After four hours of Tudor history, Hamish finally pulled the car into the sweeping gravel drive. ‘What a belter of a hoose!’ she had squealed at him.
All around her, the gardens unfolded in a riot of late-summer colour; deep herbaceous borders spilling with foxgloves and delphiniums, roses climbing in fragrant tangles, and clippedyews casting orderly shadows across the neatly mown lawns. Beyond, an orchard dipped towards the valley, apple trees heavy with fruit, while terraces of lavender and thyme released their scent with every stir of the breeze. She fell in love instantly, the house itself almost forgotten in the glow of those gardens.
Spotting what she took for a welcoming committee, she skipped across the turning circle, hand outstretched, grinning. The woman wore a lilac linen shift dress, low-heeled shoes, and a thick rope of pearls. Her hair was immaculate, her makeup flawless. Standing beside her, was a well-groomed man in a spotless cream linen suit.
‘Hi! You must be Hamish’s mum and dad.’
‘I amLadyFlora,’ the woman replied, her vowels clipped, and voice steely. ‘And this is my husband, Ernest. He isnotHamish’s father.’ There was a barely audible huff, then she added, ‘I gather from Hamish your name is,’ she paused then added with emphasis, ‘Christina?’
Tina smoothed her hands down her dress, heat rising to her cheeks. In less than a minute, she’d been rechristened and quietly dismissed – not good enough, it seemed, to use her hostess’s Christian name, and her own deemed inappropriate.
Ernest took Lady Flora’s elbow. ‘Shall we go in, darling? Snifter time I think,’ he murmured, before turning back to Tina with a wink. ‘Been looking forward to meeting you, Christina. Can’t beat a wee bit of silver, eh?’
She had never been more grateful to hear a fellow Glaswegian. That, and a few pre-dinner glasses of bubbly, gave her the courage to push through. She complimented Lady Flora on the “pure dead brilliant wallpaper” in the drawing room – only to be corrected that it washand-painted Chinese silk, circa 1890. Later, admiring the dining room, she remarked she’d never seen napkins that needed ironing before. The silence that followed could have chilled champagne. She caught Lady Flora’s glanceacross the table – sharp, unreadable – and saw Hamish’s face flush. Initially she thought his mother’s coldness embarrassed him, but later, she realized his embarrassment was because ofher.
Now, Christina moved through grand spaces differently. She knew how to lower her voice, how to modulate her vowels. “Hoose” had vanished from her vocabulary, along with “dead brilliant”. Gardens and galleries replaced guitars and Glasgow in her conversation. She knew which fork to use, even when the ranks of cutlery spread out wide like silver soldiers stretched shoulder to shoulder across a parade ground; how to dress for country weekends and formal dinners. How to fit in, not stand out.
She had become, she thought, a woman who belonged in Hamish’s world.
Even if Lady Flora still looked at her the way she always had – like an antique with a crack too deep to restore.
So why had Hamish grown so distant? Why did he barely look up from his books anymore, mumble responses to her carefully cultivated conversation about his research? Would living somewhere like Chase Lodge really be enough to bring him back to her?
The workshop door burst open, and Christina looked up, startled, to see Elspeth standing in the doorway – windblown, cheeks pink, all gangly eleven year-old limbs; her eyes looked worried. Christina clutched at the edge of her workbench.
‘Mum?’
The hesitant tone made Christina’s heart clench. Elspeth only used that voice when she was building up to something difficult.
‘Dad says supper’s ready. He’s ... he’s actually cooked something.’
Christina blinked. ‘He’s cooked?Dadhas cooked?’
The incredulity in her voice surprised even her. Not thatHamish was lazy. He wasn’t. When it came to hanging laundry, or hunting for the recycling bags, he was always willing. But his dotty professor brain had a habit of drifting mid-task – one minute peeling carrots, the next musing about monastic wine production, and suddenly there’d be smoke pouring from the oven, or water cascading over the sink.
‘That’s ... nice of him.’ She glanced at Elspeth. ‘Remember the eggy bread?’
Elspeth’s face lit up. ‘When he used white wine instead of milk?’
‘And then said it was a “rustic French twist”?’
‘And served it with chutney.Chutney, Mum.’
Elspeth giggled, then paused at the door. ‘Mum?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
The careful neutrality in her daughter’s voice set off every alarm bell. On maternal watch, Christina turned, giving Elspeth her full attention.
‘Of course, love. What is it?’
Elspeth’s gaze dropped to the floor, and she spoke in a small voice. ‘Do you and Dad still love each other?’
For a moment, Christina couldn’t breathe. The air in the room thickened with polish and sulphur and she tasted something bitter and metallic on her tongue – fear, maybe, or shame.
‘Sweetheart, why would you ask that?’
