Kendall’s expression altered, though only slightly. “In what manner?”
“In whatever manner would be most effective,” she replied. “You spoke recently of facilitating progress. I begin to think I have not been sufficiently attentive to what that may require.”
He was watching her closely now. “Support,” he said carefully, “is not always visible. There are efforts that require… encouragement.”
“So you mentioned before.”
“It helps matters along,” he answered.
She met his gaze directly. “Then you must tell me where such funding would be best applied.”
There it was again—that look she had noticed before: expectation. He had not been surprised by her offer… he expected it.
“I would not presume to direct you,” he said, although his tone suggested otherwise. “I mean only to suggest that certain groups are working towards meaningful reform, and that their efforts are often constrained by lack of resources.”
“Would these groups be the same as those I have already encountered?” she asked, her voice still light.
“Some will be,” he replied. “Others operate with greater discretion.”
“Discretion,” she repeated. “I see.”
“It is a necessary quality,” he said, “in a climate where progress is too easily mistaken for agitation.”
She inclined her head, as though considering this.
“And Major Manners?” he asked then, with an ease that did not quite disguise its intent. “Does he share your interest in such progress?”
Francesca did not answer at once. “He is only fulfilling his mother’s and my uncle’s request to escort me,” she said.
“Are you sure he has no other motives?” Kendall asked quietly.
She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “Do you question them?”
“I question everything,” he said.
The sounds of the yard continued around them—metal striking metal, voices calling and answering across a distance; the ordinary industry of labour proceeding without regard for the undercurrents between the two visitors.
“I shall consider what you have said,” Francesca continued at last. “If I am to increase my support, I should like to do so intelligently. For now, I would like to order one of these systems for whichever manufactory you deem it best employed. We will try one first.”
“I will see to it,” Kendall said, but his gaze remained on her.
As she turned to take her leave, Francesca found herself marking the place—the street, the yard, the narrow turn that led back towards the main road—with a precision she did not consciously intend.
Something within her—quiet, instinctive and newly alert—was troubled. Had Kendall been there for some other reason, or just to follow her?
“Shall I call the carriage, miss?” Nelly asked, stepping forward from the shadows where she had been waiting with that particular stillness she possessed when observing more than she appeared.
Francesca did not answer at once. Her gaze remained upon the narrow street beyond the iron-works yard, where carts passed at uneven intervals and the afternoon light fell in muted tones against the brick.
“No,” she said at last. “Send it back. I should like to walk a little. We are not so far from Hyde Park.”
Nelly’s brows lifted, though she did not protest. “Very well, miss.”
Nelly moved to give the necessary instructions to the coachman, who hesitated slightly before departing, casting a look behind him that suggested he was not entirely convinced this deviation was wise. Francesca watched him go, then stepped out into the street.
The air felt different beyond the yard—less confined, though no less watchful. London possessed a way of observing without seeming to do so, and Francesca had begun to suspect that she was being followed.
She did not turn her head or alter her pace to give the smallest outward sign that something in the rhythm of footsteps behind them did not align with the natural flow of the street. She continued walking.
