Hamish laughed, surprised. ‘There’s the firebrand I married. I thought she’d disappeared.’
She froze. The flush deepened – this time laced with embarrassment. She looked away sharply. What was that supposed to mean? That she was backsliding? That he missed the impulsive, loud-mouthed version of her he’d once romanticised before realising how inconvenient she was at family dinners?
‘Well,’ she muttered, voice tight, ‘good to know I still pass for entertainment.
He looked at her oddly. ‘That’s not what I ...’
‘Forget it,’ she cut in, brushing dust from her coat with unnecessary force.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Just stood there, watching her like she was something half-familiar.
‘The meeting’s probably about money,’ he offered after a pause. ‘Another reminder from Ernest to watch the spending. Ma’s idea of budgeting is washing her own hair. And Hugo’s spent the last two decades drifting about the Manor like some Edwardian gentleman who’s misplaced his era.’
Christina snorted. ‘Sounds like a proper royal court.’
Hamish shook his head with a tired smile. ‘Honestly, it was much easier managing rebels in Tudor times. At least Cromwell knew how to keep things in order – no dithering committees, just a quick axe and no warning.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Christina said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Much less messy when heads roll.’
‘Exactly,’ Hamish grinned. ‘Though I suppose Ernest’s version of “keeping things together” is slightly less ... decapitating.’
‘Maybe it would be easier if Ernest stopped appointing himself chancellor of the bloody exchequer.’
‘He’s just trying to steady the ship. Help out.’
She shot him a sidelong look. ‘Yes. And I’m the help.’
He chuckled softly, the familiar warmth back in his eyes. ‘You know it’s not like that.’
For a moment, their teasing tethered them in a fragile truce.
He wandered over to the stairs and nudged a tread with his foot. ‘These could be hand-cut oak. You’d need to stabilise the foundation, obviously, but ...’ He looked around, almost wistfully. ‘It has potential.’
‘So, youdowant to move here.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
No, she thought.But you didn’t say you didn’t either.
‘I just ...’ she began, then stopped. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her heart. That gnawing sense of needing to do something –anything– before everything collapsed.
‘Do you think the meeting is about your mother?’ she asked instead. She didn’t want to frighten him but couldn’t block out the look in Ernest’s eyes when he mentioned taking Flora to the doctor about her forgetfulness.
Hamish frowned. ‘Could be. She’s the worst culprit for extravagance.’
Christina exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the sagging beams above.
The wind whistled through the drafty windows, and she looked at her husband – half-lit in the pale winter light, talking again about ancient joists like they mattered more than his mother, his brother, or everything that had come undone between them.
By early evening, the windows of Prosecco & Prose reflected the glow of the streetlamps outside, their light pooling on the floorboards. Christina sat near the back, the room dim and peaceful, the air tinged with the scent of coffee. She turned her glass slowly in her hand – prosecco still fizzing, though with less conviction now. Lady Penelope had asked to meet her. Not summoned, exactly – but the message had that unmistakable tone, and Christina had arrived promptly at the appointed time – five o’clock; twenty minutes ago. She felt an icy draft andglanced up.
‘Darling, you look positively peaked,’ Lady Penelope declared, settling herself into a burgundy velvet armchair with the fluid grace of someone who had spent decades perfecting the art of making an entrance.
Christina signalled for a top up and a glass for her friend. A diamond bracelet at Penelope’s wrist sparkled as she lifted her flute. Christina smiled; Penelope made even drinking look like a performance.
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Christina lied. Around them, the bookshop hummed – the soft thud of hardbacks being re-shelved, the rustle of pages turning, the distant hiss of the coffee machine.
‘Of course you are, sweet thing.’ Penelope laughed, but it rang hollow. ‘That’s why you’re hiding in a bookshop on a Saturday, drowning your sorrows in sparkling wine. Very healthy coping mechanism, I must say.’
