The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Stephanie Laurens
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 she knew each and every one now, knew their stories, their families, and, in most cases, their hopes and dreams, and felt an almost-parental responsibility for each boy.
Most had had to fight and win battles of their own to be allowed to attend regularly rather than find whatever work they could; each of the seventeen regular pupils had had to gain the support of their family, and given the current lack of prosperity on the Bristol docks, that had been a feat in itself.
She was determined not to let them—and the teachers and assistant—down. She would find a place—would find someone willing to donate either a venue or the rent for one.
She had to—and quickly—or the parish council would redirect the school’s funds to some other worthy cause.
While none of the council members had had any advice to offer regarding where she might find new premises for the school, they had made it clear, albeit gently, that as the council could not afford to rent such premises itself, if appropriate donated space was not forthcoming, the council would have to withdraw all funding. As the chairman had explained, there simply wasn’t sufficient money in the parish coffers to support a nonfunctioning school; in the current climate, the parish had too many other calls on its funds.
She’d left that meeting with a hideous sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. But after a night of tossing and turning and, in between bouts of sleep, evaluating increasingly fanciful options, she’d woken with a start—and a rather bold, certainly desperate, but possible way forward clear in her mind.
Hence her impending visit to the Dock Company offices.
On reaching the end of King Street, she turned right into Broad Quay. The Dock Company offices faced the Frome and were quite grand, with a semicircular set of steps leading up to a pair of glossy, green-painted doors with glass panels bearing the company’s name and logo inset into each. Sylvia pushed on the brass handle and walked briskly into the tiled foyer. Having been to the building before, she didn’t pause but continued to the stairs at the end of the foyer and went up to the first floor.
There, she rapped peremptorily on the door facing the stairs. On hearing a somewhat testy “Come,” she opened the door and walked inside.
She fixed the black-suited figure behind the desk with an uncompromising gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Finch.”
Finch didn’t look pleased but, nevertheless, got to his feet, returning her greeting with a curt nod. “Miss Buckleberry. I do hope you aren’t here to tell me that there will be any difficulty over the school vacating the warehouse.”
Sylvia allowed her gaze to rest heavily on Finch until he grew restless and started fingering the buttons on his coat. Then she simply said, “No. I’m here to inquire as to the name of the new tenant and where I may find him.”
Slowly, Finch blinked. “Ah...why do you need such information?”
Sylvia smiled as innocently as she could. “I merely wish to ask if he—presumably having recently surveyed the available warehouses around the docks—has any information on empty premises the school might be able to lease.” That would be her opening question, but she doubted Finch would approve of what else she intended asking the new tenant, much less the manner in which she intended to ask.
“Ah. I see.” Finch appeared to be considering telling her, but then he refocused on her face, and his expression grew stern. “I’m afraid, Miss Buckleberry, that without the gentleman’s permission, I am unable to share such information—it might be seen as a breach of trust.”
Sylvia fought to keep exasperation from her face and, instead, heaved a put-upon sigh. “Mr. Finch, surely you can see that in order to ensure the school removes as required—”
His face turning to granite, Finch held up a hand. “Miss Buckleberry, I do hope you aren’t thinking to sway me by suggesting the school might not be out of the warehouse by Friday afternoon at the latest.”
Sylvia managed not to glare, but it was a near-run thing. Lips firming, she replied, “Of course not. I’m merely attempting to do the best for the school and locate new premises—”
“As I am endeavoring to do what’s best for the Dock Company.” Finch held her gaze. “I’m glad we understand each other, Miss Buckleberry.”
Sylvia stared at the annoying man and inwardly conceded; he’d dug in his heels and she would get nothing from him. That decided, she favored him with a brief nod, turned, and walked to the still-open door. With her hand on the knob, she glanced back and said, “Normally, I would thank you for your help, sir, but sadly, you’ve been no help at all.”
She walked out and shut the door with a definite click.
She swept down the stairs, through the front doors, down the steps, and halted on the quay. “Men!”
The muffled exclamation and her exasperated expression drew a few looks from passersby. She ignored them and focused on her goal.
How was she to learn the identity of the new tenant?
Finch had said gentleman, singular; that was the only piece of helpful information he’d dropped. She hadn’t yet decided how, precisely, she would approach the new tenant—whether she would opt for engagement and appeal to his better social nature or if she would play on his guilt over ousting the school. She would make that decision when she faced him, as she was determined to do. One way or another, she intended to beard the new tenant, explain matters in simple terms, and see if she could extract some degree of help from that quarter.
Having tapped all those with whom she was familiar, those who knew enough to appreciate her cause, and got nowhere, she was willing to approach the one player in the drama she didn’t know—the newcomer to the docks.
The irony in that hadn’t escaped her; in lieu of gaining help from any locals for a project to further local good, she was seeking assistance from a stranger.
How can I find him?
No inspiration struck. Frowning, she turned south, slowly walking back along Broad Quay. She’d taken only a few paces when, glancing ahead, she saw men gathered in groups in front of a labor exchange.
She halted. The exchanges were how men out of work learned of new jobs on the docks and elsewhere. Several such exchanges were scattered around the city, but the one before her, on the corner of Currant Lane and the narrower quay that ran along the eastern bank of the Frome, was the closest to the warehouse.
If the new tenant needed to hire workers, then the Currant Lane exchange was where he would post his notices.
Slowly, Sylvia smiled, then she stepped out more confidently, heading for the door of the labor exchange.
* * *
“How can I help you, miss?” The young clerk behind the counter looked at Sylvia uncertainly; she wasn’t the usual sort of client who appeared in front of him.
She smiled. “You’re