She was flipping through a gardening memoir when a gust of damp air and the scent of some truly expensive perfume signalled another customer.
‘Darling,’ trilled a voice that didn’t belong in a North Devon village bookshop. Exactly the sort of accent Christina found herself surrounded by when she and Hamish relocated to Devon and started moving in her husband’s family circle; she’d soon learned to modulate her voice, soften the Glasgow edges that made Lady Flora’s eyebrows climb toward her perfectly styled hairline.
Lady Penelope Strathmore looked like she’d taken a wrong turn searching for a Mayfair restaurant. She swanned in wearing a camel cashmere coat draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her makeup was immaculate – barely there blush-pink lips, long dark brown lashes,subtly bronzed cheekbones. Her hair was a perfectly set blonde cloud, not a strand out of place, and her heels clicked assertively across the wooden floor as if she were tap dancing toward her friend.
‘You look exhausted,’ she said cheerfully, air-kissing Christina on both cheeks but not waiting for her to reciprocate. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Christina’s glass.‘Prosecco for me too, if they’ve anythingproperly chilled.’ She glanced at Trish without acknowledgment and then turned her attention to Christina with a smile that showed perfect teeth. ‘God, this place isso quaint.’
Trish, who had clearly heard, set down a glass with a flourish. ‘Chilled prosecco. We have truffle popcorn too, if you’re peckish.’
‘No, thank you,’ Penelope replied, plucking the glass from the table as though it had arrived by divine courier. ‘Too much salt.’
Christina took a seat, and Penelope followed, slipping off her coat to reveal a silk blouse the colour of moonlight and trousers that had never seen mud. She perched elegantly, her eyes darting around the café as though scanning for potential paparazzi.At forty-something, she remained stubbornly elegant, her cashmere wrap draped across shoulders that had seen plenty of expensive personal trainer workouts but never known manual labour.
‘Now,’ she said, leaning in confidentially, speaking in a conspiratorial tone, ‘tell me darling, howarethings with the Tudor professor?’
Christina paused. ‘Hamish is ... very interested in siege warfare this week.’
‘Still in the sixteenth century, is he?’ Penelope drawled. ‘Honestly, darling, you’ve got the most peculiar taste in men. Willy may be away in London most weeks, playing with his soldiers but your husband, God love him, seems lost in an academic fog.’
Christina smiled thinly, wondering how Colonel Strathmore, now in one of the most senior posts in the army, would react to the suggestion his job was akin to a board game. ‘Hamish isn’tunpresent. Just ... focused.’
‘Yes, and I’m focused on staying forty,’ Penelope said, tossing her hair. ‘Doesn’t mean I’ve left the room.’ She sipped her prosecco, then added casually, ‘I ran into Elspeth at rehearsal,with my Benjamin.’ Christina smiled. Ben was the only boy Elspeth ever blushed for. ‘They were doing a scene fromAs You Like It,’ said Penelope, ‘quitecharming. Of course, he’s inherited his talent from me and my days with the Oxford drama society. He says Elspeth’s clever with comic timing.’ Penelope took a delicate sip, then asked ‘How was Elspeth’s midterm report?’
Christina took a hurried gulp of prosecco. Elspeth’s report was safely hidden in last month’s copy ofThe Gardenmagazine – prose not yet old enough to tempt Hamish. ‘It came yesterday.’
Penelope raised a sculpted brow. ‘And?’
Christina shifted uneasily. The comments had been blunt: Elspeth was talking back to teachers, drawing attention to herself, refusing to sit quietly. Each phrase felt like a warning bell. She bit her lip, imagining how this could ripple out to the scholarship board. ‘She’s slipping a bit. Not terribly, but they’ve noticed. I think she’s hiding something.’ Christina’s voice lowered. ‘Before I discuss it with her – or Hamish – I want to understand from one of the teachers what’s actually going on.’
Something played across Penelope’s expression – amusement, perhaps. Or a shade of triumph. ‘Darling, you’re so wise not to make a fuss. No one admires a woman who causes scenes. Especially not in front of a child. Or a husband.’ She sipped again, eyeing Christina. ‘You’ve always been so ... admirably restrained.’
Christina didn’t answer straight away. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where rain smudged the view into streaks of light and shadow. She changed the subject. ‘Have you ever seen Chase Lodge?’
Penelope blinked. ‘That dear old place on the edge of the Pemberton estate?’
‘Ernest is talking about selling it.’
‘That won’t be his decision,’ trilled Penelope. ‘And I can’t see Flora selling anything, not after she was forced to sell landback ... when was it ... twenty odd years ago. First Pemberton to sell land in the seven hundred years the family has owned the estate.’
Christina smiled politely, not wanting to contradict her friend. Ernest ran the finances; Lady Flora just spent the money. ‘Maybe, but it’s got me thinking, I wonder if a proper house – not just a place to live, but ahome– might be what we need. Something with space. Structure. Stature.’
‘Oh, you simplymust,’ Penelope said. ‘You’ve come so far, Christina. You deserve history. Something respectable. Alegacyhome. Not another draughty Devon shoebox with sheep peering in the windows.’
Christina chuckled. ‘I thought charm was the point.’
‘Yes, well, charm and damp are often sold together,’ Penelope said briskly. ‘This could be the start of everything. A new chapter. You in a splendid drawing room, Elspeth twirling about in her little Shakespeare plays, Hamish wandering the garden talking to hedges about Henry VIII.’
Christina imagined it for a moment. Space to think. A house with thick stone walls and high ceilings, a place with stories soaked into the floorboards, where every room spoke of dignity and permanence. Unlike the cottage which Flora constantly reminded her belonged to the family and should really be rented out as an Airbnb. Although Lady Flora never said the words out loud, Christina knew she’d have much preferred Hamish to have married someone like Lady Penelope. The kind of woman who came with a house, and a socially acceptable business as an interior designer for wealthy patrons.
Maybe that’s all it was – not her fault, not the faltering marriage, not the tension humming under every polite conversation – just the wrong backdrop. Perhaps a house with history would prove she belonged, make Flora bite back her criticisms, make Hamish ... see her. Then the past eleven yearswouldn’t feel like one long audition.
Penelope leaned forward again, her voice soft and pointed. ‘You can do this Christina. Move to a proper house. You’ve always been the steady one. Calm. Capable. You don’t flap or shout or – God forbid – weep in the village shop. No one handles things like you do.’
Not Always.She remembered a blazing row she and Hamish once had in his room at St Andrews – something about his insufferable confidence – during which she threw his essay pages in the air like confetti, and both of them shouted over each other until they’d collapsed laughing on the narrow bed. ‘God, you’re magnificent when you’re angry,’ he’d said, pulling her close. She’d been all fire then, all reckless passion. When had she become someone who never made a scene? Trish reappeared, collecting their empty glasses. ‘Would you like another?’
‘Yes, thank you, Trish,’ Christina said.
Penelope handed her glass over with a delicate shiver. ‘If it’s trulycoldthis time, darling.’
