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‘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.
