A Diamond In The Snow

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.’

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