The Master Of Calverley Hall

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 chance to 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

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 lives with 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 all of 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?