by Lucy Ashford
‘This looks promising, sir,’ Carstairs had pronounced, with what was, for him, an unusual level of excitement. ‘This will be your largest project yet and worth a fortune to the firm.’
Yes, the city financiers were flocking to hear the details of Connor Hamilton’s latest plans. But money, unfortunately, wasn’t enough—Connor also knew that a Parliamentary committee would be gathering soon to decide whether to give final government approval to his scheme. You needed friends in high places to aspire to the heights yourself and Connor’s chief ally in Parliament was Roderick Staithe.
Staithe had already informed Connor that he was going to be chairman of the committee. Staithe had also reminded Connor, several times, that he wanted a rich husband for his sister. ‘Helena’s taken quite a fancy to you, you know?’ Staithe had winked. ‘And you’ll realise, of course, that if you give me the word, then I’m your man in Parliament. Just as my father was for poor old Miles.’
Connor knew that was how the upper classes did these things. He was fully aware that he couldn’t enter marriage on a whim—it had to be carefully planned, for financial and social advantage. And anyway, his heart was impervious to mere sentiment, wasn’t it?
But what about Isobel?
All this would pass. He’d been a fool to invite her into his life again, but in a few weeks it would be over. It was a temporary difficulty he’d rushed into without thinking and afterwards he could quietly give her a respectable sum of money and never see her again.
Yet that kiss. It still haunted him. The blood had rushed to his head, his heart had pounded at the taste of her sweet lips, and he’d wanted to take her there where they stood in the half-darkness and make love to her until the world around them faded into oblivion. An oblivion where nothing at all existed except the taste of her and the scent of her and the sound of her sobbing out his name.
He pounded his fist against his forehead. This must not happen. He paced the room, then flung himself into the chair at his desk and tried to concentrate once more on the papers he was supposed to be studying about the damned docks and the shareholders’ meeting.
But all he could think was, What about Isobel?
Chapter Fourteen
For the next few days, Isobel didn’t see Connor at all. On Sunday she went to church with Elvie and Laura, but despite another invitation from Laura she continued to eat all her meals in her room and, other than Susan, she saw hardly anyone to speak to except for the Plass Valley children.
Each weekday morning at nine, her little pupils arrived eagerly at the chapel—and they’d started to bring more children with them, from the camp. Isobel felt slightly dizzy as the numbers grew. ‘They really wanted to come, miss!’ declared Harry, their freckle-faced spokesman.
Some of them had to sit on the floor, but they didn’t appear to mind and Isobel hadn’t the heart to turn them away. But it did mean she had to work harder than ever in preparing her lessons. Arithmetic was no problem for her—she took great pleasure in teaching the oldest and brightest of her pupils their times tables and explaining various ways of becoming agile with numbers.
But the written work! That was a different matter entirely. She had to spend hours writing out her own notes on paper and then on the blackboard, consulting the dictionary time and time again, thinking, How on earth were you supposed to look a word up when you didn’t know how to spell it in the first place?
And, of course, the children all expected—indeed, they eagerly anticipated—some lunch. Every morning, Isobel would take her empty basket to the kitchen and fill it to the brim. Every morning came Cook’s mutter, ‘I don’t know what Mr Hamilton’s thinking of, wasting good food on the likes of them.’
Isobel always just smiled cheerfully as she turned to go. ‘Thank you so much, Cook!’
The food always disappeared in no time and then the children would depart, leaving Isobel alone to fathom out the next day’s lesson.
Then one day she had an unexpected visitor—Elvie, with Little Jack. ‘Grandmother’s resting,’ Elvie confided. ‘And I’m supposed to be resting, too, in my room. But I’m not in the tiniest bit tired, so I thought I’d come and see you, Miss Blake!’ Her attention was suddenly caught by the blackboard. ‘Is that word supposed to say “autumn”? But you’ve written “autum”—you see? Here. Let me do it for you...’
After that, Elvie called in to see her every afternoon, to show her Jack’s new tricks and to help her with her spelling. Didn’t Elvie think it was odd that Isobel had been appointed as a teacher when she had such glaring deficiencies? But Isobel realised the little girl had the gift of accepting people for what they were and after an hour or so in the chapel Elvie would race back to the Hall with her puppy, leaving Isobel alone. Of Connor there was no sign and all went well—until the morning that a stone was hurled through the chapel entrance.
Isobel had fourteen pupils by now and all of them were working away, their heads bent low. Because it was a hot day, Isobel had left the door open and was listening to one of the children reading when suddenly something flew through the doorway and crashed to the floor between the rows of tables.
The children screamed in terror. Isobel raced outside—and glimpsed a couple of figures running off through the trees.
There was no way she could catch them. Her own heart was pounding with shock, but swiftly she went back inside to calm the frightened children. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed. ‘It was just somebody playing an unpleasant joke.’
Unpleasant indeed, especially as the stone had been dipped in pig manure. As the ripe smell filled the chapel, nausea washed through her as well as fear. But with all the children’s eyes on her, she had to appear calm, so she went to fling the stone as far away as she could, then fetched a pail of water from the pump at the rear of the chapel and went down on her hands and knees to scrub away the filth left on the chapel floor. The children watched in silence.
Someone was getting their own back on her. Probably those footmen again.
She tried to say as much to the children. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said lightly after she’d finished clearing up, ‘that there are some people around here who don’t like me very much.’
But one of the older girls stuck up her hand. ‘Miss, it’s not you they don’t like. It’s us! Last night after dark, some men tried to set fire to our caravans. They got chased away, but tonight our dads say they’re putting up a guard!’
The other children murmured in agreement. And Isobel remembered how the children had described the fight outside the alehouse. That had been about the school. Should she tell Connor about the stone through the door? But tell him what, exactly? Tell him that there were people who hated the travellers? What on earth could he do about it?
The children were clearly still upset, so to distract them she began to tell them the history tale she’d promised. It was about the Battle of Hastings, and soon calm was restored—until a quarter of an hour later, when she heard footsteps outside and broke off, her heart thumping in anticipation of yet more trouble.
Connor Hamilton walked in. Trouble indeed. Her heart began to race in a quite different way. She felt a flush of heat as she remembered that night outside Elvie’s room and the kiss—though to look at him now, standing there staring at her, it was as if it had never happened. For a breathless moment she stared back, feeling utterly exposed to his relentless blue gaze as he stood in the door, arms folded. Then he said, ‘Carry on, Miss Blake.’
She felt shaky. Unbalanced. How could she, she thought rather desperately, with him standing there, watching her? ‘Children,’ she said in a bright voice at last, ‘that’s enough of the story for now. But I’d like you all to draw me a picture of one of the soldiers I’ve just told you about.’
Harry stuck up his hand. ‘I want to draw a picture of King Harold, miss, getting the arrow in his eye.’
‘Very well, Harry. And I’ve told you, h
aven’t I, how they looked different, the Normans and the Saxons?’
‘The Saxons had long hair and beards, miss. The Normans didn’t!’
‘That’s about it,’ she agreed. Then, preparing for a battle of her own, she walked towards Connor in the doorway. ‘Mr Hamilton. This is a surprise. You find us busy, as you see.’
And she smiled at him, presenting a picture of strict efficiency, she hoped. But he wasn’t smiling back.
Her heart missed a beat. He stood there with the bright sun behind him outlining all his dark masculinity, his power. His eyes looked impenetrable and his dark hair was a thick, careless mane, looking as though he’d just rubbed his hands through it. He wore a white linen shirt that was open at the neck and tucked loosely into buckskin breeches; his boots were of sturdy black leather and not even polished.
And yet in sheer sensual impact he far outshone every single one of the men of fashion she’d seen in London’s ballrooms. A small pulse of longing set up low in her abdomen when she saw how his open shirt revealed a hint of tanned chest and silky dark hair that she longed to run her fingers through...
Feeling dizzy, she jerked her eyes upwards to meet his. He kissed me, she reminded herself shakily. That night at the Hall he kissed me and he wanted more—I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his lips...
Now, he just looked weary with her. ‘I can see you’re busy, Miss Blake,’ he said. ‘And unless there’s something wrong with my eyesight, you have fourteen children in here.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She tried another of her bright smiles. ‘Does it really matter? They are absolutely no trouble—’
‘Why wasn’t I informed?’ he broke in.
She shrugged. ‘I thought, actually, that it might be something for you to boast about, to your friends in London. The success of your—what do you call it?—your charitable enterprise.’
He drew closer. Said silkily, ‘Do you think that’s why I set up the school, Miss Blake? Just so I can boast?’
She suddenly heard the raggedness of her own breathing. For a minute, she couldn’t even move, because her body had been almost paralysed by a helpless yearning. She drew a deep breath. ‘Now, let me see,’ she said levelly. ‘I’m not exactly sure why you set up this school, to be honest. Sometimes, I really could swear you did it with the deliberate intention of demonstrating my exceedingly lowly place in this new world of yours.’
The children had all stopped their drawing and were staring open-mouthed. She continued to hold Connor’s gaze steadily, though inside she felt exhausted. Crushed.
‘I thought you might enjoy it,’ he said flatly.
She caught her breath. ‘Certainly, the children are delightful. But my employer—now, I’m not quite so sure about him.’ She tilted her chin. ‘Presumably you’ve come to point out that I’ve broken some more of your rules? You’ve already told me there are too many children in here. What else?’
‘I’ve had more complaints, as it happens. Cook says that your children are eating too much and Mrs Lett says her housemaids are weary of cleaning and sweeping up here each day.’
Isobel felt her anger rising, but said calmly, ‘In that case I’ll do the cleaning myself.’
‘That I will not allow.’
‘Then I’ll leave.’
‘I’m not going to allow that either.’
She waited, heart hammering.
‘I’ve told Cook,’ he went on, ‘that she’s to prepare as much food for the children as you require, and I’ve told Mrs Lett to hire an extra maid if cleaning the chapel is proving a problem. You are to let me know, Miss Blake, if there’s anything else at all that you need. I’ve informed all the staff that this school is a priority.’
And suddenly, something in the way he looked at her made her chest feel tight and caused her throat to ache with some inexpressible emotion. Fourteen children were staring at them, but she felt as if there were only him and her in the whole world and the only sound was the violent drumming of her heartbeat.
If she reached out, she knew she could touch the faint dark stubble on his jaw, could touch his lips and remember again how they’d felt against hers. Silky and tender, yet passionate with desire. And if she lowered her eyes it was no better—because then she saw the outline of his hard, sculpted body beneath his clothes and she remembered how he’d crushed her against him in that kiss. How her breasts had nestled against his chest and the arms that had held her were like iron...
She heaved in a deep breath. That was a mistake, too, because as she inhaled the all-male scent of him, mingled with a hint of pine and citrus, her senses exploded with longing.
‘Miss!’
It was one of the little girls—Mary—with her hand stretched high.
‘Miss,’ Mary called again. ‘I can’t remember who rode horses in the Battle of Hastings. Harry says it was the Saxons, but I think he’s wrong, ’cos you said it was the Normans. Didn’t you?’
‘It was the Normans, Mary.’
Mary poked Harry in the ribs. ‘See? I told you!’
Harry poked her back and Isobel quickly went into action. ‘Let me show you all a picture of the Norman horsemen,’ she went on, ‘in one of the books.’ She turned briefly back to Connor. ‘Will you excuse me, Mr Hamilton? I really need to get on with the lesson.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But let me have a quick word with you first.’
And then—then he told her what he wanted her to do next.
* * *
That afternoon, as Isobel struggled with her dictionary in the solitude of the now-empty chapel, Elvie burst in with Little Jack. ‘Miss Blake,’ she exclaimed, ‘you haven’t put anything on the blackboard yet, for tomorrow’s lesson. Is everything all right?’
No, thought Isobel, no, everything is very far from all right.
When Elvie entered Isobel had been sitting at her desk, staring blankly at the wall. Now she answered, ‘I’m just a little behind with everything, Elvie. You see, Mr Hamilton called in this morning and he asked me to write something about the school, for some friends of his...’
Her voice faltered suddenly. Elvie sat down beside her and said, solemnly, ‘Haven’t you told Connor yet? How your left hand gets muddled up with your right, because of those horrid governesses you had?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘Ridiculous of me, but I haven’t, Elvie.’
‘Then let me help you.’ Elvie pondered a moment. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Miss Blake. You can read and remember things perfectly, can’t you? It’s just that when it comes to writing, your right hand won’t do what you tell it to. Why not use your left hand instead? We can check any really long words in the dictionary. And I won’t say anything at all to Connor or my grandmother, I promise—although I’m sure Connor would understand. Because really, you know, he’s very kind!’
Kind? thought Isobel wearily. Ambitious, yes. Determined, yes. He had explained to her before he left the chapel this morning how he’d mentioned the school to several of his business friends in London—and how they’d expressed a keen interest in setting up something similar on their own estates.
‘So I’d like you to write a summary for me,’ he’d told her casually, ‘of what you’re doing here. A few paragraphs will do the job nicely.’
She’d been frozen with fear. Once again, here was Elvie to the rescue—but it was completely wrong of her to use the child in this way. Sooner rather than later, she would have to tell him the truth.
Preferably today.
* * *
It was four in the afternoon when Isobel knocked at the door of Connor’s study to deliver the report she’d finally completed, but there was no reply. Then she realised his secretary, Mr Carstairs, was coming along the corridor and, after she’d explained, he took it from her with polite thanks.
‘Mr Hamilton has been called away suddenly—on business, as it ha
ppens. But I will see that he gets this as soon as he returns.’
Half-dazed with this escape from what she’d thought would be a cataclysmic confrontation, she headed slowly up to her room and sat on the narrow bed, her head bowed. Already, she was missing him.
At first, she’d been truly afraid of the job she’d agreed to take on. But what frightened her most now was the effect he had on her, because whatever existed between them, whatever those emotions were, they were powerful and dangerous. His feelings towards her were coloured by the injustices he’d suffered in his past and scorn for her, of course. All that was simple enough to understand.
But what about her feelings for him?
Her childhood hero had been transformed into someone she hardly recognised and she was scared. This morning in the chapel, it had taken all her self-control to cope with his arrival, all her experience in acting the part of the flippant and foolish survivor of a ruined family. She was too vulnerable, because what she felt when she was close to him—even if he was making his disdain for her fully apparent—was a yearning so strong that it was almost out of control.
Almost—but not quite. She was determined she would control it. What he was doing to her was despicable, because, whether or not he was willing to admit it, he was making her a part of his retribution against the whole world for his own past struggles.
No doubt he was exacting the same revenge on everyone who had ever looked down on him. And she, Isobel, would endure all this and survive—wouldn’t she?
Chapter Fifteen
‘Connor’s gone to London,’ Elvie told Isobel the next afternoon when she called in at the schoolroom. ‘And it’s for a whole week.’ The little girl was clearly downcast.
‘I know,’ said Isobel. ‘Mr Carstairs told me. He’s no doubt got a great deal of important business to attend to there and I’m sure he finds it all highly enjoyable.’