The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford
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said. ‘You want to be told where everything is going.’
Haskins inclined his head. ‘It would be good, sir, to place each item as soon as possible in the exact place for which it was intended. And I have a plan...’
‘I thought you might,’ said Connor.
Haskins was flourishing a large sheet of paper. ‘You’ll see, sir, that I’ve drawn a map of each floor. Do I have your permission to ask the footmen to proceed?’
‘You do indeed,’ said Connor heartily. And Haskins, in an absolute fervour of efficiency, began to give instructions to his team of footmen.
Connor was assailed once more by one of those moments of doubt that still came upon him rather too frequently. Was this really what he wanted? To be surrounded by belongings and an army of servants? He reminded himself he’d done it for Elvie and Laura—but Elvie was happiest running around the garden, with her new puppy. And Laura—well, she was happy if Elvie was happy.
Perhaps, he thought suddenly, it would be different if he was married and had children of his own to fill the place. He tried to picture Helena here—her brother Roderick Staithe had been making it clear to Connor for some time that an offer of marriage from Connor would be more than acceptable. There were subtle hints and not-so-subtle insinuations at every meeting of the two men.
‘Of course, Connor,’ Staithe liked to say grandly, ‘our father, as a Member of Parliament, was largely responsible for helping Miles to set up his first major projects.’
The implication being, of course, that Roderick—who’d inherited his father’s Parliamentary seat—could do the same for Connor. In other words, get him the official backing that was necessary these days for any large building scheme. But Connor relished his independence. He didn’t want to be trapped, for the simple reason that he’d fought so hard for his freedom.
He’d been gazing abstractedly at a rather garish Chinese cabinet—good God, had he really ordered that?—when he realised a young woman was standing in the doorway, looking uncertainly around her.
He blinked.
It was Isobel Blake.
The dealers, as they departed, had left the big front doors wide open. The sunshine was bright outside, highlighting the rainbow colours of Isobel’s cotton frock and the pink ribbons decorating her overlarge straw bonnet. Already Haskins was speaking sharply to her; Connor walked steadily towards them both, just as Haskins turned to him.
‘This person, sir—’ Haskins indicated Isobel ‘—says she needs to speak with you urgently. I am, of course, telling her that you are extremely busy at present—’
Connor broke in. ‘That will be all, Haskins. Please leave us.’
He was looking at Isobel as he spoke. Her eyes met his, dark-lashed, green-gold and defiant; he remembered once more the midsummer fair and the way the sun had glittered on her long blonde hair and her cheap dress. Remembered, too, all the things he’d heard about her.
Could she be a possible schoolteacher? No. She was a walking scandal.
‘Miss Blake,’ he said coolly. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
He saw how she immediately registered the sarcasm of that last word—honour. She blinked, then looked at the footmen heaving chairs and oversized mirrors up the stairs. She turned back to him. ‘Oh, dear. I’m intruding. Aren’t I?’
‘You are,’ he agreed.
She caught her breath and he thought he saw a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, though it was gone in a minute. ‘I couldn’t think,’ she said at last, ‘of anyone else to tell.’ And she smiled and shrugged, but he saw how she was clasping her hands together and her voice was a little too bright.
This was how she used to be, he remembered suddenly, when she used to visit me at the forge. Making a huge effort to hide her emotions, after being upset by something her unspeakable father had said or done.
‘You may as well tell me,’ he answered coolly, ‘since you’re here.’
She nodded, drew in a deep breath and said, ‘It’s about the children.’
He felt a stab of surprise that her thoughts had been running in exactly the same direction as his. ‘You mean the Plass Valley children?’
‘I do. The older children have been helping their parents to gather in the hay at Mr Bryanson’s farm. But the little ones—they were playing by the river further down the valley this morning, doing no one any harm, when some of the village men came up to them and threatened them, saying...saying...’
She’d lost control of her voice, he realised. ‘Saying what?’ he prompted.
She steadied herself. ‘These men said they were filthy scum and they should get back to where they came from. The children ran, of course. They were very frightened. I’d been shopping in the village and came across them as I walked home...’ Her voice faltered again, but she steadied herself and carried on. ‘Some of the little ones were crying. The older ones told me what had happened. I didn’t know what to do, to be honest, but then I remembered how you defended them at the fair. And I thought you might be able to think of some way to help them, because...’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Because I was once considered filthy scum myself?’ he said levelly.
He saw her flinch. Then she braced herself again and said steadily, ‘I’m sorry. Clearly I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.’ She glanced at the footmen hauling a large chaise longue through to the drawing room. ‘I can see you have far more important things to see to. Good day to you, Mr Hamilton.’ And she turned to go.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Were any of the children hurt?’
She pushed back a strand of hair that had strayed from under her bonnet. ‘Two little girls grazed their knees as they tried to run away and the youngest boy has a sprained wrist from where a man swung him around. I took them to the doctor in the village, who very reluctantly tended their injuries. But when I asked him if he would help me take action against those—those bullies, he refused. Nobody will help them!’
He said, quietly, ‘You must have had to pay the doctor. Did you?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Yes, but it really does not matter!’
‘Wait a moment,’ he cut in, ‘while I fetch money to repay you and to perhaps buy some food for their families.’
She flushed at that and her eyes sparkled defiance. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you are taking your role as lord of the manor seriously, aren’t you? It’s very generous of you to offer charity—but they need rather more than charity, Mr Hamilton!’
‘I believe you told me so at the fair,’ he said.
‘Yes, and I’ll say it again. They need someone to defend them! And I realise—’
She broke off. She was clenching her hands, he saw. Little spots of colour burned in her cheeks, and beneath that worn and shabby frock her breasts heaved. Clearly she was making a huge effort to calm herself and when she spoke again her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.
‘I realise,’ she went on, ‘that I am probably the last person on earth who should come to you asking for favours.’ She lifted her head, and he saw her green eyes were very clear. ‘But I do not want your money. In fact, I can see that by coming here today I have made another grave mistake and I’ve already taken up quite enough of your time. I will bid you good day, Mr Hamilton!’
‘Stop,’ Connor said urgently. ‘Wait.’ But she was already hurrying down the steps, that ridiculous pink-beribboned bonnet bobbing as she set off along the