by Lucy Ashford
‘No.’ Isobel spoke a little too sharply and forced a smile to soften her words. ‘I really would prefer, Susan, for him not to know a thing. Let’s just pretend it never happened, shall we?’
Susan nodded, clearly unhappy. ‘If you wish. Oh, and I’ve unpacked your clothes that came today.’
Isobel nodded—that trunk had arrived, then, that Billy had promised to bring over.
Susan was still speaking. ‘Will you be joining us for supper tonight, miss, in the servants’ hall?’
Isobel suppressed a tiny shudder. ‘May I just have a tray in my room this evening? Would that be too much trouble?’
‘Not at all, miss. You must be tired, after being out so long with Miss Elvie.’
Susan and the others had no doubt spotted her leaving the house with Elvie this morning.
As long as the servants didn’t know she and Elvie had spent a large part of the day with the children from the travellers’ camp...
She realised Susan had paused by the door to say, ‘It’s good to see Miss Elvira so happy. I’m glad that you’re here, miss.’
Did many others share their feelings? Isobel rather thought not.
* * *
Her supper arrived an hour later, but she found she didn’t have much appetite. She was still picking at it when there was a knock on her door and Elvie entered shyly. ‘May I come in, Miss Blake? Oh—I see you’re having your supper! I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘Come in, by all means,’ said Isobel warmly. ‘Have you had your meal?’
‘Yes. But I’m still a tiny bit hungry.’ The little girl’s eyes settled longingly on the dish of fruit jelly that Isobel had left untouched.
‘Take it,’ said Isobel, laughing, ‘please do. I find, you see, that I’m quite full.’
So Elvie sat on the bed and carefully ate every bit of the jelly, then put the dish back on the tray and settled down with a sigh of happiness. ‘Today,’ she said, ‘has been a good day.’
‘I think so, too. A delightful day.’ Isobel hesitated. ‘Elvie—you didn’t tell Connor or your grandmother, did you, that you regularly meet those children?’
‘Oh, no! I think the children are really nice, and so does Little Jack—but Connor and Grandmother wouldn’t understand.’ Elvie’s expression suddenly became anxious. ‘You liked them, though, didn’t you, Miss Blake?’
‘I liked them very much. I liked your flowers, too, Elvie—you see?’ Isobel pointed to the bunch of wild flowers which she’d put in a vase on her windowsill.
Elvie nodded. ‘I didn’t know that the countryside would be as nice as this. My governess in London told me that it rained all the time.’
‘So you had a governess in London?’
‘Yes—Miss Paulson.’ Elvie settled in the chair by the window. ‘I didn’t like her at all and I was very glad she didn’t come here with us. Once I heard the London servants talking about her and they said she was after Connor. What does that mean, Miss Blake?’
‘It probably means,’ Isobel said carefully, ‘that your governess was making a little bit of a nuisance of herself.’ Quite a few females would be ‘after’ Connor, she suspected. ‘Though,’ she continued calmly, ‘your Miss Paulson was right about one thing—it does rain in the countryside, quite a lot. But when you get a beautiful sunny day like this, you simply have to get outside and enjoy it, just as we did today.’
‘I did enjoy it, so much. And Little Jack did, too.’
Elvie is delightful, thought Isobel. Delightful, but sad. And no wonder. She had no mother, no father, and now the poor child had been hauled away from the life she knew in London and isolated here, at Calverley Hall...
Suddenly she realised Elvie was watching her. ‘What is it, Elvie?’
‘Nothing,’ said the little girl, frowning a little. ‘Except that—I was thinking, Miss Blake. You’re not at all like a teacher should be. I thought that Connor would pick one of the teachers who came for the interviews last week, but they looked horrid—I don’t think they would have liked the travellers’ children at all. I’m really glad he picked you instead of them!’ Elvie hesitated. ‘Sometimes, I think Connor’s unhappy. In London he’s always very busy, but I don’t think he has much fun. I think he’s a little lonely.’
Isobel spoke carefully. ‘Some people prefer to lead a private life. They like to be in charge—and other people can stop you being in charge. But one thing is for sure. Connor has got a very good brain and is excellent as a businessman.’
‘Is that why he’s got such a lot of money?’
Isobel smothered a chuckle. ‘Now, Elvie, it’s not really considered polite to talk about people’s money.’ She got to her feet and reached out to wipe a speck of jelly from the little girl’s chin. ‘It’s been lovely to talk to you, but I’ve just realised the time. Won’t your grandmother and Connor be wondering where you are?’
Elvie jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, yes! And Grandmother promised she would read me a bedtime story. Thank you for a lovely day out, Miss Blake!’
And Elvie raced happily away.
Isobel sat there in the sudden silence. I’m really glad he picked you instead of them.
Little, innocent Elvie thought it was because Connor was kind. Of course, Isobel would let the child continue to think it. But she had made her own decisions about Connor Hamilton and she guessed he did nothing at all without weighing up all the consequences with the utmost precision.
She guessed he would never have bothered to buy Calverley Hall, which was so far from London and his business interests, had the place not preyed on his mind. And now that the Hall was his, he was able to hold the deeds and the keys in his hands and declare, I’m back. And see what I’ve made of myself.
Once, he’d been her friend. Even when she’d been the unwitting cause of his and his father’s expulsion from the forge, he’d said, It’s not your fault, Isobel. But now everything had changed.
Isobel knew she had to work for her living, one way or another. Marriage, for her, was out of the question. But Connor Hamilton had some catastrophic effect on her which resulted in her normally swift reactions drying up at his approach and her pulse rate leaping each time he looked at her with those blue eyes, blue as the speedwell flowers in the vase on her windowsill. She acknowledged she was afraid of him and what he did to her, whether he knew it or not. He’d offered a truce and had declared her position at the Hall to be of benefit to both of them—but she suspected that his overriding motive was to get his revenge on her and everything she represented, such as the aristocracy and all the old, unjust ways of life.
Who could blame him? Slowly she walked across to the window and pulled back the curtains a little so she could gaze out at the moon, rising low and full. Tomorrow, she would have to start giving the children’s lessons—proper lessons—and her stomach somersaulted with dread at the thought.
What a fool she’d been to agree to all this. What a fool.
* * *
‘You look rather thoughtful, Connor dear,’ pronounced Laura Delafield later that evening. The two of them were sitting alone at the table in the vast dining room. Laura had read Elvie’s bedtime story and the footmen had cleared away the last of the dishes and left. ‘Could it,’ Laura persisted gently, ‘be anything to do with Miss Blake?’
Connor had been sipping his wine slowly. ‘I’m a little concerned about her, yes. Haskins tells me that she has—as he puts it—been throwing her weight around.’
Laura was folding her napkin carefully. ‘But Miss Blake appears the least arrogant of people to me. She appears unsure of herself. Shy, even.’
‘You think so? Haskins informed me that she upset the staff almost the minute she arrived, by demanding her room be changed. And Mrs Lett says she infuriated Cook by commandeering lunch for herself and Elvie today. Of course I told Haskins and Mrs Lett that Miss Blake has my complete backing.
But perhaps I should have been firmer with her for taking Elvie out without your permission.’
Laura toyed for a moment with her own small glass of wine. ‘Do you know,’ she said at last, ‘today, when Elvie returned from her outing with Miss Blake, the child looked happy. As happy as I have seen her since Miles died. Surely that’s important to you?’
‘Of course.’ Connor nodded his assent. ‘It’s the most important thing of all.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Laura went on, ‘Miss Blake is in a difficult situation here. But she accepted the post willingly enough, didn’t she? And I like her. Please give her a chance, Connor.’
Laura left soon after that. Tonight, he knew he had tired her—good God, he had tired himself. What with old memories and old hurts rising to the surface almost faster than he could deal with them, it seemed that his past was threatening to engulf him again.
He’d been unspeakably stirred on seeing Isobel Blake after all these years—first at the fair and then on the day of the interviews, when she’d come to protest about the treatment of the Plass Valley children. And as Laura had said to him, ‘Why not hire her as their teacher?’ he’d thought, Yes. Why not?
But what, precisely, were his motives?
He’d dreamed for years of doing something for children who were denied a proper education for one reason or another, usually poverty. It was very likely, Connor knew, that only a small proportion of children would seize the opportunity for learning as hungrily as he had—but the point was, that they should be given that opportunity.
Noble words, he mocked himself. But what about Isobel—were his motives towards her anything like as noble? Laura had put her finger on it. Laura had said to him just now, ‘She accepted the post willingly enough, didn’t she?’ And Connor hadn’t contradicted her—but he should have done. He’d used that business of the Molinas’ rent to practically force Isobel into a situation that clearly horrified her.
And there was something else.
Connor didn’t allow himself much time for emotion of any kind. He saw emotions as a weakness, a crucial fault in a man’s armour through which an enemy could probe. The only people he allowed himself to really care about were Elvie and Laura—otherwise, his work was his life. He’d always lived and breathed ambition, always worked towards the acquisition of power, because that meant nobody could get the better of him again, ever.
But was that really all that life was about? He fingered the stem of his glass and stared unseeing across the room.
He was in complete control of his business, his money and his emotions. Then why had Isobel Blake sent his thoughts into freefall? The moment he’d seen her at the fair, after seven years—seven years!—he’d felt something slamming against his chest as he’d taken in her slender figure and her face that—always pretty—had matured into a beauty shadowed by inner sadness. Though clearly she had no time whatsoever for self-pity. He’d found himself floored by her quick wit and he’d almost chuckled over her sturdy defence of those children at the fair.
Her reputation, of course, was non-existent. He accepted now that he’d misjudged her relationship with Molina, but everyone knew of the years she’d lived with Loxley. No decent family in the neighbourhood would acknowledge her; she knew it, and clearly didn’t care. She dressed carelessly, she behaved outrageously. And yet he’d hired her! He’d invited her to live under his roof! Was he mad? He reached to knead his temples with his fingertips—talk about playing with fire. As the local blacksmith’s boy, he of all people ought to have known better.
He’d assured himself he was merely doing her a favour by offering her the opportunity to do something she clearly felt strongly about—improving the chances, in however small a way, of the travellers’ children.
But when he came upon her with Elvie by the river bank—when he saw her laughing and carefree with her blonde curls falling loosely around her face—he’d realised he desired her. Lust had jolted him as if he’d burned himself, like a moth fluttering too close to a candle. And he knew that thinking of her in that kind of way—noticing her firm, high breasts and her long legs beneath that thin summer frock of hers, wondering what it might be like to take her in his arms and kiss her soft lips—was a stupid, even dangerous thing to do and it had to stop. Especially since she doubtless knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Pushing his chair back, he abruptly got to his feet. He’d tried to convince himself that there were moments when he saw a shyness, almost a fragility in her laughing green-gold eyes—but that would be part of her act, too. You couldn’t live with a rake like Viscount Loxley without learning a few tricks. And yet, knowing all this, he still found himself thinking, What would it be like to really get close to her? To gain her trust, to arouse her desire even?
Now, that thought sent the blood pulsing to his loins. You fool, Connor. You fool.
* * *
The next morning Isobel was at the chapel in the grounds by eight, a whole hour before the children were due to arrive. She’d taken no more than a few brief sips of the tea Susan had brought to her room, then she’d dressed in her plainest gown, secured her wayward fair hair tightly back with a black ribbon and hairpins and hurried from the Hall.
In the cool fresh air with the birds singing around her, she remembered her own governesses. There had been many of them and none had lasted long. They used to complain to her mother: Isobel is impossible to teach. I give up with her...
Pulling out the big iron key from her pocket, she opened the chapel door and went inside. At least Connor hadn’t ordered her to use the old schoolroom in the Hall with its tiny windows that let in hardly any light. That was something. But there were still reminders of the schoolroom aplenty, because—at Connor’s orders, no doubt—most of its contents had been transferred here. She looked round, feeling slightly ill.
There was the blackboard with a box of chalk. There were slates for the children and a pile of neatly stacked paper and pencils. There were even those books she used to hate—musty spelling primers, guides to punctuation and grammar.
Her spirits sank even lower as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper on which, last night in her room, she’d written out the months of the year. Carefully, painstakingly, she started copying them on to the blackboard. By the time she’d finished it was nine o’clock and there was the sound of boisterous chatter outside.
The Plass Valley children had arrived and excitedly they took their seats. ‘Miss! Will you tell us another story, miss, like the one about Robinson Crusoe?’
‘Perhaps. But first, children, you’re going to learn the months of the year.’
There was a collective groan.
‘Do you know the alphabet?’ she persisted.
‘A bit,’ one of them called from the back. ‘We got sent to school last winter. But the schoolmaster gave us all the cane so we left.’
Some of them started giggling and Isobel had to raise her voice to be heard. ‘Well, children, you can be sure I’m not going to give you the cane. But you’re here to learn, so please take up your slates and chalk, and you can practise writing the months—you see how I’ve written them on the blackboard?’
‘Do we have to?’ someone said.
‘Yes, you do.’
They looked crushed. Isobel, you’re a complete fool, she told herself bitterly. You actually thought you could do this, didn’t you? Here she was, about to subject the children to three hours of misery—and this was only the first day!
Suddenly she noticed another shelf, on which sat some dusty wooden boxes. As the children gazed downcast first at the blackboard and then at their slates, she lifted one down. The box clearly hadn’t been opened for some time and the clouds of dust billowed as she prised up the lid. Coughing a little, she eased aside some sheets of yellowing newspaper—and saw, with dawning surprise, that the box was full of games. Children’s games...
Chapter Ten
Four days later, Connor happened to be riding close by the open door of the chapel as he returned to the Hall. Over the last few days he’d been making visits to his tenanted farms and that very morning he’d been to one of the largest, to discuss with the farmer the crops he was thinking of sowing next season.
He knew Isobel would be in the middle of giving the children a lesson and he’d had no intention of eavesdropping. But he couldn’t help pulling his horse up sharply when he heard a child’s merry peal of laughter and the excited cry, ‘My turn. It must be my turn next, Miss Blake!’
He frowned. Heard more laughter.
He dismounted, tethered his horse and quietly climbed the steps to the open door. The Plass Valley children—there were eight of them—were seated around three of the small tables, which had been pushed together. On the blackboard were written out the months of the year, but no one was paying any attention to them. And Isobel Blake was sitting amongst the children on one of the little chairs, rattling a dice box—‘Wish me luck, girls and boys!’—and everyone, apart from a small lad who was crawling around under the tables for some reason, was watching as she threw. A tousle-haired girl called out gleefully, ‘You’ve got a three and a two, Miss Blake! Three and two make five, so you have to let us move a yellow goose!’
A yellow goose? What the...? And now Connor could see that everyone’s attention was on a square wooden board set with an assortment of yellow and blue pegs, plus one red one. He cleared his throat, loudly; Isobel looked up, turned as scarlet as that peg and jumped to her feet. Utter silence fell as the children, too, registered his presence.
‘Mr Hamilton!’ She was straightening her crumpled skirt. ‘I did not expect to see you here!’
‘Clearly not.’ His voice was extremely cool. ‘Would you mind telling me, Miss Blake, what exactly is going on?’
Her gown, he saw, had chalk on it. Her hair had fallen from its pins as usual—and that sudden colour had drained from her face. Clearly she had noted his expression.