Before she could start feeling warm or sentimental about his love of literature, however, she reminded herself how irritating she’d found watching him toteThe Ragged Trousered Philanthropistsaround college. She’d accused him of vapid preening on the fourth or fifth day he brought it in, only for him to launch into a well-informed sermon on why George Orwell had been right about its status as a classic.
This had annoyed her all the more, and the conversation had descended into trivial sniping until Hari broke it up by threatening to withdraw lift privileges. He’d passed his driving test by this time and had begun taking the three of them– the only Rowton residents who attended– to sixth form every day. The thought of having to catch the bus to Stratford-upon-Avon at the crack of dawn each morning was enough to silence both Amy and Sam. As she recalled, this wasn’t the last time Hari had held the prospect of a return to public transport over them in order to break up an argument.
Gah.
Could she get out of tonight somehow? Perhaps she could fabricate a work-related excuse … But Nisha would be beyond disappointed if Amy didn’t turn up. She’d gone out of her way to befriend Amy, and her febrile adoration of Philippa Fotheringham– as well as Amy’s personal knowledge of the author– meant this was a meeting she’d been looking forward to all week.
Amy gritted her teeth and tapped out a message.
Amy: Hi all, thanks again for inviting me! Looking forward to it x
Nisha:Just a reminder, too– we’re not at the pub tonight
Oh …?
Nisha is typing …
Nisha: There’s a large private party in & the bar is closed– so Sam has v. kindly offered to host us at Rowton Hall. Ideal setting for discussion of Lady Sarah and Thomas, right?!
Shit.
Just when Amy had written the evening off as likely to be unpleasant, Nisha had to go and prove her wrong. It was going to be excruciating.
Amy had sat in the grounds of Rowton Hall many times, typically without permission. However, she’d never set foot in the house itself– and unlike most people around here, she’d never had any desire to.
It was a huge, imposing structure made of sand-coloured stone, symmetrical and elegant in the way of most Regency mansions. Its array of vast sash windows glittered in the late-evening sunlight as she approached, each one as tall and wide as a standard doorway would be in a normal home. Two neoclassical columns stood on either side of the property’s entrance, and a further four decorated its frontage, holding up a large triangular frame that featured the Waverley coat of arms.
It was beautiful, but Amy reminded herself that she’d long ago resolved not to be impressed by it. A vague feeling of intimidation, however, was harder to banish. The sheer scale of the place made her feel even smaller than usual, and– although it was odious– the sense that someone like her didn’t belong in a place like this hung on her like the smell of old cigarette smoke.
When Amy got nearer, she saw that Sam was standing in the doorway ready to greet people and direct them inside. It took an effort to keep her feet moving in his direction when everything in her was vying to turn back, go home and bury her head inUnforgettable You, another Philippa Fotheringham book. The more of them she read, Amy had told herself, the better: a strong knowledge of the author’s back catalogue could only help with getting her to sign a deal.
As she drew closer to Sam, Amy thought she detected a stiffening in his shoulders– but it vanished before she could be sure, any tension she might have imagined replaced by his usual easy grace. He was wearing jeans and a pale blue cotton shirt– slightly oversized, with the sleeves pushed up. He looked precisely as you’d expect an off-duty aristo to look: confident and polished in an understated sort of way. His hair was slightly too long, and tousled in a manner that implied he– or someone else– had spent the afternoon clawing at it.
‘Amy,’ he said when she was finally standing in front of him.
‘The very same,’ she said drily.
They remained still for a few awkward seconds, looking at one another as though fearful that a wrong move might prematurely inflame hostilities.
‘Am I allowed in?’ Amy asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Of course,’ Sam replied, briefly shaking his head and then stepping aside. ‘Apologies. Long day. I think that’s everyone now you’re here, so I’ll show you to the drawing room.’
The drawing room. Good lord. Imagine having so much living space in your home that you had to give all the rooms with sofas and armchairs different names. Parlour. Sitting room. Morning room. Smoking room. Amy was certain Rowton Hall had them all.
Sam led her into an entrance hall that could only be described as … Well.Stunning. It was wide and high-ceilinged, and the floor was tiled black and white with alternating slabs of what Amy thought must be marble, arranged in a simple pattern that highlighted their smooth gleam. The walls were of the same bare stone as the building itself, but decorated with gilt lamps and priceless artwork in heavy, ornate frames.
Amy’s eyes were drawn inexorably inwards, towards a broad staircase that led up to a round arch. Through this she could see a chandelier, a bust set atop a red marble plinth and the outline of yet more stairs. There was a landing that jutted from the upper floor into the hallway, delicately suspended above it. The mezzanine was edged with wrought-metal railings painted old gold, their rich colour illuminated by the light spilling in through the massive windows that sat behind it. When Amy looked up at the ceiling– every inch of which was decorated with a mural featuring creamy-skinned Adonises and ample-bosomed women– her breath caught in her throat.Damn it. She hated that she was wowed by this.
She swallowed, forcing herself to remember that the extravagance of these surroundings was apparently maintained by periodically turfing villagers out of homes they’d rented for decades, or selling out business premises from beneath hard-working people like Jed.
Since that afternoon in Gran’s kitchen, she’d discovered the extent of Roger Ainsworth’s ‘asset liquidation’ and the depth of Rowton residents’ antipathy to him. Determined that the Hall would never end up in the hands of the National Trust, he’d spent years impoverishing the wider estate in favour of investing in the house– so much so that he’d been dubbed ‘the Vampire Viscount’ by one local blogger. Furthermore, Roger was insistent that Rowton Hall must remain a private home– never open to the public and not available to commoners for functions such as conferences or weddings, which might have brought in vital income. This position seemed to sum up his selfishness and snobbery, and made it all the more remarkable that people were willing to give Sam– and apparently his sister– the benefit of the doubt.
Amy and Sam made their way up the stairs and along a corridor in silence, their feet barely making a sound on the thick oriental runner beneath them. Sam led her through a pair of dark-wood double doors into the drawing room– another impressive space with rich decoration and lavish furnishings, though not particularly tasteful in Amy’s opinion. This part of the house was doubtless among those the senior Ainsworths had renovated to their own liking.
The walls were adorned with paper in a bold carmine shade, its metallic fleur-de-lis pattern glinting in the sun that came through the sashes. Heavy swags of burgundy velvet framed the windows, and the huge but rather uncomfortable-looking sofas were covered in the same fabric. Elsewhere, the mahogany wood and oxblood leather of the remaining furniture combined with the room’s generalrednessto make Amy feel almost oppressed. Once the doors closed, she could almost believe she’d been swallowed– gobbled down into the greedy belly of some hostile beast.
‘Amy!’ Nisha cried, the second she walked into the room. She patted the space next to her on a two-seater Chesterfield and Amy duly sat down, her stomach squirming like a bag of angry snakes. She shucked off her denim jacket and put her tote bag between her feet.
