A Diamond In The Snow

‘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.