The Master Of Calverley Hall

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

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 pressing on 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

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 too bright.