The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Stephanie Laurens
What am I going to do?
The sounds of a busy morning reached her through the thin glass at her back; horses crisply clopping down the streets, the sound of hurrying footsteps on the pavements, the occasional hailing of a hackney—people rushing about their business. Yet inside her office, her brain seemed to have slowed.
Finch hadn’t been entirely in error—the school was effectively hers. Her dream, her creation—her purpose in life.
After having shared a London Season with her distant cousin and close friend, Felicia Throgmorton, during which neither of them had taken, Sylvia and Felicia both had seen enough of ton life to be quite certain that their futures lay outside that gilded circle.
For Felicia, her “what else?” had been obvious; she’d had an inventor father and inventor brother to keep house for, to corral, steer, and anchor. Admittedly, Felicia had recently married—to a member of the nobility, no less—but she’d met Randolph Cavanaugh at her home, and as Sylvia understood it, neither had any great ambition to waltz in the ton; their interests lay elsewhere, namely in inventions and investing, and Sylvia had to admit that a life at Rand’s side would suit Felicia to the ground.
Sylvia, however, hadn’t been needed at home. Her widowed father, Reverend Buckleberry, held a comfortable living at Saltford, between Bristol and Bath, and had a highly efficient housekeeper to keep him in line and see to all his needs. Her father was a hearty, active soul, deeply engaged with his parish; he hadn’t needed Sylvia to stand by his side.
After returning from London, Sylvia had spent a wasted year at the vicarage, trying to find a purpose to devote herself to. No gentleman had ever tempted her to consider marriage, and somewhere along the way, she’d set aside all dreams of a home and family of her own. She felt perfectly certain that particular option was never going to come her way.
But with marriage off her table, she’d needed some other occupation—something to which to devote her mind, heart, and considerable organizational talents. But with no formal training in anything beyond the usual subjects deemed suitable for young ladies and no fervent obsession to guide her, she’d all but despaired of finding any project with which to occupy her days.
She’d been close to falling into a dejected funk when her father’s close friend the Bishop of Bath and Wells had called at Saltford to spend a few days discussing parish matters with her father, and she’d overheard the bishop bewailing the fact that, despite pressure from the upper levels of both church and state, in Bristol, as yet no progress had been made on establishing a school for the underclass—specifically, for boys whose fathers worked on the docks and in the associated shipyards.
That had been her call to arms—her epiphany when a light had shone from above and illuminated the right path forward.
With the bishop’s and her father’s support, she’d enlisted the aid of the Dean of Christ Church in Bristol—another of her father’s old friends—and, by sheer force of will and personality, had convinced the Christ Church Parish Council to back the establishment of such a school. The parish had agreed to fund the salary for two teachers and an assistant as well as paying for all sundry items such as books, chalks, and slates.
But the council’s one stipulation had been that they couldn’t afford to pay the rent for premises; they had made their offer of funds conditional on a suitable venue being donated free of charge.
Sylvia suspected the elders on the council had thought that stipulation would prove an insurmountable hurdle, but having noticed the empty warehouse facing the Grove and understanding that dockside business was ebbing from the city, she’d petitioned the Dock Company board to grant the school the right to use the warehouse free of charge.
Of course, first, she’d made a point of meeting each of the wives of the gentlemen on the board—at morning teas, at the city library, and at the salon of the city’s most-favored modiste. By dint of casting the school as a socially desirable charity—one the city should support in order to bolster its credentials as a civilized place—she’d enlisted the support of sufficient ladies so that when she’d gone before the board and made her case, she’d been fairly certain of success.
But now that she—the school—had lost the use of the warehouse, and the Dock Company didn’t have another building the school might use...
Without premises donated by some similar entity, the school would not survive.
The thought of the school closing curdled her stomach. She might have started the school as a way to occupy herself, but it had become the obsession she hadn’t previously had. Bad enough that she couldn’t imagine how she would fill her days without it, but now there was far more at stake than that; under her guidance, the teachers and pupils—all seventeen currently attending—had grown into a remarkably engaged group. The pupils attended because they wanted to—because they’d developed a thirst for knowledge and had taken to heart her oft-repeated litany that education was the pathway to their future.
The pupils were committed, the teachers even more so. University-trained, both were devoted educators, as was their less-qualified but equally dedicated assistant.
Sylvia had worked for two and more years to get the school to where it was, and it now delivered something vital for the pupils, the teachers, and, indeed, the city itself—just as she’d told the board members’ wives all those months ago.
She’d succeeded, and all had been running so smoothly...
She stared at the door, then set her chin. “I am not going to allow the school to close.”
That was the first decision—the one from which all else would stem.
“I need to find new premises that someone will donate—I did that once, and I can do it again.” It would be up to her to pull the school’s irons out of the fire. Although the school operated under the aegis of the Dean, from the start, their understanding had been that the school was hers to manage. It was her challenge; there was no one else to act as the school’s champion. That was her role—the role she’d fought for.
“Just as I’m going to fight through this.” Lips thinning, eyes narrowing, she considered her options. Staring at the door, she muttered, “So...what can I do?”
There was one thing Sylvia wasn’t prepared to do, and that was give up. The following morning, she strode briskly along King Street, her goal the Dock Company offices on Broad Quay.
The previous day, after the Dock Company directors had dropped their bombshell and shattered her peace of mind, she’d gathered herself and her thoughts and had sought an urgent meeting with the Dean, he under whose auspices her school for dockyard boys had been created. Although the Dean had been, as ever, sympathetic and supportive, he hadn’t had any suggestions to make as to who she might approach to secure new premises for the school.
That meeting had been followed hours later by another with the parish council, the previous evening being the night of the council’s regular weekly conference. The outcome had been less than satisfactory—indeed, close to horrifying—which had only hardened her resolve.
Depressingly, between informing the Dean and, later, the parish council of the unexpected change in the school’s circumstances, she’d felt compelled to visit the school and inform the staff and students that, due to unforeseen events, it was possible that the school might have to close for a week or so after the end of the week. Unsurprisingly, her announcement had caused dismay and consternation, but better they heard it from her than via the dockside rumor mill. She’d done her best to allay everyone’s concerns, reassuring them all that if it came to a closure, it would only last until new premises were secured, yet the expressions haunting so many of the students—the anxiety etched on their young faces—had clutched at her heart.
They weren’t her children, and she didn’t think of them as such, but