The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford
artist fellow—yes, they live just up the valley...’
Whenever she heard the talk, Isobel reminded herself she was content with her new life. The Molinas couldn’t have been kinder; she had this home in the countryside she’d always loved and indeed she could almost call herself happy—until something happened, like at the fair today, when Connor Hamilton appeared.
* * *
She told the Molinas all about the fair while they ate their supper, describing the livestock tents and the entertainers, and the crowds who enjoyed it all so thoroughly. She told them just a little about the Plass Valley children, at which Agnes broke in, ‘Do you mean the children of those travellers, who arrive every summer to gather in the hay?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Isobel answered. ‘And they’re lovely, but a little high-spirited.’
She went on to explain to Agnes about the runaway puppy—they both loved the story of the lively creature shaking mud all over the Reverend Malpass. At around nine she washed up the dishes and tidied everything away, then she took a candle to her upstairs room under the thatched eaves. She closed her door and leaned against it.
Then, and only then, did she allow the smile she’d put on for her kind friends to fade away.
She closed the curtains on the fast-gathering darkness outside, then by the light of the candle she gazed at herself in the mirror hung on a nail in the wall. Her dress was made of cheap cotton, the kind any country girl might wear, but she realised now that it was too tight around the bodice. Although her figure was slim, her breasts were full and the way the often-washed fabric of the gown clung to them made her look cheap. And that wasn’t all.
Her skin was tinted unfashionably gold from the sun, in a way no lady would permit, and her long, obstinately curling fair hair had tumbled as usual from its pins. Try as she might, her efforts to tidy it never lasted long. All in all, she looked like a girl out for fun—a certain kind of fun. Once she’d been the heiress to Calverley Hall—but now her position in society was lowly indeed. Here she was, twenty-three years old and completely without prospects, yet she’d always told herself she was content. But today, at the fair, her safe little world had been rocked to its foundations.
Over the last few years she’d heard all the gossip about Connor Hamilton. In fact, she often suspected the locals took great delight in repeating it in her hearing, loudly, in the town or the market place. She’d heard what must be every single detail of how Connor had risen in the world—the news had filtered back, month after month, year after year.
‘He’s living in London—yes, the big city. He’s proving himself mighty skilled. He’s become partner in a major iron manufactory and he’s making himself extremely rich into the bargain...’
When someone told her—with more than a little satisfaction—that Connor was buying Calverley Hall, she started hearing fresh flurries of speculation. ‘He’s weary of London,’ people said. Or: ‘Now that he has that little girl and her grandmother to look after, he must feel that a country residence would do them both good.’
He was returning to the neighbourhood he grew up in—only instead of a blacksmith’s forge, he would be living in a mansion. But hadn’t he realised that she still lived nearby?
She would never forget the coldness in his blue eyes today at the fair as he registered her presence. She felt branded by it. Let him think the worst of me, she thought, like everyone else! She was happy here, with the Molinas; she loved helping Joseph with his paintings, she enjoyed his and Agnes’s gentle company.
But Connor Hamilton was back. And a chill of fear caught at her heart, because he had become quite formidable in a way that made her pulse pound faster and her lungs ache with the sudden need for air.
How she’d first met him, she couldn’t even really remember. It was as though he’d always been there and whenever she could she used to ride over to the forge and watch him as he mended ploughshares or shoed horses. She used to ask him question after question about his work and he didn’t seem to mind. She felt safe with Connor and, although he said little, she felt that he liked her. Even on that awful night when she’d got Connor into so much trouble seven years ago, he’d told her it wasn’t her fault.
Since then, he’d become a rich man. An iron master. They said that to keep his hand in he still forged iron himself in the vast foundries that belonged to him—and, looking at him, she could well believe it, because his clothes, though clearly expensive, couldn’t hide the innate strength of his body. A typical rich London gentleman he was not; his face and hands were tanned from the open air; his black hair was thick and overlong for fashion and his deep blue eyes missed nothing, and were fooled, she guessed, by nobody.
The locals speculated that he’d returned to his Gloucestershire roots to find himself a suitable bride. Isobel thought differently. She guessed that Connor Hamilton, poor boy made good, had returned to the place of his birth for revenge on all those who’d thwarted him. As for his feelings towards her, she’d seen how his eyes had widened almost in incredulity when he realised who she was. And how they narrowed again with contempt, a moment later.
Scorn—that was what he felt now, for Isobel Blake. And who could blame him?
Not her, that was for sure. Not her. But his scorn was not deserved.
One week later
‘So,’ said Laura Delafield, putting her embroidery to one side and letting a spark of mischief twinkle in her eyes. ‘You’re intent on refurbishing the Hall in its entirety, are you, Connor dear? I do hope that you’re not going to disappoint too many people with your surprisingly excellent taste.’
It was a little before noon and Connor had come to join Laura in her favourite room, which had large south-facing windows overlooking the garden. Surprisingly excellent taste. He felt his breath catch for a moment, so primed was he to fend off cutting comments about his lowly background, but no insult was intended here—this was Laura, grandmother to Elvie and mother to his former business partner, Miles. Though confined to a bath chair nowadays, she was lively, shrewd and entirely lovable.
He’d first met Laura when he was hired by Miles in London and he’d quickly become enormously appreciative of her gentle wisdom. The Hall—neglected both by Sir George Blake and by a succession of tenants in the last five years—needed complete refurbishing and Connor knew the entire neighbourhood would be watching to see if he was filling the house with the kind of pretentious rubbish they would expect of an upstart like him.
His mouth curled slightly, but he answered with a smile, ‘I rather fear I’m going to disappoint the locals, Laura, since my tastes are remarkably staid. You think I should have gone for a livelier style? Russian, perhaps?’
‘Not Russian, my dear,’ Laura pronounced. ‘That is quite passé. No, these days you need to turn to Egypt, to be truly nouveau riche.’ She looked rather dreamy-eyed. ‘As much gilt and jade as you like, with painted pharaohs all over the place...’
He chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to give the neighbours absolutely nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘you’ve already given them plenty to talk about, believe me. For example, the Vicar called this morning, while you were out.’
‘Thank God, then, for my excellent sense of timing. What did Malpass want?’
‘He told me that he wished to speak to you about the travellers and their encampment in Plass Valley.’ She eyed him with care. ‘He feels they “lower the tone of the parish”. Those were his exact words.’
Connor fought down a stab of irritation. ‘The Reverend Malpass has a short memory. They’ve been coming to Plass Valley every summer, for as long as I can remember. How would the farmers reap their hay harvest without them?’