The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford
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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.
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