The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford

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СКАЧАТЬ any chance at all of redeeming her reputation after Viscount Loxley’s death, she’d buried it by moving in with her artist. Connor remembered how Haskins, his steward, had responded when asked if he ever saw anything of her in the neighbourhood. ‘Miss Blake?’ Haskins had spoken with distaste. ‘She’s set up house with a foreign painter fellow. She’s shameless. Quite shameless.’

      And yet, try as he might, Connor still couldn’t banish her from his mind’s eye. There was something about her that made her unforgettable, yes, even in her stupidly large hat and that shabby, clinging dress. She’d been outspoken, too, about the Plass Valley children. ‘They need someone to defend them, Mr Hamilton!’

      The Plass Valley people did trouble him—he’d noted their rough encampment on the day he arrived. But Isobel Blake troubled him even more. He felt his anger rising again, his sense of betrayal—because he’d thought she was different from her disreputable father, but he’d been wrong.

      Now he gently ruffled Elvie’s hair. ‘Time to go home?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s take Little Jack and introduce him to everyone, shall we?’

      And he carried the tired little puppy with one hand, while holding Elvie’s with the other, as they headed for the field at the far end of the fair where Tom waited with the carriage.

      Connor took one last look around. This countryside was idyllic and he had a beautiful new home. The only trouble was—he’d forgotten how powerful were the memories that came with it.

      * * *

      Tom batted not an eyelid at the arrival of the puppy, but promptly took up his perch on the back of the phaeton as Connor gathered up the reins and set off at a spanking pace towards Calverley Hall. Connor pulled up the horses only slightly as they passed through the Hall’s gates, nodding to the lodgekeeper there, then he let the carriage roll on, following the old road as it wound through ancient oak woods, then over the stone bridge that crossed the river.

      Soon afterwards they were clattering into the front courtyard, but suddenly Connor was frowning. There were staff waiting for him there. A ridiculous formality, he thought, since he and Tom could have managed everything perfectly well! But no—there were grooms to take charge of the horses and a footman standing by the front door. And Haskins the steward stood stiffly to attention.

      Most of the Hall’s staff were completely new. The ones who’d stayed on since the old days, like Tom, were a rarity. Housemaids, footmen, gardeners and grooms had been hired by Connor’s business secretary, Robert Carstairs, who’d also appointed the new steward Haskins, together with a housekeeper, Mrs Lett.

      Carstairs was highly efficient. But sometimes, Connor regretted not conducting the interviews himself.

      A young maid hurried forward for Elvie. ‘There now, Miss Elvira! Your grandmother’s waiting for you. Have you had a lovely day at the fair?’

      Elvie nodded shyly, looking longingly at Little Jack; but Connor had the puppy firmly in hand. ‘I’ll take him to meet the other dogs,’ he assured Elvie. ‘The groom in charge of the kennels will see that he’s made really welcome.’ He stooped so he didn’t tower over her and added, ‘You tell your grandmother all about your trip out—yes?—and then in an hour or so, when Little Jack’s settled, I’ll take you to see him.’

      So Connor led the puppy out to the stables, then returned to the house and headed for his study—only to find Robert Carstairs waiting for him.

      ‘Some news, sir,’ Carstairs said. ‘And it’s good news. You’re ahead in the race to provide iron for the new east London docks project, in Wapping. Your plans have been received most favourably. I have some letters to that effect here.’

      ‘Good news indeed, Carstairs,’ Connor agreed. But he wished Miles Delafield could have been here to share in the excitement. I miss you, Miles, Connor said silently to himself as he led the way into his study, where Carstairs began eagerly laying out the various documents on his desk.

      ‘All we require now,’ Carstairs was saying, ‘before the contract is signed is government approval—and you should get that without any difficulty.’

      ‘I certainly hope so,’ said Connor mildly.

      Carstairs glanced at him enquiringly. ‘You seem a little quiet, sir. Did you enjoy the fair?’

      ‘I enjoyed it well enough,’ Connor replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I met several people I used to know.’

      ‘Anyone of importance?’

      ‘No. Not at all.’ And he started studying those papers again—but he could not stop thinking about Isobel Blake. She’d faced up to him almost defiantly this afternoon. Perhaps she hoped he might not have heard the stories whispered about the years she’d spent with Loxley. Perhaps she hoped he didn’t know she was now living with some artist fellow...

      No. She wouldn’t be that stupid. She must realise he would have heard how she’d made a complete mess of her life and the best thing Connor could do was forget her. Completely, he reminded himself. And yet—her skin had felt so warm, so soft when he’d touched her arm.

      He pulled out the chair from his desk and sat down. ‘Right,’ he said to Carstairs. ‘The new docks. We need more figures—charts, maps, suppliers. Let’s get to work, shall we?’

      * * *

      It had taken Isobel just over an hour to walk the three miles along the narrow track to the farmhouse that was now her home.

      She opened the door into the big kitchen that took up most of the ground floor. At one end of this room was the black cooking range, surrounded by gleaming pots and pans; at the other end was Joseph Molina, sitting in front of his easel, which had a permanent place there. The room’s numerous windows caught the light all day long and today the sun glittered on the half-finished canvases scattered around.

      Joseph turned from his easel with a glad smile when she entered. ‘Isobel! My dear, did you enjoy the fair?’ He rose awkwardly, because his knees were stiff with rheumatism.

      He was fifty-seven years old. Once, he had been a successful portrait artist, but when arthritis began to attack his hands, he was no longer capable of the precise detail the work required. Isobel had first met him in a London gallery three years ago. Loxley had died and she’d found herself homeless, with nothing to her name but a besmirched reputation.

      At that gallery Joseph Molina had noticed her admiring one of his watercolour sketches of Gloucestershire and came over to her. ‘I know this place,’ Isobel had said, pointing to the picture. ‘I grew up in the house that looks out over this valley.’

      He’d told her he was thinking of moving there, permanently. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ he said, ‘and besides, there are practical reasons. I can’t afford the rent on my London studio any more. My sister, Agnes, will be coming with me. Why don’t you come, too?’

      He was so kind to Isobel that day, at a time when she’d felt surrounded by enemies. She’d been moved almost to tears, but forced a smile, as she always did. ‘I cannot expect your charity.’

      ‘No charity,’ he’d answered. ‘I will find you work, believe me!’

      So she’d moved back to Gloucestershire with him and Agnes. She’d learned how to grind pigments and mix them with linseed oil and how to care for his canvases СКАЧАТЬ