The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford

as lord of the manor seriously, aren’t you? It’s very generous of you to offer charity—but they need rather more than charity, Mr Hamilton!’

      ‘I believe you told me so at the fair,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, and I’ll say it again. They need someone to defend them! And I realise—’

      She broke off. She was clenching her hands, he saw. Little spots of colour burned in her cheeks, and beneath that worn and shabby frock her breasts heaved. Clearly she was making a huge effort to calm herself and when she spoke again her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.

      ‘I realise,’ she went on, ‘that I am probably the last person on earth who should come to you asking for favours.’ She lifted her head, and he saw her green eyes were very clear. ‘But I do not want your money. In fact, I can see that by coming here today I have made another grave mistake and I’ve already taken up quite enough of your time. I will bid you good day, Mr Hamilton!’

      ‘Stop,’ Connor said urgently. ‘Wait.’ But she was already hurrying down the steps, that ridiculous pink-beribboned bonnet bobbing as she set off along the drive.

      He could have pursued her. But instead he stood there, frozen by memories. I realise that I’m probably the last person on earth who should come to you asking for favours.

      In his youth he had not borne her any dislike for being Sir George Blake’s daughter—on the contrary, he used to feel the utmost pity for her. But since then, she’d allowed herself to sink so low that even the local tattle-mongers had grown weary of spreading her story.

      Yet still she was as outspoken as ever. And those clothes!

      He had no need to think about her any further. She was nothing to him, of no importance whatsoever; the whole community scorned her. And yet she was the only one of that community to defend those children. She was the only one with the courage to care...

      No. He rubbed his clenched fist against his forehead. The faint lavender scent of her lingered in the hall and it was delicate, it was haunting, it made him think things he definitely shouldn’t be thinking. Like—how sweet she would be to kiss. And to hold, and to caress. And suddenly a vivid picture shot into his mind of him exploring the satiny, secret places of her slender body, possibly on that very bed the footmen were struggling to get up the stairs just now...

      ‘Mr Hamilton, sir!’ Haskins’s voice banished Connor’s vision in an instant. ‘Mr Hamilton,’ went on Haskins importantly, bustling towards him, ‘there are several items of furniture we need to ask you about. We’re not quite sure where they belong.’

      Again Connor tried to rub the tension from his forehead. Where did he belong, exactly? And why did he, all of a sudden, feel so damned dissatisfied with this new life of his? Why did he feel right now as if the acquisition of wealth and power were like prison chains, in which he was becoming more and more entangled?

      ‘Very well, Haskins,’ he replied at last. ‘Lead the way.’

      * * *

      Isobel hurried down the drive, feeling quite dizzy with dismay. She had been stupid beyond words to have come to the Hall and Connor Hamilton had looked at her with a coldness that had chilled her blood. She lashed herself inwardly as she walked, remembering with a shiver how his eyes had run with casual contempt over her flowered print frock, her face and her bare arms. All she’d wanted was for him to help the children—because she’d thought he might care.

      And all she wanted now was to be as far away from here as possible. But the children! Their plight had upset her desperately and, while wondering last night what on earth she could do to help them, her mind had suddenly flown to Connor. She’d hoped that whatever he thought of her, he might still feel pity for the children.

      She’d tried to say as much to Joseph and Agnes before setting out on this visit, though they’d expressed strong doubt, saying they’d heard Mr Hamilton was a hard and a ruthless man. But Isobel had carried on regardless—and she was wrong. She should have heeded the Molinas’ warning. Now that she was safely away, she paused to glance back at the Hall, with all its daunting immensity, and remembered that this was the place she’d once called home, though in truth she’d grown to hate it.

      Billy, who drove the carrier’s cart, had dropped her off at the lodge gates. He’d told her he had deliveries to make to a couple of farms farther on. ‘But I’ll pick you up on my way back, Miss Isobel,’ he’d promised cheerily. ‘I’ll be here at the gates around noon.’

      She was early, so she decided to leave the broad drive and take a slightly longer route through Calverley’s parkland. That would, she hoped, give her time to calm herself before meeting Billy. But as she approached a woodland dell, she was halted in her tracks by a child’s voice calling, ‘Bring it to me, Jack! Good boy! Good boy!’

      Hesitating between the trees, she glimpsed Elvie, throwing sticks for her puppy. The little girl’s voice was steady, but Isobel could see that her cheeks were wet with tears.

      It’s none of my business, Isobel told herself. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’ve done enough interfering for one day. But the puppy was already scampering towards her and now Elvie had seen her, too. ‘It’s you,’ she exclaimed, ‘the lady from the fair! Little Jack, look who it is!’

      She’d scooped her puppy up and was burying her nose in his fur, but not before Isobel saw that tears were trickling down her cheeks. Isobel touched her arm gently. ‘My dear. Why are you crying?’

      The little girl’s tears welled up anew as she gazed up at Isobel. ‘It’s because I—I miss my father so!’

      Isobel wanted to hug her, hard. Instead she led her to a nearby bench and sat next to her, while Little Jack settled forlornly at his young mistress’s feet. Isobel was trying to remember everything she’d heard about Elvira Delafield. Her mother died a month after she was born; her father died of a heart attack six months ago. Her grandmother is her only living relative...

      ‘I think,’ Isobel said, ‘that you’re very brave, Elvie. And I’m really glad you’ve got Jack to keep you company. You’ve got your grandmother, too, haven’t you?’

      Elvie was trying to rub her tears away. ‘Yes. Grandmother is lovely, but she gets tired and sometimes I feel lonely.’ She swallowed a fresh sob.

      Isobel looked around. ‘Do you know, I remember a girl who once lived here.’

      ‘At the Hall?’

      ‘Yes. She was sometimes lonely, too, but she did have one friend. He might not have realised it, but she depended on him, a great deal.’

      Elvie was gazing up at her. ‘And is she still friends with him?’

      Isobel felt something hot and tight gathering inside her. ‘Sadly, no. You see, Elvie, sometimes things happen as you get older. There was a misunderstanding. But when she was young and alone, he was there for her. And she will never, ever forget that.’

      Elvie was wide-eyed. ‘And has this girl got friends now?’

      ‘Yes, she has.’ Isobel was thinking of Agnes and Joseph. ‘Just like you, Elvie. You have people who care for you very much and always will. Your grandmother, and Connor, too—I could see how good he was to you at the fair—’

      She broke off, because she’d suddenly realised they were visible here from the upper storey of the Hall and she thought she’d glimpsed a face at one of the windows.

      ‘I must go now.’ She rose swiftly from the bench. ‘But as I said, I’m sure Connor wants the very best for you. I’m sure he’s extremely kind.’

      And Isobel left, with her own words echoing again and again in her head.

      * * *

      He used to be kind. He’d been her secret hero. But things had changed—he was a successful man now, with power and money. As for