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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.
