But her heart was pounding with dread.
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