Victoria smiled, relieved that the conservation expert hadn’t taken offence. ‘Which room?’
‘The ballroom.’
Victoria’s favourite room in the house; she loved the way the silk damask wall hangings literally glowed in the light. As children, she and Lizzie had imagined Regency balls taking place there; they’d dressed up and pretended to be one of their ancestors. Well, Lizzie’s ancestors, really, as Victoria was adopted; though Patrick and Diana Hamilton had never treated her as if she were anything other than their biological and much-loved daughter.
‘I guess behind the mirror is the obvious place for mould to start,’ Victoria said. ‘We don’t use the fireplaces, so there’s cold, damp air in the chimney breast, and the dampness would be trapped between the wall and the mirror.’
‘Exactly that,’ Felicity said. ‘You know, if you ever get bored running this place, I’d be more than happy to poach you as a senior member of my team.’
Victoria summoned a smile, though she felt like bawling her eyes out. Mould wasn’t good in any building, but it was especially problematic when it came to heritage buildings. ‘Thanks, but I’m never going to get bored here.’ Though if Lizzie, the true heir to Chiverton Hall, had lived, she would’ve been the one taking over from their parents. Victoria probably would’ve ended up working in either food history or conservation but with books, rather than with textiles. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad enough that we’ll need to take the hangings down to dry them out. We can’t fix it in situ. Hopefully a thorough clean with the conservation vac and a soft brush will get out most of the damage, but if the material’s been weakened too much we’ll have to put a backing on it.’
‘Worst-case?’ Victoria asked.
‘The silk will be too fragile to go back, and we’ll need a specialist weaving company to produce a reproduction for us.’
Victoria dragged in a breath. ‘The whole room?’
‘Hopefully we can get away with one wall,’ Felicity said.
Even one wall would be costly and time-consuming. ‘I know the actual cost and time to fix it will depend on what the damage looks like on the reverse side, and the wall might need work as well,’ Victoria said. ‘I’m not going to hold you to an exact figure but, just so I can get a handle on this, can you give me a ballpark figure for the worst-case scenario?’
Felicity named a figure that made Victoria wince. It was way over the sum she’d allocated for maintenance in the annual budget. And she knew the insurance wouldn’t cover it because mould counted as a gradually operating cause. She’d have to find the money for the restoration from somewhere. But where?
‘Short of a lottery win or me marrying a millionaire—’ which absolutely wasn’t going to happen because, apart from the fact she didn’t actually know any millionaires, she wasn’t even dating anyone, and her exes had made it very clear that she wasn’t desirable enough for marriage ‘—I’m going to have to work out how to fund this.’
‘Start with heritage grants,’ Felicity advised. ‘You’ll have a better case if you can show that whatever you’re doing will help with education.’
‘Like we did when we installed the conservation heating—putting up information boards for the visitors and a blog on the website giving regular updates, with photographs as well as text,’ Victoria said promptly.
‘And, if we pick the team carefully, we can have students learning conservation skills under our supervision,’ Felicity said. ‘The ballroom is a perfect example of a Regency interior, so it’s important enough to merit conservation.’
Victoria lifted her chin. ‘Right. I’d better face the damage.’
Felicity patted her shoulder. ‘I know, love. I could’ve cried when I saw it, and it’s not even mine.’
It wasn’t really Victoria’s, either. Even though her father had sorted out the entail years ago, so the house would pass to her rather than to some distant male relative, she wasn’t a Hamilton by birth. Her parents loved her dearly, just as she loved them; but she was still very aware that their real daughter lay in the churchyard next door. And right now Victoria felt as if she’d let them all down. She was supposed to be taking care of her parents and the house, for Lizzie’s sake, and she’d failed.
Actually seeing the damage made it feel worse.
Without the mirror over the mantelpiece to reflect light back from the windows opposite, the room seemed darker and smaller. And when Felicity turned off the overhead light and shone her UV torch on the wall, the mould growth glowed luminescent.
‘The hangings from that whole wall are going to have to come down,’ Felicity said. ‘With polythene sheeting over it, to stop the spores spreading.’
‘And everyone needs to be wearing protective equipment while they do it,’ Victoria said. ‘And we’ll have to measure the mould spores in the air. If it’s bad, then we’ll have to keep visitors out of the room completely.’
Felicity patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed so the ballroom shines again.’
Victoria was prepared to do whatever it took. Fill out endless forms, beg every institution going for a loan. Or find a millionaire and talk him into marrying her and saving the ballroom. After her ex had been so forthcoming about where she fell short, Victoria was under no illusions that she was attractive enough for an ordinary man, let alone a millionaire who could have his pick of women; but she knew from past experience that the house was a real draw for potential suitors. All she needed was a millionaire instead of a gold-digger to fall in love with it. Which kind of made her a gold-digger, but she’d live with that. She’d be the perfect wife, for the house’s sake.
* * *
When Felicity and her team had left for the day, Victoria walked up and down the Long Gallery with her dog at her heels, just as countless Hamilton women had done over the centuries, not seeing the ancient oil paintings or the view over the formal knot gardens. All she could think about was what a mess she’d made. She wasn’t a coward—she’d tell her parents the news today—but she wasn’t going to tell them until she’d worked out a solution.
Pacing cleared her head enough for her to spend half an hour on the Internet, checking things. And finally she went to her parents’ apartment.
‘Hello, darling. You’re late tonight. Are you eating with us? I’ve made chicken cacciatore—your favourite,’ her mother said.