returning to the neighbourhood he grew up in—only instead of a blacksmith’s forge, he would be living in a mansion. But hadn’t he realised that she still lived nearby?
She would never forget the coldness in his blue eyes today at the fair as he registered her presence. She felt branded by it. Let him think the worst of me, she thought, like everyone else! She was happy here, with the Molinas; she loved helping Joseph with his paintings, she enjoyed his and Agnes’s gentle company.
But Connor Hamilton was back. And a chill of fear caught at her heart, because he had become quite formidable in a way that made her pulse pound faster and her lungs ache with the sudden need for air.
How she’d first met him, she couldn’t even really remember. It was as though he’d always been there and whenever she could she used to ride over to the forge and watch him as he mended ploughshares or shoed horses. She used to ask him question after question about his work and he didn’t seem to mind. She felt safe with Connor and, although he said little, she felt that he liked her. Even on that awful night when she’d got Connor into so much trouble seven years ago, he’d told her it wasn’t her fault.
Since then, he’d become a rich man. An iron master. They said that to keep his hand in he still forged iron himself in the vast foundries that belonged to him—and, looking at him, she could well believe it, because his clothes, though clearly expensive, couldn’t hide the innate strength of his body. A typical rich London gentleman he was not; his face and hands were tanned from the open air; his black hair was thick and overlong for fashion and his deep blue eyes missed nothing, and were fooled, she guessed, by nobody.
The locals speculated that he’d returned to his Gloucestershire roots to find himself a suitable bride. Isobel thought differently. She guessed that Connor Hamilton, poor boy made good, had returned to the place of his birth for revenge on all those who’d thwarted him. As for his feelings towards her, she’d seen how his eyes had widened almost in incredulity when he realised who she was. And how they narrowed again with contempt, a moment later.
Scorn—that was what he felt now, for Isobel Blake. And who could blame him?
Not her, that was for sure. Not her. But his scorn was not deserved.
One week later
‘So,’ said Laura Delafield, putting her embroidery to one side and letting a spark of mischief twinkle in her eyes. ‘You’re intent on refurbishing the Hall in its entirety, are you, Connor dear? I do hope that you’re not going to disappoint too many people with your surprisingly excellent taste.’
It was a little before noon and Connor had come to join Laura in her favourite room, which had large south-facing windows overlooking the garden. Surprisingly excellent taste. He felt his breath catch for a moment, so primed was he to fend off cutting comments about his lowly background, but no insult was intended here—this was Laura, grandmother to Elvie and mother to his former business partner, Miles. Though confined to a bath chair nowadays, she was lively, shrewd and entirely lovable.
He’d first met Laura when he was hired by Miles in London and he’d quickly become enormously appreciative of her gentle wisdom. The Hall—neglected both by Sir George Blake and by a succession of tenants in the last five years—needed complete refurbishing and Connor knew the entire neighbourhood would be watching to see if he was filling the house with the kind of pretentious rubbish they would expect of an upstart like him.
His mouth curled slightly, but he answered with a smile, ‘I rather fear I’m going to disappoint the locals, Laura, since my tastes are remarkably staid. You think I should have gone for a livelier style? Russian, perhaps?’
‘Not Russian, my dear,’ Laura pronounced. ‘That is quite passé. No, these days you need to turn to Egypt, to be truly nouveau riche.’ She looked rather dreamy-eyed. ‘As much gilt and jade as you like, with painted pharaohs all over the place...’
He chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to give the neighbours absolutely nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘you’ve already given them plenty to talk about, believe me. For example, the Vicar called this morning, while you were out.’
‘Thank God, then, for my excellent sense of timing. What did Malpass want?’
‘He told me that he wished to speak to you about the travellers and their encampment in Plass Valley.’ She eyed him with care. ‘He feels they “lower the tone of the parish”. Those were his exact words.’
Connor fought down a stab of irritation. ‘The Reverend Malpass has a short memory. They’ve been coming to Plass Valley every summer, for as long as I can remember. How would the farmers reap their hay harvest without them?’
‘The Vicar,’ said Laura mildly, ‘claims it’s the travellers’ children who are the chief problem. He says they’re running wild and being cheeky to the ladies of the village who try to rebuke them.’
He sighed. ‘Have the ladies been complaining to you, too, Laura?’
‘Only in passing.’ Her cheeks dimpled with amusement. ‘As a matter of fact, the local ladies have something far more pressing on their minds when they make their morning calls on me. Without exception, they have daughters of a marriageable age. You get my drift?’
Connor groaned. ‘Heaven help me, I do.’ He seized on a fragment of hope. ‘But didn’t any of them, when referring to me, mention the word “upstart”?’
‘Not a whisper.’
‘Then there’s nothing for it, Laura. I shall have to pretend I already have a fiancée in London. Either that, or feign a dissolute past...’
‘Feign a dissolute past, dear?’ she mocked gently.
He laughed, acknowledging the mild correction by raising one hand in a gesture of submission. Laura pretended to study her embroidery again, then said, after a pause, ‘You know, Connor, that marriage does have its compensations. Children being not the least of them.’
And just for a moment Connor could hear the heartache behind her gentle words. Laura, a widow for many years, had no other children but Miles, who had been Connor’s mentor, friend and business partner for years. And now she’d lost him. A tragedy for all of them, yet Laura was, thank God, as loving and generous-spirited as ever and a vital presence in 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.’
