Kit waved toward the door; Hemmings and Finch were still waiting there. As he and Wayland crossed toward them, Kit called, “Thank you for arranging this, gentlemen.”
“Our pleasure, your lordship.” Rubbing his hands together, Hemmings stepped back as Kit and Wayland, having collected and doused the lanterns, emerged from the warehouse. “I take it all is satisfactory?”
“Entirely,” Kit returned with a reassuring smile.
Wayland handed his lanterns to Kit and helped Finch close the warehouse doors.
Kit watched Finch secure the latch with the padlock. Recalling the desks they’d seen and with Wayland’s words rolling around in his head, when Finch turned, Kit caught his eye. “Might some of the men attending the charity”—Kit tipped his head toward the warehouse—“be suitable for employment in our yacht-building enterprise?”
Finch blinked, then cut another of those weighted glances at Hemmings. After a second, Finch returned his gaze to Kit and shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely, my lord. But there’s an excellent labor exchange just around the corner on the quay.” Finch pointed in that direction. “For carpenters and the like, that’s where I’d ask—it’s the most likely place to find workmen of the sort I believe you’ll need.”
Keeping his expression relaxed and uninformative, Kit studied Finch for a heartbeat; something about the charity made Finch and Hemmings nervous, but Kit couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Thank you.” Kit inclined his head to Finch. “Either myself or Mr. Cobworth will call there tomorrow.”
He and Wayland parted from the two Dock Company men with handshakes, renewed thanks, and cordiality all around, then, on Hemmings’s recommendation, Kit and Wayland headed for the Dragon’s Head public house for dinner.
* * *
Sylvia Buckleberry sat at the small desk in her cramped office in the shadow of Christ Church and, head bent, carefully tallied her ledgers, penny by penny accounting for the expenditures of the previous month.
Outside the small window at her back, the morning was fine, the sky a soft autumnal blue with a gentle breeze skating fluffy white clouds across the heavens. The cooing of the doves that nested around the church tower provided a pleasant background drone, punctuated by the skittering of ravens on nearby roofs.
Sylvia did her best to blot out the distractions of the pleasant day. Arithmetic had never been her strong suit, but given she was spending the parish’s funds, she made sure the bills added up to the last halfpenny.
She’d almost reached the end of the last column when a sharp rap fell on her closed door. Suppressing a most unladylike hiss, she grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a note of her total, then set aside her pencil and, closing the ledger, looked up and called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and three gentlemen filed in—or tried to; they had to leave the door open to have room enough to stand.
Sylvia’s heart sank as she recognized her callers. It had been over two years since she’d last seen the three together; all were figures in the local community and served on the Bristol Dock Company’s board—Mr. Forsythe, the mayor, Mr. Hoskins, one of the aldermen, and, lastly, Mr. Finch, secretary to the board.
Oh, no. The sight of Finch, in particular, did not bode well.
She forced a bright smile to her lips and adopted an expression she hoped appeared guileless. “Mr. Forsythe, Mr. Hoskins, and Mr. Finch.” She inclined her head to each. “Good morning, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The three exchanged glances, then the mayor shuffled forward to take the single small chair that sat before the desk. The chair creaked faintly as his weight settled upon it, then he leaned forward and earnestly said, “My dear Miss Buckleberry, I’m sure you recall the terms of our agreement regarding your school using the premises on the Grove.”
Sylvia recalled the stipulations attached to the use of the old warehouse very well. However, she simply stared blankly at the mayor while her mind scrambled...
Surely not. The dockyards were in decline. Who on earth would want the old warehouse?
When the mayor seemed as disinclined to speak as she, she ventured, “I’m not sure I understand...” Always better to have them think her a dim-witted female; she was more likely to gain concessions that way.
Mr. Hoskins cleared his throat, then offered, “Our allowing the school to use the warehouse was, if you recall, on the condition that no business required the space—that is, no business that would pay to lease the place and create jobs for the local men.”
Sylvia had transferred her gaze to Hoskins; his words sent a chill lancing through her.
Finch shifted impatiently. “The truth, Miss Buckleberry, is that a new business has taken a lease on the warehouse, commencing from the beginning of next week. The school will need to vacate the premises by week’s end.”
Trust Finch to put it bluntly; his words were the blow Sylvia had suspected was coming the instant she’d seen his face. He’d always been a reluctant supporter, but whether it was her he didn’t approve of or the notion behind the school, she’d never determined.
“As we’re all well aware,” the mayor hurried to say, “the city is facing some difficulty regarding ongoing work for our many ship workers and dockworkers. It’s not a crisis, per se, but...well, we can’t afford to turn any such business away.”
Sylvia blinked. “Surely there are other warehouses?”
“Not of the sort this company needs. Not on our docks,” Mr. Hoskins informed her. “And while we realize this must come as an unwelcome surprise, we’re sure you’ll agree that it’s critically important to accommodate the sort of businesses who can hire the men otherwise unemployed—men like the parents of your pupils.”
“Sad though I am to say it, Miss Buckleberry,” the mayor went on, “jobs for the fathers must take precedence over teaching the sons.”
Sylvia knew the situation in the city, especially on the docks. In the circumstances, she couldn’t argue.
“Besides,” Finch said, “as I understand it, the end purpose of teaching the boys is to enable them to get jobs, but if there are no jobs, then what is the point of schools such as yours?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that the school wasn’t “hers,” yet it didn’t really matter; Finch was correct.
Reluctantly, she inclined her head, accepting if not exactly agreeing. She focused on the mayor. “You say we must be out of the warehouse by Friday. I’m left facing the question of where the school is to go.” She arched her brows and, with her gaze, included all three men. “Do you have any suggestions, gentlemen?”
Even Finch had the grace to look sheepish—or at least as sheepish as he could.
“Sadly, I don’t.” The mayor shifted on the chair, eliciting a protesting creak.
“If I hear of any possible location,” Mr. Hoskins said, “I will immediately let you know.”
“There is no other suitable property on the company’s books,” Finch stated.
The mayor hauled out his fob watch and looked at it. “Good gracious! Is that the time?” Tucking the watch back into his waistcoat pocket, he rose and essayed a commiserating smile. “The Dock Company regrets the impact on the school, my dear, but we cannot be other than pleased to welcome a new business to our docks.”
She was forced to murmur appropriate phrases as the men took their leave.
As the door closed behind them, she slumped back in her chair.
Of all the potential disasters...
After