The door opened even before she reached for the knocker.
'I'm sorry I'm late,' she apologised to the woman who opened it. 'I have an appointment with Mrs Birtles. Charlotte-'
'Yes, yes … please come in. We saw you walking down the drive and Mr Tennant told me who you were. I'd no idea you intended to walk,' she added vaguely. 'I'm May Birtles, by the way,' she added, leaving Charlotte to follow her across the stone-flagged dimly lit hall.
Instinctively, Charlotte cast a professional glance over her surroundings. The house had a Queen Anne façade, but here in the panelling adorning the walls, and the stone-flagged floor, was evidence of an older building.
An intricately carved staircase led up to the upper storeys of the house, and, although Charlotte would have loved to have stopped and studied it in more detail, she followed Mrs Birtles, who opened a pair of beautiful panelled double doors into another room.
At first the sunshine streaming in through the windows blinded Charlotte to her surroundings. She had a confused impression of rich brocades in soft faded colours, of a highly polished marquetry floor covered with delicate silky rugs, of immense gilt-framed portraits of sober-clothed individuals, of a scent of some kind of sharp, fresh pot-pourri, and huge bowls of freshly cut flowers, and last of all of Oliver Tennant, standing in front of one of the windows.
He was frowning, Charlotte recognised, when her eyes had become accustomed to the brilliance of the sunshine.
Initially his terse, 'Are you all right?' confused her a little until Mrs Birtles explained.
'Mr Tennant was concerned about you. He told me that something must have happened to you to make you late for our appointment. I did offer to take him round the house without waiting for you, but he insisted on waiting.'
While Charlotte absorbed this, she was staring at Oliver, unable to comprehend that the grim look of concern tightening his mouth was actually on her account. 'My car broke down,' she told them both. 'Luckily I was only half a mile or so away, so, after someone helped me to push it out of the way, I walked here.'
She heard the sound Oliver made under his breath. 'You could have asked me for a lift,' he told her sharply.
Charlotte stared at him. Ask him for a lift … ?
She could tell from the way Mrs Birtles was smiling so approvingly at him that the older woman was completely bowled over by him. No prizes for guessing whom she would appoint as her agent, Charlotte reflected sourly, refusing to allow the warmth which had developed inside her when she had recognised his concern to grow.
'Well, now that you are both here,' Mrs Birtles was saying placidly, apparently unaware of Charlotte's antipathy towards her fellow agent, 'shall we make a start?'
* * *
The house was large and rambling and, in addition to selling it with the several acres of land that went with it, Mrs Birtles also wanted to dispose of a large number of pieces of antique furniture.
'I'm going to live abroad,' she told them both. 'I have no one to leave the house to. It's a family home really. My husband inherited it from a distant cousin and we lived here for almost twenty years. When he died … well, I have a sister living in Florida who's invited me to join her.'
Oliver, who had been inspecting a piece of furniture, turned round and asked her, 'Is the house listed?'
Mrs Birtles frowned. 'No … no, it isn't. Why do you ask?'
Charlotte thought she knew. A listed building was protected and could not be altered in any way without proper consent. A listing protected a property, but sometimes put off prospective purchasers, especially of a house this size. A developer who might be interested in purchasing the house for the value of its land, with the intention of destroying the house and using the land to build a new estate, wouldn't be interested if he knew the house was protected by a listing.
Charlotte had stopped listening to Mrs Birtles and Oliver; heaven alone knew why Mrs Birtles had asked her here. It was painfully obvious that she was going to commission Oliver. Fair-mindedly, Charlotte acknowledged to herself that Oliver with his contacts in London would probably be able to effect a sale much more easily than she would herself. This property was way outside the normal type of house she dealt with. It would need specialised handling, ads in such publications as Country Life, special brochures. It should perhaps be sold by auction-certainly an auction of the furniture Mrs Birtles wanted to dispose of would bring in more money than private sales.
She heard Mrs Birtles saying something about terms, and switched her attention back to their conversation.
'I think you'll find that both Miss Spencer and I operate a similar scale of charges.'
Charlotte stared at him. This wasn't what she had expected. She had been waiting for Oliver to go all out to sell himself and his services to Mrs Birtles. Instead he was saying something about Charlotte's having the advantage over him in local knowledge, and then he paused, as though giving her the opportunity to take advantage of her cue.
No, this wasn't what she had expected at all. Where was the hard-driving, ambitious, unscrupulous sales technique she had expected? Where was the sharp cutting edge of the London-trained businessman?
Honesty had always been one of Charlotte's strongest virtues. It niggled at her now, forcing her to confess to Mrs Birtles, 'Lovely though your home is, I've got to admit I've never handled this kind of sale before.' She looked instinctively towards Oliver as though seeking his support. 'Mr Tennant is probably far better placed to advise you on the best way of achieving a sale.'
She saw a faint hint of respect tinging Oliver's eyes. Had he really expected her to behave less professionally and honestly than he had himself? Now he spoke again.
'To be honest with you, Mrs Birtles, this is a prestigious property, and would be best handled in conjunction with one of the agents who specialise in handling such properties on a countrywide basis.
'As it happens, I know one of the partners in one of these agencies, and I'd be delighted to arrange for him to come down here and see you.'
'No,'Mrs Birtles told him firmly. 'My husband always believed in giving his business to local people and I have carried on that tradition.'
'Well, then, in that case,' Oliver said with a smile, 'perhaps I could suggest that you appoint both Miss Spencer and myself as joint agents. That way you could have the benefit of our joint expertise.'
'Joint agents … that's a marvellous idea,' Mrs Birtles enthused, while Oliver looked across at Charlotte, one eyebrow lifted as he awaited her comments.
Joint agents … That was the last thing she had expected him to suggest. There was a hard lump of emotion in her throat. Honesty compelled her to admit that he had probably far more experience in this field than she did herself, and he must know that, and yet he had still suggested a joint agency.
She swallowed and said huskily, 'We'll both do our best to obtain a good sale for you, Mrs Birtles.'
There were various arrangements to be made. The items to be sold would have to be catalogued. Charlotte had had experience of this while working for an auction house during her university holidays, and offered to take over this chore.
'It will give me an opportunity to teach Sophy how to prepare a catalogue,' she explained, when Oliver said quietly to her,
'Cataloguing is a bit of a chore-are you sure?'
'Sophy is working for you?' He frowned.
'Just on a part-time basis at the moment,' Charlotte told him. 'To fit in with the twins.' Pride forbade her to add that Sophy's job would be more temporary than she had planned if he succeeded in taking the major part of her business.
He was still frowning. 'I shouldn't have thought your business merited taking on extra staff at the moment.'
Mrs Birtles had left the room to instruct her housekeeper to bring them all some coffee, and so there was no one to overhear them as Charlotte forgot how grateful she had been to him not five minutes before and hissed bitterly, 'What do you know about my business? For your information, until you decided to open up in this area-' She bit her lip, suddenly aware of what she was giving away, but it was too late.
Oliver was saying softly, 'You took Sophy on because you knew, if she didn't have a job, she'd lose her home.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Charlotte denied. 'I'm a businesswoman, not a charitable organisation.'
There was no opportunity for them to say any more because Mrs Birtles had returned.
After they had finished their coffee, Charlotte offered to drive over the following week to take the necessary measurements on a day when Mrs Birtles had informed her that the house would be empty.