Elspeth’s voice was even quieter now. ‘Sophie’s parents got divorced last year, and before it happened, she started spending more nights boarding, and whenever she went home, one of her parents was always out.’ She hesitated, eyes shining. ‘And I’m spending more nights boarding and you went out last time I was home. And Dad looks sad. And you do too, when you think I’m not watching.’
Christina’s heart cracked wide open. She reached out and pulled Elspeth into her arms, holding her close, breathing in thescent of apple shampoo and innocence.This couldn’t be what was behind that bad school report could it?
‘Oh, my darling girl,’ she muttered into Elspeth’s hair. ‘Your father and I ... we’re going through a bit of a rough patch. But we both love you more than anything in the world.’
Elspeth pulled back slightly. ‘But do you still loveeach other?’
Christina paused. She wasn’t sure how much truth an eleven year old should receive – or whether keeping it from her would help.
She looked at Elspeth’s face – so open, so serious – and felt the familiar ache behind her ribs. She still loved Hamish. That hadn’t changed. Sometimes she wished it had. It would have made things simpler. She wasn’t sure why he’d grown distant – whether something had shifted in him after that row, or if, without meaning to, since then she’d given him reasons to pull away. And she was trying – trying to fix what had frayed.
She loved him in the quiet, enduring way you love someone whose laugh you know by heart. What scared her wasn’therheart – it was his. She didn’t know if it was still hers to count on.
‘Love isn’t always simple,’ she said gently. ‘Especially when people are tired, or worried, or ... not quite themselves. But your dad and I – we’re trying.’
Elspeth’s lip wobbled, still watching her mother with that unblinking, eleven year-old stare – too young to understand everything, but old enough to know when she was being lied to. Christina hesitated.
‘When I was your age,’ she said, ‘my mum tried to protect me from things she thought would hurt me. I know she meant to be kind. But it also made things confusing later – because the truth still came out, just ... slower, and probably more painfully than if she’d told me sooner.’ She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Elspeth’s ear. ‘I don’t want to confuse you. But I don’t want to worry you either. So, this is what I’ll say: whateverhappens, your dad and I will both loveyou. Always.’
Elspeth brightened. ‘Maybe Dad cooking dinner is a good sign?’
Christina gave a small, weary smile. ‘Maybe it is.’
The kitchen table was a riot of imagination. Thick slices of bread had been cut into rough squares and laid edge to edge as trenchers, each one slightly uneven, some leaning like miniature towers. On top of them rested chicken drumsticks and, at the centre, a small mound of “exotic” fruit demanded attention: a base of apples and oranges, with a lone, wobbly pineapple crowning the pile, like some tropical mountain. Around the food, someone had arranged what appeared to be every piece of precious metalwork the family possessed. Hamish’s prized Tudor pewter plates – all six of them looking like dull mirrors; Christina’s collection of silver a glittering constellation across the table’s surface: sugar tongs, salt cellars, a sweetmeat dish that she and Hamish had bought together at an auction in Edinburgh. The overall effect was rather like a minor explosion in an antique shop: beautiful, but too much for the stage.
‘Surprise!’ Elspeth squealed, rushing over to the groaning table, her cheeks flushed. ‘Dad didn’t cook – I did! For both of you. Happy anniversary!’
Anniversary. The word ricocheted around Christina’s skull like a marble in an empty jar. She caught Hamish’s reflection in the window above the sink – his face had gone that shade of grey that usually preceded one of his academic migraines.
Elspeth adjusted a chicken drumstick. ‘It’s a Tudor feast, Dad. You need to pretend its swan.’
Christina tasted panic rising in her throat. ‘Darling,’ she managed, her voice sounding strangled even to her own ears, ‘this is ... this is wonderful, but ...’
‘I remembered because I helped you pick out Dad’s card last year,’ Elspeth interrupted, bouncing slightly on her toes. ‘I evenfound the fancy napkins Grandmama gave us for Christmas.’
Indeed, the fine linen napkins – far too white for everyday use – resembled elaborate fans beside the two place settings, their drooping edges unintentionally echoing the quiet exhaustion of the couple they were meant to impress. Elspeth had shaped them carefully, as if the right flourish might breathe life back into a fading marriage.
Hamish cleared his throat. ‘Sweetheart, this is ... you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
‘But it’s your anniversary!’ Elspeth’s smile faltered slightly at the edges. ‘Don’t you like it?’
Christina’s heart performed a slow, painful somersault. After Elspeth’s devastating question about love, this grand gesture felt like both a gift and a reproach. Her daughter had created a shrine to their marriage while Christina had been in her workshop, contemplating its steady decay as she faked antique silver.
‘It’s beautiful, love,’ Christina said, stepping forward to embrace Elspeth. ‘Absolutely beautiful. But perhaps we should put some of these precious things away before ...’
‘No!’ Elspeth’s voice carried a note of alarm. ‘I want it to be perfect. All your favourite things laid out around the feast. Look at what you share. I’m going upstairs to my room so you can spend the evening together.’ Her footsteps thundered up the narrow stairs, leaving her parents alone.
The silence that followed sat between them like an unwelcome guest. Christina heard the whisper of wind through the drafty windows, the distant sound of the sea that had seemed so romantic when they first moved in and now felt like the world’s longest sigh.
Christina focused on the mound of fruit, studying each piece in turn as if it might hold the secrets of the universe.
Hamish moved first, reaching for the sweetmeat dish with therespect he usually reserved for his first-edition manuscripts. ‘She’s laid out enough silver to stock a small museum,’ he said, his voice carrying that note of academic detachment he used when confronted with emotion.
‘She’s used the Bateman salt cellars,’ she replied, grateful for the neutral territory of objects. ‘My favourites.’
‘Ah, Hester Bateman. You always said she was ahead of her time.’ Hamish swapped the dish for the salt cellar. It was modelled like an egg sliced cleanly in half along its horizontal axis, with a goblet base, subtly elegant without being ornate – Hester’s trademark style. ‘It’s amazing how much treasure you’ve collected.’
Christina picked up the dish, still warm from his hands and smooth as silk against her skin. ‘Some women collect shoes,’ she said, in a hushed tone. ‘I like to think I collect brilliance.’
