‘Much the same,’ he grumbled, ‘Flora’s?’
Something about their interchange troubled Christina; the words sounded innocent, but the delivery sounded staged. Then Ernest spoke lightly. ‘Not great, but she’s coping, that’s not what worries me. Flora’s been ... forgetful lately. I’m taking her to the doctor.’
Christina picked up a candlestick and weighed it in her palm. There was a strange look in Ernest’s eyes,not quite what she expected. Not worry, exactly. It puzzled her, though she couldn’t have said why.
Frank screwed up his eyes. ‘Forgetful?’
‘Probably me being sensitive, doctor will tell me I’m an old fusspot, but she looks at me vacantly sometimes as if she’s looking through me not at me.’
Ernest leaned closer to Christina. ‘Ready to try for a Paul Storr?’ he murmured.
‘Storr!’ The name escaped as a splutter. That illustrious Georgian silversmith. ‘That’s a completely different league of craftsmanship. Why would you—’
‘Paul Storr is what the market wants,’ Frank cut in. Hisgrey eyes were cold, matter of fact. ‘Storr pieces fetch tens of thousands.’
Christina felt dizzy. ‘But his style’s so distinctive. It’s not something you just knock out in a few days. People will notice if it’s not perfect.’
‘Then make it perfect,’ Frank said.
The casual brutality of it stunned her. As if she were just a machine to be programmed, not a person with concerns or limits. She wanted to throw the tools down, to demand answers – to ask what the hell they’d gotten themselves into that required forging one of England’s most celebrated silversmiths.
But that old voice surfaced, the one that had haunted her through every dinner party, and Flora’s sidelong glances:who are you to question them?
She reminded herself it was just another week as she positioned the first punch with steady fingers.
It wasn’t fear that strangled her objections. It was something worse – that bone-deep belief that she was out of her depth, that they understood things she didn’t. That she should be grateful they trusted her with this at all.
The hammer came down with a precise, clean strike.
‘Perfect,’ Ernest said, leaning over her shoulder. ‘Flawless.’
His praise should have warmed her. Instead, it felt like recognition of the trap closing. She was good at this. Too good to walk away, too bound by duty to refuse.
As she reached for the next punch, she caught Frank watching her. Something in his expression – satisfaction, perhaps – made her realize he’d known exactly how today’s session would play out.
Later that afternoon, Christina was sitting with her legs tucked to one side – crossing them inevitably attracted an arched eyebrow from her mother-in-law – while a pale February lightfiltered through the Morning room’s tall sash windows. Outside, the garden lay barren, frost clinging to bare branches. Inside, camellias clustered in vases – bold pinks and deep reds against pale damask furniture.
Lady Flora stood by the window, fingers tracing the rim of the tarnished loving cup. ‘That thing ought to be polished properly. Lost its shine with time, like some of us.’
Christina watched from the hearth, a teacup warming her hands. She noted Flora’s disapproving glance at the silver.
‘How’s your restoration business?’ Flora’s voice was smooth but edged. ‘I can’t help thinking you ought to focus on your daughter rather than fiddling with old trinkets.’
The school report flashed through Christina’s mind – poor marks, pointed comments. She forced a smile. ‘It keeps me occupied when she’s at school. And puts a bit of money in the bank for a rainy day. Or even,’ she took a deep breath, ‘a bigger house.’
Flora’s lips tightened. ‘Christina, if you had the right family connections, you’d be at the heart of things by now, not in a little grace-and-favour cottage, where no one is likely to take you very seriously.’
Christina’s inner voice bristled. What century does she think this is? But doubt crept in. Flora wasn’t entirely wrong, was she? The cottage was rather small; they didn’t own it, and perhaps if she’d come from a home where vowels were crisp and h’s not dropped ... No. She’d worked hard to change her accent, her manners, everything Flora found wanting. She would not apologize for where she’d started.
She stared into her tea. The silence stretched.
‘Have you thought any more about Chase Lodge?’ asked Christina.
‘Ernest’s pet project,’ snipped Flora. ‘Did you put him up to this? I don’t mind selling if it’s staying in the family. But canyou really afford it? She’s quite a substantial place, not like the cottage, and I doubt she’s habitable, else Ernest would be renting it out.’
An elderly yellow labrador padded into the room and collapsed beside the fireplace. Christina noticed the dog’s long, thoughtful gaze at the drink’s cabinet, no doubt influenced by Hugo’s frequent visits there. She heard the clip-clop of high heeled shoes in the corridor, and sure enough, Amy, Hugo’s wife, poked her head around the door. Tall and slender, she had the poise of ancient bloodlines – shoulders set back, chin slightly raised, and an expression suggesting permanent disapproval. Amy’s face – so pinched Christina doubted there was room for a smile on it – tilted in acknowledgment of others in her presence.
‘Anyone seen Hugo?’ she asked, not bothering to say hello first.
