“I have work to do.”
You’re a bloody peer. You’ve never worked a day in your life.
I indicate the mess. “Thisis your work. You can put down your paintbrush for a few hours each day and help me out.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “As you wish.”
Why does the way he says that, in that gravelled voice of his, make my knees shake?
I beam at him. “Let’s do this.”
His shoulders relax a little. Do I imagine the tug at the corner of his mouth is a half-smile trying to assert itself? “We may begin immediately, if you are not too tired. I keep nocturnal hours, so I will be awake for some time yet. If you require any supplies, simply provide Reginald with a list and he will procure them for you. Reginald,” he calls out. “Show Ms Preston to her rooms.”
“Hold on, my rooms arehere?”
“Why, yes. You’ll be staying in the castle with us. It will save you making the trip to and from the village every day. Is this agreeable to you?”
I’ll be living in the castle?
When Faye said the job included accommodation, I assumed she meant I’d have a room like the one above the pub.
It’s highly inappropriate for me to stay in my client’s home, but I don’t exactly have anywhere else to live for thenext six weeks, and when faced with Lord Valerian’s half-formed smile and fathomless eyes, I find myself unable to protest.
“No. Yes, I mean, that’s fine.” I order my racing heart to sort her shit out. “Show me to my rooms.”
Reginald appears silently in the doorway, carrying another candelabra. “This way, Ms Preston. I’ve already taken your bags up to the tower.”
I follow Reginald back down the winding corridor to the Stabby Chic entrance hall. We ascend the staircase. As we climb, the castle changes around me.
We pass through a library that leaves me breathless. Carved mahogany shelves reach to the high ceiling, each one packed haphazardly with books. More books sit in tall, dusty stacks on the floor, and in the centre of the room beneath a glittering crystal chandelier that has been electrified, sits a circle of mismatched armchairs.
This library can’t be frequented by Lord Valerian. Between becoming a potter, mastering tapestry, model trains, becoming an accomplished painter, and – I now suspect – a maker of adorable teddy bears, he doesn’t have the time to read all these books. These must belong to an ancestor – one who also doesn’t believe in organising.
Odd that there are no ancestors on the walls. Some hunting scenes and landscapes remain, but everywhere I look, portraits and statues have been removed. In my experience, the peerage love being surrounded by monuments to their bloodline, but Lord Valerian clearly doesn’t want to be reminded of his.
My fingers itch to start pulling books off the shelves and alphabetising them. I love touching other people’s books because, at the end of the day, I don’t have to go home with them. I glance at the huge window at one end of the library, which holds a view down the valley only partially obscured by towers of books, and I imagine curling up on a sofa in that exact spot with one of the books from Nevermore Bookshop and a glass of wine …
I’ll be too busy scrubbing and sorting to have a moment to enjoy this place. But at least Lord Valerian will have a beautiful ballroomby the time I’m done.
Reginald hurries me through the library and several more dusty reception rooms that don’t appear to have been touched for some time.
“This way, Ms Preston. Mind your step.”
He starts to climb a narrow, winding stone staircase into one of the towers. The stairs are uneven, the edges worn away by centuries of use. I keep a hand on the inner wall and work my glutes harder than a hot yoga session to keep up with Reginald.
Up and up we climb, until my head spins. There are no windows in the staircase, only thin arrow slits that let in slivers of pale moonlight. The only other light is Reginald’s flickering candelabra.
What have I signed up for?
Finally, we reach the narrow wooden landing. Reginald throws open a door. “I hope these are sufficient accommodations. Lord Valerian and I worked hard to prepare them. He used to store his stamp collection in here, but we’ve moved those into the corridor downstairs. We had electricity run up here, although you’ll need the candelabra for the staircase. Please, let me know if you need anything at all.”
I step into the room, and discover I’m not done gasping at the surprises this castle throws up.
The circular room is right at the top of one of the turrets, beneath the conical oriel. Two paintings of moonlit forests hang over the bed – Lord Valerian’s work, judging by their gloomy palette and bold, assertive strokes. The bed is made up with bamboo and linen sheets in soft grey and piled high with throw pillows. Through an arched wooden door, I can see a modern bathroom that I hope has running water. I am happy to accommodate most clients’ strange whims, but indoor plumbing is a necessity.
Tall, arched windows overlook the valley below on three sides. I step up to the largest one and vertigo claims me as I peer down at a sheer drop. A small wrought-iron table and two chairs sit in front of the window. Upon the table is a basket of pastries and chocolate bars, and a collection of drinks in an ice bucket.
My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten sincelunchtime. I grab a pastry and bite down. Strawberry cream explodes on my tongue, and the pastry disappears far too quickly.
