for the gantry.” He paused to glance around the shadowy space. “Depending on the caliber of the men we hire, it’ll take a few days to construct the offices and the gantry. By then, I’ll have the hull design ready, and we can move the men on to the frame for that.”
He met Kit’s eyes. “That’ll be a good start.”
Kit nodded. “An excellent start, even if we do have to wait until Monday to commence.”
Looking around one last time, Wayland muttered, “We’ll have to see what level of carpenters we can find.”
Kit waved toward the door; Hemmings and Finch were still waiting there. As he and Wayland crossed toward them, Kit called, “Thank you for arranging this, gentlemen.”
“Our pleasure, your lordship.” Rubbing his hands together, Hemmings stepped back as Kit and Wayland, having collected and doused the lanterns, emerged from the warehouse. “I take it all is satisfactory?”
“Entirely,” Kit returned with a reassuring smile.
Wayland handed his lanterns to Kit and helped Finch close the warehouse doors.
Kit watched Finch secure the latch with the padlock. Recalling the desks they’d seen and with Wayland’s words rolling around in his head, when Finch turned, Kit caught his eye. “Might some of the men attending the charity”—Kit tipped his head toward the warehouse—“be suitable for employment in our yacht-building enterprise?”
Finch blinked, then cut another of those weighted glances at Hemmings. After a second, Finch returned his gaze to Kit and shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely, my lord. But there’s an excellent labor exchange just around the corner on the quay.” Finch pointed in that direction. “For carpenters and the like, that’s where I’d ask—it’s the most likely place to find workmen of the sort I believe you’ll need.”
Keeping his expression relaxed and uninformative, Kit studied Finch for a heartbeat; something about the charity made Finch and Hemmings nervous, but Kit couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Thank you.” Kit inclined his head to Finch. “Either myself or Mr. Cobworth will call there tomorrow.”
He and Wayland parted from the two Dock Company men with handshakes, renewed thanks, and cordiality all around, then, on Hemmings’s recommendation, Kit and Wayland headed for the Dragon’s Head public house for dinner.
* * *
Sylvia Buckleberry sat at the small desk in her cramped office in the shadow of Christ Church and, head bent, carefully tallied her ledgers, penny by penny accounting for the expenditures of the previous month.
Outside the small window at her back, the morning was fine, the sky a soft autumnal blue with a gentle breeze skating fluffy white clouds across the heavens. The cooing of the doves that nested around the church tower provided a pleasant background drone, punctuated by the skittering of ravens on nearby roofs.
Sylvia did her best to blot out the distractions of the pleasant day. Arithmetic had never been her strong suit, but given she was spending the parish’s funds, she made sure the bills added up to the last halfpenny.
She’d almost reached the end of the last column when a sharp rap fell on her closed door. Suppressing a most unladylike hiss, she grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a note of her total, then set aside her pencil and, closing the ledger, looked up and called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and three gentlemen filed in—or tried to; they had to leave the door open to have room enough to stand.
Sylvia’s heart sank as she recognized her callers. It had been over two years since she’d last seen the three together; all were figures in the local community and served on the Bristol Dock Company’s board—Mr. Forsythe, the mayor, Mr. Hoskins, one of the aldermen, and, lastly, Mr. Finch, secretary to the board.
Oh, no. The sight of Finch, in particular, did not bode well.
She forced a bright smile to her lips and adopted an expression she hoped appeared guileless. “Mr. Forsythe, Mr. Hoskins, and Mr. Finch.” She inclined her head to each. “Good morning, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The three exchanged glances, then the mayor shuffled forward to take the single small chair that sat before the desk. The chair creaked faintly as his weight settled upon it, then he leaned forward and earnestly said, “My dear Miss Buckleberry, I’m sure you recall the terms of our agreement regarding your school using the premises on the Grove.”
Sylvia recalled the stipulations attached to the use of the old warehouse very well. However, she simply stared blankly at the mayor while her mind scrambled...
Surely not. The dockyards were in