the forge to be destroyed.
She’d tried to defend Connor to her father. And he’d realised, last week at the fair, that she still had the utmost courage; he’d seen it in the way she had stood up to the Vicar over those children. She still had rebellion in her eyes and fire in her blood. He couldn’t forget, either, the way that Elvie had instantly taken to her...
Suddenly he wasn’t seeing the view from the window any more—he was seeing Isobel Blake. Children. She liked them and they liked her. They took to her. Trusted her. Wouldn’t she make a good teacher for his school? But her reputation made the notion impossible. She was living with that artist as his mistress! And there was something else—another complication that troubled Connor far more than he cared to admit.
His first reaction, on being close to her, was to feel a harsh and unwelcome stab of desire. Something that couldn’t be sated by mere physical contact, because it was accompanied by another urge that was perhaps even more disturbing. He wanted to talk to her, to get to know what was really going on beneath that bright and defiant veneer of hers.
She’d deliberately allowed herself to fall just about as far down the social ladder as it was possible to fall. But he, Connor, could so easily conjure up the startling green-gold of her eyes and the luxuriant blonde of her hair as it fell in unruly waves from beneath that absurd bonnet. Could imagine running his hands through it, letting it fall over her bare shoulders...
Fool. It was a waste of precious time even to think of her. Fortunately, he had plenty to keep him busy—if all went well, there was this new contract for the London docks, for a start. And while he was here, he was determined to set up a summer school for the Plass Valley children—which meant finding someone suitable to run it.
He’d already spoken to the ever-efficient Carstairs about the matter. ‘I would suggest an advertisement, sir,’ was Carstairs’s response.
And so, two days later, an advertisement appeared in the Gloucestershire Herald.
Required—temporary tutor for small group of children, to start as soon as possible. Applications to be returned to Mr Connor Hamilton, Calverley Hall.
* * *
A week later, Connor sat behind the big desk in his study interviewing one by one the five short-listed applicants with Laura at his side. The candidates turned out to be a diverse bunch, ranging from a plump farmer’s daughter who couldn’t glance at Connor without blushing, to a retired parson whom Connor assumed, by the state of his nose, to have a drink problem. Connor asked each of them the same questions. ‘Since the summer school will be for a few weeks only, what do you consider the most vital topics to be covered? Do you think there should be an element of enjoyment in every lesson? Or is learning a matter of hard work, always?’
What a revelation the answers were. ‘The children need to be taught their place, with a good birching every now and then,’ one young man cheerfully suggested. He had, he informed them, taught at an expensive day school in Bath for two years. ‘After all,’ he went on, ‘you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, can you?’
Laura glanced at Connor, waiting for the explosion. But Connor merely rose rather abruptly from his chair. Interview over. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That will be all.’
There was an ex-governess, too, who happened to catch sight of Elvie out on the lawn playing with Little Jack. ‘I take it the girl out there is one of the tinkers’ children? Of course, if I was in charge, behaviour like that would cease instantly!’
Connor followed her glance out of the window—Elvie did look untidy, he realised. She was in an old frock and pinafore, and her pigtails had long since come undone. But out there with her puppy she looked as happy as Connor had seen her for months.
‘That child,’ he said, ‘happens to be my ward.’
He caught Laura smothering a smile; the woman’s face turned a startling red. ‘Oh! Oh, I see. Well, of course, Mr Hamilton, I didn’t mean...’
‘I have to thank you for revealing your feelings so frankly,’ said Connor. ‘I have no more questions. Good day to you.’
It was clear, when they came to the end of the interviews, that not one of the candidates was suitable by any stretch of the imagination. And Connor saw that Laura looked tired. Summoning her maid and thanking Laura for her assistance, he suggested she take a rest for an hour or so; then he went out into the garden to join Elvie. She ran towards him with the puppy bounding at her heels. She looked anxious.
‘Connor,’ she said. ‘Those p-people who were here. You’re not going to choose one of them to work at the school you told me about, are you?’
He’d already explained to her his idea for the school. ‘You saw them, then? They were a rather strange bunch, weren’t they, little one? Don’t worry. I don’t think any of them will be in charge of my school—if, indeed, I manage to ever start it.’
‘I hope you do,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m lucky because I’ve got Grandmother to help me with my lessons—but they’ve got no one.’
‘I’ll find someone,’ he promised. ‘Someone kind. And fun.’
She nodded, then her puppy came rushing up to drop his new ball at her feet, tail wagging. And Elvie was off, running across the lawn with Little Jack racing ahead.
Connor watched. Someone kind. And fun. But—who?
‘The children must have five hours a day at least of lessons,’ one of the would-be teachers had declared.
Five hours? Connor’s raised eyebrows had expressed mild astonishment.
‘Indeed,’ the woman had gone on, ‘that is the absolute minimum required to bring an element of civilisation to people of their kind, Mr Hamilton!’
Of their kind. Connor walked back into the house and settled himself again in his study. Perhaps the whole idea was entirely foolish—after all, what difference could a few weeks of learning make to children who would be moving on in no time?
But then again, it might make all the difference in the world. Look at his own past. He’d been thrown out of Malpass’s church school early on, but Connor’s father owned some books—rare indeed in a poor household like theirs. There’d been travel stories and poems, and tales of ancient history, which Connor had read by the light of a tallow candle. He’d found he had a great hunger for learning that was awakened once again when he was given access to Miles Delafield’s fine library in London.
Who was to say there wasn’t another child like him somewhere amongst the travellers’ families? A child who would grasp at the tiniest seed of learning?
A knock at his door announced the entry of Haskins, the steward. ‘Sir,’ Haskins said, ‘some of the furniture you ordered from Gloucester is starting to arrive. Could you come and examine the items, and approve their condition?’
Connor rose and followed him out of the study. Haskins was precise and orderly, but he still wasn’t sure he actually liked the fellow. And when Connor reached the reception hall, he looked around with a snort of disbelief. Had he really ordered so much stuff? All around were not only chairs, tables and sofas, but also a colourful array of rugs, pictures and mirrors. Haskins had the delivery notes in his hand and, with daunting precision, he pointed
