Chapter 8
Sylvia couldn’t resist calling at the school on Sunday afternoon. She told herself she needed to check on stationery supplies and see how much ink they actually required, but in reality, her motivation owed more to a simple wish to reassure herself that no further attack had occurred.
To convince herself that Mrs. Stenshaw had been successful in impressing on her wayward sons the magnitude of the risk they now courted in even thinking of harming the school.
But all was well at the hall. She checked the rear yard, and it was clear Jellicoe and Cross had been back; the woodpile had been reassembled against the rear fence, the cobbles had been swept, and there was little to show for the previous day’s drama—just a few blackened and blistering streaks on the paint of the back door.
Making a mental note to have a workman in to strip and repaint the door, Sylvia relocked it, then returned to the hall to do a quick stocktake of the stationery supplies.
As she sorted and made notes, her mind circled through the events of the previous day. Reviewing her feelings and the way she’d reacted, not just to the happenings but also to Kit and his role in them.
He’d been…more than supportive. He’d been a rock, unwavering in his commitment to what, in her heart, was her school. Her creation.
She snorted softly—at herself. When he’d offered to put his name on the school, she’d instantly seen the benefits, but had wondered about what drawbacks might also accrue. Such as him taking over.
After all, his role in his yacht-building enterprise was very much the mirror of hers at the school. He organized and made things happen.
She’d been alert to the possibility that he might decide to organize her and the school as well.
But he hadn’t.
All through yesterday, he’d referred to her—sometimes with just a glance, yet invariably, he’d checked that he’d had her approval before taking action regarding the school. Indeed, throughout the various incidents and interviews, they’d made an effective team.
Perhaps through filling a similar role in his own business, he was more sensitive to how she saw her role with the school.
Regardless, his assistance had been an unalloyed boon; the downside she’d feared hadn’t eventuated in even the slightest degree.
Of course, he had tried to shield her from the nastiness of Mrs. Stenshaw, but from all she’d learned from Felicia and, even more, from Felicia’s sister-in-law, Mary, that was only to be expected of men of his family—men of his background; apparently, they were bred to be protective to a fault.
After checking the shelves of the small cabinet Miss Meggs used to store the stationery, Sylvia scanned her notes, then closed her notebook and slipped it into her reticule. She tugged the reticule’s strings tight as she cast a last glance around the hall.
All appeared in prefect order for Monday’s lessons.
Satisfied—still feeling the buoying effect of their previous evening’s triumph—she walked to the front door and let herself out.
After locking the door, she went down the steps and set out along the pavement, heading toward the river.
She glanced across the street at the Stenshaw house, but saw no movement, not even of the curtains.
Smiling to herself, she walked on.
She’d just turned into the Butts, the street that ran along the west bank of the Frome, when the sensation of being watched raised the hairs on her nape.
Keeping her expression relaxed, she walked on for some yards, but the sensation persisted—indeed, it grew stronger.
She halted and pretended to search for something in her reticule, shifting so that she could surreptitiously look back the way she’d come.
The street was far from deserted; it was a popular place for strolling on a Sunday afternoon.
A dozen or so couples were indulging in the last of the afternoon’s sunshine and steadfastly ignoring the three touts, who wore placards front and back and were exhorting all and sundry to attend one or other chapel.
Such touts were a common sight throughout the city.
Being a major center in Methodist country, Bristol played host to literally dozens of chapels, some more sincerely God-fearing than others.
Sylvia had heard that some chapels were little more than venues in which charlatans preached fire and brimstone in order to fleece those gullible enough to flock through their doors.
Lowering her reticule, she straightened and openly surveyed the street and the houses fronting it, but could see no sign of anyone who might have been staring at her. Indeed, the sensation had ceased as soon as she’d swung around.
Lips primming, she raised her chin, turned, and continued on her way.
It had to be the Stenshaw boys, watching her from some alleyway.
“Nasty people,” she muttered and made for the bridge.
As Monday waned and the end of the working day approached, Kit used a rag to wipe his hands, then shrugged on his coat and walked to where Wayland stood studying the bilge board currently taking shape in the framework they’d erected to support their first hull.
Kit halted beside his friend and surveyed the sight with appreciation and not a little satisfaction.
One team of carpenters, working under Mulligan, was shaping the board that would become the central base plank of the keel, while another team under Shaw’s direction was hammering away in the offices, which were nearly ready for occupation.
Glancing that way, Kit noticed Miss Petty keeping a watchful eye on the finishing touches Shaw himself was installing.
She’d arrived not long ago to check the progress on what would be her space—hers and Mulligan’s—in the workshop.
Her arrival had instantly put Mulligan—and the men and even Jack—on their best behavior, a change that both Kit and Wayland viewed with considerable amusement.
All was settling so very smoothly into place, Kit was almost starting to feel nervous.
Almost, but not quite; after all, he’d worked hard to ensure everything did come together, men, building, and tools included.
After several seconds more of looking around and finding nothing remotely amiss, Kit glanced at Wayland.
Before Kit could speak, Wayland waved at the new keel. “If I wasn’t seeing this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe we’ve got so far so quickly.” He met Kit’s eyes and grinned. “For the record, I’m damned glad I threw in my lot with you and your mad idea of Cavanaugh Yachts.”
Kit grinned back. “Nothing mad about it—as my brothers will tell you, this is a finely crafted venture.”
“Hah!” Wayland looked back at the keel. “As your designer-builder, I can hardly disagree.”
Kit shifted, then said, “As everything is going well here, I think I’ll call in at the school.”
Instantly, Wayland—who Kit had told about the fire—sobered. He met Kit’s eyes and nodded. “Yes. Go. If those blighters are watching, then seeing you checking in might underscore that they need to keep a good distance.”
Kit nodded. “Indeed.”
Wayland waved. “Go. I’ll lock up here.” He started toward the men, flinging over his shoulder, “We’ve all in hand.”
Kit smiled. He turned toward the open doors, then remembered and diverted to the office to tell Miss Petty he was off to the school.
She looked at him with approval. “Very good, my lord. Should anyone inquire for you at this late hour, I will take their details and suggest they try again tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Miss Petty.” Kit grinned at Shaw, who was having to work under her eagle eye. “I’ll leave you to your supervising.”
Unseen by Miss Petty, Shaw rolled his eyes, but by the time she turned back, he was hammering again.
Kit stepped out of the workshop into the rather gloomy day.
It had been overcast from morning, and a chill wind was whipping off the choppy waters of the Floating Harbor.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he started off along the cobbles toward Princes Street.
As he drew level with the mouth of an alley, he sensed movement, turned his head, and saw a man striding away up the alley.
He watched the man for a second, but the fellow continued on, then Kit was past the alley and turned his eyes and mind toward the school.
Kit wasn’t surprised to find Sylvia at the school; in many respects, they seemed to think along similar lines.
He halted just inside the open door. As it was past four o’clock, the boys were long gone, and judging by their scarves and coats, Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs were on the point of leaving.
Jellicoe and Cross nodded genially Kit’s way, and Miss Meggs bobbed a curtsy.
Sylvia, tidying something away in a cupboard, turned and welcomed him with a smile.
Kit smiled back, then nodded to the other three. “All well here?”
“Better than well,” Cross replied, winding his scarf about his neck. “The excitement of the fire has proved a seven-day wonder with the boys, and Jellicoe and I have been elevated to the status of heroes.”
“As for you,” Jellicoe said, “now the news of you adding your name to the school and putting up a sign to prove it has broken, you occupy an even higher level in the boys’ estimation.”
Miss Meggs, a trifle pink, murmured, “Your claiming of them, as it were, has made a very real impression on the boys.”
With nods of farewell to him and to Sylvia, Jellicoe and Cross escorted Miss Meggs out of the door.