by Lucy Ashford
She would cope. She’d always coped. Yet she’d never hurt in this way before. Never felt so completely unable to survive her heart’s impossible yearning. She had to leave—now.
The Vicar’s sermon was drawing to an end. Elvie, who’d been trying her hardest not to wriggle, sneaked her hand into Isobel’s and squeezed it. And Isobel smiled down at her, but she had already made her decision.
She had to tell him everything and put an end to this charade.
* * *
During the past week, Connor had plenty to distract him from his troubling thoughts of Isobel Blake. Two days after the trip to Bath, the news had arrived that his docks project had received a setback—the Parliamentary committee whose approval was meant to be a mere formality had raised several objections.
‘Why?’ Connor had gone over it with Carstairs. ‘Damn it, why?’
Carstairs hesitated. ‘Isn’t your friend Roderick Staithe on the committee, sir? Perhaps he and his companions there require a little encouragement?’
Yes, thought Connor in frustration. It would be Staithe, of course; the wretch had hinted as much during their brief encounter in the Sydney Gardens. Staithe had been angry to see Connor with Isobel. Doubtless Staithe would, if he felt like it, gladly resurrect those allegations about Isobel that in his blackest moments Connor feared might be true.
But Connor never believed them when he was with her. He was always freshly convinced of her integrity, her honesty. And that kiss! It was as if she’d never been touched by any man before. He couldn’t forget how she’d trembled in his arms, responding meltingly to his caresses as if every touch was opening up new emotions in her. Connor had felt he was tutoring an innocent, a sweet, delectable innocent. He remembered that afterwards she’d been shaky and unbalanced, her lips still swollen with need. He’d been shaken to his core and he’d been so hard for her it had hurt.
He had to get the approval of Staithe’s damned committee. But Staithe wanted him to propose to Helena. How the hell could he, when his mind was full of Isobel?
He’d been in London for three days and made progress of a sort with his investors. He was back by Friday and had promised Laura he would accompany her to church, but as he was getting ready, news arrived that a fence had been damaged up by the Five Acre Coppice, putting the livestock there at risk.
It was one of the stable boys who gave Connor the message.
‘Who brought it?’ Connor demanded.
‘I dunno, sir.’ The boy blushed. ‘He didn’t stop to give his name. Just rode off again.’
It was the tenant farmer who should have been informed, not Connor, but Connor decided to go there anyway. At least, he thought, the ride in the fresh air would help clear his head. He got to the coppice to find that, yes, the fence was down—a few posts were over. But something was odd. It looked as though the posts had been pulled out.
Five Acre Coppice was in a remote part of the estate and the fields here bordered thick woodland. Connor thought he heard muffled voices from behind some trees and, as he looked round, his senses taut, there came the sound of heavy footsteps. Five men, all of them in rough farm garb and heavy caps, came running up and pulled him from his horse. They started punching and kicking him, and as Connor went down, still fighting, the blows came from all directions.
So did the abuse. ‘Take this, damn you, Hamilton, for encouraging the gypsy vermin. And this. And this...’
* * *
After returning from church, Isobel went straight to her room, then closed the door and leaned against it. She was weary of leading this false life. She was exhausted emotionally by the effort of pretending that Connor Hamilton meant nothing to her, when she could never be anything to him. Both of them were being harmed by it.
Pausing only to remove her pelisse and bonnet, she set off downstairs and almost ran into Haskins. ‘Ma’am.’ He bowed his head stiffly. ‘May I be of assistance in any way?’
She really could not get used to this false civility—my goodness, Connor must have given all his staff a mighty telling-off. ‘I’m looking for Mr Hamilton, Haskins. Do you know if he’s in his study?’
‘He rode out this morning to see to a minor problem on one of his farms, ma’am. I can let you know when he’s back if you wish.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Haskins. I shall wait in the parlour for him and from there I’ll be able to hear the minute he arrives. You see, I really need to speak to him, because—and you’ll be extremely happy to hear this—I’m going to tell him that I’m leaving.’
His jaw dropped. By then she was already setting off to the parlour. But she never got there, because at that exact moment the big front doors crashed open and four grooms lurched in, carrying between them some kind of heavy burden.
She saw the blood on their clothes, she saw their shocked faces and she realised they were carrying the body of a man.
Connor. Oh, God, it was Connor.
Chapter Eighteen
When Connor finally opened his eyes, he was in his bedroom lying between cool sheets. His head felt bruised and tender. The clock on the wall told him it was four o’clock; the afternoon sun was streaming through the window and he winced at the brightness of it, but only for a moment, because already someone had gone to close the curtains and a female voice said calmly, ‘I fear the light is too strong for you. Is that better, Mr Hamilton?’
Isobel. He could see her more clearly now and he realised she was dressed as usual in a plain, high-necked gown with her blonde hair pulled back and coiled at the nape of her neck, though the usual stray tendrils caressed her skin...
‘How long have I been like this?’ His voice was thick, gravelly almost; he realised his jaw ached and it hurt to talk.
She hesitated, then came closer. Her expression was still calm, but her eyes, he saw, were troubled. ‘You’ve been sleeping for three hours, Mr Hamilton. The doctor has already been and he will return later. You’re a little bruised, but he said there’s nothing broken. He also said you must rest. And that was an order.’
A little bruised. Well, that wasn’t too bad, since he’d feared at the time those men had meant to kill him. He’d fought them hard, but had been outnumbered, and it was through a mist of pain that he’d heard the sound of horsemen galloping up and a shout of alarm—‘It’s Mr Hamilton, lads. They’re kicking the living daylights out of Mr Hamilton!’
It was the local farmer, William Purslove, with his two sturdy sons. They’d leaped off their horses and had dealt blows left, right and centre until Connor’s assailants ran. Farmer Purslove had crouched at Connor’s side. ‘Mr Hamilton, sir. Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Pain had racked him everywhere; he’d tasted blood. ‘Yes, I’m all right.’
And then he’d been enveloped by blackness.
It was funny that Isobel should be the first person he saw when he finally opened his eyes. She was standing over his bed now, still looking grave.
He tried to speak again. ‘It was because of the children,’ he said, enunciating each word carefully.
She was pouring something into a glass before handing it to him. ‘This is barley water. Cook has made it specially. And, yes, you are right—I’m afraid it was because of the children.’
He was thinking of the words those men had used as they’d punched him. ‘Bloody gypsies.’ Kick. ‘Riff-raff.’ Kick. ‘People like you—’ a punch to the stomach ‘—giving them ideas above their station.’
She waited until he’d drunk, then took the half-empty glass to put it on a side table and sat on the chair by his bed. And she told him about the verbal threats that the children had reported to her and the stone through the chapel door. ‘I regret very much,’ she said, ‘that I didn’t tell you this earlier. But I thought the incident of the stone was directed at me.’
‘You suspected that it might be the servants again?’
/> She hesitated, then bowed her head in agreement.
Connor clenched his bruised hands as they rested on the bed sheets. ‘You and the children must be protected,’ he said almost harshly. ‘I will ensure that at least two of my groundsmen are within sight of the chapel and within calling distance, every day.’
‘Very well,’ she answered calmly, ‘though you should be resting, not making plans.’ She hesitated. ‘But since we’re talking about the school, Connor, there are things I must tell you.’
He heaved in a deep breath and winced, because breathing hurt his bruised ribs. ‘You are not going to tell me you’re leaving those children without a teacher. Is that understood?’
He saw distress clouding her face. ‘I tried to tell you from the beginning that I’m truly not much use as a teacher—’
‘And I,’ he interrupted, ‘beg to differ. You know very well I interviewed several applicants, but I asked you, Miss Blake, to fill the post, because in my opinion you were ideal for the job.’
Her green eyes widened. ‘Perhaps my memory’s a little at fault. But are you now claiming that you asked me?’
He suppressed a sudden laugh, not wanting to hurt his ribs again. Then he said, quietly, ‘I’m sorry. The thing is, I saw this as a way to give something back to those who would never get the opportunities that I had.’
‘And you also saw it as a way to pay me back. For the sins of myself and my family.’
Her voice was calm, but he could see a tiny pulse beating in her throat. He’d already noticed her breasts rising and falling beneath the tight fabric and he couldn’t help but remember again how slender and yielding her body had felt against his, that night they kissed... ‘Never your sins,’ he said. ‘Never.’
‘Well, that’s how it feels to me,’ she said almost lightly. ‘And unfortunately, in appointing me, you really made a huge mistake.’
He braced himself, thinking of her past, remembering Staithe’s recent, lewd insinuations. He prepared himself to ask—no, to demand the truth—but then he realised she was talking again. She was saying, ‘Yes, you made a mistake, because there’s something even you can’t fix.’ She looked very pale. ‘I should never have agreed to be the children’s teacher—because I cannot spell.’
For a moment he was unable to speak. And then—then, he burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Isobel. Is that all?’
Her eyes were shadowed. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her as she said, ‘I would have thought that was rather a crucial skill for a teacher.’
‘Isobel, listen to me.’ He was still laughing, even though it hurt like hell. ‘Do you think I care if your spelling’s poor? We’re not coaching children for Eton and Oxford here! No doubt you’ve learned to cope with what you claim is your weakness—’
‘I’m afraid it’s more than a weakness,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘You see, I’m naturally left-handed, but I was told it was unacceptable and I was made to use my right. I think that was when my problems began.’
He was astonished. ‘What the hell does it matter whether you use your left hand or your right? Unacceptable? Do you really think I believe those old superstitions about witchcraft and sorcery? What did your mother say?’
‘My mother led the campaign to mend my ways. Every time I was caught using my left hand I was locked in an empty bedroom and made to copy sections of the Bible with my left hand tied behind my back.’
He had a moment of revelation. ‘That room. The one Mrs Lett wanted you to take, when you arrived here. Was that the one you were locked in when you were small?’
‘Yes.’
Oh, Isobel. He felt something inside him actually hurting for her. He steadied himself and said, ‘You’ve coped with it and that’s the real point. Everything I’ve observed in the chapel—your writing on the backboard, the children’s slates—it all seems fine to me—’
‘That’s because Elvie helps me,’ she interrupted.
He stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Elvie has realised I can’t spell and she helps me.’
Just for a moment Connor was stunned into silence. Then he said, ‘I really don’t care. Because however you’ve done it, you’ve made the children happy and you’ve made Elvie happy. You and that idiotic little dog have brought back the child I used to know. You’re good for Elvie and you’re good for the travellers’ children, and you’re good for me.’
‘No,’ she whispered. She’d risen to her feet now and was facing him. ‘There’s still more I must tell you...’
And her voice trailed away, and he thought, She is going to tell me about London. He saw she was bracing herself to speak and he was mentally preparing himself—when suddenly he heard voices in the distance. He recognised them as belonging to Carstairs and the doctor, and they were coming nearer. Before Connor could do or say a thing, Isobel had hurried to the doorway at the back of his room that led to the servants’ stairs and vanished, leaving behind her the faint scent of lavender.
Connor was still swearing under his breath when the doctor came in with Carstairs. Connor lay back wearily as the doctor felt his pulse. ‘A touch of fever, I think,’ the doctor pronounced. ‘Mr Hamilton, you need to rest, sir.’
‘Then leave me alone,’ said Connor, ‘and stop fussing over me.’
The doctor insisted on an examination of his bruised ribs and head, but then he moved back to Carstairs’s side and Connor heard them talking in hushed voices by the doorway.
‘Plenty of liquids. A little laudanum to aid his sleep...’
At last the voices faded and he heard the door close quietly.
Connor lay back on his pillows. Isobel couldn’t spell! Her lessons with her succession of governesses must have been hell. She must have been desperately unhappy and insecure—yet she’d never told him the half of it.
She’d been incredibly brave and he realised now that she still was—she was also honourable and loyal and caring. No wonder those scruffy urchins hurried so eagerly to the school in the chapel every morning—they loved her patience and kindness, as well as her delightful sense of humour. So she couldn’t spell? What the hell did it matter, when he found, in her company, that he was able at last to see beyond the shadow cast over his life by his own poverty-stricken upbringing?
Something about Isobel healed all of them—the children, Elvie, Laura. For him, Connor, she did something else. He couldn’t forget how he’d felt when she fell into his arms that night when the Staithes were his unexpected guests. Couldn’t help but remember how sweet was the scent of her hair and skin, and how that kiss had sent desire roaring through him.
So she had a questionable past. What happened to her in London had stained her reputation, causing men like Staithe to sneer at her and women like Helena to cold-shoulder her. If the stories were actually true, so what? She had been young and lost and alone. Someone should have been there for her—in fact, he, Connor, should have been there for her.
Yes. He was perhaps the one who had treated Isobel Blake most unfairly of all. And right at this moment, something flickered in him that was much more disturbing than mere lust.
It was the desire to hold her and to protect her against the whole world—because, quite simply, he couldn’t bear for her to leave his life again.
* * *
Thanks to the doctor’s potions Connor slept heavily that night, and by nine the next morning he had risen, washed and dressed. Apart from a slight pallor, the bruises on his ribs and jaw were the only outward sign of his ordeal.
The doctor came at eleven and reported satisfactory progress. ‘Though that doesn’t mean,’ he warned, ‘that you’re to be up and about at your usual pace, Mr Hamilton. And have you reported this incident to the authorities? Whoever was responsible needs to be punished severely!’
‘I’ve heard,’ replied Connor, ‘that the culprits are being dealt with.’
It was t
rue. Tom the groom had come up to his room an hour ago to quietly tell him that Farmer Purslove and his two sons—the men who’d come to Connor’s rescue—had recognised his attackers as some unemployed local ruffians who had been making threats against the travellers for weeks.
So the Pursloves had got together a few comrades last night and together, Tom told him with glee, they’d surrounded the culprits outside their usual drinking haunt and given them a good beating. This, Connor knew, was the justice of the countryside and he was content to leave it at that.
He spent the rest of the morning in his private rooms, sparing himself the prospect of the servants’ concerned glances and whispers. Soon after lunch—which was brought up to him—Carstairs came with the day’s post; Connor ripped open a large envelope from London and swiftly spread out the sheets of paper on his desk. They were covered with column after column of figures; he skimmed them and glanced at the totals on the final page, then read the accompanying letter.
Damn it. Damn it.
Carstairs was watching, looking anxious. Connor pointed to the papers. ‘According to these figures from the London accountants, it looks as if my plans for the new docks would bankrupt every single one of my investors.’
And those accountants had been highly recommended. They were supposed to be the city’s finest.
He told Carstairs to bring up the heavy file of documents from his study downstairs and began to investigate. But he was tired—hellishly tired—and his head and ribs were aching afresh. As he sat behind his desk, he felt his head gradually sink on to his folded arms, until at last he slept, and when he woke he saw that dusk was falling outside.
Hauling himself up, he stretched his cramped limbs and lit two candles. Then he realised that someone had been in and left him a tray of bread and cold meats together with a tankard of ale. He drank the ale gratefully—his throat was parched—then he rang for Haskins and ordered, ‘Send Miss Blake to me.’
* * *
He was standing by his window staring out into the gathering darkness when he realised she had appeared silently in the open doorway of his room. Her eyes had flown to his desk.