by Lucy Ashford
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?
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.
No, she thought rather wildly. No time is convenient...
She adjusted her sunbonnet that had slipped to one side. She was tall, but Connor Hamilton was taller and broad-shouldered, and... She felt hot inside. Hot and bruised and sort of aching, because—because of what?
Because of what he’d once meant to her? But that was long ago and she knew now that she couldn’t trust anyone, let alone Connor the blacksmith’s son, who’d once been her only friend. Isobel gazed up at him. ‘As you see,’ she said brightly, ‘I am rather busy, Mr Hamilton. So far I’ve collected a full basket of raspberries, but there are still beans to be picked and peas to be watered—really, at this time of year, the work never ends!’
She gestured around the garden lightly, but inside she was desperately afraid. Why on earth is he here? Most likely he’d come to laugh at what she was reduced to. Come to gloat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘to see you reduced to this, Miss Blake.’
But Isobel could see no sympathy in his cold blue eyes. ‘Are you?’ Her words expressed mild surprise. ‘Really? Do you know, Mr Hamilton, I’ve found that many people positively relish my descent from riches to rags.’ She brushed some raspberry leaves from her arm. ‘I’m sure you’ll know that my story gives delight to the tale-tellers for miles around. But—’ and this time her eyes met his in direct challenge ‘—Mr Molina and his sister have proved to be good, indeed estimable friends to me. And if there is any malicious gossip about them, I will deny it in the strongest possible terms!’
He was silent a moment, his gaze still inscrutable. Beneath her calm demeanour, she felt her heart thudding almost painfully. Why on earth is he here?
He said at last, ‘You’ve had to adjust to considerable changes in your life, Isobel.’
Was he referring to the fact that she was once heiress to Calverley Hall? Or was he thinking about the years in between? As for Calverley Hall—she closed her eyes a moment as the memories of her childhood all but overwhelmed her. Memories of formal, silent meals in the great dining hall with her mother and father, while all the footmen stood around waiting to se
rve each elaborate dish. Memories of the daily torment of lessons in the schoolroom. You’re a disgrace to us, Isobel, her mother would remonstrate.
She didn’t flinch from Connor Hamilton’s penetrating gaze. ‘I have no regrets,’ she said steadily. ‘I’ve found that I have adapted to my new life quite perfectly, thank you!’
She saw him gazing around the garden, then at the dilapidated house. And he said, ‘Your friend, Mr Molina, is unable to pay his rent. What will you do if the Molinas are forced to leave this place?’
Isobel flinched then. Visibly. How did he know this, so soon? And how could she possibly answer?
Because, quite simply, she had no idea what on earth she would do next—what kind of employment she could apply for, who would take her on.
‘Is this why you came here?’ She was dismayed to find that her voice shook slightly. ‘To interrogate me and take pleasure in my predicament? To be quite honest, I have absolutely no idea what I will do next, but even if I did, I fail to see why I would discuss it with you.’ She picked up her basket of raspberries. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Hamilton, I have jobs to be getting on with. I cannot stand here chatting all day.’
Voice steady again. Thank goodness.
She made a move towards the house, but he blocked her path. ‘Then you could be making a grave mistake. You see, I’ve come here with a proposition for you that could just be the solution to your problems.’
Her stomach flipped, and her heart began to thud with hard, painful beats. A proposition? No. No. Surely, he couldn’t mean that he wanted her to be his mistress?
* * *
Connor realised straight away how his words could be interpreted and inwardly cursed himself for his verbal clumsiness. Because, he suddenly thought, despite her shabby clothes and carelessly tied-back hair, she would receive rather a lot of propositions, one way or another.
When he arrived and saw her in the garden, the scene had been idyllic. The flowerbeds were full of colour and scent, and she’d been working away, dressed in her print frock and cotton sunbonnet, utterly absorbed—she was humming to herself.
And something had tugged at Connor’s heart. Damn it, he’d thought; she wasn’t even trying to be attractive or alluring—yet every time he met her, she disturbed him in a way that made him absolutely furious with himself.
For God’s sake, she couldn’t even afford a decent gown and her fair hair was tumbling untidily round her face as usual. But all that somehow made him all the more aware of her femininity and, yes, of her vulnerability, even though she offered scarcely a hint of weakness. Didn’t she realise how everything about her was guaranteed to fill a man’s mind with exactly the kind of thoughts he shouldn’t be having? He snapped his gaze to her face—only to find himself fascinated by the way her skin was tinted gold by the sun. He thought, Her green-gold eyes, with their dark lashes, are the kind you could drown in...
And they were still wide with alarm. Yes, she was clearly thinking that he was asking her to become his mistress—to her obvious horror.
Connor acted quickly to remedy his own mistake, before it took too firm a grip on his own imagination and even more directly on his treacherous body, which was already considering how sweet she might be to hold and how tender those full lips would be to kiss. In an effort to push his wayward thoughts aside, he said, far more abruptly than he meant to, ‘I’ve come here today with a specific and practical offer. You visited the Hall this morning to demand that I do something to help the Plass Valley children. I’ve come here to tell you I’ve decided to set up a summer school for those children—and I want to ask you if you will accept the post of teacher to them.’
He saw how her eyes widened again, this time in incredulity—then she was backing away, shaking her head.
‘No,’ she breathed. She actually tried to laugh. ‘Oh, no. The idea is absurd...’
‘Why?’
She spread her hands wide. ‘To begin with, I have absolutely no qualifications. I have no experience.’ She looked as if she was fighting for words. ‘Mr Hamilton, you could find someone more capable than me very easily!’
‘I’ve interviewed several candidates already.’ His reply was sharp. ‘But all of them were useless—most of them didn’t even appear to like children. Then I thought of you and how you defended them at the midsummer fair. You challenged me to help them, Miss Blake. Well, I’m handing that challenge over to you.’
‘But I’ve told you. I’m in no way eligible—’
‘And what if I beg to differ?’ Connor was aware of a damned stubborn streak rising up in him. He did not, in any fashion, want to turn round and just go. ‘Won’t you at least hear me out, Miss Blake? Do you really find my proposition so very hateful? And wouldn’t I be right in thinking you have to make some rather difficult choices, now that your friends the Molinas are in financial difficulties?’
He thought then that her eyes might have misted slightly, just as they used to sometimes when she rode over to the forge when she was a girl. Though if ever he asked her what was wrong, she would always answer, Nothing. Nothing at all.
She held herself rigid. ‘Mr Molina and his sister have some money difficulties, yes, but I have already started to consider how I might help—’
‘Well,’ he interrupted curtly, ‘I may be able to help them in one easy step and at the same time help you to widen your horizons. Believe me, I speak as a friend.’
‘Do you?’ she whispered. ‘Do you?’
He saw how she’d clenched her hands. He thought, She is virtually alone and has been for most of her life. Having to defend herself against the whole world, it seemed. Including him.
And yet, she’d brought so much of it upon herself. She was lucky to be offered a second chance! With fresh resolve, he pressed on. ‘You spoke the other day of wishing the past undone. Is it possible, Miss Blake, that you and I should consider a truce?’
She gazed up at him. ‘Why?’
And he suddenly saw that her eyes were filled with an emotion he couldn’t recognise—hurt? he wondered. Fear? ‘Why?’ she’d asked and that was a damned good question—what on earth was he thinking of, inviting her into his life again? Was he mad?
Clearly she thought so. But she was a challenge and he was not going to let her off the hook, so he switched tactics.
‘Look,’ he said. And he smiled almost. ‘What I’m trying to say is we could make an effort, you and I, to let bygones be bygones. And I admit I had no business arriving here out of the blue like this—I should at least have given you some advance warning.’
She still looked astonished. Incredulous. ‘You think that would have helped?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Probably not.’
And something about his frankness finally reached her, he saw. ‘Very well,’ she said. She was taking a deep breath. ‘Very well. I am trying to consider seriously what you’ve just said. As I understand it, you’re suggesting we start anew. And I think—I very much hope—I can believe you when you say you mean well towards my friends the Molinas.’
‘I’m a businessman. And believe it or not, I’m known for fair dealing. I think I can offer you an arrangement that benefits all sides.’
She looked towards the house, then back at him, as if making a decision. She nodded at last. ‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said, ‘I fear my manners have gone sadly astray in not inviting you in and offering you some tea.’
‘I would like that very much,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’
Chapter Six
She led the way in and he followed. He found the large farmhouse kitchen refreshingly cool after the sunshine outside and saw that the place was prettily if simply furnished, with small vases of flowers sitting on every windowsill. A man he assumed to be Joseph Molina was at the far end of the room in front of an easel. When Molina saw them he was about to rise, but Connor walked swiftly towards him and held out his
hand.
‘Please stay where you are, Mr Molina. I’m Connor Hamilton, and I’m glad to make your acquaintance. Do carry on with your work.’
Molina gripped his outstretched hand. ‘I, too, am heartily pleased to meet you, sir!’
Joseph Molina was indeed a semi-invalid, as Laura had said; his shoulders were crooked with arthritis. Connor mentally lambasted himself for even briefly listening to the rumour-mongers who’d linked his name with Isobel’s. Then Molina’s sister came in and was clearly rendered almost speechless by Connor’s presence; she offered to make tea, but Isobel told her gently that she would do it.
‘You could, Agnes,’ Isobel suggested, ‘bring us some of your almond cakes from the pantry.’
As Agnes hurried off Isobel said quietly to Connor, ‘She means well, but she would probably drop the cups and saucers. She is rather awed by you, you see.’
Was Isobel awed? He couldn’t tell a thing from her expression as he watched her move swiftly around the kitchen area, putting the kettle on the range, arranging cups and spoons on a tray. Despite her calm, he suspected she was still no doubt wishing him anywhere but here.
‘Please, Mr Hamilton,’ she said, ‘take a seat’, and he walked over to where she pointed, to a bay window alcove containing two faded tapestry chairs and a low table. He stood looking out. From here you could see the distant gabled roofs of Calverley Hall and he thought, suddenly, how could Isobel regard his purchase of her former home as anything other than an action of pure, ruthless revenge?
She’d taken a cup of tea over to Joseph Molina first, he noticed. Then she was coming towards him with the tray and he moved to take it from her and place it on the low table. She nodded her thanks and he pulled out a chair for her before sitting down to face her.