Читать книгу A Diamond In The Snow - Kate Hardy - Страница 11

‘SO WHAT DO you actually know about this man who wants to come and help us, Dad?’ Victoria asked.

‘He’s my stockbroker’s son,’ Patrick said.

‘So is he taking a gap year? Is his degree going to be in history?’

‘I don’t know,’ Patrick said, ‘but Alan said he’s very keen.’

He must be, Victoria thought, to arrange an interview for nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. ‘Did you want to interview him, then, as you know his father?’

Patrick smiled and patted her shoulder. ‘Absolutely not, darling. You’re the one he’s going to be working with. It needs to be your decision.’

‘If you change your mind, we’ll be in the office,’ Victoria said.

It was a shame her father had been so vague about the details; he hadn’t even asked for a rudimentary CV. Then again, her father came from the era of the gentleman’s agreement and he didn’t like paperwork. Hopefully the lad would bring his exam certificates with him and she’d be able to get an idea of his education so far and his interests, and whether he’d be the right one to help her.

Part of her thought there was something rude and arrogant about interviewing a volunteer for a job you weren’t actually paying them to do; on the other hand, if he was hopeless, he’d be more of a hindrance than a help because she’d have to double-check everything he did. Plus, even though he wasn’t being paid, he was getting valuable experience that might help him with applications for further study or a job in the heritage sector.

‘Come on, Humphrey,’ she said to her fox-red Labrador, who was curled up on the chair where he knew he wasn’t supposed to be. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ It was more to clear her head before the interview than anything else. It felt as if she’d spent weeks wrestling with forms.

At the W-word, the Labrador sprang off the chair, wagged his tail and followed her into the garden.

Growing up at Chiverton had been such a privilege. Victoria loved everything about the place, from the mellow golden stone it was built from, through to the big sash windows that surrounded the huge Venetian window at the back of the house, through to the pedimented portico at the front. She loved the gardens that sprawled around the house and were full of daffodils and bluebells in the spring, the way the sunrise was reflected in the lake, and the formal knot garden at the side full of box and lavender. And most of all she loved the ballroom.

Her plans were going to require a lot of organisational skills. But hopefully Samuel Weatherby would fall in love with the place, too, and support her fundraising effort.

Humphrey headed straight for the lake as soon as they were outside and was already swimming after the ducks before she had a chance to call him back.

‘I’m banishing you to the kitchen,’ she said when he finally came out of the lake and shook the water from his coat. ‘I don’t want you scaring off our volunteer.’ Unless he was unsuitable—and then perhaps she could offer him a coffee in the kitchen, and Humphrey would leap all over their volunteer and make him withdraw his offer of help.

She could imagine Lizzie’s soft giggle and, ‘But, Tori, that’s so naughty!’ Lizzie was one of the two people Victoria had ever allowed to shorten her name.

She shook herself. She didn’t have time for sentiment right now. She needed to be businesslike and sort out her questions for her impending visitor to make sure he had the qualities she needed. Someone efficient and calm, who could use his initiative, drive a hard bargain, and not mind mucking in and getting his hands dirty. And definitely not someone clumsy.

In return, he’d get experience on his CV. She tried not to feel guilty about the lack of a salary. So many internships nowadays were unpaid. Besides, as her mother had suggested, they could offer him accommodation and meals; and Victoria could always buy him some books for his course. Textbooks cost an arm and a leg.

She changed into her business suit and had just finished dealing with an email when the landline in her office shrilled. She picked up the phone. ‘Victoria Hamilton.’

‘May I speak to Mr Hamilton, please? It’s Samuel Weatherby. I believe he’s expecting me.’

He sounded confident, which was probably a good thing. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you’re seeing me. I’m his daughter and I run the house.’ She wasn’t going to give him a hard time about asking for the wrong person. The message had probably become garbled between their fathers.

‘My apologies, Ms Hamilton,’ he said.

He was quick to recover, at any rate, she thought. ‘I assume, as you’re ringing me, you’re at the gate?’

‘Yes. I parked in the visitor car park. Is that OK, or do I need to move my car?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll come and let you in,’ she said.

Humphrey whined at the door as she walked past.

‘You are not coming with me and jumping all over our poor student,’ Victoria told him, but her tone was soft. ‘I’ll take you for another run later.’

The house was gorgeous, Samuel thought as he walked down the gravelled drive. The equal of any London townhouse, with those huge windows and perfect proportions. The house was clearly well cared for; there was no evidence of it being some mouldering pile with broken windows and damaged stonework, and what he could see of the gardens was neat and tidy.

He paused to read the visitor information board. So the Hamilton family had lived here for two hundred and fifty years. From the woodcut on the board, the place had barely changed in that time—at least, on the outside. Obviously running water, electricity and some form of heating had been installed.

Despite the fact that the house was in the middle of nowhere and he was used to living and working in the centre of London, a few minutes away from everything, there was something about the place that drew him. He could definitely work here for three months, if it would help keep his father happy and healthy.

All he had to do was to convince Patrick Hamilton that he was the man for the job. It would’ve been helpful if his father had given him a bit more information about what the job actually entailed, so he could’ve crafted a CV to suit. As it was, he’d have to make do with his current CV—and hope that Patrick didn’t look too closely at it or panic about the hedge fund management stuff.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes early. He could either kick his heels out here, on the wrong side of a locked gate, or he could get this thing started.

He took his phone from his pocket. Despite this place being in the middle of nowhere, it had a decent signal, to his relief. He called the number his father had given him.

‘Victoria Hamilton,’ a crisp voice said.

Patrick’s wife or daughter, Sam presumed. He couldn’t quite gauge her age from her voice. ‘May I speak to Mr Hamilton, please? It’s Samuel Weatherby. I believe he’s expecting me.’

‘Actually,’ she corrected, ‘you’re seeing me. I’m his daughter and I run the house.’

Something his father had definitely neglected to tell him. Alarm bells rang in Sam’s head. Please don’t let this be some elaborate ruse on his father’s part to fix him up with someone he considered a suitable partner. Sam didn’t want a partner. He was quite happy with his life just the way it was, thank you.

Then again, brooding over your own mortality probably meant you didn’t pay as much attention to detail as usual. And Sam wanted this job. He’d give his father the benefit of the doubt. ‘My apologies, Ms Hamilton.’

‘I assume, as you’re ringing me, you’re at the gate?’

‘Yes. I parked in the visitor car park. Is that OK, or do I need to move my car?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll come and let you in,’ she said.

He ended the call, and a couple of minutes later a woman came walking round the corner.

She was wearing a well-cut dark business suit and low-heeled shoes. Her dark hair was woven into a severe French pleat, and she wore the bare minimum of make-up. Sam couldn’t quite sum her up: she dressed like a woman in her forties, but her skin was unlined enough for her to be around his own age.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Weatherby.’ She tapped a code into the keypad, opened the gate and held out her hand to shake his.

Formal, too. OK. He’d let himself be guided by her.

Her handshake was completely businesslike, firm enough to warn him that she wasn’t a pushover and yet she wasn’t trying to prove that she was physically as strong as a man.

‘Welcome to Chiverton Hall, Mr Weatherby.’

‘Sam,’ he said. Though he noticed that she didn’t ask him to call her by her own first name.

‘I’m afraid my father hasn’t told me much about you, other than that you’re interested in a voluntary job here for the next three months—so I assume that either you’re a mature student, or you’re changing career and you’re looking for some experience to help with that.’

She thought he was a student? Then again, he’d been expecting to deal with her father. There had definitely been some crossed wires. ‘I’m changing career,’ he said. Which was true: just not the whole truth.

‘Did you bring your CV with you?’

‘No.’ Which had been stupid of him. ‘But I can access it on my phone and email it over to you.’

‘Thank you. That would be useful.’ Her smile was kind, and made it clear she thought he wasn’t up to the job.

This was ridiculous. Why should he have to prove himself to a woman he’d never met before, for a temporary and voluntary post?

Though, according to his father, they needed help. Having someone clueless who’d need to take up lots of her time for training was the last thing she needed. In her shoes, he’d be the same—wanting someone capable.

‘Let me show you round the house,’ she said, ‘and you can tell me what you want to get out of a three-month placement.’

Proof for his father that he could take direction and deal with ordinary people. If he told her that, she’d run a mile. And he needed to get this job, so he could stay here to keep an eye on his parents. ‘Experience,’ he said instead.

‘Of conservation work or management?’

‘Possibly both.’ He felt ridiculously underprepared. He’d expected a casual chat with a friend of his father’s, and an immediate offer to start work there the next week. What an arrogant idiot he was. Maybe his father had a point. To give himself thinking time, he asked, ‘What does the job actually entail?’

She blew out a breath. ‘Background: we do an annual survey to check on the condition of our textiles and see what work we need to do over the winter.’

He assumed this was standard practice in the heritage sector.

‘My surveyor found mould in the silk hangings in the ballroom. It’s going to cost a lot to fix, so we’re applying for heritage grants and we’re also running some fundraising events.’

‘So where do I come in?’ he asked.

‘That depends on your skill set.’

Good answer. Victoria Hamilton was definitely one of the sharper tools in the box.

‘If you’re good at website design, I need to update our website with information about the ballroom restoration and its progress. If you’re good at figures, then budgeting and cost control would be a help. If you’ve managed events, then I’d want you to help to set up the programme and run them.’

Help to, he noticed. She clearly had no intention of giving up control. ‘Who fills the gaps?’ he asked.

‘Me.’

‘That’s quite a wide range of skills.’

She shrugged. ‘I started helping with the house as soon as I was old enough. And Dad’s gradually been passing his responsibilities to me. I’ve been in charge of running the house for two years. You have to be adaptable so you can meet any challenge life throws up. In the heritage sector, every day is different.’

Her father believed in her, whereas his didn’t trust him. Part of him envied her. But that wasn’t why he was here.

‘I’ll give you the short version of the house tour,’ she said.

Stately homes had never really been Sam’s thing. He remembered being taken to them when he was young, but he’d been bored and restless until it was time to run around in the parkland or, even better, a children’s play area. But he needed to look enthusiastic right now, if he was to stand any chance of getting this job. ‘I’d love to see around,’ he fibbed.

She led him round to the front. ‘The entrance hall is the first room people would see when they visited, so it needed to look impressive.’

Hence the chandelier, the stunning black and white marble floor, the artwork and the huge curving double staircase. He could imagine women walking down the staircase, with the trains of their dresses sweeping down behind them; and he made a mental note to ask Victoria whether any of her events involved people in period dress—because that was something he could help with, through Jude.

There were plenty of portraits on the walls; he assumed most of them were of Hamilton ancestors.

‘Once they’d been impressed by the entrance hall—and obviously they’d focus on the plasterwork on the ceiling, not the chandelier—visitors would go up the staircase and into the salon,’ she said.

Again, the room was lavishly decorated, with rich carpets and gilt-framed paintings.

‘If you were close to the family, you’d go into the withdrawing room,’ she said.

Another sumptuous room.

‘Closer still, and you’d be invited to the bedroom.’

He couldn’t help raising his eyebrows at her.

She didn’t even crack a smile, just earnestly explained to him, ‘They didn’t just dress and sleep here. A lot of business was conducted in the private rooms.’

‘Uh-huh.’ It was all about money, not sex, then.

‘And if you were really, really close, you’d be invited into the closet. This one was remodelled as a dressing room in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, but originally it was the closet.’ She indicated a small, plain room.

He managed to stop himself making a witty remark about closets. Mainly because he didn’t think she’d find it funny. Victoria Hamilton was the most serious and earnest woman he’d ever met. ‘Surely the more important your guest, the posher the room you’d use?’

‘No. The public rooms meant everyone could hear what you were talking about. Nowadays it’d be the equivalent of, say, video-calling your bank manager about your overdraft on speakerphone in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. The more privacy you wanted, the smaller the room and the smaller the number of people who could overhear you and gossip. Even the servants couldn’t overhear things in the closet.’

‘Got you. So that’s where you’d plot your business deals?’

‘Or revolutions, or marriage-brokering.’

He followed her back to the salon.

‘Then we have the Long Gallery—it runs the whole length of the house. When it was too cold and wet to walk in the gardens, they’d walk here. Mainly just promenading up and down, looking at the pictures or through the windows at the garden. It’s a good place to think.’

She flushed slightly then, and Sam realised she’d accidentally told him something personal. When Victoria Hamilton needed to think, she paced. Here.

‘Next door, in the ballroom, they’d hold musical soirées. Sometimes it was a piano recital, sometimes there would be singing, and sometimes they’d have a string quartet for a ball.’

‘The room where you have the mould problem,’ he remembered. Was she blinking away tears? Crying over a room?

‘We’ve tested the air and it’s safe for visitors—you don’t need a mask or anything,’ she said.

He wasn’t going to pretend he knew much about mould, other than the black stuff that had crept across the ceiling of his friends’ houses during his student days. So he simply followed her through.

‘Oh.’ It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The walls, curtains and upholstery were all cream and duck-egg-blue; there was a thick rug in the centre of the room, a grand piano, and chairs and chaises-longue laid out along the walls. There were mirrors on all the walls, reflecting the light from the windows and the chandelier.

‘It’s not a huge ballroom,’ she said. ‘Big enough for about fifty, and they’d have supper downstairs in the dining room or they’d lay out a standing supper in the Long Gallery.’

‘Is it ever used as a ballroom now?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘Not for years, but I’m planning to use it as part of the fundraising. It’ll be a Christmas ball, with everyone wearing Regency dress, and dinner will be a proper Regency ball supper.’

Her dark eyes were bright, and it was the first time Sam had seen her really animated. It shocked him to realise how gorgeous she was, when she wasn’t being earnest. When she was talking about something she really loved, she glowed.

‘That all sounds fun.’

‘We’ll attract fans of Austen and the Regency,’ she said. ‘And that’ll be the theme for the week. Craft workshops and decking the house out for Christmas, so visitors can feel part of the past.’

Feel part of the past. Now Sam understood her. This was clearly her favourite room in the house, and she must be devastated by the fact that this was the room with the problem. Now he could see why she’d blinked away tears.

‘Forgive me for being dense, but I can’t see any signs of mould,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it usually black and on the ceiling?’

‘This is white and it’s behind the mirror that usually goes over the mantelpiece, but it’s just come to the edge. You can see it under ultraviolet light.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll have to take the hangings down to dry them out and then make sure we get all the spores.’

He walked over to the mantelpiece and put his fingers to the wall, and she winced visibly.

‘Don’t touch because of the mould?’ he asked.

‘Don’t touch because of the oils on your fingertips, which will damage the silk,’ she corrected.

‘So this isn’t wallpaper?’

‘It’s silk,’ she said, ‘though it’s hung as wallpaper.’

‘Pasted to the wall?’

‘Hung on wooden battens,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t covered the care of textiles or paper on your course, then.’

He was going to have to come clean about this—at least partially. ‘Now you’ve shown me round, why don’t we talk about the job?’ he asked.

‘OK.’ She led him through the house without commenting, but he could tell that she didn’t take her surroundings for granted, she loved the place. It was her passion—just as he’d thought that fund management was his, but meeting Victoria had shown him that his feelings didn’t even come close. Otherwise why would he feel perfectly fine about dropping everything to take over from his father?

Stockbroking wasn’t his passion, either. He was doing this to make sure his father had a lot less stress in his life.

Did he even have a passion? he wondered. His best friend, Jude, lit up whenever Shakespeare was mentioned. Whereas Sam... He enjoyed the fast pace of his life, but there wasn’t anything that really moved him or drove him. Since Olivia, he’d shut off from everything, lived just for the moment. He’d thought he was happy. But now he was starting to wonder. Was his father right and he was living in a useless bubble?

He shook himself and followed Victoria through a door in the panelling, and then down a narrow staircase.

‘Shortcut—the former servants’ corridors,’ she said, and ushered him into a room that was clearly her office.

Everything was neat and tidy. Obviously she had a clear desk policy, because the only things on the gleaming wood were a laptop computer, a photograph, and a pot of pens. The walls were lined with shelves, and the box files on them were all neatly labelled.

‘May I offer you some coffee?’ she asked.

Right now he could kill for coffee. It might help him get his brain back into some semblance of order. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Are you a dog person or a cat person?’ she asked.

That was a bit out of left field. Would it affect a potential job offer? ‘I didn’t grow up with either,’ he said carefully, ‘so I’d say I’m neutral. Though I’d certainly never hurt an animal.’

‘OK. Wait here and I’ll bring the coffee back. My dog’s a bit over-friendly and he’s wet—which is why he’s in the kitchen,’ she explained. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘Black, no sugar, thanks.’

‘Two minutes,’ she said. ‘And perhaps you can email me your CV while I’m sorting coffee.’ She took a business card from the top drawer of her desk and handed it to him. ‘My email address is here.’

‘Sure,’ he said.

Samuel Weatherby was nothing like Victoria had been expecting. He was older, for a start—about her own age, rather than being an undergraduate or just applying for his second degree—and much more polished. Urbane. Although she wasn’t one for fashion, she could tell that his suit and shoes were both expensively cut. Way outside the budget of the nerdy young student she’d thought he’d be.

So who exactly was Samuel Weatherby, and why had he come for this job?

She put the kettle on, shook grounds into the cafetière and made a fuss over Humphrey, who was still wet and muddy from the lake. While the coffee was brewing, she slipped her phone from the pocket of her jacket and checked her email. Samuel had sent over his CV—and it was nothing like what she’d expected. She was right in that he was her own age, but there was nothing even vaguely historical or PR-based on his CV. His degree was in economics and he worked as a hedge fund manager. Why would someone who worked in high finance, with a huge salary, want to take three months’ work as an unpaid intern in a country house? It didn’t make sense.

Frowning, she poured two mugs of coffee, added milk to her own mug, and was in the process of juggling them while trying to close the kitchen door when Humphrey burst past her.

‘No, Humph—’ she began, but she was much too late.

Judging by the ‘oof’ from her office, thirty kilograms of muddy Labrador had just landed on Samuel Weatherby’s lap. Wincing, she hurried to the office and put the mugs on her desk. There were muddy paw prints all over Samuel’s trousers and hair all over his jacket, and Humphrey was wagging his tail, completely unrepentant and pleased with himself for making a new friend.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘He’s young—fifteen months—and his manners aren’t quite there yet. He didn’t mean any harm, and I’ll pay your dry-cleaning bill.’

‘It’s fine.’ Though Samuel made no move towards the dog. Definitely not a dog person, then, she thought. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

‘Pleasure. I’m going to put this monster back in the kitchen.’ She held Humphrey’s collar firmly and took him back down the corridor to the kitchen. ‘You are so bad,’ she whispered. ‘But you might have done me a favour—put him off working here, so I won’t have to ask difficult questions.’

But, when she got back to her office, Samuel was the picture of equanimity. He wasn’t on his feet, ready to make an excuse to leave; he looked perfectly comfortable in his chair.

She was going to have to ask the difficult questions, then.

‘I read your CV while I made the coffee,’ she said. ‘And I’m confused. You’re a hedge fund manager. A successful one, judging by your career history.’ There had been a series of rapid promotions. ‘Why on earth would you want to give up a career like that to do voluntary work?’

‘A change of heart from a greedy banker?’ he suggested.

Victoria wasn’t quite sure whether he was teasing or telling the truth. Everyone always told her she was too serious, but she just wasn’t any good at working out when people were teasing. Just as she’d proved hopeless at telling who really liked her for herself and who had their eyes on the money.

She played it safe and went for serious. ‘You’re not into historical stuff. You were surprised by some of the things I told you, which anyone who’d studied social history would’ve taken for granted; and I took you past artwork and furniture in the public rooms that would’ve made anyone who worked in the heritage sector quiver, stop me and ask more.’

Busted. Sam had just seen them as pretty pictures and nice furnishings.

Which meant he had nothing left to lose, because she obviously thought he wouldn’t be right for the job. The truth it was. ‘Do you want to know why I really want this job?’ he asked.

She just looked at him, her dark eyes wary.

‘OK. My dad really is your dad’s stockbroker, and he talked to your dad to set up an interview for me.’

‘But why? Is it some kind of weird bet among your hedge fund manager friends?’

That stung, but he knew she had a point. People in his world didn’t exactly have great PR among the rest of the population, who thought they were all spoiled and overpaid and had a warped sense of humour. ‘No. They’re all going to think I’m insane, and so is my boss.’ He sighed. ‘This whole interview is confidential, yes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Bottom line—and I need to ask you not to tell anyone this.’ He paused. At her nod, he continued, ‘My dad’s not in the best of health right now. I offered to resign and take over the family business, so he can retire and relax a bit.’

‘That’s more logical than working here. Fund management and stockbroking have a lot in common.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Obviously he said no, or you wouldn’t be here. Why do you want to be my intern?’

He might as well tell her the truth. ‘Because Dad thinks I live in a bubble and doing this job for three months will prove to him that I can relate to ordinary people.’

‘I’d say you’re switching one bubble for another.’ And, to her credit, her mouth was twitching slightly. So maybe she did have a sense of humour under all that earnestness and could also see the funny side of the situation. ‘I’ve never met your dad, because my dad still handles the investment side of things here.’ She looked straight at him. ‘Does your dad think you can’t take directions from a woman?’

‘Possibly. To be fair, neither can he. I think he’ll be driving my mum insane,’ he said. ‘Which is the other reason I want to come back to Cambridge. Dad has a low boredom threshold and I think she’ll need help to get him to be sensible and follow the doctor’s orders.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘does you a lot of credit. But I’m not sure this is the right job for you, Samuel. You’re way overqualified to be my intern, and frankly your salary is a lot more than mine. Even if you earn the average salary for your job—and from your CV I’m guessing you’re at the higher end—your annual salary, pre-tax, would keep this house going for six months.’

It took him seconds to do the maths. It cost that much to run an estate? Staff, maintenance, insurance, taxes... Maybe he could help there and look at her budget, see if the income streams worked hard enough. ‘Take my salary out of the equation. It’s not relevant. What attributes do you need in your intern?’

‘I want someone who can work on their own initiative but who’s not too proud to ask questions.’

‘I tick both boxes,’ he said.

‘Someone who understands figures, which obviously you do. Someone who’s good with people.’

‘I’m good with people,’ he said. ‘I have project management skills. I know how to work to a budget and a timeframe. I admit I know next to nothing about history or conservation, but I’m a fast learner.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘you’d be bored. You’re used to living in the middle of London, with an insanely fast-paced job. Here, life’s much slower. If I gave you the job, you’d be unhappy—and that’s not fair on you, or on the rest of my team.’

‘If you don’t give me the job, I’ll be unhappy,’ he countered. ‘I want to be able to keep an eye on my dad. He’s not going to retire until I prove myself to him. The longer it takes me to find a job where I can do that—even though, frankly, it’s insulting—the longer he’ll keep pushing himself too hard, and the more likely it is he’ll have a full-blown stroke. This is about damage limitation. I have most of the skills you need and I can learn the rest. And I have contacts in London who can help with other things—publicity, website design, that sort of thing.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have the budget for provincial consultancy fees, let alone London ones.’

‘You won’t need it. I can call in favours,’ he said. ‘Give me the job, Ms Hamilton. Please.’