The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

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.”

As they strolled on, she asked, “Have you seen Rand and Felicia recently?”

He nodded. “After the wedding, I stayed at Raventhorne Abbey, and they visited several times—their last visit was just before I left to come here.” He glanced at her face. “They’re both well.” After a moment, he asked, “Does Felicia know you live here—in Bristol?”

She blinked, then, considering the question, frowned. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve mentioned the school—she knows all about that and my association with it—but I’m not sure I’ve actually told her I’ve removed to Bristol myself.” She glanced briefly his way and met his caramel eyes. “I do know she sent news of her wedding to my home in the country—my father sent it on.”

“And where is your home in the country?”

“Saltford. It’s a small town on the Bath Road between Bristol and Bath. My father has the living there.” She glanced at him. “Do you have a house in the country you call home?”

He looked ahead. “Not as such. The Abbey is now Ryder and Mary’s home and purely a place to visit.”

“No house in London?” She imagined a London rakehell of his wealth would definitely have a house in town.

“I used to share lodgings with Rand, but now... If I want to stay in town, I’ll just use my room in Raventhorne House in Mount Street.” His lips twisted wryly. “Truth to tell, I avoid London as much as I can.”

“You do?” That surprised her. “Why?”

He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “The more pertinent question would be: Why wouldn’t I?” When, at a loss, she blinked at him, he elaborated, “There’s nothing that attracts me in London, much less holds my interest. No yacht-building. No sailing of that sort.” He shrugged and looked at the pavement again. “Nothing I fancy.”

Nothing he fancied? Sylvia might have thought he was pulling her leg, but he looked and sounded utterly sincere and combined with what she’d seen of him and learned of him that day...

She was starting to suspect her earlier opinion of Kit Cavanaugh had been not just inaccurate but comprehensively in error.

Which raised the tantalizing prospect of who the man beside her truly was—what manner of man he actually was.

Pondering that, she gestured to the left. “My lodging house is this way, on the far side of the park.”

He turned with her, then asked, “Tell me what you know of the Dock Company.”

That didn’t take long, but his subsequent questions about the city, about the atmosphere now that, with the advent of larger, heavier ships, the dock work was shifting downriver, displayed an inherent grasp of what made communities tick and prosper.

“So,” he said, “the mayor and the city council are stable and entrenched, but are floundering regarding the adjustments necessary to meet the challenges confronting the city.”

She tipped her head. “That’s a reasonable summation. As yet, there’s been no major public protests, but from time to time, the mood turns rather ugly—or should I say dejected?”

He nodded in understanding. “The latter sounds nearer the mark.”

“This is it.” Sylvia paused outside the gate of the terrace house in which she lodged and turned to face the man she had for years regarded as her romantic nemesis; thankfully, he would never know. She put out her hand. “Thank you for your escort.”

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