The Master of Calverley Hall

by Lucy Ashford

  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 inqui
sitive, 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

  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.

  Most of the Hall’s staff were completely new. The ones who’d stayed on since the old days, like Tom, were a rarity. Housemaids, footmen, gardeners and grooms had been hired by Connor’s business secretary, Robert Carstairs, who’d also appointed the new steward Haskins, together with a housekeeper, Mrs Lett.

  Carstairs was highly efficient. But sometimes, Connor regretted not conducting the interviews himself.

  A young maid hurried forward for Elvie. ‘There now, Miss Elvira! Your grandmother’s waiting for you. Have you had a lovely day at the fair?’

  Elvie nodded shyly, looking longingly at Little Jack; but Connor had the puppy firmly in hand. ‘I’ll take him to meet the other dogs,’ he assured Elvie. ‘The groom in charge of the kennels will see that he’s made really welcome.’ He stooped so he didn’t tower over her and added, ‘You tell your grandmother all about your trip out—yes?—and then in an hour or so, when Little Jack’s settled, I’ll take you to see him.’

  So Connor led the puppy out to the stables, then returned to the house and headed for his study—only to find Robert Carstairs waiting for him.

  ‘Some news, sir,’ Carstairs said. ‘And it’s good news. You’re ahead in the race to provide iron for the new east London docks project, in Wapping. Your plans have been received most favourably. I have some letters to that effect here.’

  ‘Good news indeed, Carstairs,’ Connor agreed. But he wished Miles Delafield could have been here to share in the excitement. I miss you, Miles, Connor said silently to himself as he led the way into his study, where Carstairs began eagerly laying out the various documents on his desk.