The Master of Calverley Hall

by Lucy Ashford

  Connor had wanted to punch him to kingdom come. ‘Keep your filthy mouth closed,’ he’d said flatly.

  Staithe had raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re not trying to actually defend her, are you? You’re not going to tell me those stories aren’t true? Really, Connor!’

  It was at that precise moment that Isobel had returned with Elvie.

  You’re not trying to actually defend her, are you?

  Yes, he realised. Yes, he was. Isobel had thus far made no attempt to defend herself, but he could not believe those filthy stories about her.

  He’d had a word with Tom earlier and told him to hire a horse for himself and set off ahead of them back to Calverley. So it was Connor who now harnessed up the horses, while Isobel settled Elvie inside the carriage. Even as Isobel wrapped her securely in the big shawl she’d brought, the little girl was almost asleep; Connor, on looking round and realising it, swiftly came to help Isobel lay her carefully on the upholstered seat, wedged in with cushions. She didn’t stir.

  ‘Join me up at the front,’ he said to Isobel. ‘Keep me company.’

  ‘I’m fine here,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Next to Elvie...’

  ‘Join me,’ he repeated.

  Isobel did so without another word. And they set off.

  * * *

  Isobel’s mind was in turmoil and she felt slightly sick. What had Staithe said to Connor before she arrived? Too much, she feared. ‘Saw you in the distance, Miss Blake, in that pretty blue gown of yours. A teacher, eh?’

  Whatever Connor was thinking, he said nothing.

  She silently gazed ahead as the horses trotted on. The countryside was perhaps at its loveliest at dusk, she thought. As the sun began to sink behind the distant hills, she could see a flock of crows gathering in the woods and the fields of ripening wheat glowed like gold in the last of the day’s sunshine. Connor’s silence was giving her time—too much time—to reflect.

  It had been so easy to see him as a rich and ruthless man out for total revenge on the world and on her, too. And yet she felt deep inside her that he was still the same person who’d been her friend in the past, who had provided a refuge at the forge, even if only for an hour or two, from the unhappiness of her home. Brave, loyal, laughing Connor. But then everything had gone so very wrong. And suddenly she wanted to weep for what they had both lost.

  He spoke at last and it was as if he was reading her thoughts about the distant past. ‘I don’t bear a grudge, you know, Isobel. For the way your father treated me.’

  She turned to him, feeling suddenly passionately angry on his behalf. ‘I would bear a grudge! You should hate him for what he did to you and your father!’

  ‘Life’s too short,’ he answered, ‘to waste it on revenge.’

  She caught her breath. Don’t you realise the revenge you’re inflicting on me? By hiring me and by putting me through this?

  Just then a pheasant landed noisily on the road ahead of them, making the horses start. Connor quickly steadied them and Isobel said, ‘You drive well.’

  ‘I learned most of what I know about horses and driving from old Tom. You’ll remember he often brought your father’s horses down to the forge for shoeing and his carriages when they needed repairing.’

  ‘Until my father stopped paying the bills.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Exactly. Isobel, I was glad to realise Tom is still here. But what happened to all the others?’

  She shrugged. ‘They’d already started leaving even before my father died. As you’ll know, the whole estate was bankrupt by then.’

  She waited, pulse hammering again, for him to say something about London. About Staithe, and oh, God, those false stories about her and Loxley...

  He said, ‘You must have been sorry to lose the Hall.’

  She remembered her loneliness as a child. Her father’s rages and her mother’s tears. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said with forced lightness. ‘One adjusts. But tell me more about yourself and what happened to you when you left Calverley for London.’

  Another carriage was coming towards them and he slowed a little until it passed. Then he began. ‘The city, I found, was filled with clever and ambitious men, all of them anxious to make money. But a few of them also wanted to make the world a better place—and Miles Delafield was one of them, full of ideas, but full of integrity, too. Those iron foundries of his—what a sight they were, to someone fresh from the countryside! I used to think you could see a new world growing before your eyes, once you got used to the flames, the steam, the heat. You could see the molten iron being shaped for everything our new generation requires, Isobel. The men labouring there were brave and strong, and I was proud to stand alongside them.’

  ‘How sad that Miles died,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ All of a sudden she saw the light had gone from his eyes. ‘He left the business in my care, and he left Elvie and Laura in my care also. London is at the heart of the business world, of course, and you must wonder—everyone must wonder—why I chose to buy a home in Gloucestershire.’

  They’d reached the crest of a hill and he carefully pulled the carriage to a halt and glanced in the back, where Elvie was still sound asleep. ‘Look around you,’ he said.

  She knew exactly what she would see. The view from here was wondrous at any time of day, but at sunset, on a clear summer’s evening like this, it took one’s breath away—the lush meadows, the wooded hills.

  And Connor was continuing. ‘This was my home, too, remember? I lived next to a forge, not in a mansion like you, but this was still a place I loved. I never forgot the fields and the woods and the river. And most of all—I never forgot you.’

  Something burst and exploded inside her then, evaporating her strength, leaving behind just an aching, a melting, a longing. She realised his hands were reaching out to gently cup her face; his palms were warm and strong; his fingertips were caressing her cheeks; she suddenly longed to feel them on her breasts and she had to bite on her lip to suppress the hunger that had been building in her for so long.

  He’s going to kiss me again, she thought, and her lips tingled; she felt a desperate craving to be closer, closer yet—but at the same time she thought she saw despair and frustration in his eyes.

  Her heart plummeted. She guessed then that he hated himself for wanting to kiss her. What awful things had Staithe said to him about her? Or did Connor know too much already?

  ‘Isobel,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, tell me the truth about London. I must know...’

  And at that very moment Elvie woke, calling out Isobel’s name. Isobel was already rising from her seat. Connor reached out for her. ‘Isobel—’

  ‘I must go to her.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Of course.’ His voice sounded flat, almost despairing.

  She hadn’t realised she could hurt so badly. Her limbs were heavy as she went to sit beside Elvie, holding her tight. The way he’d touched her just now. The way he’d looked at her...

  The moment of dangerous intimacy with Connor was over and it was as well, she told herself. Elvie’s awakening had saved them both from a perilous situation. He’d asked her for the truth—but why should he believe her, when nobody else did? How could she expect him to?

  Staithe’s poisonous leers should have reminded him of that—and Connor ought to be grateful for the warning.

  * * *

  Their journey had been uninterrupted after that. Once he’d pulled up the horses in the Hall’s courtyard, Connor handed over the reins to a groom, then walked round to the carriage door to lift down Elvie, who clung to him sleepily. ‘Today has been lovely. Thank you, Connor. It’s been the bestest day ever.’

  ‘I agree. The best.’

  ‘Can we go there again soon? Please?’ She yawned, snuggling into Connor’s strong arms.

  ‘I’ll be taking you and your grandmother to London soon, l
ittle one,’ Connor replied, ‘and that will be even more exciting for you. You’ll see great palaces, and marching soldiers, and lots of entertainments—maybe even Astley’s Amphitheatre or Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, if you’re really good.’

  ‘I still like today best,’ murmured Elvie. ‘I loved today...’ Her voice trailed away and within moments she was asleep again.

  Connor turned to Isobel. ‘Come with me, will you?’

  She followed in silence as he carried Elvie inside and up to her bedroom on the first floor. Elvie gave a sleepy sigh as he laid her on the bed.

  Isobel stepped forward. ‘I will see to her.’

  ‘No.’ Connor shook his head decisively. ‘You’ve done enough. Summon her maid and I will escort you to your room. I wish to speak to you, in private.’

  * * *

  He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. To confront her about the whole, horrific story of her time in London, as everyone—including Roderick Staithe—knew it? He remembered first hearing it all. Feeling sick with disappointment and betrayal, he’d believed it—but on meeting her at the midsummer fair, everything was different. He’d resurrected his belief that Isobel was still the girl who’d been his loyal friend. Even when she’d tried to warn him she wasn’t fit to be in charge of children, he’d ignored her. But was that because he really believed her to be innocent, or because he wanted her so badly?

  Why wouldn’t she defend herself, or even try? Whatever the truth of it, this lethal attraction that drew them together was addictive and dangerous and plain impossible—for both of them. He cursed his own stupidity viciously under his breath. But he longed to taste her sweet lips once more and to hold her lush body in his arms and caress her until she cried out in a delirium of passion.

  And it was no good. Everything had been tainted today by that ill-fated meeting with Roderick Staithe.

  You don’t know me, she’d whispered to him that day at Calverley’s midsummer fair. You really don’t know me.

  He wished he did—but all the way up to her room she’d said not a word. He let her lead the way, even though they were going there on his orders. She was unwilling; he could see the tension in her shoulders, see it in the way she held her head. She never once looked round to see if he was still following, not even when she opened the door. But as she went in, she stepped back with a shocked cry.

  ‘What is it?’ Connor demanded sharply. ‘What’s happened?’

  She was unable to speak. She’d put her hands up to her face. He pushed past her—and immediately saw an oil portrait of her mother and father hanging crookedly on her wall. It had been completely defaced. Crude ink scrawls denoted a scowl on her father’s face and a ridiculous grin on her mother’s.

  He exclaimed, ‘What the...?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She was moving swiftly to take the picture from the wall and clutch it to her. Her voice shook, but she tried to shrug. ‘Just another stupid, childish trick.’

  ‘But that picture! It wasn’t in here before, surely? Where can it have come from?’

  ‘I imagine it was found up in one of the attics.’ She was meeting his gaze squarely now, but he saw that she looked very pale, very fragile. And suddenly he registered what she’d said a moment ago—just another stupid, childish trick.

  He stepped closer to her. ‘You said “another”. Do you mean this sort of thing has happened before?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then why, in God’s name, didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought—I hoped they would soon get bored.’

  ‘Who are “they”? The servants?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Then I will deal with it,’ he said. ‘Immediately. And there’s something else, Isobel. I tried to ask you on the way home today about what really happened in London, because I cannot believe—’

  She dropped the picture. There was no glass to break, but the frame had fallen with a great crash. He picked the thing up and shoved it outside the door, then he came back to her. ‘Isobel. We really need to talk.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ She’d arched her brows quizzically, but she looked as if her bright façade was about to crack open. ‘I did warn you, you know, that I was in no way suitable for the role you’ve cast me in. I did my best to tell you that you were making a huge mistake.’

  He said in a low voice, ‘I wanted to believe that you’d been wronged. I wanted to believe I was right to think you’re still the girl I once knew. Please tell me that you haven’t changed, Isobel. I’m begging you.’

  And just for a moment, he saw something in her eyes—a welling up of emotion too strong to be contained, a vulnerability that pierced him to his soul—and he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her remorselessly to him, and...

  She pulled herself away. ‘Another mistake, Mr Hamilton. A very big mistake. But I hope—’ her voice suddenly shook a little ‘—that whatever happens in the future, we can still tell ourselves that today has been a lovely day, a perfect day, if only for Elvie’s sake.’

  ‘I wasn’t pretending,’ he said. ‘About any of it.’

  And he saw, again, that he’d silenced her completely. She looked stricken. Damn Staithe and his vicious gossip. Damn Viscount Loxley and Isobel’s brute of a father. Damn them all to hell and back.

  ‘I wish you a good evening, Miss Blake,’ he said at last, and left her.

  * * *

  For Isobel over the next few days, the children were her salvation. She loved the time she spent with them, and they were eager for everything she could teach them. There were only two more weeks of the school to go—but she felt that in some of her pupils at least, she’d kindled a desire for knowledge, even if she did still have to rely on Elvie’s corrections to her own atrocious spelling.

  But if the children were a pleasure, Connor was her own private, never-ending torment. Elvie told her on the Monday that he’d gone to London and it was as well, Isobel thought silently. Though three days later he was back, according to Susan the maid—but Susan also said he was either closeted in his study or out visiting his farms.

  * * *

  Isobel steeled herself to see him the following Sunday, when Laura had invited her to attend church. But again—just when her nerves were stretched to breaking point—he wasn’t there. Some matter had demanded his attention out at one of the farms, Laura explained, so he’d decided to ride over there straight away.

  Elvie, Laura and Isobel had been driven to the church in Chipping Calverley by Tom. And Isobel had time to reflect during the journey that in the past week, there had been some drastic changes at the Hall.

  It was Susan who first alerted her. ‘Three of the footmen have left, miss—ever so sudden! Mr Haskins and Mrs Lett are saying nothing, but we’re guessing it’s the master himself—Mr Hamilton—who’s sent them packing and none of us below stairs are sorry in the least. We never did like them.’

  Susan said no more, but Isobel guessed the maid had worked it out for herself—just as she had. Connor had identified those responsible for the unpleasant tricks played on Isobel and got rid of them.

  That wasn’t all. From then on, the rest of the Hall’s staff—footmen, maids, grooms, even Mr Haskins and Mrs Lett—had become almost embarrassingly polite to her. She guessed Connor must have rebuked them all, but instead of being glad, she felt a hot rush of shame. Connor would have told them to treat her with respect—but she didn’t deserve respect. Surely Connor’s encounter with Roderick Staithe in the Sydney Gardens had convinced him of that?

  She didn’t even attempt to listen to the Reverend Malpass’s dreary sermon, but instead reminded herself that there was only a week to go before the Plass Valley families would move on to their next destination, the apple harvest in Somerset. Then the lessons in the chapel would come to an end and she would no longer be needed here. What next?

  She would go back
to the Molinas, she supposed. But—not to see Connor again?

  She couldn’t face it. She had to face it. What a mess she’d got herself into. She wasn’t sleeping well and, often by the time morning came, she was exhausted. It was partly because she’d been up half the night poring over various English primers, trying to prepare the next day’s lesson. But it was also because of Connor.

  It was criminally wicked of her to have ignored her body’s warnings. Criminally wicked to have blinded herself to the fact that whenever Connor was near, her brain turned to a soggy mess of indecision and she couldn’t think of anything or anyone except Connor. Whenever he was near, something happened to her—it was as if her willpower and her common sense melted away and her brain became full of wild imaginings. She couldn’t forget the expression in his voice and in his eyes when he’d said last week, after their outing to Bath, ‘I never forgot the fields and the woods and the river. And most of all, Isobel—I never forgot you.’

  She’d been shaken to her core. But Connor had believed those awful stories about her and so did everyone else. A man of his position and pride could not allow himself the weakness of taking her as his mistress—and as for marriage, it was out of the question. He needed someone of suitable rank and reputation, not a disgrace like her. A disgrace who had let herself fall into his arms—and who couldn’t spell into the bargain.

  She still felt hot with shame when she remembered her London Season. The social gatherings that her father, with ever-increasing desperation, had ordered her to attend. You must find yourself a rich man, damn it! She’d felt lost and terrified, but above all she’d felt an overwhelming longing to escape and find Connor. After every hideous party or second-rate ball, she’d imagined telling Connor about the absurd and often cruel people she’d met, so he would listen and make light of the hurt she was enduring. And with his help, she would feel better. Healed.

  At his side, she used to feel ready to face the world. But now there was nowhere to run.