The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford

the life of her granddaughter, Elvie.

      ‘Laura,’ he said, ‘if I could find someone like you, the decision to marry would be easy, believe me.’

      She was laughing. ‘Connor,’ she said, ‘you ridiculous flatterer. But seriously, I’ve heard—’

      ‘You’ll have heard,’ he broke in, ‘all kinds of nonsense.’

      ‘I’ve heard something a little more than nonsense lately.’ She placed a few more stitches, but now she raised her eyes to his. ‘I’ve heard talk, in fact, about Miss Helena Staithe.’

      Connor walked slowly to the window overlooking the sunlit gardens and turned to face her. ‘You’re right, Laura, to assume that at some point I’ll have to consider the matter of marriage a little more seriously.’

      ‘Perhaps you will,’ Laura said teasingly, ‘if only to put a damper on the talk Miss Staithe’s friends are spreading that perhaps your interest in her is becoming significant.’

      He suppressed an exclamation of impatience. ‘People will always talk. Of course, there are strong business connections with her family—you’ll remember as well as anyone, Laura, how Helena’s father sponsored Miles’s projects in the early days.’

      ‘Of course I remember. Her father was a Member of Parliament, was he not? And now Helena’s brother has taken over his seat.’

      ‘He has.’ Connor frowned a little. ‘But whether my obligation to the Staithe family stretches to marriage on my part is rather questionable. To be honest, a marriage of convenience holds little appeal.’

      ‘You mean,’ said Laura lightly, ‘that you’re waiting for the love of your life?’

      ‘Does such a thing exist?’

      She hesitated. ‘I believe so, yes. But then, perhaps I was lucky... Oh, Connor, I was completely forgetting!’ She put down her needlework again. ‘You told me you had to return to London tonight for an important meeting. You must have all kinds of things to sort out and here I am, delaying you with my chatter!’

      He laughed. ‘The meeting’s not that important,’ he assured her. ‘In fact, I’ve decided to send Carstairs instead—it’s simply a matter of delivering some proposed figures to my chief shareholders.’

      ‘You’re hoping for their support in this new project of yours—the docks?’

      ‘That’s right and I’m pretty certain I’ll get it. But, Laura, as it happens I’ve got another matter on my mind and it’s something I need to deal with here. A few minutes ago you mentioned the Plass Valley children and now’s perhaps the time to tell you my plan. You see...’ he paused for a moment ‘...I’m thinking of setting up a school for them.’

      ‘A school? For the children of the travellers?’

      ‘Exactly. It would be for the summer season only, of course, since after that they’ll be moving on to their next place of work. The older children are kept busy helping their parents with the hay harvest—but for the little ones, there’s absolutely nothing to do.’

      ‘Except get into mischief,’ said Laura thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I see. But—a school?’

      ‘It wouldn’t be a very formal affair. The children could be taught basics, like the alphabet and some simple arithmetic.’ He was surprising himself by the enthusiasm with which he spoke. ‘I realise, of course, that plenty of local people will say I’m wasting my time. But I’ve met these children and they’re not malicious, they’re just full of energy—energy that needs direction.’

      ‘So where exactly would you hold this school?’

      And he knew he had her approval.

      ‘There’s the old chapel,’ he said, ‘in the grounds of the Hall—you can see it from here, if you look out of the window. It’s not been used for years, but I’ve examined it pretty carefully and I think I could easily have it made suitable.’

      ‘And who would you appoint as their teacher?’

      ‘I’m not sure yet. I need a person who’s not just well educated, but is someone the children will actually like.’ He paused. ‘Laura, you know how much I value your opinion. You don’t think it’s a dreadful idea?’

      ‘On the contrary,’ she answered. ‘I think it’s one of the best ideas you’ve ever had, Connor. And—’

      She broke off, because just at that moment Elvie came running in and Laura held out her hands to her. ‘Darling Elvie. I think you’ve come to remind me it’s time for lunch?’

      ‘Yes, Grandmother, I have.’ Elvie hesitated, then turned to Connor. ‘Connor, after lunch, p-please may I play with Little Jack in the garden?’

      Her speech was still slightly hesitant—even with himself and Laura. But she was, he could see, shyly eager for the pleasures to come. He crouched a little so he was nearer her height. ‘Very well, mischief. You take Jack out after you’ve eaten your meal and teach him some tricks—oh, and obedience! Don’t forget that!’

      ‘I will,’ she said earnestly. ‘He really will be the best dog ever.’

      By then a footman had appeared to wheel Laura through to the dining room and Elvie followed. But at the last minute, Laura turned her head. ‘Connor, are you joining us?’

      ‘Very soon—I have one or two things to see to first.’

      ‘Just like Miles,’ she said. ‘Don’t let time be your master, though, Connor. Promise me?’ Then—without waiting for his answer—she and Elvie were gone and Connor was alone.

       Don’t let time be your master.

      Miles Delafield had confided to Connor last year that he intended to cut down his own workload in the near future. He’d talked of buying an estate in the country, with acres of land and gardens for his mother and Elvie to enjoy. A heart attack out of the blue had put paid to Miles’s plans, but Connor had resolved to see that Elvie and Laura would live out that dream of his. Though what was Connor’s dream? What did he really want for himself?

      He would never forget those early days when—still bitter from the loss of the forge and the death so soon afterwards of his ailing father—he’d left Calverley as an eighteen-year-old to take the road for London. He’d headed straight for the eastern end of the city, where the new iron foundries were spilling over into the flat Essex countryside, and there he’d tramped around begging for work.

      When Miles Delafield took him on, Connor laboured at the foundry as an apprentice by day. But by night he studied and Miles, realising his eagerness to learn, lent him books—Miles owned volume after volume on metallurgy and engineering, and Connor had read them till past midnight, every night, until his eyes burned and his brain was dizzy with newfound knowledge.

      And his dreams grew bigger. He didn’t just want to be a foundryman. He wanted to make sure that no one would look down on him again—ever.

      Now he stood by the window of the garden room in Calverley Hall, gazing out at the idyllic landscape. Now no one dared to snub the iron master Connor Hamilton. But should he have come back here? Was it ever wise, to revive memories of the past?

      He’d thought it would give him satisfaction, to revisit all the remembered places of his youth. But there was one memory—one person—he’d not reckoned on.

      Isobel Blake.

      Just how old he’d been when he first met her he couldn’t exactly recall—fifteen, sixteen, perhaps? By then Connor’s father was ill and Connor had taken on most of the work of the forge himself. Isobel used to arrive on horseback, as if by chance. ‘I was just passing,’ she would say.

      She was lonely, he guessed. He also knew that she shouldn’t even be out on her own, let alone come to visit him. But she didn’t seem to care. She