by Lucy Ashford
Then gradually some of the children, overcome by curiosity, drew nearer. ‘What’s that you’re drawing, miss?’
She looked up from her sketchbook. ‘I’m drawing a map,’ she told them, ‘of an island very far from anywhere, where a man called Robinson Crusoe was shipwrecked long ago.’
They gazed down at her map, with its drawings of tiny palm trees and mountain peaks, and fish with sharp jaws swimming in the sea around. ‘Did he die, miss? This Robinson?’
‘He thought he was going to die, yes. But then he started exploring. Shall I tell you more of his story while you eat some lunch?’
She was already taking the cloth off her basket and their eyes widened. The older ones shared it all out very carefully and they ate in utter silence while Isobel told them the story of Robinson Crusoe.
One of her early governesses—one of the few kind ones—had read her the story when she was little. When she’d finished, Harry, the freckle-faced boy, said, ‘Wish we knew stories like that, miss. Bet it was from a book, but we’ve not got any books, and anyway, they’re no use to us, cos we can’t read.’
‘Is that so? But I’ve heard you’re to start having some lessons tomorrow.’
She saw them looking at each other. ‘Don’t want no lessons,’ muttered Harry. ‘They’ve told us we’ll get beaten if we don’t learn things, but we aren’t clever, miss. We don’t know our letters, or anything.’
‘And yet you’re learning things all the time,’ pointed out Isobel. ‘While you were making those boats, you were learning how to make them float. When I told you that story just now, about Robinson Crusoe, you were thinking, “How is he going to find food and water, and shelter?” You were working it all out. That’s learning!’
Elvie was looking at her questioningly—Isobel knew she was wondering, Why don’t you tell them you’re going to be their teacher? But suddenly the children were on their feet.
‘Look out,’ she heard Harry say in a low voice. ‘Trouble. Run.’ And they were off as swiftly as a shoal of quicksilver fish, vanishing into the nearby woods. Isobel had risen, too, and was shading her eyes against the sun to stare along the path.
A horseman was approaching. Elvie was looking, too, then she was running towards him. ‘It’s Connor!’ she cried out gladly. ‘Connor, you’re back!’
And so he was—he was dismounting and tethering his big horse to a tree nearby. Isobel readied herself. He was supposed to be in London...
No, he wasn’t, you idiot. He was travelling back today—only Mrs Lett had said he wouldn’t arrive till late. Had he caught sight of the children? Whether he had or not, she could see the gathering tightness in the set of his jaw as he strode towards her. And she realised, with a sinking at the pit of her stomach, that she must present an absolute spectacle, with her hair down and her face flushed from the sun, and her flimsy cotton dress clinging to her body in places it really shouldn’t.
‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said. She tilted her chin and smiled. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
And then Elvie was tugging at his hand. ‘Connor, oh, Connor, I’m so glad you’re back! We’ve been having a lovely time. Miss Blake set Little Jack free. He was locked up, Connor, he was so sad! And Miss Blake has just given us a lovely lunch—’
‘Us? Who’s “us”, Elvie?’
Elvie caught Isobel’s eye. ‘Little Jack and me, of course.’
‘Elvie,’ Connor said, pleasantly enough, ‘catch Little Jack and put him on his leash, will you? And then, why don’t you collect a posy of wild flowers for your grandmother? You know how much she’d like that.’
‘Oh, yes! She loves harebells. And poppies—I saw some over in that hedgerow.’ Elvie went running eagerly off, calling to Jack at the same time.
And Isobel stood there, knowing what was to come. In spite of the warm sun, his gaze froze her to her bones.
‘Miss Blake,’ he began, ‘I’ve just come from the Hall. I’ve heard how yesterday you set the whole place in a state of upheaval by arriving on the wrong day, then demanding a different room. And Cook has told Haskins she’s going to hand in her notice, because she claims you marched into her kitchen this morning and helped yourself to the food she was setting out for the staff lunch.’
‘And?’ she said.
‘And what, Miss Blake?’
‘I can always tell whenever there’s an and coming. There’s clearly something else I’ve done wrong. Isn’t there?’
His cool eyes were still locked with hers. ‘You’re right. The groom complained that you ordered him to release Little Jack from the kennels against Haskins’s specific instructions. You’ve managed to upset several of my staff all within the space of twenty-four hours. Please, can you try to deal with the obvious difficulties of your situation here with just a little more tact?’
He spoke calmly. But he looked tired, she suddenly thought, so tired; he must have faced non-stop business demands in London and he would have returned expecting at least a little peace...
She felt emotion almost overwhelming her. There was no way I could have slept in that first room they gave me. But Mrs Lett must have told Connor all about it the minute he got home and Cook had complained to Haskins about the food; then the groom had rushed to Connor with his tale of Miss Blake’s high-handedness. All in all, a disastrous start.
And there was something else especially troubling. As he spoke, Connor had drawn closer—and that didn’t help in the slightest. Something about him made her feel as though she wasn’t in control of her actions. She’d never registered strongly enough how imposing he was.
During the brief and disastrous London Season her father had inflicted on her, she’d seen plenty of men of fashion. Men the other debutantes murmured over, admiring their elegant airs, their graceful manners, the cut of their clothes.
Connor would have scorned the women’s chatter. His tall, muscular frame just was not made for fancy evening wear and his dark hair was too long to be fashionable. But then, of course, he wouldn’t care. And she found her eyes drawn again to the way his thick, wayward locks emphasised the hard planes of his cheekbone and jaw. Dark hair, blue eyes, she found herself thinking. A stunning contrast that emphasised the uniqueness of a stunning man.
And he was a bad enemy to make. Perhaps she’d always recognised that. Of course he despised her—yes, he’d asked her to work for him, but only because she’d talked herself into the job with her big, stupid mouth, by defending the Plass Valley children and by demanding that he do something for them.
Well, he’d obeyed her request by neatly turning the tables and telling her to do something for them herself. Soon she would be utterly humiliated and she ought to hate him for that. Yet in his presence, she felt something—a softening and a longing—that she almost couldn’t bear to feel, because it was just too painful. But still she tried to smile.
‘You ask me to employ a little more tact, Mr Hamilton.’ She tilted her head and arched her brows in mild amusement. ‘But you must surely have realised what you were taking on when you decided to employ me. What did you expect but trouble?’
His eyes darkened and suddenly she realised this was no joke any more. ‘Listen, Isobel,’ he said. ‘I always realised it was going to be difficult for you, having to come back to your old home in such different circumstances. But I thought—I actually believed—you were intelligent enough to cope with it all. Please, in the next few days, make some effort to demonstrate that I wasn’t entirely wrong.’
‘Very well,’ she said, keeping her voice light. ‘I will try. But though I hate to say it, I did warn you that you were making a big mistake in hiring me!’
His expression banished her last attempt at frivolity. ‘I didn’t think so,’ he said. ‘And I still don’t.’
He was only looking at her, he wasn’t even touching her, and she felt hot and awkward and furious. Scalded. Don’t look at me like that, Connor, she suddenly
thought. Don’t look as if you’re reading every last thought in my mind. As if you can see what you do to me. How I almost wish...
‘Connor!’ Elvie was running up. ‘I’ve picked the flowers for Grandmother! Here are some for you, too, Miss Blake—only now we’ll have to get them home quickly, because they’re drooping already, do you see?’
She thrust a posy at Isobel. Then Connor, after one last unreadable glance at Isobel, led Elvie to his big horse and lifted the child carefully into the saddle.
‘Right, mischief,’ she heard him say. ‘Let’s get you home.’
Chapter Nine
Connor Hamilton was like a kind big brother to Elvie, but to Isobel he was something else entirely. He was dangerous, he was lethal and he despised her. She felt dizzy and her chest was tight. He only had to look at her to set her heart pounding, her senses thudding.
‘She’s her father’s daughter. You know that blood will tell.’
How often had she heard the whispers? How often must Connor have heard them? Slowly she gathered up her things—the now-empty basket, her sketchbook—and began walking after Connor and Elvie back to the Hall.
But she stopped abruptly when she heard a low whistle from behind. ‘Miss!’
Connor and Elvie were some way ahead. She turned and realised that Harry was standing there almost shyly. ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said, ‘for the food. It was brilliant.’
‘It’s been a pleasure, Harry.’ Then she remembered just what she’d been about to say to the children when Connor arrived. ‘Harry,’ she went on carefully, ‘you know this school tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ He looked down at the ground, scuffing his battered shoes in the dust.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m going to be your teacher.’
He looked amazed. ‘You? Honest, miss?’
‘That’s right.’ Her heart was thumping, wondering how he would react. ‘And I’m really looking forward to my time with you all.’
A broad smile split his freckled face. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If that don’t beat all. This isn’t a joke, miss?’
‘No,’ she said smiling now, ‘it’s not a joke, Harry. You’ll tell the others, won’t you? And tomorrow I’ll see you at the old chapel, at nine o’clock—is that agreed?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Nine o’clock. We’ll be there!’
He ran off and only then did she remember she was holding the flowers Elvie had brought her. There were buttercups, ragged robin and wild cranesbill—but then, almost hidden beneath the foliage, she spotted some delicate blooms of speedwell.
And their vivid blue was, she realised, the exact colour of Connor’s eyes.
She felt almost an ache of loss. When she’d heard that Connor Hamilton was buying Calverley Hall, she’d thought, I can deal with this—just as she’d dealt with everything else that had gone so wrong in her life.
She had thought that she could cope with his return—but she was having to admit that his reappearance in her life was unsettling her more than she’d thought possible.
‘I did try, Connor,’ she’d said to him, ‘to warn you that you were making a mistake in hiring me.’ But it was she who’d made the worst mistake of all, in agreeing to all this—because whenever he was near all she could imagine was being in his arms. Feeling his kiss.
She feared she’d wilfully blinded herself to the fact that, despite his scorn for her, she still felt too much for him. Far too much. And worst of all, she’d now put herself in a position that could only lead to her total and utter humiliation.
* * *
Isobel made sure she didn’t catch up with Connor and Elvie until they reached the courtyard of the house. A groom came running to attend to the horse and Connor lifted Elvie down, holding her hand as they began to climb the steps to the front door.
Little Jack bounded after them. Isobel turned to take the path that led round to the side.
‘Miss Blake!’
Connor’s peremptory voice cut through the air. She halted and looked round at him. ‘Yes, Mr Hamilton?’
‘Where, precisely, are you going?’
‘To use the side door,’ she announced. Her voice was quite calm. ‘Your steward told me on my arrival that I was on no account to use the main entrance. He explained it was for family, not servants.’
She saw an unidentifiable emotion working in his jaw. ‘You are not a servant,’ he said at last. ‘You are here in a specific if temporary role and as such you will use the front door. I will have a word with Haskins. Come inside with us now, if you please.’
Elvie quickly ran on and was out of sight, but Connor waited in the hallway and, as Isobel drew near, he said in a milder tone, ‘Are you ready for your first day of teaching tomorrow, Miss Blake?’
As ready as I’ll ever be, thought Isobel rather wildly. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, Mr Hamilton—I shall be very firm with the children. I will stand no nonsense!’
He looked a little startled. Isobel let the smile fade from her face and said, this time very quietly, ‘Tell me—what, exactly, do you expect them to achieve in such a short time?’
‘A few basics, I suppose,’ he answered. ‘For example, it would help if they could write their own names, for a start. Then you could move on to the days of the week and the months, that sort of thing. Some basic arithmetic would be useful, too, perhaps familiarising them with common weights and measures. Do you agree?’
‘Indeed,’ she said heartily, though inside her heart was sinking as fast as that little boat she’d sent to a watery death in the river. ‘But tell me.’ She tried to keep her voice light. ‘You clearly think a formal education will be of value to these children, even though you didn’t have any yourself?’
‘I did go to school, as a matter of fact,’ he replied. ‘The Vicar’s school, for the children of the deserving poor in Chipping Calverley. I think I was there about a week, when I was seven.’ A glint of a smile lurked in his eyes. ‘That was how long it took for the Reverend Malpass to boot me out.’
‘Not deserving enough?’ she quipped.
Again she saw how he almost—almost—smiled. ‘Actually, I put a live frog in his desk. He wasn’t in the least amused. But my father taught me to read and write—he loved reading. And when I moved to London and Miles Delafield gave me a job in his iron foundry, Miles offered me access to his library. He had shelves full of books about mathematics, architecture and metallurgy—and I think I read every single one.’
‘I do hope, she said, ‘that you found time in London for pleasure also?’
Oh, no. That was a mistake. Because thinking of Connor Hamilton and pleasure was like lighting a beacon in her wayward mind; she had sudden visions of Connor whispering sweet nothings in some girl’s ear, Connor taking a girl in his arms and kissing her and more...
Her cheeks flamed. He was watching her. ‘I gain,’ he said, ‘great satisfaction from my work.’
Oh, good for you, thought Isobel rather hollowly. And her attention was suddenly drawn by the sound of a door opening at the far end of the hallway; Connor looked, too, and said to Isobel, ‘I told you, I think, that there was someone else I wanted you to meet. Elvie’s grandmother, Laura Delafield. And here she is.’
Isobel felt her heart sink even further. Someone else to disapprove of her.
But before she could conjecture any more, she realised that a small, neatly dressed lady with a beaming smile and gentle eyes was being wheeled in a bath chair towards them across the hallway. Elvie was skipping at her side and calling out in delight, ‘Here is Miss Blake, Grandmother! Little Jack and I have had such fun with her by the river today!’
No mention of the Plass Valley children, thought Isobel, thank goodness.
And Elvie’s grandmother was saying warmly, ‘My dear. How delightful to meet you! Now, I hope Connor wasn
’t too heavy-handed in persuading you to take up your new post? He can, I know, be somewhat frightening!’
Before Isobel could think of a reply, Elvie, who was still holding her grandmother’s hand, explained, ‘Grandmother, Miss Blake told me about someone called Robinson Crusoe and how he was lost on an island hundreds of miles from anywhere. Do you know that story? Shall I draw a picture of Robinson Crusoe for you? I could let him have a dog, like Little Jack.’
‘I would love a picture of Robinson Crusoe—and his dog.’ Laura Delafield looked warmly again at Isobel. ‘Miss Blake, I will be taking tea in my parlour in an hour—would you perhaps join me there?’
Isobel couldn’t see Connor’s expression, but she could not believe he would approve of her taking tea with Mrs Delafield in her private parlour. ‘Thank you for your generosity, Mrs Delafield, but I fear I must decline, since I have so much to prepare.’
Laura nodded sympathetically. ‘You will be planning tomorrow’s lessons for the children, no doubt. But some time soon, perhaps, we can spend a little time together. My dear, I think you’re going to be ideal for Connor’s project.’
It was then that Connor stepped forward. ‘And so do I,’ he said quietly.
If Laura’s praise startled her, Connor’s words of approval took any remaining words from her mouth. Silently she curtsied and turned to go up the servants’ stairs to her room.
There she found the young housemaid Susan rubbing away at the mirror with a polishing cloth as if her life depended on it.
‘Susan? What on earth are you doing?’
The little maid spun round when she heard Isobel come in and stammered a few incomprehensible words—but there was no need, because Isobel had already seen. An image and some writing had been scrawled on her mirror in chalk—a crude sketch of a young woman with her nose in the air and a bonnet just like Isobel’s stuck on her head. Thanks to Susan, the writing had almost gone, but Isobel could guess the kind of thing it might say.
She felt rather sick.
‘Miss,’ Susan said, ‘I’m sure it was just a joke. But if I find out who did it, I shall say what I think! And shouldn’t you tell Mr Hamilton that this has happened? Let him sort it out?’