Flora patted her son’s hand, her fingers thin but strong. ‘Stop fussing, you daft boy. I’m not made of spun sugar.’
But she was pleased, Tina could tell. Hamish had that effect on people – a natural historian’s patience, a way of listening that made you feel heard. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Hugo always said you were tougher than the rest of us put together.’
‘And Hugo needed to believe that.’ Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, once then she squeezed it. ‘I’m glad it’s you living here. You and Tina are right for this house.’
As he settled into the chair beside his mother, Hamish let out a single soft ‘huh.’
‘I’ve just finished the morning tour,’ he said. ‘Fascinating group – one of them knew about the Civil War skirmish in Lower Meadow.’ His voice held that note of wonder that appeared whenever he spoke of history, of the threads that bound past to present. Then he grinned at Tina. ‘More guests coming this afternoon – the ones from Bath, I told you about. They’ve booked the Rose Suite.’
It still surprised her, seeing Hamish embrace the twenty-firstcentury. It didn’t come naturally yet; part of her hoped it never would. But he was always here for the important bits.
‘Already turned on the heating,’ she replied.
Elspeth looked up from fussing Cromwell, her eyes bright. ‘You need to tell the guests about the Christmas ghost.’
‘There’s no ghost, Elspeth,’ Hamish said patiently, but his eyes twinkled.
‘Course there is. Every proper manor has one. And at Christmas, especially.’ Elspeth’s voice dropped to a staged whisper. ‘I’ve seen her myself – a lady in grey, walking the corridors, checking that all the fires are lit, and the guests are warm.’
Tina felt a shiver run down her spine, not entirely from the cold draft that sneaked under the door. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘Am I?’ Elspeth’s grin was cheeky. ‘Wait until tonight. You’ll see.’
Hamish rose. He strode toward Tina and brushed a kiss over her forehead, his lips warm against her skin. The familiar gesture sent a flutter through her chest, the same as it had on their first kiss in this very room. ‘Are you working tonight?’ he asked.
‘A few commissions to finish. Rose has ordered another peony brooch – that’s the fifth this month; she says they’re virtually flying out of the village shop.’ She gestured toward a table where pieces of her silver work gleamed like captured starlight.
‘Did you put your hallmark on it?’ Flora asked, taking another sip of sherry.
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ Said Flora, ‘No point doing all the work if you let someone else take the credit.’
‘And I’ve taken a stall at the Brambleton Christmas market. I’d like your help please,’ said Christina wagging a finger at her husband.
Hamish groaned. ‘Do I have to come to the market?’
‘You can’t miss it!’ Tina laughed, swatting at him playfully. ‘The mulled wine, the carol singers, the way the snow looks on the church spire – it’s pure magic.’
He caught her hand, pressing it to his lips. ‘You’re the magic,’ he said simply.
The real loving cup, polished and proud, now sat behind glass at the Victoria and Albert Museum, labelled as a newly authenticated piece by Paul de Lamerie. A small plaque below it read:Donated anonymously by a Devon collector.
‘Do you miss restoring antique silver?’ Flora asked, watching Tina’s face carefully.
Tina considered this, listening to the soft crackle of the fire and her daughter humming a Christmas carol in the puppy’s ear. Through the window, she could see the first fat snowflakes beginning to fall, each one perfect and unique, settling on the sill like tiny blessings.
‘That was about fixing things,’ she said finally. ‘Making jewellery ... is about making something new. Something that will last.’
‘Hmph. Sentimental rot.’ But Flora’s eyes were warm as the sherry in her glass, and her smile was kind.
Outside, the snow fell in earnest, transforming the world into something from a fairy tale. The Manor’s windows glowed golden in the gathering dusk, and somewhere in the distance church bells rang, their bronze voices carrying across the frozen countryside.
Tina looked around the room – at Flora’s contented face, at Hamish’s hands turning the pages of a leather-bound book, Cromwell’s snout resting on his feet, at Elspeth slumped beside the dog stroking his fur. This was the magic she’d been searching for without knowing it. Not the polished perfection she’d once thought she needed, but this: the scent of bread in the oven,voices carrying down the hallway, the sense of belonging that wrapped around her like an old coat she’d forgotten she owned.
Her new home remained what it had always been: large, drafty, ornate, impractical. Tina had stopped apologizing for not quite suiting this grand setting. There was no need. Snow softened the world beyond its windows as she sank gratefully into a large armchair. The Manor would never change. Neither would she. Somehow, that made it home.
