Chapter 8 #2
Sylvia, her reticule now in hand and her coat on, walked up.
She paused beside Kit and, with her gaze on the departing trio, said, “All three of them stressed how deeply you attaching your name to the school and arranging a sign that will make that public has affected the boys. It seems they’ve all taken it to heart—their behavior has improved, along with their application.
” She briefly met his eyes, the approval in hers very real.
“I know you thought to protect the school by having your name and title so openly stamped upon it, yet in truth, the rise in the boys’ confidence—in their belief in their own self-worth—might well be the most valuable benefit to come from the sign. ”
He lightly shrugged. “I’ll be delighted if that’s so.” He waved her on. As he followed her through the door, he realized he’d spoken truly; he did feel a certain pleasure—one of unlooked-for achievement—at the thought.
He waited while she locked the door. When she turned and arched her brows at him, he asked, “Wither away?”
She looked along the street toward the city. “To my office. There are a few invoices and orders I need to clear away.”
He understood the impulse to clear one’s desk at the end of the day. “I’ll escort you there.”
Sylvia accepted his offer with an inclination of her head and started down the steps.
They strolled side by side through the gathering dusk. The scents of autumn were riding the rising breeze, adding an earthy tang to the air.
They drew level with the Stenshaw house, and Sylvia glanced that way, but again, saw no sign of activity. She hadn’t seen Mrs. Stenshaw since they’d left her in her drawing room on Saturday.
Kit had noticed her look. “Any further trouble from that quarter?”
His tone suggested he would react if there had been; she debated mentioning her odd sense of being watched the previous afternoon, but… “No.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Stenshaw seems to have given up all active opposition to the school. She doesn’t even come out to glower at us.”
“Good.”
They walked around the corner onto the Butts.
She glanced at his face; as usual, it told her little. “How are things going at the warehouse?”
A quick grin flashed into being, and he met her eyes. “I’m amazed. Wayland’s amazed. We’ve actually laid the bilge board of our first keel.”
She smiled. “I take it that’s a remarkable achievement.”
“In just a few days? It most certainly is, especially as we had to do a great deal of preparation work to convert the warehouse to a functioning yacht-building workshop.”
“What sort of preparation?”
He grew animated as he told her, strong hands waving to indicate size and position.
She hadn’t seen him like this before—in full flight, given over to his passion.
“Actually,” he said as they neared the drawbridge and he took her elbow to steady her up the steps, “I have to thank you anew for the chance to use your pupils as messengers. Several of the men we’ve hired came to us because the boys spread the word—we wouldn’t have found them otherwise.”
She nodded in understanding. “Many of the older craftsmen have given up and are no longer even looking for work.”
“Exactly—and some of those are the very craftsmen we need to build our yachts to the quality we’re determined to achieve.”
And he was off again, describing the features they hoped to incorporate into their yachts. She found his enthusiasm very like that of the boys—infectious and engaging.
They were descending the steps on the east bank of the Frome when she again sensed that disturbing—unnerving—tickle of primitive reaction slithering across her nape. Stepping down to the pavement, she glanced swiftly around.
Kit noticed. Instantly alert, he raised his head and looked around, too—and the sensation vanished.
“What is it?” Kit demanded. Every protective instinct he possessed had leapt to the fore the instant she’d abruptly paused and glanced around, and the way she’d looked around had only escalated his concern. He returned his gaze to her face to see her frowning into the distance.
Then she grimaced. Her chin firming, she shook her head. “It’s…annoying more than anything else.” She glanced at him and briefly met his eyes before starting to walk again, more purposefully now.
He fell in beside her. When he simply waited, his gaze on her profile, she sighed and said, “Yesterday, I stopped by the school to check supplies, to check in general, and when I was walking home, I got that feeling one gets when someone is watching you.”
Kit glanced back, thinking of the route they’d covered. “Was it in the same place that you sensed the watcher? Around the bridge on this side?”
“No. Yesterday, it happened while I was on the Butts. I looked around then, too, but…” She gestured. “All I saw was the same thing I saw today—that you saw as well. Lots of ordinary people going about their business. No one skulking. Especially no suspicious youths.”
“You think it’s the Stenshaw lads?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? But”—she shrugged—“who knows?”
She kept walking, and he paced alongside her, more bothered than he let show.
After several yards, she murmured, “Perhaps I’m just jumpy after the fire.”
He seriously doubted that was the case; from all he’d seen of her, she had a backbone of iron and nerves of steel.
They continued along Clare Street into Corn Street. He could see the tower of Christ Church looming ahead.
In his mind, he assessed every possible angle—every direction from which a threat might come.
He remembered the man he’d seen walking away from the warehouse.
He hadn’t been in the city long enough to have acquired any enemies here.
After a moment, he asked, “Do you know of any enemies—people who might wish you ill?”
The look she bent on him suggested he’d taken leave of his senses. “No. Of course not. I have no enemies.”
He grimaced and let the matter drop, but he wasn’t going to forget it.
He’d long ago learned to trust intuition regarding such nebulous threats—and not only his intuition.
No matter how she tried to downplay it, she’d been disturbed by the watcher’s attention.
That alone meant something, and it wasn’t anything good.
Surreptitiously, he glanced around again, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to them.
Looking at her, he studied what little he could see of her face, then ventured, “You would be entertained if you could be a fly on the wall and see the change in our men—and in Jack the Lad—whenever Miss Petty darkens the workshop door.”
Sylvia smiled and met his eyes. “Miss Petty and Jack the Lad?”
“Haven’t I mentioned them?” Kit put his experience at being a charming companion to good use and soon had Sylvia smiling and laughing again.
But as he followed her through the door of the building beside the church, he decided that, instead of leaving her at her office door, he would dally and walk her all the way home.