The drizzle against the window pane was a constant, gentle percussion to the rhythm of Kaima Bernard's anxiety. From her small, neatly kept flat in Walthamstow, London was a blur of grey stone and greener-than-expected parks. It had been three months since she'd traded the relentless Lagos sun for this, and the novelty of cool air was beginning to wear thin, replaced by the gnawing realisation of how monumentally expensive a city it was to start a life in.
A stack of textbooks on cognitive behavioural therapy sat neatly on her IKEA desk, next to a laptop screen still open on the NHS jobs portal. Her CV, sent out over two dozen times, felt like a message in a bottle tossed into a vast, indifferent ocean. Being a newly qualified therapist was a Catch-22: you needed experience to get a job, and a job to get experience.
Her mobile buzzed, skittering across the wood surface. An unknown number. Her heart did a familiar, nervous flip. Another rejection call, she assumed, steeling herself.
"Kaima Bernard speaking," she said, her voice professionally calm, belying her quickening pulse.
"Miss Bernard, good afternoon." The voice on the other end was elderly, cultured, and held a strange, formal stillness. "My name is Vincent. I am calling on behalf of the Tewksbury estate regarding your application for the live-in therapist position."
Kaima's brow furrowed. She didn't remember applying for a live-in role. She must have sent out so many that this one had slipped her mind. "Oh. Yes, hello."
"We were very impressed with your credentials," Vincent continued, his tone giving nothing away. "The position is one of immediate occupancy. It involves providing dedicated therapeutic support to the proprietor of the estate, who is navigating a period of… profound grief. The contract is for one week. The remuneration is five thousand pounds, paid upon satisfactory completion of your duties."
Kaima's breath caught in her throat. Five thousand pounds. That was three months' rent. That was a lifeline.
"A week?" she managed to say, her mind racing. "And it's live-in? Could you tell me a bit more about the client?"
"A gentleman of means," Vincent replied smoothly, as if reading from a script. "A widower. He requires companionship and professional guidance to help him re-engage with the world. The estate is quite remote, in the Hertfordshire countryside. It provides the solitude he requires. You would have your own quarters, of course. We would require you to arrive tomorrow afternoon."
It was mad. It was completely and utterly mad. A voice in her head, one that sounded a lot like her mother's, told her to politely decline. But another voice, the one fuelled by anxiety over her bank balance and the sheer, audacious amount of money, told her to say yes.
"Tomorrow? That's rather sudden."
"The need is pressing, Miss Bernard. Might we expect you?"
She took a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, you can."
"Excellent. I shall text you the address and postcode. We will await your arrival."
The line went dead. Kaima stood there, the phone still pressed to her ear, the silence of the flat suddenly roaring. Five thousand pounds. What was the worst that could happen?
She immediately video-called Gloria. Her friend's face popped up on screen, surrounded by the familiar clutter of her own flat in Stratford.
"You are not going to believe this," Kaima started, the words tumbling out as she relayed the bizarre conversation.
Gloria's bubbly expression shifted to one of scepticism. "A live-in job? In the middle of nowhere? For some mysterious grieving bloke who's paying a small fortune? Kai, that sounds like the start of a true crime podcast. 'And the therapist was never seen again…'"
Kaima laughed, though it felt thin. "Don't be dramatic. It's a legit estate. I'll Google the address. It's probably just some eccentric old aristocrat who doesn't like to leave his house. It's one week, Gloria. Five. Thousand. Pounds."
"I don't like it," Gloria said, her nose scrunched in concern. "Text me the address. And you'd better text me every single day. I mean it. If I don't hear from you, I'm sending the cavalry."
"I promise," Kaima said, feeling slightly better. "It'll be an adventure."
After the call, she did a quick search. Tewksbury Manor, Hertfordshire. The images showed a vast, ageing Jacobean mansion surrounded by endless green. It looked like something from a period drama. It certainly looked like the home of a rich recluse.
Pushing down a flutter of nerves, she hauled her suitcase from under her bed. She packed practically: comfortable trousers, smart blouses, a few cosy jumpers for the countryside chill. Her therapy notepads and a few key textbooks went into her bag. She folded her clothes with methodical precision, the act of packing a talisman against her own anxiety. She was a professional. This was a job. A strange, incredibly well-paid job, but a job nonetheless.
As she zipped the case closed, she looked out at the London dusk, the streetlights beginning to glow in the wet. She was stepping out of her new life and into a very old one, and she had no idea that the man she was going to meet had been waiting for her for over three hundred years.