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The Master Of Calverley Hall
Lucy Ashford
'So, you’re back.'But can he put her world to rights?It should be Connor Hamilton’s final triumph to return to Calverley Hall as its master, rather than the poor blacksmith’s boy he once was. But he’s shocked to find the previous owner’s daughter, his old friend Isobel Blake, has lost everything—including her good reputation. Now the fragility beneath her shabby clothes and brave smile makes him want to protect her and hold her close…


“So, you’re back.”
But can he put her world to rights?
It should have been Connor Hamilton’s final triumph to return to Calverley Hall as its master, rather than the poor blacksmith’s boy he once was. He’s shocked to find that the previous owner’s daughter, his old friend Isobel Blake, has lost everything, including her good reputation. Now the fragility beneath her shabby clothes and brave smile makes him want to protect her and hold her close...
“Ashford creates charming characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Rake’s Bargain
LUCY ASHFORD studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story.
You can contact Lucy via her website: lucyashford.com (http://www.lucyashford.com).
Also by Lucy Ashford (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
The Major and the Pickpocket
The Return of Lord Conistone
The Captain’s Courtesan
The Outrageous Belle Marchmain
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
The Rake’s Bargain
The Captain and His Innocent
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Master of Calverley Hall
Lucy Ashford


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07383-7
THE MASTER OF CALVERLEY HALL
© 2018 Lucy Ashford
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Alan
Contents
Cover (#u7e0e32d1-4a99-5f74-b81b-7fefa8169057)
Back Cover Text (#u25c00425-663e-54bb-8920-b47280ec7a10)
About the Author (#uea179968-0cf6-5f83-b573-9e14e94e26b0)
Booklist (#u1224fb8f-494d-5d2e-9ab5-85a35c8843e4)
Title Page (#ufa7afbfe-fdc7-5398-a87f-a143fac2a04f)
Copyright (#u3c3259eb-f01e-537d-ba28-d12ef90e496a)
Dedication (#ua58e7794-7cb5-56fa-abee-c735a9dfaf0b)
Chapter One (#u372e5a89-cd95-5190-bdd7-aac8333741f3)
Chapter Two (#u52c92304-9f95-5a9c-ac09-c5133284d71c)
Chapter Three (#u77357f1c-b726-5f91-9452-b3e3f85cf106)
Chapter Four (#ue1126c1a-0a77-5a9b-931d-5b014e22aa23)
Chapter Five (#ue5fea8dc-b3df-51c9-b714-a90d82ef3929)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
Gloucestershire—June 1816
Seven years ago, Connor Hamilton had vowed to turn his back for good on the English countryside. But today, as he felt the warm summer sun on his face and breathed in the scent of freshly mown hay, he realised he’d never actually forgotten how beautiful it could be.
He’d chosen to drive from the Hall in his phaeton, with nine-year-old Elvie sitting at his side and Tom, the elderly groom, perched on the back. His two matched bays set a smart pace along the road to Chipping Calverley, but as their destination grew closer Connor reined them to a walk and took a swift glance down at Elvie. Not that he could see a great deal of her, thanks to that huge sunbonnet her grandmother had insisted the child wear.
‘I promise I’ll bring her back in one piece, Laura,’ Connor had teased.
‘I know! I know I’m fussing!’ Laura had laughed. But then she’d added, more quietly, ‘You realise, Connor, how very much my granddaughter means to me.’
An unspoken grief coloured her words and Connor had replied, ‘Of course. She means a great deal to me also.’
Poor Elvie. Poor silent, orphaned Elvie. But she was taking everything in, Connor was sure, with quiet pleasure. And suddenly the little girl tugged at the sleeve of his driving coat and whispered, ‘Look,Connor. There’s a fair!’
She was pointing to the colourful tents set out on a grassy meadow in the distance, the spaces between them already thronged with people and stalls. ‘A fair?’ he echoed teasingly. ‘Never, Elvie. Surely not.’
‘But there is, Connor. There is.’
Connor pretended to lean forward, shading his eyes from the bright sun. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think you’re quite right.’
She didn’t say another word, but she gazed intently at the bustling scene as they drew closer. And Connor thought, Pray God I’ve done the right thing, bringing the child here. Meaning not just to the fair, but to Calverley, to the very place where he himself had grown up, the place he had turned his back on all those years ago. Thus, in all likelihood, opening himself up to all sorts of memories and regrets...
Concentrate, he told himself sternly, because by now his horses had come to a complete halt in the solid queue of carriages, gigs and carts all heading for the fairground. Connor turned round to his groom. ‘All right if I leave you in charge, Tom, while I walk on with Elvie?’
‘All right indeed, sir,’ said Tom, lowering himself remarkably promptly for a man of his age from the rear of the carriage. ‘You two go and enjoy yourselves, now!’
No one could have been more pleased than old Tom when Connor had arrived at Calverley Hall back in April and told him he was going to buy the place. Its former owner had died five years ago, owing money everywhere; the bank had taken possession and put the run-down Hall up for sale. No buyers appeared. Instead, a succession of tenants had done nothing to reverse its general decline and few of the staff from the old days remained.
But now Connor was the new master of Calverley. ‘Well,’ Tom had said when he heard the news, ‘I was thinking of retiring, to be honest. But since you’re back—if you need a fellow to run your stables, Mr Hamilton, then here I am!’ He’d puffed out his chest. ‘It will be an honour working for you, sir!’
And if Tom was recalling how Connor grew up the son of the local blacksmith, and had laboured every day in the heat of the forge, then old Tom said nothing at all.
Now Connor handed the reins to him, then went to help little Elvie down. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, Elvie,’ he told her. ‘But you don’t mind, do you?’
‘Oh, no.’ She gripped his hand tightly.
‘Good girl,’ he approved and noted how her eyes were round with wonder as he guided her through the lively crowds. So, he thought to himself, people still came from miles around to the midsummer fair at Chipping Calverley. ‘It’s the prettiest village in Gloucestershire,’ people always used to say. ‘With the best fair in the whole of the county!’
And he was finding that every sound, sight and scent brought back memories. The appetising smell from the stall selling fresh bread. The music of the Morris Men with their fiddles and their bells. The laughter of the crowd watching the Punch and Judy show. You didn’t see many smiles on the faces of London’s businessmen, thought Connor. Not unless they’d just made a vast profit in some big financial deal—and even then, their smiles were only half there, because their brains were already busy counting up the money.
Talking of money, those creatures in the livestock pens had to be worth a fair amount. He steered Elvie towards where the farmers stood proudly by their animals and the crowds pressed against the enclosures to get a better view.
‘Look, Elvie. See the calves?’ He lifted the little girl up high to get a better view of the cows with their young ones and—firmly chained to a stout post—the muscular black bull that gazed balefully at the awestruck crowd. Elvie gasped in delight, then they moved on because a little way past the cattle enclosure Connor had spotted some colourfully dressed gypsies offering pony rides. He saw Elvie gazing at them. ‘Do you want a ride?’ he asked her gently.
She hesitated and shook her head; he thought he glimpsed uncertainty in her eyes.
‘Perhaps another time, then,’ he said. ‘Yes?’ And she nodded.
Maybe I ought to get her a pony of her own, Connor mentally noted. A small one, a gentle one. It will give her something to take care of. Perhaps even help her, in a small way, to get over her father’s death.
Connor, too, missed Miles Delafield. The older man had been not only his business partner, but his close friend. Miles would have loved all this,he thought suddenly. He gazed around and realised that if you looked beyond the fairground and up the valley, you could actually see Calverley Hall on the far side of the river. From here you got a heart-stopping view of its acres of gardens running down to the water meadows; of its gabled roofs and diamond-paned windows sparkling in the June sun.
And now—all of it belonged to him. What talk there must have been, when the locals heard he was moving in. What speculation about the money he had made. And if he’d hoped to make his appearance here at the fair unnoticed, he was mistaken, because he was finding himself hailed in hearty greeting by landowners and businessmen who wouldn’t have acknowledged his existence in the old days. They came up to him one after another, declaring, ‘We must get together soon, Hamilton! It’s good to see you back, hopefully to restore the Hall to its former glory. You’ll come round for dinner soon?’
And then there was the local Vicar, the Reverend Malpass. Malpass ran a small school for the children of the deserving poor, which Connor had briefly attended before being thrown out for hiding a frog in the Vicar’s desk.
Did Malpass remember? Surely he did—but he was almost painfully effusive in his attempts to welcome Connor home. ‘Mr Hamilton, it’s truly excellent news that you’ve moved into Calverley Hall. I remember you well—and I’m sure that you’re exactly what the place needs!’
Connor gazed at him, dark eyebrows slightly raised. ‘I remember you, too, Reverend Malpass. And I can see that you’ve hardly changed in the slightest.’
The Vicar hesitated. Frogs? thought Connor. Was he thinking of frogs? Then Malpass, clearly shrugging aside the past, beamed down on Elvie. ‘And this young lady is your relative, is she? Charming. Charming, I’m sure. How do you do, miss?’
‘I—I’m very well, sir.’
That stammer again. Connor felt Elvie shrink against his side and he gripped her hand. ‘She’s not my relative,’ he stated flatly. ‘Miss Elvira Delafield is the daughter of my former business partner.’
‘Ah, yes. Miles Delafield—he died recently of a heart attack, didn’t he? And I hear this poor little girl’s mother is dead, too—most, most unfortunate!’
Connor felt Elvie press closer. He’d always thought the Vicar was a blundering fool. ‘Indeed,’ he replied tersely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us...’
But no sooner had Connor got away from the Vicar than he found himself surrounded by a fresh hazard—women.
Oh, the women. Not just the young ones eyeing him up from beneath their beribboned straw bonnets, but their mothers, too, were coming at him from all sides. ‘My dear Mr Hamilton!’ they simpered one after another. ‘We’re truly delightedthat you’ve returned to Gloucestershire. We do hope we’ll have the privilege of your company soon...’
And they proceeded to recite a list of church committees, fund-raising fêtes and parish entertainments that all sounded extremely worthy—but he knew, of course, what the tabbies were really thinking.
They would be thinking that Mr Connor Hamilton, at twenty-five years old, was an extremely wealthy man. Had risen from being a blacksmith’s son to partner in a highly successful iron business—and now that his partner had conveniently died, he’d got the lot. What was more, he was the new owner of the most impressive house in the district by far—a family home if ever there was one, even if it was somewhat neglected—and he was not married!
Connor endured just a few more moments of the mothers parading their daughters, but he was heartily glad to be distracted by Elvie tugging at his hand. ‘Connor,’ she was whispering. ‘Connor, look.’
He looked and realised there was some sort of disturbance over by the crowded ale tent. A cluster of children, none of them older than Elvie, were racing around and he thought he could hear a small dog yapping. There were adult voices as well now, raised in anger and in threat.
Connor, with Elvie’s hand still in his, drew closer. The children looked underfed and scruffy—he immediately guessed they were from the gypsy caravans that came every summer to set up camp in Plass Valley, half a mile from here. Their parents would be busy harvesting the hay and the children, he realised, were chasing after a puppy whose rope leash trailed after it. They dived to catch it, failed and tried again, shrieking with laughter as the excited puppy evaded them.
Local people didn’t like the Plass Valley children, Connor remembered. Local people didn’t like their parents much, either, despite the vital work they did on the farms in summer. The children’s appearance didn’t help, since judging by the mud splashes on their clothes and bare skin they’d all taken a dip in the nearby duck pond.
And so, evidently, had the puppy. Droplets of water were still flying from its fur as it shook itself, causing nearby ladies to shriek as their best frocks were bespattered, while their menfolk blustered. One burly man caught a little lad by the ear. ‘You young varmint, you and your kind should be beaten out of here. And I’ll—’
He broke off when Connor stepped forward. ‘The child’s rather small for your threats, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll bloody thump him, that’s what! Plass Valley vermin!’
‘Try thumping me instead,’ invited Connor.
Connor was tall and his well-tailored clothes couldn’t hide the fact that he was extremely well muscled into the bargain. The man hesitated, muttered something under his breath and vanished into the staring crowd. And then Connor heard another voice, a young woman’s voice, saying calmly but firmly, ‘Children, you really shouldn’t let your puppy get so excited. He thinks it’s all a game—he doesn’t understand that you’re trying to catch him.’
Connor could see her now. Tall and slender, in her early twenties, she wore an old-fashioned cotton sunbonnet and a flowery frock—a frock now generously splashed with mud, since she’d picked up the excited puppy and was holding it firmly in her arms.
One of the children—a freckle-faced lad in a battered cap set at a jaunty angle—called out to her, ‘We didn’t mean any trouble, miss! He went swimming in the duck pond and got stuck in the weeds. So we pulled him out, but then he ran away.’
‘But here he is—fortunately,’ she said. The puppy was trying to lick her face with its pink tongue. ‘Perhaps you’d better take him home and get yourselves cleaned up.’
The children looked at one another. ‘But he’s not ours, miss.’
‘Not...?’
‘He’s a stray,’ explained the lad. ‘We found him this morning up in the fields, really hungry, so we fed him and asked around. No one wants him. And he’s not wanted at home, either, at our camp, ’cos our dads say we’ve got enough dogs already.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well.’
And Connor felt the memories surge and connect, rolling into place one after another. The young woman wore country clothes that were clearly homemade and years out of fashion; yet she carried herself with grace and spoke with unusual clarity. And more memories began to pile in. Far too many of them.
Then someone else arrived—that blasted Vicar, Malpass. ‘Best keep yourself out of this, young lady,’ he said curtly to the woman, looking almost with repugnance at the muddy puppy in her arms. ‘As for you,’ he declared, turning to the children, ‘how dare you run wild here, disturbing the peace and up to no good? Be off with you!’
Connor was about to stride forward and intervene, but the children had a defender already.
‘I’ve spoken to the children, Vicar,’ she said, still apparently calm, ‘about this little dog. He was in difficulties in the pond and they were trying to help him. Is that really so bad of them?’
The Vicar clearly thought it was. ‘You know their kind. They’re no better than their parents, living like vagrants, thinking they’re beyond the power of the law. And they never attend the church!’
‘Perhaps they don’t attend your church,’ the woman said steadily, ‘because they realise how unwelcome they’ll be.’
And her intervention—was this what she’d intended? Connor wondered—had given the children the chance to escape, scampering through a gap in the hedge and off into the neighbouring fields. Connor stepped forward, Elvie’s hand still in his, and said to the Vicar, ‘It seems there’s no harm done, Reverend Malpass. But I think we all need to remember that these children’s parents are vital to the summer harvest. Don’t we?’
The Vicar pursed his lips. ‘Of course, Mr Hamilton. But we still need to maintain basic standards of morality in the district.’ And—with a curt nod of the head—the Vicar moved on.
If Connor had been wise, he’d have moved on, too, but he didn’t.
Everyone else had drifted away, back to the ale tent or the food stalls or the livestock pens—but the young woman remained. She was still soothing the puppy, which had settled gratefully into her arms, and Connor noted that despite her slenderness, she certainly possessed her share of womanly curves. Swiftly he lifted his gaze to her face and saw that her eyes were as intense as ever—green flecked with gold and fringed by thick dark lashes...
Then he realised she was meeting his gaze steadfastly. And she said, ‘So you’re back.’
The little dog whimpered in her arms, as if suddenly uneasy. And Connor, too, was unsettled, was not quite sure how to handle this. Calmly would be best. He nodded. ‘Indeed, Miss Blake,’ he replied. ‘I’m back and you are still—how can I put it?—managing to find yourself in the thick of things.’
He thought he glimpsed a faint flush tinge her cheeks. But she lifted her chin and said, ‘In the thick of things? If that’s how you choose to see it, then, yes. It’s a habit of mine, perhaps an unfortunate one, but one I can’t appear to break.’ She met his gaze mildly, though he thought he glimpsed a pulse of agitation in her throat. ‘And I’ve heard, of course,’ she went on, ‘that you’ve bought Calverley Hall. Now, that is what I’d call a spectacular way of returning to the area where you grew up and I offer my hearty congratulations.’
He felt his breath catch. Just for a moment he’d gone back in time, gone back seven years in fact. He was the blacksmith’s son, and Isobel Blake, then sixteen years old, had been heiress to Calverley Hall and all its supposed wealth. He said, ‘I would hardly go to the trouble of buying the place purely to make an impression, Miss Blake.’
The puppy wriggled a little; she stroked it, murmuring a calming word, then turned her clear green gaze on Connor again. ‘Wouldn’t you? Oh, but I would. If I were you.’ Then she was dipping him a curtsy that was almost mocking and saying, ‘With your permission, Mr Hamilton, I’ll move on. I have certain purchases to make.’
‘You’re keeping the puppy?’ He’d stepped forward impulsively. ‘But how on earth are you going to look after him?’
Almost without realising it, he’d put his hand on her arm. The flowery frock she wore was short-sleeved and a jolt ran through him at the warm softness of her honey-gold skin. She looked at his hand and then at him, so he was able to see how her eyes flashed with some new emotion—anger? Swiftly he removed his hand and waited for her answer.
‘Do you think,’ she said levelly, ‘that I’d leave him to starve?’
‘No. But I had heard that you’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘I’m not destitute. I do work for my living.’
His mouth curled. ‘I’d heard that, too.’ He saw her catch her breath; she knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said politely, ‘I’m disappointed in you. Once, you advised me never to heed the tattle of gossipmongers—’
And then she broke off, because the puppy had scrambled from her arms and was scurrying away, its rope leash trailing. ‘Oh,’ cried Elvie, ‘catch him, he’s escaped!’
And Connor suddenly realised that for a moment or two he’d almost forgotten little Elvie, because his past had come surging up to engulf him. Isobel Blake had come into his life again.
Not for any longer than I can help, he vowed to himself.
Elvie had already set off after the puppy, as had Isobel, but Connor quickly overtook them both with his long strides, then scooped the creature up and held it out to Isobel. She was forced to come close and he found himself breathing in her scent. Lavender, he remembered, she always loved lavender...
‘My thanks,’ she said. Holding the puppy firmly, she was clearly about to turn and go without another word. But then she became aware of Elvie, who was gazing longingly at the little creature.
‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said to her, in a completely different tone of voice to the one she’d used to him, Connor noted. ‘Would you like to stroke him? That’s it. He likes you. He trusts you.’
‘Do you know,’ Elvie said slowly, ‘he’s probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.’ Then she turned to Connor. ‘Connor. Do you possibly think...?’ Her voice trailed away.
Connor said quickly, ‘Elvie, I haven’t forgotten. I said you could have something to care for when we came to the country. A pony, maybe? We talked about it, didn’t we?’
‘But can I perhaps have a puppy instead? One like this, all white and small? Please? I promise, I would look after him so well! I’d feed him and brush him and take him for walks every day!’
And Connor, for a moment, was lost for a reply. Since her father died, Elvie had rarely spoken more than a few words at a time, even to her grandmother and Connor. There was that stammer, too. The doctors in London had pronounced it was a result of shock and grief. ‘Give the child time,’ they suggested, ‘and perhaps a change of scene. Even so, it could take many months for her to recover. To react normally to her surroundings, and to other people.’
And yet here she was—still chatting to Isobel Blake!
‘Do you think, if I had a small puppy like this one, that he would want to walk very far?’ Elvie was asking Isobel eagerly. ‘Do you think he’d mind being on a leash? And would he eat the same food that Connor’s big dogs eat?’
‘Goodness me,’ he heard Isobel say with amusement, ‘how many dogs has Connor got?’
‘Oh, at least six. He likes big dogs very much, you see. But I would love a little one, like this...’ Her voice trailed away longingly.
Connor broke in, very carefully. ‘Elvie, the puppy is in the care of this lady. Her name is Miss Blake.’
Elvie said, ‘I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance, Miss Blake.’ She looked crestfallen.
And then Miss Blake—Isobel—was saying to Elvie, ‘You are very far from being a nuisance. In fact, you may have this puppy, if you wish. I think he would be very happy at the Hall. But only—’ she glanced swiftly at Connor ‘—if Mr Hamilton agrees.’
Elvie turned to him in an agony of suspense.
‘Impetuous as ever, Miss Blake,’ he said softly.
He saw the flush of colour in her cheeks, but she looked unshaken. Connor met her steady gaze and went on, ‘Nevertheless, I think your idea is a sound one. As Elvie pointed out, I’ve several dogs already—they’re all considerably larger than this small fellow, but he’ll soon make friends. And I promise you he’ll be very well looked after.’
She nodded. Then, very carefully, she handed the small, fluffy creature to Elvie—and as Elvie cradled him, breathless with excitement, the puppy reached up to lick the little girl’s nose. Mud, thought Connor. Elvie’s bound to get mud on her frock. But what did that matter when she looked so happy?
‘Well,’ said Isobel Blake, ‘I had best be on my way. But I’m very glad of the chance to wish you joy in your new abode, Mr Hamilton. Is it a permanent move, I wonder? Or will the Hall just be your occasional country retreat?’
‘I’m not really sure yet. Most of my business is, naturally, in London. But I hope to spend as much time here as possible.’
She nodded. ‘So you won’t be just a summer visitor, then, like the Plass Valley people?’ She gave her bright, challenging smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘if you’re going to be here for a while, you might be able to do something for them?’
He frowned, not at all sure what she meant. ‘Do something for them?’
‘Yes!’ Though her smile was still bright, something in her eyes took him back suddenly to the old days at the forge, when as a girl she used to ride over to watch him at work. The girl from the big house—rich and inquisitive, and, he thought, very lonely.
‘They come here, after all,’ she was saying, ‘to do vital work, yet they are treated like lepers. They need someone to defend them, Mr Hamilton!’
‘Ah,’ he said mildly. ‘So you want me to become a local benefactor? Following the example set by your father, perhaps? I remember the summer when the travellers decided to stay on in their camp for a few days after the harvest was over, but your father set his men on them with dogs and whips—just so they got the message, I think he explained.’
She drew back as if it were she who’d been struck. Very quietly she said, ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten? Don’t you realise I would have stopped it, if I had had any way of doing so?’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I apologise.’ But he saw now that her cheeks were very pale and her breasts rose and fell rather rapidly beneath her thin cotton gown, as if she was struggling to control her emotions.
‘No need to apologise.’ She lifted her head almost proudly. ‘It was I who made a mistake, in even mentioning the subject of the travellers. But—’ and now her voice was light again ‘—permit me to offer you a word of advice, Mr Hamilton. I think you’ll very soon learn that no one around here ever talks about my father.’
She cast one last, almost wistful look at the puppy, then said to Elvie, ‘You’ll take good care of him, won’t you? I feel certain you will.’
‘Oh, yes! And thank you!’ Elvie’s so often sad eyes were shining with delight.
‘What will you call him?’
It took Elvie only a moment. ‘Little Jack!’ she declared. ‘I shall call him Little Jack—do you think that’s all right?’
Isobel laughed again—that merry laugh he remembered so well. ‘I think it’s absolutely perfect.’ She turned to Connor and gave him the slightest of nods. ‘I wish you joy of Calverley Hall.’
And she left.
Chapter Two (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
Connor thought, Damn it. He’d guessed he would meet her some time, but not like this, with Elvie here. And even if they’d met when it was just the two of them, what was there to say? How could they talk about the past or—even worse—the present?
He glanced down at Elvie and realised she was clutching the puppy to her as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was hers. Connor took him gently from her, then led Elvie to a leather trader’s stall where he bought a proper leash and a red collar with a silver buckle. Connor swiftly adjusted them and handed the leash to Elvie, commenting, ‘It’s quite a responsibility, you know, Elvie, to own a dog. But I think you’ll look after him marvellously.’
For a while longer they wandered round in the sunshine with Little Jack trotting alongside, to see what else the midsummer fête had to offer. But Connor felt as if the climax of the day had already come and gone. He was haunted by his memories of the past. Especially that night seven years ago, when Isobel Blake had ridden from the Hall to the blacksmith’s cottage where Connor lived with his ailing father.
‘Please, Connor. One of my father’s mares is sick. I can’t think of anyone else to ask. Will you help?’
It was past ten, but he’d ridden back to the Hall’s stables with her in the dark and found the mare suffering from an infected hoof. Really, a qualified farrier was needed—but Connor knew as well as Isobel that no one would come out to work for Sir George Blake, because he was a drunken sot who never paid his bills. So, while Isobel held up the lantern, Connor cleaned out the hoof and poulticed it. He’d all but finished when Sir George arrived.
He’d tried to strike Connor. Connor, eighteen then, was easily strong enough to hold him off, but Sir George had said, ‘I’ll see you and your father ruined for this. What were you after? My horses? My money? My daughter?’
Connor had left the stables without a word. Two nights later, the forge and their adjoining home were set alight. Connor’s father, already seriously ill, died just a week afterwards and Connor set off for London, where he made his fortune—but exactly the opposite had happened to Isobel. Her father took her to London when she was eighteen, presumably to find a rich husband, but instead she brought disgrace on herself by going to live with a middle-aged rake, Viscount Loxley, at his London residence near Hyde Park. Shortly afterwards her father died a bankrupt and Calverley Hall was lost. Her mother had died when Isobel was a child and she had no other family—but even so. Even so...
Society condemned her. She must have had a choice, Connor tried to tell himself. There was no need for her to ruin her reputation so thoroughly. And yet she’d done it. He’d not seen her since that night at the Calverley stables seven years ago, but he heard the London gossip. Heard how she’d become Loxley’s youthful ‘companion’. And when Loxley died, three years ago when Isobel was twenty, she’d moved back to Gloucestershire; she’d chosen to live with an artist, Joseph Molina, who occupied a farmhouse not far from Chipping Calverley and not far from the Hall.
This time, people muttered, she’s not even troubled to find a rich man to sell herself to.
For some time, Connor found it almost impossible to reconcile the stories about Isobel Blake with the girl he once knew. He’d tried to excuse and understand her. But the evidence appeared indisputable.
Couldn’t she have saved herself, somehow? It still smote him to remember her as a girl. There had always been something of the rebel about Isobel and once he’d admired her for it. Admired the way she used to ride up to the forge, her blonde hair windswept, her cheeks golden from the sun as she declared, ‘I had to escape, Connor. I couldn’t bear that house a moment longer! Am I a very great nuisance to you?’
Sometimes she was—but he’d always made time for her. And he hadn’t thought twice about risking the forge and his livelihood that night long ago by coming to Calverley Hall at her bidding, to tend the sick horse. Well, none of it mattered any more. If she’d stood any chance at all of redeeming her reputation after Viscount Loxley’s death, she’d buried it by moving in with her artist. Connor remembered how Haskins, his steward, had responded when asked if he ever saw anything of her in the neighbourhood. ‘Miss Blake?’ Haskins had spoken with distaste. ‘She’s set up house with a foreign painter fellow. She’s shameless. Quite shameless.’
And yet, try as he might, Connor still couldn’t banish her from his mind’s eye. There was something about her that made her unforgettable, yes, even in her stupidly large hat and that shabby, clinging dress. She’d been outspoken, too, about the Plass Valley children. ‘They need someone to defend them, Mr Hamilton!’
The Plass Valley people did trouble him—he’d noted their rough encampment on the day he arrived. But Isobel Blake troubled him even more. He felt his anger rising again, his sense of betrayal—because he’d thought she was different from her disreputable father, but he’d been wrong.
Now he gently ruffled Elvie’s hair. ‘Time to go home?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s take Little Jack and introduce him to everyone, shall we?’
And he carried the tired little puppy with one hand, while holding Elvie’s with the other, as they headed for the field at the far end of the fair where Tom waited with the carriage.
Connor took one last look around. This countryside was idyllic and he had a beautiful new home. The only trouble was—he’d forgotten how powerful were the memories that came with it.
* * *
Tom batted not an eyelid at the arrival of the puppy, but promptly took up his perch on the back of the phaeton as Connor gathered up the reins and set off at a spanking pace towards Calverley Hall. Connor pulled up the horses only slightly as they passed through the Hall’s gates, nodding to the lodgekeeper there, then he let the carriage roll on, following the old road as it wound through ancient oak woods, then over the stone bridge that crossed the river.
Soon afterwards they were clattering into the front courtyard, but suddenly Connor was frowning. There were staff waiting for him there. A ridiculous formality, he thought, since he and Tom could have managed everything perfectly well! But no—there were grooms to take charge of the horses and a footman standing by the front door. And Haskins the steward stood stiffly to attention.
Most of the Hall’s staff were completely new. The ones who’d stayed on since the old days, like Tom, were a rarity. Housemaids, footmen, gardeners and grooms had been hired by Connor’s business secretary, Robert Carstairs, who’d also appointed the new steward Haskins, together with a housekeeper, Mrs Lett.
Carstairs was highly efficient. But sometimes, Connor regretted not conducting the interviews himself.
A young maid hurried forward for Elvie. ‘There now, Miss Elvira! Your grandmother’s waiting for you. Have you had a lovely day at the fair?’
Elvie nodded shyly, looking longingly at Little Jack; but Connor had the puppy firmly in hand. ‘I’ll take him to meet the other dogs,’ he assured Elvie. ‘The groom in charge of the kennels will see that he’s made really welcome.’ He stooped so he didn’t tower over her and added, ‘You tell your grandmother all about your trip out—yes?—and then in an hour or so, when Little Jack’s settled, I’ll take you to see him.’
So Connor led the puppy out to the stables, then returned to the house and headed for his study—only to find Robert Carstairs waiting for him.
‘Some news, sir,’ Carstairs said. ‘And it’s good news. You’re ahead in the race to provide iron for the new east London docks project, in Wapping. Your plans have been received most favourably. I have some letters to that effect here.’
‘Good news indeed, Carstairs,’ Connor agreed. But he wished Miles Delafield could have been here to share in the excitement. I miss you, Miles, Connor said silently to himself as he led the way into his study, where Carstairs began eagerly laying out the various documents on his desk.
‘All we require now,’ Carstairs was saying, ‘before the contract is signed is government approval—and you should get that without any difficulty.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Connor mildly.
Carstairs glanced at him enquiringly. ‘You seem a little quiet, sir. Did you enjoy the fair?’
‘I enjoyed it well enough,’ Connor replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I met several people I used to know.’
‘Anyone of importance?’
‘No. Not at all.’ And he started studying those papers again—but he could not stop thinking about Isobel Blake. She’d faced up to him almost defiantly this afternoon. Perhaps she hoped he might not have heard the stories whispered about the years she’d spent with Loxley. Perhaps she hoped he didn’t know she was now living with some artist fellow...
No. She wouldn’t be that stupid. She must realise he would have heard how she’d made a complete mess of her life and the best thing Connor could do was forget her. Completely, he reminded himself. And yet—her skin had felt so warm, so soft when he’d touched her arm.
He pulled out the chair from his desk and sat down. ‘Right,’ he said to Carstairs. ‘The new docks. We need more figures—charts, maps, suppliers. Let’s get to work, shall we?’
* * *
It had taken Isobel just over an hour to walk the three miles along the narrow track to the farmhouse that was now her home.
She opened the door into the big kitchen that took up most of the ground floor. At one end of this room was the black cooking range, surrounded by gleaming pots and pans; at the other end was Joseph Molina, sitting in front of his easel, which had a permanent place there. The room’s numerous windows caught the light all day long and today the sun glittered on the half-finished canvases scattered around.
Joseph turned from his easel with a glad smile when she entered. ‘Isobel! My dear, did you enjoy the fair?’ He rose awkwardly, because his knees were stiff with rheumatism.
He was fifty-seven years old. Once, he had been a successful portrait artist, but when arthritis began to attack his hands, he was no longer capable of the precise detail the work required. Isobel had first met him in a London gallery three years ago. Loxley had died and she’d found herself homeless, with nothing to her name but a besmirched reputation.
At that gallery Joseph Molina had noticed her admiring one of his watercolour sketches of Gloucestershire and came over to her. ‘I know this place,’ Isobel had said, pointing to the picture. ‘I grew up in the house that looks out over this valley.’
He’d told her he was thinking of moving there, permanently. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ he said, ‘and besides, there are practical reasons. I can’t afford the rent on my London studio any more. My sister, Agnes, will be coming with me. Why don’t you come, too?’
He was so kind to Isobel that day, at a time when she’d felt surrounded by enemies. She’d been moved almost to tears, but forced a smile, as she always did. ‘I cannot expect your charity.’
‘No charity,’ he’d answered. ‘I will find you work, believe me!’
So she’d moved back to Gloucestershire with him and Agnes. She’d learned how to grind pigments and mix them with linseed oil and how to care for his canvases and brushes. She knew, of course, what people whispered about her. She expected to make no new friends in Gloucestershire, but then, she’d only ever had one true friend here.
Connor. Connor. The way he’d looked at her today. He’d heard everything. Believed everything. And it hurt, more than she’d believed possible.
‘Look,’ she was saying now to Joseph. ‘Look what I found for you.’ And soon she was proudly showing him the sticks of charcoal and hog’s-hair brushes she’d bought for him from a pedlar at the fair. ‘I enjoyed the fair immensely,’ she went on, forcing a merry smile, ‘but you should have been there, too, Joseph. It wasn’t the same without you.’
‘Did you find anything of interest?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ She laid out the new brushes with care. ‘For instance, I found an adorable stray puppy—together with some stray children. Oh, and I met a little girl. A rich and rather sad little girl.’
‘Perhaps she reminded you of yourself, Isobel?When you were young?’
She lost her smile. ‘Perhaps, yes. But the girl, Joseph! She was very sweet. I gave her the puppy and that made her happy.’
It had made herhappy, too, Isobel realised—at least for a little while. Until she’d seen Connor Hamilton’s face and the way he’d looked at her. Something had wrenched the breath from her lungs at that look of his and she still felt bruised—agonised—from it.
Forcing the memory down, she went to examine the painting on Molina’s easel.
‘This is beautiful!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the sunset over the woods on Calverley Hill, isn’t it?’
‘It’s showing promise,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But the greens I’ve used aren’t quite right. Will you help me to mix the colours, Isobel? I need aquamarine, I think, and yellow ochre. Also a touch of cadmium, though I don’t know where the cadmium has got to...’
How quickly she settled into her usual routine. Within minutes, she’d found his precious phials of pigment amidst the clutter, as she always did, and the time flew by, until a middle-aged lady in a grey dress and pinafore—his sister, Agnes—came bustling in and scolded mildly, ‘Now, Joseph, it’s time for you to be putting away those brushes of yours and getting yourself ready for your tea.’
‘Agnes is quiteright,’ Isobel told him, ‘so off you go and I’ll put these things away for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, my dear.’
‘Nor I you,’ Isobel replied. She smiled again, though the minute he’d gone she felt despair washing through her.
She’d been stupidly rash to visit the fair today. To pretend she didn’t care about the whispers she heard everywhere.
‘That’s Sir George Blake’s daughter there. Remember her? Just to think, she was once an heiress! But her father died a bankrupt and she went to live with a London rake when she was eighteen—yes, only eighteen! Then, when he died, she took up with this artist fellow—yes, they live just up the valley...’
Whenever she heard the talk, Isobel reminded herself she was content with her new life. The Molinas couldn’t have been kinder; she had this home in the countryside she’d always loved and indeed she could almost call herself happy—until something happened, like at the fair today, when Connor Hamilton appeared.
* * *
She told the Molinas all about the fair while they ate their supper, describing the livestock tents and the entertainers, and the crowds who enjoyed it all so thoroughly. She told them just a little about the Plass Valley children, at which Agnes broke in, ‘Do you mean the children of those travellers, who arrive every summer to gather in the hay?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Isobel answered. ‘And they’re lovely, but a little high-spirited.’
She went on to explain to Agnes about the runaway puppy—they both loved the story of the lively creature shaking mud all over the Reverend Malpass. At around nine she washed up the dishes and tidied everything away, then she took a candle to her upstairs room under the thatched eaves. She closed her door and leaned against it.
Then, and only then, did she allow the smile she’d put on for her kind friends to fade away.
She closed the curtains on the fast-gathering darkness outside, then by the light of the candle she gazed at herself in the mirror hung on a nail in the wall. Her dress was made of cheap cotton, the kind any country girl might wear, but she realised now that it was too tight around the bodice. Although her figure was slim, her breasts were full and the way the often-washed fabric of the gown clung to them made her look cheap. And that wasn’t all.
Her skin was tinted unfashionably gold from the sun, in a way no lady would permit, and her long, obstinately curling fair hair had tumbled as usual from its pins. Try as she might, her efforts to tidy it never lasted long. All in all, she looked like a girl out for fun—a certain kind of fun. Once she’d been the heiress to Calverley Hall—but now her position in society was lowly indeed. Here she was, twenty-three years old and completely without prospects, yet she’d always told herself she was content. But today, at the fair, her safe little world had been rocked to its foundations.
Over the last few years she’d heard all the gossip about Connor Hamilton. In fact, she often suspected the locals took great delight in repeating it in her hearing, loudly, in the town or the market place. She’d heard what must be every single detail of how Connor had risen in the world—the news had filtered back, month after month, year after year.
‘He’s living in London—yes, the big city. He’s proving himself mighty skilled. He’s become partner in a major iron manufactory and he’s making himself extremely rich into the bargain...’
When someone told her—with more than a little satisfaction—that Connor was buying Calverley Hall, she started hearing fresh flurries of speculation. ‘He’s weary of London,’ people said. Or: ‘Now that he has that little girl and her grandmother to look after, he must feel that a country residence would do them both good.’
He was returning to the neighbourhood he grew up in—only instead of a blacksmith’s forge, he would be living in a mansion. But hadn’t he realised that she still lived nearby?
She would never forget the coldness in his blue eyes today at the fair as he registered her presence. She felt branded by it. Let him think the worst of me, she thought, like everyone else! She was happy here, with the Molinas; she loved helping Joseph with his paintings, she enjoyed his and Agnes’s gentle company.
But Connor Hamilton was back. And a chill of fear caught at her heart, because he had become quite formidable in a way that made her pulse pound faster and her lungs ache with the sudden need for air.
How she’d first met him, she couldn’t even really remember. It was as though he’d always been there and whenever she could she used to ride over to the forge and watch him as he mended ploughshares or shoed horses. She used to ask him question after question about his work and he didn’t seem to mind. She felt safe with Connor and, although he said little, she felt that he liked her. Even on that awful night when she’d got Connor into so much trouble seven years ago, he’d told her it wasn’t her fault.
Since then, he’d become a rich man. An iron master. They said that to keep his hand in he still forged iron himself in the vast foundries that belonged to him—and, looking at him, she could well believe it, because his clothes, though clearly expensive, couldn’t hide the innate strength of his body. A typical rich London gentleman he was not; his face and hands were tanned from the open air; his black hair was thick and overlong for fashion and his deep blue eyes missed nothing, and were fooled, she guessed, by nobody.
The locals speculated that he’d returned to his Gloucestershire roots to find himself a suitable bride. Isobel thought differently. She guessed that Connor Hamilton, poor boy made good, had returned to the place of his birth for revenge on all those who’d thwarted him. As for his feelings towards her, she’d seen how his eyes had widened almost in incredulity when he realised who she was. And how they narrowed again with contempt, a moment later.
Scorn—that was what he felt now, for Isobel Blake. And who could blame him?
Not her, that was for sure. Not her. But his scorn was not deserved.
Chapter Three (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
One week later
‘So,’ said Laura Delafield, putting her embroidery to one side and letting a spark of mischief twinkle in her eyes. ‘You’re intent on refurbishing the Hall in its entirety, are you, Connor dear? I do hope that you’re not going to disappoint too many people with your surprisingly excellent taste.’
It was a little before noon and Connor had come to join Laura in her favourite room, which had large south-facing windows overlooking the garden. Surprisingly excellent taste. He felt his breath catch for a moment, so primed was he to fend off cutting comments about his lowly background, but no insult was intended here—this was Laura, grandmother to Elvie and mother to his former business partner, Miles. Though confined to a bath chair nowadays, she was lively, shrewd and entirely lovable.
He’d first met Laura when he was hired by Miles in London and he’d quickly become enormously appreciative of her gentle wisdom. The Hall—neglected both by Sir George Blake and by a succession of tenants in the last five years—needed complete refurbishing and Connor knew the entire neighbourhood would be watching to see if he was filling the house with the kind of pretentious rubbish they would expect of an upstart like him.
His mouth curled slightly, but he answered with a smile, ‘I rather fear I’m going to disappoint the locals, Laura, since my tastes are remarkably staid. You think I should have gone for a livelier style? Russian, perhaps?’
‘Not Russian, my dear,’ Laura pronounced. ‘That is quite passé. No, these days you need to turn to Egypt, to be truly nouveau riche.’She looked rather dreamy-eyed. ‘As much gilt and jade as you like, with painted pharaohs all over the place...’
He chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to give the neighbours absolutely nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘you’ve already given them plenty to talk about, believe me. For example, the Vicar called this morning, while you were out.’
‘Thank God, then, for my excellent sense of timing. What did Malpass want?’
‘He told me that he wished to speak to you about the travellers and their encampment in Plass Valley.’ She eyed him with care. ‘He feels they “lower the tone of the parish”. Those were his exact words.’
Connor fought down a stab of irritation. ‘The Reverend Malpass has a short memory. They’ve been coming to Plass Valley every summer, for as long as I can remember. How would the farmers reap their hay harvest without them?’
‘The Vicar,’ said Laura mildly, ‘claims it’s the travellers’ children who are the chief problem. He says they’re running wild and being cheeky to the ladies of the village who try to rebuke them.’
He sighed. ‘Have the ladies been complaining to you, too, Laura?’
‘Only in passing.’ Her cheeks dimpled with amusement. ‘As a matter of fact, the local ladies have something far more pressingon their minds when they make their morning calls on me. Without exception, they have daughters of a marriageable age. You get my drift?’
Connor groaned. ‘Heaven help me, I do.’ He seized on a fragment of hope. ‘But didn’t any of them, when referring to me, mention the word “upstart”?’
‘Not a whisper.’
‘Then there’s nothing for it, Laura. I shall have to pretend I already have a fiancée in London. Either that, or feign a dissolute past...’
‘Feign a dissolute past, dear?’ she mocked gently.
He laughed, acknowledging the mild correction by raising one hand in a gesture of submission. Laura pretended to study her embroidery again, then said, after a pause, ‘You know, Connor, that marriage does have its compensations. Children being not the least of them.’
And just for a moment Connor could hear the heartache behind her gentle words. Laura, a widow for many years, had no other children but Miles, who had been Connor’s mentor, friend and business partner for years. And now she’d lost him. A tragedy for all of them, yet Laura was, thank God, as loving and generous-spirited as ever and a vital presence in the life of her granddaughter, Elvie.
‘Laura,’ he said, ‘if I could find someone like you, the decision to marry would be easy, believe me.’
She was laughing. ‘Connor,’ she said, ‘you ridiculous flatterer. But seriously, I’ve heard—’
‘You’ll have heard,’ he broke in, ‘all kinds of nonsense.’
‘I’ve heard something a little more than nonsense lately.’ She placed a few more stitches, but now she raised her eyes to his. ‘I’ve heard talk, in fact, about Miss Helena Staithe.’
Connor walked slowly to the window overlooking the sunlit gardens and turned to face her. ‘You’re right, Laura, to assume that at some point I’ll have to consider the matter of marriage a little more seriously.’
‘Perhaps you will,’ Laura said teasingly, ‘if only to put a damper on the talk Miss Staithe’s friends are spreading that perhaps your interest in her is becoming significant.’
He suppressed an exclamation of impatience. ‘People will always talk. Of course, there are strong business connections with her family—you’ll remember as well as anyone, Laura, how Helena’s father sponsored Miles’s projects in the early days.’
‘Of course I remember. Her father was a Member of Parliament, was he not? And now Helena’s brother has taken over his seat.’
‘He has.’ Connor frowned a little. ‘But whether my obligation to the Staithe family stretches to marriage on my part is rather questionable. To be honest, a marriage of convenience holds little appeal.’
‘You mean,’ said Laura lightly, ‘that you’re waiting for the love of your life?’
‘Does such a thing exist?’
She hesitated. ‘I believe so, yes. But then, perhaps I was lucky... Oh, Connor, I was completely forgetting!’ She put down her needlework again. ‘You told me you had to return to London tonight for an important meeting. You must have all kinds of things to sort out and here I am, delaying you with my chatter!’
He laughed. ‘The meeting’s not that important,’ he assured her. ‘In fact, I’ve decided to send Carstairs instead—it’s simply a matter of delivering some proposed figures to my chief shareholders.’
‘You’re hoping for their support in this new project of yours—the docks?’
‘That’s right and I’m pretty certain I’ll get it. But, Laura, as it happens I’ve got another matter on my mind and it’s something I need to deal with here. A few minutes ago you mentioned the Plass Valley children and now’s perhaps the time to tell you my plan. You see...’ he paused for a moment ‘...I’m thinking of setting up a school for them.’
‘A school?For the children of the travellers?’
‘Exactly. It would be for the summer season only, of course, since after that they’ll be moving on to their next place of work. The older children are kept busy helping their parents with the hay harvest—but for the little ones, there’s absolutely nothing to do.’
‘Except get into mischief,’ said Laura thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I see. But—a school?’
‘It wouldn’t be a very formal affair. The children could be taught basics, like the alphabet and some simple arithmetic.’ He was surprising himself by the enthusiasm with which he spoke. ‘I realise, of course, that plenty of local people will say I’m wasting my time. But I’ve met these children and they’re not malicious, they’re just full of energy—energy that needs direction.’
‘So where exactly would you hold this school?’
And he knew he had her approval.
‘There’s the old chapel,’ he said, ‘in the grounds of the Hall—you can see it from here, if you look out of the window. It’s not been used for years, but I’ve examined it pretty carefully and I think I could easily have it made suitable.’
‘And who would you appoint as their teacher?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I need a person who’s not just well educated, but is someone the children will actually like.’ He paused. ‘Laura, you know how much I value your opinion. You don’t think it’s a dreadful idea?’
‘On the contrary,’ she answered. ‘I think it’s one of the best ideas you’ve ever had, Connor. And—’
She broke off, because just at that moment Elvie came running in and Laura held out her hands to her. ‘Darling Elvie. I think you’ve come to remind me it’s time for lunch?’
‘Yes, Grandmother, I have.’ Elvie hesitated, then turned to Connor. ‘Connor, after lunch, p-please may I play with Little Jack in the garden?’
Her speech was still slightly hesitant—even with himself and Laura. But she was, he could see, shyly eager for the pleasures to come. He crouched a little so he was nearer her height. ‘Very well, mischief. You take Jack out after you’ve eaten your meal and teach him some tricks—oh, and obedience! Don’t forget that!’
‘I will,’ she said earnestly. ‘He really will be the best dog ever.’
By then a footman had appeared to wheel Laura through to the dining room and Elvie followed. But at the last minute, Laura turned her head. ‘Connor, are you joining us?’
‘Very soon—I have one or two things to see to first.’
‘Just like Miles,’ she said. ‘Don’t let time be your master, though, Connor. Promise me?’ Then—without waiting for his answer—she and Elvie were gone and Connor was alone.
Don’t let time be your master.
Miles Delafield had confided to Connor last year that he intended to cut down his own workload in the near future. He’d talked of buying an estate in the country, with acres of land and gardens for his mother and Elvie to enjoy. A heart attack out of the blue had put paid to Miles’s plans, but Connor had resolved to see that Elvie and Laura would live out that dream of his. Though what was Connor’s dream? What did he really want for himself?
He would never forget those early days when—still bitter from the loss of the forge and the death so soon afterwards of his ailing father—he’d left Calverley as an eighteen-year-old to take the road for London. He’d headed straight for the eastern end of the city, where the new iron foundries were spilling over into the flat Essex countryside, and there he’d tramped around begging for work.
When Miles Delafield took him on, Connor laboured at the foundry as an apprentice by day. But by night he studied and Miles, realising his eagerness to learn, lent him books—Miles owned volume after volume on metallurgy and engineering, and Connor had read them till past midnight, every night, until his eyes burned and his brain was dizzy with newfound knowledge.
And his dreams grew bigger. He didn’t just want to be a foundryman. He wanted to make sure that no one would look down on him again—ever.
Now he stood by the window of the garden room in Calverley Hall, gazing out at the idyllic landscape. Now no one dared to snub the iron master Connor Hamilton. But should he have come back here? Was it ever wise, to revive memories of the past?
He’d thought it would give him satisfaction, to revisit all the remembered places of his youth. But there was one memory—one person—he’d not reckoned on.
Isobel Blake.
Just how old he’d been when he first met her he couldn’t exactly recall—fifteen, sixteen, perhaps? By then Connor’s father was ill and Connor had taken on most of the work of the forge himself. Isobel used to arrive on horseback, as if by chance. ‘I was just passing,’ she would say.
She was lonely, he guessed. He also knew that she shouldn’t even be out on her own, let alone come to visit him. But she didn’t seem to care. She loved to watch him work, especially when he worked with the horses; she would linger there in the forge’s yard and Connor hadn’t minded.
There was no arrogance to her, no concern for her position or her appearance. Her fair hair was always carelessly pulled back in a loose plait and her clothes were often dusty from the stables. He’d never thought of her as a nuisance, even on that last night, when she’d pleaded with him to visit the sick horse at her father’s stables and her father had been so angry at Connor’s so-called interference that he’d ordered the forge to be destroyed.
She’d tried to defend Connor to her father. And he’d realised, last week at the fair, that she still had the utmost courage;he’d seen it in the way she had stood up to the Vicar over those children. She still had rebellion in her eyes and fire in her blood. He couldn’t forget, either, the way that Elvie had instantly taken to her...
Suddenly he wasn’t seeing the view from the window any more—he was seeing Isobel Blake. Children. She liked them and they liked her. They took to her. Trusted her. Wouldn’t she make a good teacher for his school? But her reputation made the notion impossible. She was living with that artist as his mistress! And there was something else—another complication that troubled Connor far more than he cared to admit.
His first reaction, on being close to her, was to feel a harsh and unwelcome stab of desire. Something that couldn’t be sated by mere physical contact, because it was accompanied by another urge that was perhaps even more disturbing. He wanted to talk to her, to get to know what was really going on beneath that bright and defiant veneer of hers.
She’d deliberately allowed herself to fall just about as far down the social ladder as it was possible to fall. But he, Connor, could so easily conjure up the startling green-gold of her eyes and the luxuriant blonde of her hair as it fell in unruly waves from beneath that absurd bonnet. Could imagine running his hands through it, letting it fall over her bare shoulders...
Fool. It was a waste of precious time even to think of her. Fortunately, he had plenty to keep him busy—if all went well, there was this new contract for the London docks, for a start. And while he was here, he was determined to set up a summer school for the Plass Valley children—which meant finding someone suitable to run it.
He’d already spoken to the ever-efficient Carstairs about the matter. ‘I would suggest an advertisement, sir,’ was Carstairs’s response.
And so, two days later, an advertisement appeared in the Gloucestershire Herald.
Required—temporary tutor for small group of children, to start as soon as possible. Applications to be returned to Mr Connor Hamilton, Calverley Hall.
* * *
A week later, Connor sat behind the big desk in his study interviewing one by one the five short-listed applicants with Laura at his side. The candidates turned out to be a diverse bunch, ranging from a plump farmer’s daughter who couldn’t glance at Connor without blushing, to a retired parson whom Connor assumed, by the state of his nose, to have a drink problem. Connor asked each of them the same questions. ‘Since the summer school will be for a few weeks only, what do you consider the most vital topics to be covered? Do you think there should be an element of enjoyment in every lesson? Or is learning a matter of hard work, always?’
What a revelation the answers were. ‘The children need to be taught their place, with a good birching every now and then,’ one young man cheerfully suggested. He had, he informed them, taught at an expensive day school in Bath for two years. ‘After all,’ he went on, ‘you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, can you?’
Laura glanced at Connor, waiting for the explosion. But Connor merely rose rather abruptly from his chair. Interview over. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That will be all.’
There was an ex-governess, too, who happened to catch sight of Elvie out on the lawn playing with Little Jack. ‘I take it the girl out there is one of the tinkers’ children? Of course, if I was in charge, behaviour like that would cease instantly!’
Connor followed her glance out of the window—Elvie did look untidy, he realised. She was in an old frock and pinafore, and her pigtails had long since come undone. But out there with her puppy she looked as happy as Connor had seen her for months.
‘That child,’ he said, ‘happens to be my ward.’
He caught Laura smothering a smile; the woman’s face turned a startling red. ‘Oh! Oh, I see. Well, of course, Mr Hamilton, I didn’t mean...’
‘I have to thank you for revealing your feelings so frankly,’ said Connor. ‘I have no more questions. Good day to you.’
It was clear, when they came to the end of the interviews, that not one of the candidates was suitable by any stretch of the imagination. And Connor saw that Laura looked tired. Summoning her maid and thanking Laura for her assistance, he suggested she take a rest for an hour or so; then he went out into the garden to join Elvie. She ran towards him with the puppy bounding at her heels. She looked anxious.
‘Connor,’ she said. ‘Those p-people who were here. You’re not going to choose one of them to work at the school you told me about, are you?’
He’d already explained to her his idea for the school. ‘You saw them, then? They were a rather strange bunch, weren’t they, little one? Don’t worry. I don’t think any of them will be in charge of my school—if, indeed, I manage to ever start it.’
‘I hope you do,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m lucky because I’ve got Grandmother to help me with my lessons—but they’ve got no one.’
‘I’ll find someone,’ he promised. ‘Someone kind. And fun.’
She nodded, then her puppy came rushing up to drop his new ball at her feet, tail wagging. And Elvie was off, running across the lawn with Little Jack racing ahead.
Connor watched. Someone kind. And fun. But—who?
‘The children must have five hours a day at least of lessons,’ one of the would-be teachers had declared.
Five hours? Connor’s raised eyebrows had expressed mild astonishment.
‘Indeed,’ the woman had gone on, ‘that is the absolute minimum required to bring an element of civilisation to people of their kind, Mr Hamilton!’
Of their kind. Connor walked back into the house and settled himself again in his study. Perhaps the whole idea was entirely foolish—after all, what difference could a few weeks of learning make to children who would be moving on in no time?
But then again, it might make all the difference in the world. Look at his own past. He’d been thrown out of Malpass’s church school early on, but Connor’s father owned some books—rare indeed in a poor household like theirs. There’d been travel stories and poems, and tales of ancient history, which Connor had read by the light of a tallow candle. He’d found he had a great hunger for learning that was awakened once again when he was given access to Miles Delafield’s fine library in London.
Who was to say there wasn’t another child like him somewhere amongst the travellers’ families? A child who would grasp at the tiniest seed of learning?
A knock at his door announced the entry of Haskins, the steward. ‘Sir,’ Haskins said, ‘some of the furniture you ordered from Gloucester is starting to arrive. Could you come and examine the items, and approve their condition?’
Connor rose and followed him out of the study. Haskins was precise and orderly, but he still wasn’t sure he actually liked the fellow. And when Connor reached the reception hall, he looked around with a snort of disbelief. Had he really ordered so much stuff? All around were not only chairs, tables and sofas, but also a colourful array of rugs, pictures and mirrors. Haskins had the delivery notes in his hand and, with daunting precision, he pointed out each item together with its price and place of manufacture.
Yes, Connor realised, he had ordered all this—after all, he’d bought himself a great mansion and it had to be furnished. With a sigh, he took the delivery notes from Haskins and soon enough everything was dealt with and signed for. The tradesmen, who’d been hovering anxiously, doffed their caps and hastened back out to their waiting vehicles.
‘And now, sir...’ Haskins began.
‘I know,’ Connor said. ‘You want to be told where everything is going.’
Haskins inclined his head. ‘It would be good, sir, to place each item as soon as possible in the exact place for which it was intended. And I have a plan...’
‘I thought you might,’ said Connor.
Haskins was flourishing a large sheet of paper. ‘You’ll see, sir, that I’ve drawn a map of each floor. Do I have your permission to ask the footmen to proceed?’
‘You do indeed,’ said Connor heartily. And Haskins, in an absolute fervour of efficiency, began to give instructions to his team of footmen.
Connor was assailed once more by one of those moments of doubt that still came upon him rather too frequently. Was this really what he wanted? To be surrounded by belongings and an army of servants? He reminded himself he’d done it for Elvie and Laura—but Elvie was happiest running around the garden, with her new puppy. And Laura—well, she was happy if Elvie was happy.
Perhaps, he thought suddenly, it would be different if he was married and had children of his own to fill the place. He tried to picture Helena here—her brother Roderick Staithe had been making it clear to Connor for some time that an offer of marriage from Connor would be more than acceptable. There were subtle hints and not-so-subtle insinuations at every meeting of the two men.
‘Of course, Connor,’ Staithe liked to say grandly, ‘our father, as a Member of Parliament, was largely responsible for helping Miles to set up his first major projects.’
The implication being, of course, that Roderick—who’d inherited his father’s Parliamentary seat—could do the same for Connor. In other words, get him the official backing that was necessary these days for any large building scheme. But Connor relished his independence. He didn’t want to be trapped, for the simple reason that he’d fought so hard for his freedom.
He’d been gazing abstractedly at a rather garish Chinese cabinet—good God, had he really ordered that?—when he realised a young woman was standing in the doorway, looking uncertainly around her.
He blinked.
It was Isobel Blake.
Chapter Four (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
The dealers, as they departed, had left the big front doors wide open. The sunshine was bright outside, highlighting the rainbow colours of Isobel’s cotton frock and the pink ribbons decorating her overlarge straw bonnet. Already Haskins was speaking sharply to her; Connor walked steadily towards them both, just as Haskins turned to him.
‘This person, sir—’ Haskins indicated Isobel ‘—says she needs to speak with you urgently. I am, of course, telling her that you are extremely busy at present—’
Connor broke in. ‘That will be all, Haskins. Please leave us.’
He was looking at Isobel as he spoke. Her eyes met his, dark-lashed, green-gold and defiant; he remembered once more the midsummer fair and the way the sun had glittered on her long blonde hair and her cheap dress. Remembered, too, all the things he’d heard about her.
Could she be a possible schoolteacher? No. She was a walking scandal.
‘Miss Blake,’ he said coolly. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
He saw how she immediately registered the sarcasm of that last word—honour. She blinked, then looked at the footmen heaving chairs and oversized mirrors up the stairs. She turned back to him. ‘Oh, dear. I’m intruding. Aren’t I?’
‘You are,’ he agreed.
She caught her breath and he thought he saw a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, though it was gone in a minute. ‘I couldn’t think,’ she said at last, ‘of anyone else to tell.’ And she smiled and shrugged, but he saw how she was clasping her hands together and her voice was a little toobright.
This was how she used to be, he remembered suddenly, when she used to visit me at the forge. Making a huge effort to hide her emotions, after being upset by something her unspeakable father had said or done.
‘You may as well tell me,’ he answered coolly, ‘since you’re here.’
She nodded, drew in a deep breath and said, ‘It’s about the children.’
He felt a stab of surprise that her thoughts had been running in exactly the same direction as his. ‘You mean the Plass Valley children?’
‘I do. The older children have been helping their parents to gather in the hay at Mr Bryanson’s farm. But the little ones—they were playing by the river further down the valley this morning, doing no one any harm, when some of the village men came up to them and threatened them, saying...saying...’
She’d lost control of her voice, he realised. ‘Saying what?’ he prompted.
She steadied herself. ‘These men said they were filthy scum and they should get back to where they came from. The children ran, of course. They were very frightened. I’d been shopping in the village and came across them as I walked home...’ Her voice faltered again, but she steadied herself and carried on. ‘Some of the little ones were crying. The older ones told me what had happened. I didn’t know what to do, to be honest, but then I remembered how you defended them at the fair. And I thought you might be able to think of some way to help them, because...’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Because I was once considered filthy scum myself?’ he said levelly.
He saw her flinch. Then she braced herself again and said steadily, ‘I’m sorry. Clearly I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.’ She glanced at the footmen hauling a large chaise longue through to the drawing room. ‘I can see you have far more important things to see to. Good day to you, Mr Hamilton.’ And she turned to go.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Were any of the children hurt?’
She pushed back a strand of hair that had strayed from under her bonnet. ‘Two little girls grazed their knees as they tried to run away and the youngest boy has a sprained wrist from where a man swung him around. I took them to the doctor in the village, who very reluctantly tended their injuries. But when I asked him if he would help me take action against those—those bullies,he refused. Nobody will help them!’
He said, quietly, ‘You must have had to pay the doctor. Did you?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Yes, but it really does not matter!’
‘Wait a moment,’ he cut in, ‘while I fetch money to repay you and to perhaps buy some food for their families.’
She flushed at that and her eyes sparkled defiance. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you are taking your role as lord of the manor seriously, aren’t you? It’s very generous of you to offer charity—but they need rather more than charity, Mr Hamilton!’
‘I believe you told me so at the fair,’ he said.
‘Yes, and I’ll say it again. They need someone to defend them! And I realise—’
She broke off. She was clenching her hands, he saw. Little spots of colour burned in her cheeks, and beneath that worn and shabby frock her breasts heaved. Clearly she was making a huge effort to calm herself and when she spoke again her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.
‘I realise,’ she went on, ‘that I am probably the last person on earth who should come to you asking for favours.’ She lifted her head, and he saw her green eyes were very clear. ‘But I do not want your money. In fact, I can see that by coming here today I have made another grave mistake and I’ve already taken up quite enough of your time. I will bid you good day, Mr Hamilton!’
‘Stop,’ Connor said urgently. ‘Wait.’ But she was already hurrying down the steps, that ridiculous pink-beribboned bonnet bobbing as she set off along the drive.
He could have pursued her. But instead he stood there, frozen by memories. I realise that I’m probably the last person on earth who should come to you asking for favours.
In his youth he had not borne her any dislike for being Sir George Blake’s daughter—on the contrary, he used to feel the utmost pity for her. But since then, she’d allowed herself to sink so low that even the local tattle-mongers had grown weary of spreading her story.
Yet still she was as outspoken as ever. And those clothes!
He had no need to think about her any further. She was nothing to him, of no importance whatsoever; the whole community scorned her. And yet she was the only one of that community to defend those children. She was the only one with the courage to care...
No. He rubbed his clenched fist against his forehead. The faint lavender scent of her lingered in the hall and it was delicate, it was haunting, it made him think things he definitely shouldn’t be thinking. Like—how sweet she would be to kiss. And to hold, and to caress. And suddenly a vivid picture shot into his mind of him exploring the satiny, secret places of her slender body, possibly on that very bed the footmen were struggling to get up the stairs just now...
‘Mr Hamilton, sir!’ Haskins’s voice banished Connor’s vision in an instant. ‘Mr Hamilton,’ went on Haskins importantly, bustling towards him, ‘there are several items of furniture we need to ask you about. We’re not quite sure where they belong.’
Again Connor tried to rub the tension from his forehead. Where did he belong, exactly? And why did he, all of a sudden, feel so damned dissatisfied with this new life of his? Why did he feel right now as if the acquisition of wealth and power were like prison chains, in which he was becoming more and more entangled?
‘Very well, Haskins,’ he replied at last. ‘Lead the way.’
* * *
Isobel hurried down the drive, feeling quite dizzy with dismay. She had been stupid beyond words to have come to the Hall and Connor Hamilton had looked at her with a coldness that had chilled her blood. She lashed herself inwardly as she walked, remembering with a shiver how his eyes had run with casual contempt over her flowered print frock, her face and her bare arms. All she’d wanted was for him to help the children—because she’d thought he might care.
And all she wanted now was to be as far away from here as possible. But the children! Their plight had upset her desperately and, while wondering last night what on earth she could do to help them, her mind had suddenly flown to Connor. She’d hoped that whatever he thought of her, he might still feel pity for the children.
She’d tried to say as much to Joseph and Agnes before setting out on this visit, though they’d expressed strong doubt, saying they’d heard Mr Hamilton was a hard and a ruthless man. But Isobel had carried on regardless—and she was wrong. She should have heeded the Molinas’ warning. Now that she was safely away, she paused to glance back at the Hall, with all its daunting immensity, and remembered that this was the place she’d once called home, though in truth she’d grown to hate it.
Billy, who drove the carrier’s cart, had dropped her off at the lodge gates. He’d told her he had deliveries to make to a couple of farms farther on. ‘But I’ll pick you up on my way back, Miss Isobel,’ he’d promised cheerily. ‘I’ll be here at the gates around noon.’
She was early, so she decided to leave the broad drive and take a slightly longer route through Calverley’s parkland. That would, she hoped, give her time to calm herself before meeting Billy. But as she approached a woodland dell, she was halted in her tracks by a child’s voice calling, ‘Bring it to me, Jack! Good boy! Good boy!’
Hesitating between the trees, she glimpsed Elvie, throwing sticks for her puppy. The little girl’s voice was steady, but Isobel could see that her cheeks were wet with tears.
It’s none of my business, Isobel told herself. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’ve done enough interfering for one day. But the puppy was already scampering towards her and now Elvie had seen her, too. ‘It’s you,’ she exclaimed, ‘the lady from the fair! Little Jack, look who it is!’
She’d scooped her puppy up and was burying her nose in his fur, but not before Isobel saw that tears were trickling down her cheeks. Isobel touched her arm gently. ‘My dear. Why are you crying?’
The little girl’s tears welled up anew as she gazed up at Isobel. ‘It’s because I—I miss my father so!’
Isobel wanted to hug her, hard. Instead she led her to a nearby bench and sat next to her, while Little Jack settled forlornly at his young mistress’s feet. Isobel was trying to remember everything she’d heard about Elvira Delafield. Her mother died a month after she was born; her father died of a heart attack six months ago. Her grandmother is her only living relative...
‘I think,’ Isobel said, ‘that you’re very brave, Elvie. And I’m really glad you’ve got Jack to keep you company. You’ve got your grandmother, too, haven’t you?’
Elvie was trying to rub her tears away. ‘Yes. Grandmother is lovely, but she gets tired and sometimes I feel lonely.’ She swallowed a fresh sob.
Isobel looked around. ‘Do you know, I remember a girl who once lived here.’
‘At the Hall?’
‘Yes. She was sometimes lonely, too, but she did have one friend. He might not have realised it, but she depended on him, a great deal.’
Elvie was gazing up at her. ‘And is she still friends with him?’
Isobel felt something hot and tight gathering inside her. ‘Sadly, no. You see, Elvie, sometimes things happen as you get older. There was a misunderstanding. But when she was young and alone, he was there for her. And she will never, ever forget that.’
Elvie was wide-eyed. ‘And has this girl got friends now?’
‘Yes, she has.’ Isobel was thinking of Agnes and Joseph. ‘Just like you, Elvie. You have people who care for you very much and always will. Your grandmother, and Connor, too—I could see how good he was to you at the fair—’
She broke off, because she’d suddenly realised they were visible here from the upper storey of the Hall and she thought she’d glimpsed a face at one of the windows.
‘I must go now.’ She rose swiftly from the bench. ‘But as I said, I’m sure Connor wants the very best for you. I’m sure he’s extremely kind.’
And Isobel left, with her own words echoing again and again in her head.
* * *
He used to be kind. He’d been her secret hero. But things had changed—he was a successful man now, with power and money. As for her, whatever kind of future she’d expected for herself, it wasn’t this.
Since London, she’d told herself she didn’t care in the least what people thought of her. But everything had changed, catastrophically, that day when she’d met Connor at the fair. It was the same again today, when she confronted him so disastrously in the place that used to be her home. She’d felt her carefully built defences crumble away as she stumbled over one word after another. It was plain that he’d formed his own rock-solid opinion of her character, and he’d never given her one chanceto defend herself.
* * *
She had made a terrible mistake visiting the Hall. And her nightmare day wasn’t over yet, because as soon as Billy dropped her off at the Molinas’ farmhouse, Agnes came hurrying out. ‘Oh, Isobel!’ She had clearly been weeping.
‘Agnes, what’s happened?’ Isobel felt her heart thudding. ‘Is Joseph ill?’
‘No. But we’ve had a letter from our landlord, saying that our rent is overdue. And this is our last warning!’
‘But surely Joseph always pays the rent on time?’
Agnes’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. ‘He’s just told me that he hasn’t paid it for two months—he hasn’t the money! And the landlord’s letter says the next letter we get will be from his lawyer. Oh, Isobel, if we have to leave here, I don’t know where we’ll go, how we’ll live...’
Isobel put her arm round her. ‘Agnes. Don’t cry. I’m sure there will be something we can do.’
But her heart was pounding with dread.
Chapter Five (#ue7cf793f-b345-5b67-96ba-eb738be6d344)
Connor Hamilton sat in his study and tried to concentrate on the papers piled up on his desk. Normally, concentration came easily to him. This time—it was absurdly difficult.
He would not, in a million years, have described himself as a sentimental man. But there was something in Isobel Blake’s defiant demeanour—a hint of vulnerability, almost fragility—that had caught him completely unawares.
Two encounters, in just over a fortnight. Of course, he’d known it was quite possible he would see her again on returning to Calverley. Local rumour used ugly words about Isobel Blake. ‘This time she’s not even troubled to find a rich man to sell herself to.’ And yet Connor had felt entangled in some nameless emotion as he’d watched her leave the Hall earlier, with her head held high under that showy bonnet. He’d felt something that was partly pity and partly something else he really didn’t want to identify—because it complicated things.
‘Wait,’he’d tried to call after her.
But she either hadn’t heard him or chose not to, because she’d walked steadily out of the door and down the drive and out of his life again. Connor uttered some unseemly words of frustration. Beneath her shabby clothes and that false brightness, he guessed there was a protective wall she’d put up around herself to prevent anyone from getting too close. As if she was expecting fresh hurt or insult at every step.
Connor ground his fist against his forehead. It should have been his final triumph to return to Calverley Hall as its master. Indeed, it was a triumph—so why should a foolish girl from his past trouble him so?
He was certainly shaken by the spirited way in which she’d spoken up for the Plass Valley children. The trouble was, it wasn’t just her words that had affected him. She’d appealed for his help for them, while apparently completely unaware that some strands of her lovely blonde hair were escaping from beneath that bonnet of hers and there was even a golden dusting of flower pollen on the tip of her nose, from where she’d no doubt paused to breathe in the scent of some flowers in the gardens as she’d marched her way to his front door.
He briefly compared her to the rich girls who were thrust in front of him in London. Girls who’d probably spent all day preparing their gowns, their jewels, their hair. They made him impatient with their vanity and silly chatter. But Isobel? She’d always had courage—he knew that. She’d had to cope from an early age with her father’s determination to ruin himself with drink and gambling debts.
And now, there was something else. She had become strikingly beautiful.
She’s thrown herself away, he reminded himself. At the age of eighteen she’d gone to live with that notorious rake Loxley in his secretive Hyde Park mansion and the stories spread about her had been dark indeed. And now, she had her artist. But yet again he felt a spark of self-reproach. She came here to appeal to you about the Plass Valley children. You could have at least sympathised. You could have told her that you are actually planning to do something to help them.
But he hadn’t and one thing was certain—she wouldn’t be calling on him again. As for the school, he’d already arranged for his carpenters to begin work on the old chapel in the grounds. He knew he had to get the project started up soon—in fact, within the next week if it was to be of any use, since the summer days were already passing all too quickly. Yesterday he’d ridden round the farms on the Calverley estate and, as he spoke with his farmers, he’d casually mentioned his idea for the Plass Valley children—with depressingly negative results.
‘Teach them to read and write? Now, that’s a waste of time!’ one farmer had declared. ‘They’ll be picking crops like their parents in a few years, Mr Hamilton, and that’s all they’re needed for—you don’t need an education for that!’
But Connor remembered the chances he’d been given, poor though he was. And just at that moment, there was a tap at his door—it opened and there was Laura. Connor gestured to the footman who attended her to wheel her in, then depart.
And Laura said, ‘Connor, dear. You did promise Elvie that you would come to look at a story she’s written about Little Jack. At eleven, in the conservatory. Did you forget?’
He looked at his watch. Oh, no. Half-past eleven already.‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll go to her now.’
‘It’s all right! I told Elvie you were very busy after the arrival of all that furniture. But, Connor, I gather Miss Blake called. Now, that must have been rather a surprise. The poor girl. How very odd for her, to no longer have a connection to this place.’
A gentle but timely probe—that was typical of Laura. He was aware of his own intake of breath. ‘Let me put it this way, Laura. I owe her family no favours.’
‘I understand that. But, Connor—’ Laura was leaning forward in a way that indicated she meant business ‘—is her family her fault?’
When Connor made no reply, Laura waited a moment more, then went on, in her easy, pleasant way: ‘You know what servants are like, dear—they hear everything and talk to me. And so I can’t help but know what Miss Blake came to you about.’
‘The Plass Valley children?’
Laura nodded. ‘She came to ask you to help them, didn’t she? And I’ve been thinking, Connor—why not ask her to run your little school? Wait a minute—you look aghast, but I feel sure she’d be wonderful with the children. Just ask Elvie.’
Once more he was taken aback. ‘Elvie? What has she to do with it?’
‘A little while ago, I was upstairs in my private sitting room, which as you know overlooks the gardens. And I happened to see Miss Blake with Elvie—she must have come across her completely by chance as she walked back through the park after her visit here. And Elvie had been crying a little, I think, because I saw Miss Blake dry her tears and make a great fuss of Little Jack—and by end, Elvie was clinging to her hand as if she didn’t want to let go. So I thought—why not hire her for your school? She would be perfect!’
He tried—really tried—to explain tactfully. ‘Laura, unfortunately her past—and indeed her present circumstances—make the notion impossible.’
‘What, exactly, do you mean?’
Connor shook his head. Did Laura have any idea of Isobel’s scandalous London past? She’d never been one for gossip, but surely she must have heard that the way Isobel was living now did nothing to recommend her for the post in question!
‘Well...’ Connor spread out his large, capable hands. ‘Miss Blake liveswith an artist. A man called Joseph Molina.’
‘I know that, of course.’ Laura’s tone was just a little crisp. ‘She’s his assistant, I believe. Connor, have you ever met Mr Molina? Don’t you realise the poor man is in his fifties, is almost crippled by rheumatism and, besides, has never shown any interest in women—in the romantic sense—in his life? Besides, his sister Agnes lives with him, too, as his housekeeper and carer. I believe the Molinas took in Miss Blake as an act of friendship and in return she shops for them and helps around the house, and assists Mr Molina with his paintings. There is nothing at all improper in their relationship. And I must say, Connor, I expected better of you than to listen to malicious tittle-tattle!’
Connor closed his eyes briefly. So he’d perhaps been over-hasty in listening to the gossip concerning Isobel and Molina! But Isobel’s time with Loxley... Should he tell Laura about it?
He didn’t get the chance, because Laura was speaking again. ‘I believe,’ she went on, ‘that the girl has suffered from other rumours in the past. But is she never to be given the chance to redeem herself? And today I heard that the Molinas have received a new blow, because their landlord, whoever he may be, is threatening to evict them for non-payment of their rent. So it occurred to me straight away that Miss Blake might very much welcome the income from the teaching post you’re trying to fill. It’s not, after all, as if she’s going to teach the children of a duke! Her father was a disgrace, I know—but is that her fault?’
Having already been wrongfooted over Isobel’s relationship with Molina, Connor was silent.
‘Miss Blake,’ Laura continued imperturbably, ‘would presumably have been well educated as a girl. And I think there’s something about her that appeals very much to children. I’ve only observed her from a distance, but she has a kind of sparkle, don’t you think? As for the town’s malicious gossips, I don’t think either you or I need to sink to their level. Now, I know the final decision rests with you...’ Laura gave him her charming smile ‘...but I urge you, please, to consider what I’ve said.’
After she’d gone, Connor rose abruptly from his desk and paced the room.
So Laura thought he’d made a huge mistake in judging Isobel so harshly. But, damn it,she didn’t know what he knew. He wished allof it were lies, but even Isobel herself made no pretence of it—once more he remembered how she’d whispered, ‘I understand why you find it impossible to forgive me, both for what I used to be and for what I am now.’
But it appeared now that he’d misjudged her present situation badly. Give her a chance, Laura had said. Just as he’d been given a chance by Miles Delafield. He’d been laughed at when Miles first promoted him—laughed at for his country accent, his rough clothes. Yet he’d been given the opportunity to create a new life for himself. Why not give Isobel this chance? She had challenged him to do something to help those scruffy waifs. And since he’d not found anyone else remotely suitable for his school, why not respond by throwing the challenge back at Miss Isobel Blake?
He headed for the conservatory, where Elvie was helping Laura sort her embroidery silks, but she jumped to her feet when she saw him.
‘Connor, Grandmother said you would read the story I’ve written, about Little Jack.’ She hesitated. ‘But she also said you’re very busy, so perhaps you would rather wait?’
‘Elvie,’ he said, ‘I would love to read your story right now.’
‘Then I will leave you to it,’ said Laura, smiling. She was gathering her silks together. ‘I’ll go to rest in my room for a while, but I’ll see you both at lunchtime, I hope?’
Connor moved to the bell-pull to summon a footman for her wheelchair. ‘You will,’ he said. ‘And you’ll be glad to hear, Laura, that I’ve decided to follow your advice.’
And she knew instantly. ‘Oh, good,’ she said.
‘There is no guarantee whatsoever,’ he warned, ‘that Miss Blake will accept the post—you know? She might loathe the idea of having anything to do with Calverley Hall. She might consider it the greatest insult I could possibly offer her.’
‘I don’t think so. I really don’t.’
The footman was there now to wheel her to her room, but Connor was aware of that smile still on her face. Victory, it said. Victory. He settled himself next to Elvie and together they began to read the story of Little Jack.
* * *
That afternoon, Isobel decided to weed the garden of the Molinas’ farmhouse. The double blow of her calamitous meeting with Connor in the morning—all your own fault, you fool, you asked for everything you got—together with the news that the Molinas faced eviction had shaken her to her core. In an effort to overcome her gathering sense of panic, she’d resolved on an hour or two of physical hard work.
But the strategy just wasn’t having the desired effect.
‘I’m sure there’ll be something we can do about the rent,’ she’d said earlier to Agnes. Brave words. Stupid words. Because what real use was she to her friends? She did various jobs for them, admittedly, but her presence there was a luxury they could no longer afford. If she moved out, then at least they could replace her with a tenant who actually paid. But what would she do then? How would she live?
She felt the shadows gathering, as they had three years ago when Viscount Loxley was dying and his relatives hovered like crows around a corpse. Only it was Isobel whom they would gladly have pecked and harried to her grave.
She would be alone again. But there were worse things, weren’t there? Like seeing the scorn in Connor’s eyes this morning.
Trying to push away her growing dread, she’d put on her thick cotton gloves and gone out into the garden with a basket and trowel. The scents of the flowers reached out to her and the gentle drone of honey bees filled the air. There were vegetables, too, to tend and raspberries to gather, and for an hour or more she was completely absorbed.
Then she realised that someone had ridden up to the house without her hearing and was sitting there on his horse watching her. She rose slowly, for a split second fearing it might be their unknown landlord come with more threats for poor Joseph and Agnes.
But it wasn’t the landlord. It was Connor Hamilton. ‘Good day,’ he said.
Isobel brushed the leaves from her gloved hands against the coarse sackcloth apron she wore. Oh, no. This was all she needed.
‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Blake,’ Connor went on. ‘Is this a convenient time?’ By now he had dismounted and was holding his horse’s reins.

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