Читать книгу The Master Of Calverley Hall - Lucy Ashford, Lucy Ashford - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Connor Hamilton sat in his study and tried to concentrate on the papers piled up on his desk. Normally, concentration came easily to him. This time—it was absurdly difficult.

He would not, in a million years, have described himself as a sentimental man. But there was something in Isobel Blake’s defiant demeanour—a hint of vulnerability, almost fragility—that had caught him completely unawares.

Two encounters, in just over a fortnight. Of course, he’d known it was quite possible he would see her again on returning to Calverley. Local rumour used ugly words about Isobel Blake. ‘This time she’s not even troubled to find a rich man to sell herself to.’ And yet Connor had felt entangled in some nameless emotion as he’d watched her leave the Hall earlier, with her head held high under that showy bonnet. He’d felt something that was partly pity and partly something else he really didn’t want to identify—because it complicated things.

‘Wait,’ he’d tried to call after her.

But she either hadn’t heard him or chose not to, because she’d walked steadily out of the door and down the drive and out of his life again. Connor uttered some unseemly words of frustration. Beneath her shabby clothes and that false brightness, he guessed there was a protective wall she’d put up around herself to prevent anyone from getting too close. As if she was expecting fresh hurt or insult at every step.

Connor ground his fist against his forehead. It should have been his final triumph to return to Calverley Hall as its master. Indeed, it was a triumph—so why should a foolish girl from his past trouble him so?

He was certainly shaken by the spirited way in which she’d spoken up for the Plass Valley children. The trouble was, it wasn’t just her words that had affected him. She’d appealed for his help for them, while apparently completely unaware that some strands of her lovely blonde hair were escaping from beneath that bonnet of hers and there was even a golden dusting of flower pollen on the tip of her nose, from where she’d no doubt paused to breathe in the scent of some flowers in the gardens as she’d marched her way to his front door.

He briefly compared her to the rich girls who were thrust in front of him in London. Girls who’d probably spent all day preparing their gowns, their jewels, their hair. They made him impatient with their vanity and silly chatter. But Isobel? She’d always had courage—he knew that. She’d had to cope from an early age with her father’s determination to ruin himself with drink and gambling debts.

And now, there was something else. She had become strikingly beautiful.

She’s thrown herself away, he reminded himself. At the age of eighteen she’d gone to live with that notorious rake Loxley in his secretive Hyde Park mansion and the stories spread about her had been dark indeed. And now, she had her artist. But yet again he felt a spark of self-reproach. She came here to appeal to you about the Plass Valley children. You could have at least sympathised. You could have told her that you are actually planning to do something to help them.

But he hadn’t and one thing was certain—she wouldn’t be calling on him again. As for the school, he’d already arranged for his carpenters to begin work on the old chapel in the grounds. He knew he had to get the project started up soon—in fact, within the next week if it was to be of any use, since the summer days were already passing all too quickly. Yesterday he’d ridden round the farms on the Calverley estate and, as he spoke with his farmers, he’d casually mentioned his idea for the Plass Valley children—with depressingly negative results.

‘Teach them to read and write? Now, that’s a waste of time!’ one farmer had declared. ‘They’ll be picking crops like their parents in a few years, Mr Hamilton, and that’s all they’re needed for—you don’t need an education for that!’

But Connor remembered the chances he’d been given, poor though he was. And just at that moment, there was a tap at his door—it opened and there was Laura. Connor gestured to the footman who attended her to wheel her in, then depart.

And Laura said, ‘Connor, dear. You did promise Elvie that you would come to look at a story she’s written about Little Jack. At eleven, in the conservatory. Did you forget?’

He looked at his watch. Oh, no. Half-past eleven already. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll go to her now.’

‘It’s all right! I told Elvie you were very busy after the arrival of all that furniture. But, Connor, I gather Miss Blake called. Now, that must have been rather a surprise. The poor girl. How very odd for her, to no longer have a connection to this place.’

A gentle but timely probe—that was typical of Laura. He was aware of his own intake of breath. ‘Let me put it this way, Laura. I owe her family no favours.’

‘I understand that. But, Connor—’ Laura was leaning forward in a way that indicated she meant business ‘—is her family her fault?’

When Connor made no reply, Laura waited a moment more, then went on, in her easy, pleasant way: ‘You know what servants are like, dear—they hear everything and talk to me. And so I can’t help but know what Miss Blake came to you about.’

‘The Plass Valley children?’

Laura nodded. ‘She came to ask you to help them, didn’t she? And I’ve been thinking, Connor—why not ask her to run your little school? Wait a minute—you look aghast, but I feel sure she’d be wonderful with the children. Just ask Elvie.’

Once more he was taken aback. ‘Elvie? What has she to do with it?’

‘A little while ago, I was upstairs in my private sitting room, which as you know overlooks the gardens. And I happened to see Miss Blake with Elvie—she must have come across her completely by chance as she walked back through the park after her visit here. And Elvie had been crying a little, I think, because I saw Miss Blake dry her tears and make a great fuss of Little Jack—and by end, Elvie was clinging to her hand as if she didn’t want to let go. So I thought—why not hire her for your school? She would be perfect!’

He tried—really tried—to explain tactfully. ‘Laura, unfortunately her past—and indeed her present circumstances—make the notion impossible.’

‘What, exactly, do you mean?’

Connor shook his head. Did Laura have any idea of Isobel’s scandalous London past? She’d never been one for gossip, but surely she must have heard that the way Isobel was living now did nothing to recommend her for the post in question!

‘Well...’ Connor spread out his large, capable hands. ‘Miss Blake lives with an artist. A man called Joseph Molina.’

‘I know that, of course.’ Laura’s tone was just a little crisp. ‘She’s his assistant, I believe. Connor, have you ever met Mr Molina? Don’t you realise the poor man is in his fifties, is almost crippled by rheumatism and, besides, has never shown any interest in women—in the romantic sense—in his life? Besides, his sister Agnes lives with him, too, as his housekeeper and carer. I believe the Molinas took in Miss Blake as an act of friendship and in return she shops for them and helps around the house, and assists Mr Molina with his paintings. There is nothing at all improper in their relationship. And I must say, Connor, I expected better of you than to listen to malicious tittle-tattle!’

Connor closed his eyes briefly. So he’d perhaps been over-hasty in listening to the gossip concerning Isobel and Molina! But Isobel’s time with Loxley... Should he tell Laura about it?

He didn’t get the chance, because Laura was speaking again. ‘I believe,’ she went on, ‘that the girl has suffered from other rumours in the past. But is she never to be given the chance to redeem herself? And today I heard that the Molinas have received a new blow, because their landlord, whoever he may be, is threatening to evict them for non-payment of their rent. So it occurred to me straight away that Miss Blake might very much welcome the income from the teaching post you’re trying to fill. It’s not, after all, as if she’s going to teach the children of a duke! Her father was a disgrace, I know—but is that her fault?’

Having already been wrongfooted over Isobel’s relationship with Molina, Connor was silent.

‘Miss Blake,’ Laura continued imperturbably, ‘would presumably have been well educated as a girl. And I think there’s something about her that appeals very much to children. I’ve only observed her from a distance, but she has a kind of sparkle, don’t you think? As for the town’s malicious gossips, I don’t think either you or I need to sink to their level. Now, I know the final decision rests with you...’ Laura gave him her charming smile ‘...but I urge you, please, to consider what I’ve said.’

After she’d gone, Connor rose abruptly from his desk and paced the room.

So Laura thought he’d made a huge mistake in judging Isobel so harshly. But, damn it, she didn’t know what he knew. He wished all of it were lies, but even Isobel herself made no pretence of it—once more he remembered how she’d whispered, ‘I understand why you find it impossible to forgive me, both for what I used to be and for what I am now.’

But it appeared now that he’d misjudged her present situation badly. Give her a chance, Laura had said. Just as he’d been given a chance by Miles Delafield. He’d been laughed at when Miles first promoted him—laughed at for his country accent, his rough clothes. Yet he’d been given the opportunity to create a new life for himself. Why not give Isobel this chance? She had challenged him to do something to help those scruffy waifs. And since he’d not found anyone else remotely suitable for his school, why not respond by throwing the challenge back at Miss Isobel Blake?

He headed for the conservatory, where Elvie was helping Laura sort her embroidery silks, but she jumped to her feet when she saw him.

‘Connor, Grandmother said you would read the story I’ve written, about Little Jack.’ She hesitated. ‘But she also said you’re very busy, so perhaps you would rather wait?’

‘Elvie,’ he said, ‘I would love to read your story right now.’

‘Then I will leave you to it,’ said Laura, smiling. She was gathering her silks together. ‘I’ll go to rest in my room for a while, but I’ll see you both at lunchtime, I hope?’

Connor moved to the bell-pull to summon a footman for her wheelchair. ‘You will,’ he said. ‘And you’ll be glad to hear, Laura, that I’ve decided to follow your advice.’

And she knew instantly. ‘Oh, good,’ she said.

‘There is no guarantee whatsoever,’ he warned, ‘that Miss Blake will accept the post—you know? She might loathe the idea of having anything to do with Calverley Hall. She might consider it the greatest insult I could possibly offer her.’

‘I don’t think so. I really don’t.’

The footman was there now to wheel her to her room, but Connor was aware of that smile still on her face. Victory, it said. Victory. He settled himself next to Elvie and together they began to read the story of Little Jack.

* * *

That afternoon, Isobel decided to weed the garden of the Molinas’ farmhouse. The double blow of her calamitous meeting with Connor in the morning—all your own fault, you fool, you asked for everything you got—together with the news that the Molinas faced eviction had shaken her to her core. In an effort to overcome her gathering sense of panic, she’d resolved on an hour or two of physical hard work.

But the strategy just wasn’t having the desired effect.

‘I’m sure there’ll be something we can do about the rent,’ she’d said earlier to Agnes. Brave words. Stupid words. Because what real use was she to her friends? She did various jobs for them, admittedly, but her presence there was a luxury they could no longer afford. If she moved out, then at least they could replace her with a tenant who actually paid. But what would she do then? How would she live?

She felt the shadows gathering, as they had three years ago when Viscount Loxley was dying and his relatives hovered like crows around a corpse. Only it was Isobel whom they would gladly have pecked and harried to her grave.

She would be alone again. But there were worse things, weren’t there? Like seeing the scorn in Connor’s eyes this morning.

Trying to push away her growing dread, she’d put on her thick cotton gloves and gone out into the garden with a basket and trowel. The scents of the flowers reached out to her and the gentle drone of honey bees filled the air. There were vegetables, too, to tend and raspberries to gather, and for an hour or more she was completely absorbed.

Then she realised that someone had ridden up to the house without her hearing and was sitting there on his horse watching her. She rose slowly, for a split second fearing it might be their unknown landlord come with more threats for poor Joseph and Agnes.

But it wasn’t the landlord. It was Connor Hamilton. ‘Good day,’ he said.

Isobel brushed the leaves from her gloved hands against the coarse sackcloth apron she wore. Oh, no. This was all she needed.

‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Blake,’ Connor went on. ‘Is this a convenient time?’ By now he had dismounted and was holding his horse’s reins.