Page 9 of Oz (Finding Home #1)

He smiles. “I think the Great Hall. There’s a staircase that runs from there to the East Wing of the house. We can close that wing off from the rest of the house. The King’s Bedroom is up there.”

“Won’t he mind?” I ask faintly.

He grins widely. “Henry the Eighth. He’s so dead, he won’t give a toss.”

He startles a laugh out of me and I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”

He shakes himself like a dog. “Nothing. Come on and I’ll show you.”

We move through the Great Hall which is no less impressive this morning with the sun pouring through the leaded windows and bathing the room in light.

“I’ll show you the collections when we’ve done the house,” he throws over his shoulder.

“The only person I’ve met so far with a collection was an ex who had all his baby teeth in a box,” I muse. “Tell me yours is more interesting and a bit less creepy.”

He laughs. “I’m sorry. I can’t. There’s a collection of letters from one of my female ancestors who was a mistress of Charles the Second.

” He looks back at me. “But unfortunately, not the type of mistress who did well financially. With our luck I wouldn’t be surprised if she had to pay him.

Other than that we have the Elizabethan Earl of Ashworth who was a huge fan of the theatre.

” He shrugs. “Either the theatre or the players, I’m not sure.

Either way, he was a sponsor of a company of actors and there are letters from Elizabeth the First about the plays he put on for her when she came to stay.

It’s not teeth, but I suppose you could jazz that up. ”

“Jazz them up? Are you envisioning streamers and confetti?”

He laughs as we skirt a lady who is pushing a Hoover around in a rather dispirited manner. Silas grins at her and immediately her face brightens and she smiles back at him.

I try not to look at his bright face and pretty eyes and look up at the portraits hanging on the walls instead. “God, your family were a grim lot,” I say without thinking and swallow in horror, but he just laughs. It seems like laughter floats around him like pollen round a flower.

“Yes. You should have met some of them. My grandfather would have chided Vlad the Impaler for being too good natured, and my father never met a smile he couldn’t turn upside down.

Milo’s restoring a lot of the old portraits.

I don’t know whether to be thankful that I can see their faces again or horrified. ”

I laugh and follow him up the staircase tailed by the dogs.

“Before I forget,” he says over his shoulder.

“There will be a party at the end of the summer. It’s an annual event.

A marquee goes up and we serve food and provide a band.

It was always looked on as a chance for my father to sneer at the hoi polloi while taking their money to fund his hobbies.

It’s the house manager’s job to organise it. I’ll get Milo to give you the details.”

I stare at him before shaking my head. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” I say faintly.

“Okay, Scarlett O’Hara.”

I grin. “Please don’t carry me up the stairs.”

“I’ll try not to. It might put my back out,” he says solemnly.

We come out into a small room with a half wall that has intricately carved openings. “Musician’s Gallery,” I say automatically and move to look through them and down onto the hall below.

He comes to stand next to me. “Musicians and children,” he says. “Henry and I spent many happy times up here spying on the adults without having to make polite conversation with any of them.”

“I don’t think my family and I ever had polite conversation,” I muse. “Who’s Henry?”

“My brother.” He smiles, tracing the carving with one long finger.

“Does he live here too?”

He shakes his head. “No. He lives in London.”

“You must miss him.”

He nods. “I do. Every day, but he’s very happy. He visits a lot and he’s only on the end of the phone.” He shoots me a look. “How about you? Any siblings?”

“God no,” I laugh. “My father would have had to come out of hiding and risk his life to impregnate my mother again.”

He laughs but I feel a flush on my cheeks.

I hate feeling embarrassed about my background because I love my mum fiercely and totally, but it’s a fact that my childhood was nothing like his.

I feel a divide open up between us that previously I hadn’t seen, but I embrace it wholeheartedly because I’m very attracted to him and I really think that being sacked after shagging another boss would make me an idiot.

I dutifully step back and paste a distant look on my face. He seems to sense it immediately and for a second, a disappointed look crosses his face, but then he straightens and moves off. I follow, wondering whether he’s glad I did it.

We walk down a long corridor lined with more grumpy-looking ancestors until I stop. “Bloody hell, look at this one. He actually looks really cheerful. Who is he?”

He looks up at the rotund man with red cheeks. “Lionel. He was the earl during Charles the First’s reign. Legend says he was an alcoholic and broke his neck falling down the stairs.”

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Well, at least his smile muscles worked. That must have been a novelty. He looks quite nice.”

“You’ll have a chance to see,” he says casually. “He haunts the West Wing.”

“Oh lovely,” I say weakly and follow him into a room near the portrait. It’s a bedroom with a huge bay window looking down onto the main drive and a massive fireplace with ornate carved plasterwork above it.

“This was the original solar chamber. Apparently, the entrance to the house would have been up some stairs outside and through this tall bay window. I think my ancestor blocked it up when Henry the Eighth slept here.”

“Poor sod,” I say idly, wandering over to the window.

“Bet he wanted to barricade the front door too. Having the king or queen to stay wasn’t exactly a blessing.

With them came the courtiers, their horses, and the servants, all of whom had to be housed and fed and entertained.

It could bankrupt a person.” I run my finger down the stone mullion.

“I imagine it must have been a bit like having five hundred Brian Blesseds come to stay.”

He breaks into peals of laughter. “That would be the best.” He shoots me a look and leans against the window, the sunlight playing over the dark waves of his hair. “You’ve got a degree, haven’t you?”

I nod. “In Fine Art and History of Art.”

I wander over to the huge four poster bed which is swathed in red velvet. I sit down and bounce slightly and a spring practically impales my thigh. “This must be the original mattress Henry the Eighth slept on,” I say, eyeing him. “Do you think he’s hidden some Hobnobs under it?”

He grins. “Probably too busy deciding which wife he was going to decapitate next. It was hardly The Bachelor.”

He startles a laugh out of me again. “I don’t know. Looking at some of those contestants I’d have decapitated myself instead of going on a date.”

He laughs and flicks a look at me. It’s almost shy and kindles something in my stomach. It’s probably that breakfast repeating on me, I reassure myself.

“I’m surprised you’re not working in Sotheby’s or something. Niall said you got a first,” he says curiously.

I bristle slightly. “I applied for loads of jobs, but the problem seemed to lie in the fact that an Irish boy from a council estate never went to Eton.”

“Count your blessings. You didn’t miss much,” he says calmly. “Lots of waiting on the older boys, getting them food and doing their homework. Still, it equipped me for a life of dealing with the general public.”

I stare at him. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t protest that I’m wrong and inform me that our society has free movement.

I can tell you right now that those people didn’t grow up where I did.

I shoot him a look because he’s not conforming to any of my stereotypes.

It’s almost like I’m going to have to get to know him. Bastard.

“I liked it though,” I say, surprising myself. “I’ve always loved history. I think because I have a very colourful imagination. You need that.”

“And the art?”

“Well, I love that,” I say softly. “I love beauty and how the more you look at something, the more the small details jump out at you.” I trail off when I see him staring at me. “Where next?” I say abruptly.

He shakes his head but goes along with me. “We’ll go and have a look at the stables that are going to be lovely tea rooms.”

“Don’t tell me,” I say sourly. “There aren’t any walls.”

“Certainly not,” he says primly. “Of course there are walls.” He shoots me a look. “Just no roof.”

I laugh, but when we get to the stable block via a room that will be a gift shop, although no one seems to have the faintest idea what gifts they’ll be fucking selling, I stare at the building. “Fucking hell,” I say softly.

He snorts. “You can say that again.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask suddenly, turning to him. “You must know that this is looking pretty impossible to get done in six months. And even if I do get it done you’ll have people trampling all over your beautiful house, disturbing the peace, dropping litter, and being rude and nosy.”

He stares at me and then sighs heavily. “Come and sit down,” he says softly and steers me to a bench by a high stone wall.

It sits in a patch of warm sunlight. The only sign of life nearby is a fat tabby cat crouched peering intently at a bush.

He settles next to me and for a brief thrilling moment I feel the warmth of his thigh.

He clicks his tongue at the cat who immediately stops hunting and sashays up, leaping onto his lap and circling before settling down.

Silas smiles affectionately and strokes the cat’s back, and soon the sound of purring fills the still air.

I shoot him a look. “You like animals, don’t you?”

He smiles. “I should hope so. It’s pretty much a requirement for a vet.”

“ What ?” I exclaim and the cat startles before relaxing when Silas strokes it again. “You’re a vet? Why?”

“Because I like looking after animals,” he says drolly.

I shake my head. “That’s why you’re not around a lot?”

He smiles. “My practice is very busy. I have a partner, and it’s local, but it’s still a lot of work.”

“So, why take on more with the house?” I ask the million-dollar question.

There’s a silence that lasts long enough for me to wonder whether I’ve overstepped my mark, but then he speaks slowly. “My father was not a nice man. He also had a lot of very expensive habits.”

“Golf and hunting?”

He shakes his head. “Marriage.” I stare at him and incredibly he laughs.

“He liked the ladies, but after a few months they never really liked him back. So, what he loved to do best was to find someone really unsuitable, marry them immediately and then a few months later divorce them and give them a lovely present of money, also called maintenance.”

I say nothing, staring at him intently, and he smiles sadly.

“He almost bankrupted the estate, Oz. There’s hardly any money left after the divorces, the death duties, and a multitude of his bad business decisions.

And it costs a lot to run this place. At the very least it’s two hundred thousand a year just for the upkeep of the building and the gardens.

There’s a very real chance that I could lose the house if I don’t do something quickly.

” He pauses. “And I love this house,” he says quietly.

“Ashworth House,” I muse.

He chuckles. “It’s not really called that. Its original name was Chi an Mor .”

“What does that mean?”

“It means House by the Sea. It’s Cornish.”

“That’s beautiful.” I laugh. “It’s just a bit understated for such a huge house.” We smile at each other. “I prefer it though,” I say slowly, and he nods.

“Me too. It’s how I think of it.”

I shift on the seat. “Does your brother know about the money?”

He shakes his head. “No. He suffered enough with our father. I’m not adding to it. This is my problem.”

“Why are you telling me, then?”

He shoots me a look. “Because you need to know.” He pauses. “There’s so much work that needs to be done. And I think I can trust you.”

“You don’t know that,” I immediately protest, but then shake my head. “But yes, of course you can trust me.” I look at his kind face and suddenly I can see the tired lines around his eyes and the trace of worry on that open countenance that I’d missed while concentrating on his good looks.

I don’t know why I like him. I try not to like too many people because it usually brings an obligation to please them, but him I like, and I can’t explain it.

It runs contrary to my organised and meticulous nature, but I decide not to think too much about it.

Resolution fills me, and I turn to him. “I will do my level best to help you and get this house ready in the six months. I may make enemies. I may piss people off, but I’ll get us there.

” He stares at me, something working behind his eyes. I pause. “Did David know this?”

He shoots his head up sharply at the mention of the other man’s name. “Of course,” he says. “He was–” He falters before finishing almost inaudibly. “David wasn’t just the house manager. We were in a relationship.”

“Hmm,” I say noncommittally. Then I jerk. “He knew all this and still fucked off and left you in this mess?”

He shrugs. “He hated being here. Said it was boring. He also hated being told what to do. He was happy to take a wage but seemed to think he earned it on his back.” He winces. “It was a bit messy at the end.”

“Yes, I know that feeling,” I say softly. He shoots me a look, realisation on his face, and I nod. “It’s why I’m looking for a new job.” I pause before saying firmly, “I won’t do that again.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” he says softly. “I think we can work well together, Oz. I’ve got a good feeling.” His next words come slowly and almost reluctantly. “I suppose it’s good that we’re both on the same page about the inadvisability of workplace relationships.”

And just like that, we both agree without too many words not to act on the attraction we can feel. I fight the instinctive urge I have to argue with our decision because I don’t know where it’s coming from.

“Same page, same paragraph, same word,” I say slowly. I know that I’m lying. As for him, I have no idea.