After their warm conversation, Mr. Whitmore leaned back in his chair, his hands folded thoughtfully. "I'll ask my secretary to prepare a working schedule and contact you with the details," he said kindly.
Amara nodded with a grateful smile. "Of course, sir."
When it was time to leave, he rang a bell. Moments later, Mrs. Hargrave, the head housekeeper, appeared. In her hands, she carried a neatly wrapped parcel.
"Please give this to Amara," Mr. Whitmore instructed.
Amara's brows furrowed with surprise. "Sir?"
He smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "I noticed you have a fondness for sweets. Consider this a little something to enjoy at home."
Her eyes lit up, but she hesitated. "That's very kind, but it's really not necessary"
"Nonsense!" he waved a hand. "Young people should enjoy their lives. Don't be shy."
Blushing, Amara accepted the parcel with both hands and thanked him politely. As she left the grand townhouse and walked toward the station, the late-autumn breeze played with the hem of her coat. At home, she unwrapped the package to find an array of delightful sweets enough to last her a week: slices of sponge cake, butter biscuits, cherry tarts, and sugar-dusted lemon bars.
That evening, she called her parents and shared the day's events in animated detail. Her voice was lively, filled with amusement and wonder as she described Mr. Whitmore's humor and the mansion's grandeur. Afterwards, she made herself a steaming cup of ginger tea, paired with a jam scone from the parcel. The tea's spice soothed her nerves, and after sipping slowly, she lay down for a short rest.
The following morning, Amara received a phone call confirming her work schedule four days a week, including weekends. She was also informed that although most shifts would be preplanned, she might occasionally be called in on short notice. She accepted the conditions with cheerful professionalism.
Her first official visit was set for Saturday morning.
That Saturday morning, Amara dressed with quiet confidence. She wore a fitted beige turtleneck sweater, neatly tucked into a flowy, high-waisted midi skirt in a deep olive green. The pairing gave her silhouette both elegance and softness, highlighting her curvy frame while keeping her comfortably warm in the crisp autumn air. Over her outfit, she draped a long charcoal-grey wool coat, and completed the look with black ankle boots and sheer tights.
Her long curls were half-pinned, the rest cascading down her back, and her makeup was soft and natural a warm blush, a swipe of eyeshadow, and a rose-toned lipstick that brought life to her features. Carrying her black tote bag with essentials tucked neatly inside, she looked poised yet approachable ready for whatever the day would bring.
Mr. Whitmore was already dressed when she arrived wearing a tailored navy coat, a plaid scarf, and a wool hat. As soon as she stepped into the drawing room, he grinned mischievously.
"Don't you think it's a perfect morning to step out for a cup of tea?"
Amara laughed, playing along. "Indeed, sir. It is a splendid day for tea!"
The tea house felt like something out of a storybook creaky wooden floors, vintage floral china, and the scent of bergamot and fresh pastries wafting through the air. Mr. Whitmore ordered his usual: Earl Grey with a splash of milk and two sugar cubes. Amara chose a spiced chai, curious to try something new.
As they nibbled on warm scones topped with clotted cream and strawberry jam, conversation flowed like old friends catching up. Mr. Whitmore shared tales from his youth—his travels, his late wife's love for roses, and the way London had changed. Amara listened intently, occasionally giggling at his dramatic flair or cheeky comments. Her laughter was light and contagious.
"I must say," he remarked, glancing around the room with a pleased sigh, "having you around is like opening a window everything feels lighter."
She smiled, cheeks flushed, stirring her tea. "You make it very easy to feel at home."
"I must visit the new art exhibition afterward," he said, sipping his second cup, the rim of the china clinking gently against his teeth.
"Of course," she nodded. "Though I should warn you, I've never been to one. I'll only be seeing colors."
Mr. Whitmore threw his head back in genuine delight, his laughter echoing through the quiet tea house. "Oh, you are something else! You make my ribs hurt when you talk like that."
A few guests turned their heads toward the sound, smiling at the unexpected joy shared between the unlikely pair.
Amara blushed, looking down at her half-eaten scone. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"Nonsense!" he said, waving a hand. "My dear, your family is lucky to have a girl like you. You speak plainly but there's heart in it. Not many do."
At the exhibition, the air carried a hush, broken only by the soft shuffle of footsteps and the occasional whisper. Mr. Whitmore began to explain the meanings behind several pieces color theory, texture, brush technique all with the warm confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime immersed in the arts.
Amara listened closely, leaning in with curiosity. She didn't have the vocabulary, but she spoke with instinct describing how one canvas made her feel like standing in rain, or how another reminded her of a childhood evening just before a storm.
Her honesty made Mr. Whitmore pause.
She may not have known the language of art, but her mind was sharp, her spirit open. He looked at her thoughtfully, a proud smile tugging at his mouth.
This girl has something special, he thought. She doesn't even realize it yet.