“In that case, sir, I’m surprised you haven’t realized that this hall belongs to the Abbey. The school couldn’t be here had the Abbey not agreed to lease us the hall.”
Peabody blinked. After a silent second, he blustered, “Clearly, the prior had no notion of what manner of school he was accommodating.” Peabody’s gaze returned accusingly to Sylvia. “You may be sure that I will bring the matter to his attention immediately, and then you and this school will be out on your collective ear.”
Sylvia walked forward, forcing Peabody to turn to keep her in sight—to turn toward the door. “If you wish, sir, by all means, do speak with Prior Robert, but I assure you he knows precisely what manner of school this is. He even went so far as to offer the services of the Abbey infirmarian, should we ever require medical assistance.” She continued walking slowly toward the door, drawing the obnoxious Peabody with her. “I have to say that I myself would be reluctant to suggest that Prior Robert had leased us the building without convincing himself of our bona fides.”
That gave Peabody pause. His expression grew faintly concerned. “I... Ah, yes. I take your point.” But then he rallied and straightened. “Be that as it may, secularly speaking, having a school such as this bringing dockside brats into this neighborhood cannot be borne. The residents won’t stand for it—and I certainly won’t.”
He’d worked himself into a lather of righteous indignation again. Sylvia hesitated for only a second before saying, “As to that, sir, we will have to disagree, but before you think to mount any major push against the school, you might like to know that the school exists under the auspices of the Dean of Christ Church and has the financial backing of Lord Christopher Cavanaugh, who has recently taken up residence in the city. As a member of the nobility, Lord Cavanaugh follows the lead given by Prince Albert and our Queen regarding the education of those less fortunate in order to ensure the prosperity of the nation as a whole.”
Peabody had been trailing beside her toward the door. Now, he halted on the threshold, his eyes widening. “Lord Cavanaugh?”
“Yes.” Sylvia saw no reason not to gild the school’s lily. “His brother is the Marquess of Raventhorne. I understand the marquess and his wife are known to Prince Albert and the Queen, and one of the marquess’s other brothers is also associated with the Prince via their shared interest in inventions. Lord Christopher Cavanaugh’s interest lies in building yachts, and he’s in the throes of establishing a new workshop on the docks—indeed, his workshop has taken over the school’s previous premises off the Grove, and through that, Lord Cavanaugh elected to become the school’s sponsor.”
Peabody grunted. After a moment, he scowled and harrumphed. “Regardless of what his lordship thinks he’s doing, I’m sure that, once I see him and recast the matter in its true light, he’ll agree that this school should not be here.” He flung a disparaging glance back at the boys, still sitting on the floor, silent and listening. Then he narrowed his eyes at Sylvia. “Off the Grove, you said?”
Eager to have him gone, she nodded. “The third warehouse from the corner of Princes Street. He’ll either be there or at his office in that new building on King Street.”
“Good. I will hunt him down and speak with him directly. We’ll soon see this settled.” Peabody faced forward and stepped onto the porch. “Mark my words, Miss Buckleberry”—he emphasized his declaration with a jab of his cane—“you will have to move your school from this neighborhood. It doesn’t belong here.”
With that parting shot, Peabody descended the steps, then, affecting his self-important swagger, strode toward the river and the docks beyond.
Sylvia was about to turn inside—to do what she could to repair the damage Peabody’s words had doubtless wrought—when she noticed the severe-looking lady in black standing once more at her gate. As before, the lady was staring—it seemed malevolently—at the school, then she turned and, leaning heavily on her cane, stumped along the short path and up the steps to her front door and disappeared inside.
Inwardly shaking her head, Sylvia turned back into the hall to hear Jellicoe telling the boys, “You heard Miss Buckleberry tell the councilor where to find his lordship. After he spent all day yesterday helping us move here, what do you think his lordship is going to say to a suggestion the school ought to move somewhere else?”
The boys all grinned, and one called out, “His lordship will laugh and say no.”
“Exactly.” Cross had shut the book from which he’d been reading. He waved the boys up from the floor. “And now it’s time we did right by his lordship and got back to our lessons.”
The boys rose with alacrity and returned to their desks.
Sylvia watched Cross and Jellicoe, and even more the boys, settle back into their lessons with no hint of lingering anxiety; evidently, they all had unshakeable faith that Lord Cavanaugh would see off any threat from Peabody and his ilk.
She, too, had instinctively—without a single thought—assumed Kit would do just that and every bit as effectively as the boys might imagine. Not the slightest whisper of doubt over his support had risen in her mind; her trust had been instant and absolute.
Evidently, her recent experience of him had overwritten her previous assumptions and the distrust those had generated.
Like the boys and the teachers, her confidence in him and his support was rock-solid; she would own herself flabbergasted if Peabody made the slightest headway against Kit Cavanaugh.
Crossing to Miss Meggs, who was working on drawing up next week’s timetable, Sylvia said, “I’ll be on my way. I won’t forget the chalk and ink, and I’ll see you all on Monday.” She caught Jellicoe’s and Cross’s eyes and nodded a farewell, then raised her voice and called, “Goodbye, boys. Enjoy your days
off, and I’ll see you all here on Monday.”
“Yes, Miss Buckleberry!” they enthusiastically chorused.
With that happy sound ringing in her ears, Sylvia went out of the door, tugged it closed, and headed for her office.
* * *
After a break for lunch, Kit, along with Wayland, Mulligan, and the other four carpenters, started constructing Wayland’s pulley gantry. They’d already trimmed the beams and struts to the correct sizes. Using ropes and smaller pulleys, they hauled one end of the first of the heavier beams up, then with four men anchoring the ropes, keeping the huge beam upright, Kit and Mulligan heaved and swore and shoved the base of the beam into place. The instant they had it correctly positioned, Wayland set a ladder against it and, with Kit and Mulligan steadying the beam, climbed up and quickly attached iron braces, locking the beam in place against one of the massive timber ribs of the old warehouse.
Wayland came down the ladder, moved it away, attached another set of braces at knee height, then stepped back and motioned for the men to release the ropes, which they slowly did.
Catching their breath, they all stared at the beam, standing straight and solid.
Wayland smiled widely. “Excellent!”
Mulligan and the carpenters grinned, as did Kit.