The Master Of Calverley Hall

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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