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 facade, 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.