visited several leasing companies. Through them, she’d identified a total of eight presently untenanted buildings that lay within the area the boys could reach and that sounded large enough to house the school.
She’d listed the buildings in order of desirability based on her general knowledge of location, but as she had no way by which to gauge Cavanaugh’s commitment—how much he was truly willing to commit—she’d decided to start at the bottom of the list.
They reached the corner of Puddle Avenue and paused. She looked up, searching for numbers on the nearer buildings. “It’s number fifteen.”
She glanced at his face; his expression was impassive, but she sensed he wasn’t impressed with Puddle Avenue.
Nevertheless, he gestured her onward and kept pace beside her as she walked slowly along the street.
Number 15 Puddle Avenue proved to be a run-down building wedged between two warehouses; the flanking buildings appeared to be holding Number 15 up. What paint still clung to its timber facing was peeling away in curls, and there were visible cracks in the stone foundations.
She cleared her throat. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have relied on the property manager’s description.”
Cavanaugh grunted. “Obviously not.” His features were hard as his gaze swept the exterior of the building. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. “Where’s the next place?”
* * *
The hall off Bell Lane was only marginally better than the Puddle Avenue building.
Regardless, Kit felt compelled to look inside before passing judgment, and the feisty Miss Buckleberry agreed—although she hung back as, after pushing through the slightly warped door, he walked into the musty space.
He stopped two paces in, looked around, then turned and walked back to where she stood on the threshold.
Jaw firming, he met her eyes. “Next?”
* * *
The third place she took him to was, he supposed, a possible venue for the school. At a stretch. But the hall was dark, overshadowed by taller buildings on either side and on the other side of the narrow street, and a telltale odor of mildew and mold rose from the ancient lining boards, leaving him in little doubt that the timbers behind were rotting.
The notion of setting young boys to work through their days in such surroundings...he simply couldn’t see it.
He glanced at Sylvia. She’d been watching him—his face—but had glanced down at her list of potential properties.
On impulse, Kit reached out and, with a quick tug, filched the list from her gloved fingers.
She sucked in a breath, but then pressed her lips tightly together and clasped her hands before her.
Kit focused on the list. “There has to be somewhere better.”
He ran his gaze down the entries and, despite his lack of knowledge of Bristol, realized there definitely was. From the addresses, it appeared that the inestimable Miss Buckleberry had started at the bottom of her list of possible places...
He could guess why—she wasn’t sure he would sponsor the school properly.
For a second, he considered being annoyed about that, but then decided that, with a female like Sylvia Buckleberry, seeing would be believing.
His expression impassive, he held out the list. “Let’s look at the place in Trinity Street.”
If she was surprised, she hid it well. Taking back the list, she said, “I have to warn you that the Trinity Street property is the most expensive option. It’s owned by St. Augustine’s Abbey, and the rent is...well, in keeping with that and the location, which is on a street between the Abbey and the Frome.”
Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I can afford it, and such a location—and landlord—sounds much more like the sort of accommodation I’d want a school I was sponsoring to have.”
Facing her, he waved imperiously to the door. “I suggest we go directly there.”
Although her gaze stated she was still uncertain, she allowed him to usher her outside.
* * *
It was close to five o’clock when they reached Trinity Street, but the instant they halted outside the old hall, Kit felt certain they’d found the right place. Judging by the expression on Sylvia’s face as she stood beside him and scanned the front façade, she thought the same.
In keeping with the Augustinian creed, the building had few ornate features. Built of stone and weathered oak, it was solid and functional—the sort of place that would easily withstand the rigors of hosting a school. Although he’d gone to Eton, Kit doubted that boys whose fathers worked on the docks would be any less vigorous than scions of the nobility.
A small tiled porch protected the oak