‘Actually, now you mention it, there is one,’ Alan said. ‘Working for one of my clients. Nice chap. He owns a stately home. A building problem’s cropped up in the last week or so and they need to raise some money. He was talking to me about cashing in some investments, but as the market’s just dipped I think now’s not a good time.’
Raising money. Sam was very, very good at turning small funds into big ones. But he had a feeling that this particular client wouldn’t be comfortable with the high-risk strategy he’d need to adopt to do that.
‘The job would be voluntary,’ Alan continued, ‘because they can’t afford to pay anyone. You’d be helping to organise the fundraising events.’
Sam couldn’t help smiling.
‘What’s so funny?’ Alan demanded.
‘You wanted me to get an ordinary job. I thought you meant something in retail or a call centre. Ordinary people don’t own stately homes, Dad.’
‘No,’ Alan said crisply, ‘but their visitors and staff are ordinary and you’ll be interacting with them.’
‘A voluntary job.’ Three months with no salary. But he’d be on garden leave; and even if that didn’t work out, he’d managed his personal investments well enough that he could easily afford to take a sabbatical. Jude was coming back from a tour in rep to a three-month run in the West End and could stay at Sam’s flat; it would save Jude having to find a landlady who was happy to have a theatrical lodger, and in return Sam would know that his flat was in safe hands. ‘OK. I’ll talk to him and see if I’ll be a good fit.’
‘Good.’ Alan paused. ‘The botanical gardens and afternoon tea, you said.’
‘One scone, no cream, and no sugar in your tea,’ Sam said.
Alan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re as bossy as your mother.’
Sam grinned. ‘More like I’m as bossy as you, Dad.’
‘You might have a point,’ Alan allowed. ‘Go and tell your mother to get ready. I’ll have a word with Patrick and see if we can line up a chat for tomorrow.’
And Sam would have a quiet chat with his boss. This was time for payback. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working in a stately home for three months, but if that was what it took to make sure his father stayed healthy and happy, he’d do it.
‘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