
The others, Kit included, nodded.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Sylvia nibble delicately on a sandwich...
He shifted on the stool and told himself to focus on something else.
Such as Cavanaugh Yachts and what more he could do to move things along.
The answer was: not a great deal at this moment in time.
Strangely, he felt comfortably resigned to that.
He’d been facing a day of frustrating inactivity as far as getting the workshop under way, but thanks to Sylvia and the school and all who had crossed his path that day, he was feeling content in the sense of having achieved something worthwhile.
He glanced around the hall—at the boys happily sitting cross-legged on the floor, at the men...
An earlier idea resurfaced in his mind.
He turned to Sylvia and the others. When they looked at him inquiringly, he tipped his head toward the men, gathered in a circle beyond the boys. “Do any of you know if any of those who’ve assisted us today are carpenters? Or for that matter, whether any of the boys’ fathers or relatives are shipwrights or carpenters?”
Jellicoe replied, “I would say almost certainly, but we tend not to make a point of their fathers’ occupations.”
“That said,” Miss Meggs put in, “I do know that several of the boys are only at the school because it’s free, and their fathers aren’t here now because they’re out looking for work, as they are every day. Other men, sadly, have simply given up. What with the new iron ships and what I understand are changes in construction, a lot of the older shipwrights and carpenters have been out of work for years.”
Kit nodded. “Those are the sort of experienced craftsmen my partner and I are seeking to hire.” He transferred his gaze to Sylvia. “Would it be all right if I asked the boys to take home word of Cavanaugh Yachts and that we’re hiring shipwrights and carpenters?”
“I can’t see why not.” Sylvia looked at Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs, who all looked as unperturbed by Kit’s suggestion as she. She turned back to him. “By all means. The more boys with fathers employed, the better.”
Kit grinned and polished off his sandwich. He drained his mug, then returned it to the trestle and continued deeper into the hall. After passing the boys with a general smile, he stopped by the men, seated on the floor; when they started to gather themselves to rise, he waved them back.
“First, to your wages.” He drew the pouch of shillings from his pocket, crouched, counted out the coins, and paid each man.
All grinned and thanked him, genial and relaxed.
“Now, to further business.” Kit returned the depleted pouch to his pocket. “My partner and I are starting up a yacht-building business in the old warehouse—that’s why we had to move the school here. We’re looking to hire shipwrights and carpenters—those skilled in assembling wooden hulls.” He now had the men’s avid attention—and that of the boys, their ears wagging as well; he included the latter group with a glance. “If you know of any craftsmen with experience in those fields, then my partner—Mr. Wayland Cobworth—would be happy to see them at the warehouse from tomorrow. We’ll be starting work then, fitting out the warehouse as our workshop.”
The men exchanged glances, then one of them said, “We’ll pass the word around. Some may be interested.”
Kit nodded and rose. “Thank you.” He looked at the tavern wife and her nearly empty table. “By all means take any food left over—we wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
The men grinned and scrambled to their feet. “Aye, m’lord.” One saluted him. “We’ll head off now, if all’s done?”
Kit consulted Sylvia, then they stood together on the porch and waved the men away.
At a call for a moment’s assistance from Miss Meggs, Kit ducked back inside.
The tavern wife and her daughter, carrying the empty platters and jugs and the basket of mugs, appeared in the doorway.
Sylvia stepped aside to allow them to pass. “Thank you for that feast.”
“Our pleasure, miss,” the tavern wife replied. “If you’ve ever the need for the like again, just stop in—we’re only around the corner on the Butts.”
Sylvia assured the woman that she would remember, then stood and watched the pair walk off up the street. She was about to turn inside when her attention snagged on an older lady, garbed head to toe in black bombazine, who was standing poker straight behind the gate of a house farther up the street. The woman was staring fixedly at the school. There was something in the concerted focus of the woman’s stare that left Sylvia with the impression it was more of a glare.
After a moment, she mentally shrugged, turned, and went into the hall.
“I can’t believe we’re almost done!” Miss Meggs appeared and showed Sylvia the long list of activities the assistant had compiled, each now struck through. Miss Meggs looked to where Kit was assisting Cross and Jellicoe in placing the big blackboards, which, given that the hall was properly leased, they could now leave in situ. Miss Meggs lowered her voice. “I have to say I was surprised to see his lordship...well, get his hands dirty, as it were. One would have thought he would hold himself above carting books and slates and fiddling with blackboards.”
One would. Sylvia studied Kit. “He enjoys it, I think.” He’d certainly seemed to, and the readiness with which he’d helped had earned him an acceptance among all at the school—and with the hired men, too—he wouldn’t otherwise have had.
Finally, the blackboards were positioned and every last book, slate, and piece of chalk had been put in its proper place. Jellicoe and Cross declared themselves satisfied that all was in readiness to commence lessons the next day.
The boys cheered.
Then Sylvia called them to attention and announced that, in light of their sterling efforts, given all was as it needed to be for the school to carry on, she believed the boys could be excused for the day.
The cheer her words elicited rattled the rafters.
“Very well, boys,” Jellicoe said. “You’ve heard Miss Buckleberry. Off you go, and make sure you’re here on time tomorrow morning.”
With whoops and more cheers, the boys headed for the door and streamed out and away.
Kit waited while Sylvia consulted with Jellicoe and Cross, then farewelled Miss Meggs. He followed the teachers and Sylvia out of the door.
She locked up and held out the key to Jellicoe. “I’ll call sometime tomorrow to see if anything has cropped up.”
“I can’t see what will.” Jellicoe accepted the key, then glanced at Kit and smiled. “We now have a stable place to call home, and Cross and I, and Meggs, too, are determined to make the most of it.”
Kit returned the smile and lightly touched Sylvia’s back, urging her down the steps before him. He’d had other motives—ulterior motives—beyond helping the school, yet that ambition had grown during the day to be significantly more important than it had been that morning.
Miss Meggs had already hurried up the street toward the Abbey. After noting her dwindling figure, the rest of them turned toward the river.
They ambled along in the westering light, a sense of contentment—of achievement—wrapping about the four of them. They turned left into the street that followed the river—the Butts, as it was called. A little farther on, they passed the churchyard of St. Augustine’s Church and continued into the section of street known as St. Augustine’s Back. Kit and Sylvia parted from Jellicoe and Cross just before the drawbridge. The teachers entered a tall lodging house, while Kit and Sylvia continued to the steps and climbed onto the bridge.
They paused by the railing to watch a ship steaming down the Frome, then walked on.
“When you were talking to the men,” Sylvia said, “you mentioned a partner—a Mr. Cobworth.”
Kit nodded. “Wayland Cobworth. He’s an old school friend from Eton days and has become a designer of yachts. He and I share a passion for ocean-going yachts and have for more than a decade, so when I decided building yachts was what I wanted to do, finding Wayland and convincing him to become my partner was the obvious next step.” He caught her eyes and smiled. “You can’t build yachts without a designer, and Wayland is world-class.”
She lightly frowned. “Was he the man you were chasing in the West Indies when Rand and Felicia announced their engagement?”
“Yes—I was in Bermuda when the letter telling me of their impending nuptials reached me. I had to leap on the next ship to make it back in time, but luckily, by then, I’d persuaded Wayland to throw in his lot with mine.” Kit glanced in the direction of the warehouse. “He had to remain for several more weeks, but he followed and arrived last week. He’s been spending the day interviewing men for the business.”
She looked at him curiously. “You’re not involved?”
His lips twitched into a grin. “Wayland and I make a good team—we have complementary skills. He’s a superb designer and knows to a T what sort of craftsmen we need and which particular supplies, tools, and timbers. As a designer, a creator, he’s exacting and precise, but he’s hopeless at organizing beyond that sphere—dealing with suppliers, bankers, invoices and wages, investors, and all that sort of thing. He’s too impatient—he just wants to build yachts.”
She nodded. “All the day-to-day decisions and actions.” She glanced at his face. “That’s not so very different to my role with the school.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed, it’s very much the same. You organize, and Jellicoe and Cross teach. I organize, and Wayland designs and builds.”
“And when it comes to selling what you build?”
“That will be mostly up to me, with Wayland enthusing in the background.” His fond smile fading, he glanced at her. “I can’t tell you how thrilled Wayland was at the prospect of getting into the warehouse a day early. He’s champing at the bit to start transforming the space into our workshop, so that when the bulk of the men he’s hiring turn up on Monday, he’ll have everything ready to start laying our first keel.”
They’d reached the front of the building that housed Kit’s office. He halted and looked at her. “Which way are you headed?”
“Home.” She waved farther along King Street. “I live not far away, and with the school ready but shut, there’s nothing more I need to do today.”
He waved her on. “I’ll see you home.”
Sylvia hesitated for only a second, then inclined her head in acceptance. “Thank you.” Were this London, any gentleman of his class would make the same offer, and any lady with her head on her shoulders would acquiesce. Viewed in that light, him escorting her home didn’t mean anything beyond simple courtesy, something she suspected that, in him, was ingrained.
Side by side, they strolled on along King Street, the soft sunshine of the afternoon laying gently across their shoulders.
He’d slipped his hands into his greatcoat pockets and was looking down at the pavement before them. “I also want to thank you—and the school—for the chance to reach out to the sort of craftsmen Wayland and I most need to contact. That was a bonus.”
Smiling at his earnestness, she looked ahead. “I think all associated with the school would say that you’ve earned any advantage the school community can hand you.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that much—it was easy for me to do.” He glanced briefly at her. “It was you who showed me the way—who opened my door and laid the opportunity at my feet. I just picked it up.”
She suppressed a snort, but there was no real way to counter that argument.
She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. It was close enough to the truth, yet...
She was starting to realize he had a habit of self-deprecation, of making light of what he did—often, it seemed, because he was wealthy and matters were easy for him to arrange. Because his assistance cost him nothing beyond money he could readily afford.
But was it correct to discount his contribution purely because it was easy for him to make?
She suspected her father would say not and, instead, maintain that the actions of men possessed the same intrinsic value regardless of wealth.
They reached the corner of King Street and Back Street, and she waved to their left. “It’s this way.”
