‘He’s dead? Mine is . . .’
‘No, he’s not dead.’ The finality in her voice shut down further questions, but she saw the hurt confusion in Hamish’s eyes, felt the delicate connection between them wobble.
Even now, twenty years later, the memory made her shrink inward. Hamish had never understood why she’d erected barriers around her past. Hamish had been looking for someone who shared his passion for history and beautiful objects. Instead, he’d gotten a girl who carried Glasgow in ways he wouldn’t understand – the wrong streets, then the right ones, then nowhere at all – who was desperately trying to reinventherself, and recently she’d begun to think he regretted his choice.
Ernest’s voice cut through her memories. ‘You’ve an intense look on you. Penny for them sweet pea.’
Nope. She wouldn’t share her precious memories with him.
She picked up the cream jug again. It was a lovely thing. Worn in a way that spoke of generations, not neglect. A genuine piece, honest in its imperfections.
And she was about to violate it.
‘Who do you want this to have been made by?’ she asked, her voice sounding steadier than she expected.
‘What about Paul Storr?’
She shook her head, ‘not his style.’
‘How about de Lamerie?’
She chuckled. ‘Possibly the greatest silversmith who ever worked in London. I can hardly fake him. Anyway, this piece is too late for de Lamerie. Try again.’
‘You choose, hen.’
‘I’ll go for Hester Bateman.’
She sat down next to Ernest, thinking about the chosen silversmith. A widow turned legend, in the eighteenth century, Hester had taken over her husband’s workshop and made it her own. Christina often thought of her as a kindred spirit – another woman who’d defied the expectations set for her. Hester stepped into a male dominated world and dared to leave her mark.Christina’s own path was different – she was challenging a world shaped by class, not gender – but the defiance felt similar. She wanted to claim a place in a world she wasn’t born to belong to.
Ernest smiled – wide, warm, and just a little too satisfied. She caught the spark of triumph before he tucked it away behind paternal concern.
‘That’s my girl,’ he murmured. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
Christina’s hand tightened on the jug. Just one more week,then she’d be free of Ernest, Frank and their lies.
Six
That evening, the cottage felt stifling. Christina had lit the fire when she got home at four o’clock, and now its heat layered over that of the Aga.
Outside, the rain came sideways off the sea, slapping the windows in soft, relentless sheets, a grey, insistent tapping that underscored the silence, though she could still hear the persistent pit pat of the buckets filling with water.
Elspeth stood at the bottom of the stairs, pink-nosed and tight-lipped. Her schoolbag bumped against her leg. ‘I’m going up to do homework,’ she said. The words came out too brightly, too fast – like someone trying to sound normal after crying in the car.
Christina looked up from her screen and smiled at her child. ‘Everything okay love?’
Elspeth gave a stiff little shrug and turned away, her plait swinging.
Something wasn’t right. Should she push? But Elspeth hadn’t invited it, and perhaps it was better not to create conflict unnecessarily. ‘Smart girls bend, stupid ones break,’ had been her mother’s mantra, and maybe there was something in that. Even though Dee had done a lot of bending in her life and had never been exactly happy.
‘Shout if you want anything to eat,’ said Christina.
The click of a bedroom door upstairs fell like a full stop.
Christina turned back to her laptop, where a spreadsheet blinked at her accusingly. She was paying bills; the cursor hovered over a pending payment to the school. Another four-figure term fee, despite Elspeth’s drama scholarship which covered half the usual fees.
She ran a hand through her hair. She and Hamish used to share the family admin equally. He still insisted on making the beds – a skill from boarding school – priding himself on crisp hospital borders; he drove Elspeth everywhere and made himself useful with housework – albeit at a glacial pace – but with more guest lectureships, sharing the load had become impractical. She suspected Hamish was grateful for the excuse to avoid the twenty-first century and immerse himself in his first love: everything that touched the Tudor world.
Behind her came a faint thump: Hamish had knocked something over in the living room.
