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.’