Christina set down her glass harder than necessary, the clink drawing a sharp look from a nearby customer. ‘I’m not drowning anything. I’m simply ... taking a moment.’
‘Of course you are.’ Penelope leaned forward conspiratorially, her perfume – something flowery and expensive that probably cost more than Christina’s monthly grocery budget – wafting across the space between them. ‘How are you really, darling? How are things with Hamish?’
Christina felt her cheeks flush. She took another sip of prosecco, letting the bubbles distract her from the sting of truth. ‘We’re working through things.’
‘Working through things,’ Penelope repeated, her tone suggesting she found the phrase amusing. ‘How wonderfully optimistic of you. Rather like saying the Titanic was having navigational difficulties. I hear our children are becoming quite the theatrical partnership,’ Penelope continued, examining her manicured nails with studied casualness. ‘Elspeth and myBenjamin, rehearsing together for these plays.’
Christina felt a surge of maternal pride. ‘Elspeth’s very talented ...’
‘Oh, I’m sure she is, darling. Benjamin speaks very highly of her. Very highly indeed.’ The way Penelope said it made it sound vaguely scandalous, though Christina couldn’t put her finger on why. ‘Though one does hope they’re spending as much time on their lines as they claim. It never took me more than a week to learn lines for a play in my Oxford days.’
The coffee grinder whirred to life behind the counter, and Christina found herself grateful for the noise – it gave her a moment to process the odd undercurrent in Penelope’s voice. Was this the reason for the summons – to subtly warn her not to let Elspeth get too close to Ben?
‘They’re just friends,’ Christina said finally, dismissing the image of her daughter’s blushing face – Elspeth couldn’t mention Ben’s name without reddening.
‘Of course they are. At their age, friendship is so delightfully ... fluid.’ Penelope raised her glass in a mock toast. ‘Here’s to the resilience of youth, and the delusions of their mothers.’
She felt her temper spark. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing at all, sweet thing. Simply that we all make accommodations, don’t we? It’s what women of substance do.’ Penelope’s smile was razor thin. ‘You with Hamish, me with William. William and I haven’t shared a meaningful conversation in fifteen years, let alone anything more intimate. But we soldier on, don’t we? Stability has its own rewards.’
The comparison made Christina’s skin crawl. Whatever problems she and Hamish had, they’d once loved each other desperately, passionately. To compare that to Penelope’s glacial arrangement felt like sacrilege.
‘Our situations are hardly the same,’ Christina said stiffly.
‘Aren’t they?’ Penelope tilted her head like a bird studying aninteresting worm. ‘Oh, I forgot – you still believe in romantic love. How refreshing.’
The prosecco tasted sour in Christina’s mouth.
Before she could respond, Penelope breezed on, already bored of her own jab. ‘Anyway, Chase Lodge. I’m going to play around with some ideas this weekend. Textures, palettes, the whole thing. One needs to start somewhere. And then I want to go back there with you, discuss the project. Give me a couple of days.’
Christina frowned, surely this was putting the cart before the horse; what she needed was an architect not interior design advice. She hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve been looking into architects. There’s someone local, a woman called Rhianna. She’s based in the village. Small practice, but—’
Penelope’s eyes sharpened, a flash of horror. ‘Darling, no. You need a properheritagearchitect. Not someone who learned on ... garden offices and loft conversions.’ She gave a papery little laugh. ‘Honestly, the number of people calling themselves architects these days;it’s like styling myself a painter because I once held a Farrow & Ball colour chart.’
Christina tried to keep her tone light. ‘Well, Rhianna does seem—’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure she’sperfectly lovely,’ Penelope said, with the air of someone dismissing a child’s drawing. ‘But I have just the man. Humphrey. Simply the best with historic properties. Humphrey is currently on holiday; somewhere cold and dreary, the Alps or Scotland or something, but the moment he’s back, I’ll introduce you. He willtransformthe lodge.’
Christina nodded, trying to absorb Penelope’s certainty, to let it buoy her, instead of swamping her. She must be positive, especially now that Hamish had seen the lodge. She smiled, hoping that if she acted enthusiastic enough, the feeling might eventually follow. This Humphrey man sounded like he would be expensive.
‘Penelope, about Humphrey, I don’t need ...’
‘Of course you don’t, darling. But you want. And wanting is so much more interesting than needing, don’t you think?’ Penelope drained her glass and set it down with finality. ‘Trust me, sweet thing. I know exactly what you need, even if you don’t quite see it yet.’
She couldn’t challenge her, not when Penelope was being so generous with her time. Chase Lodge would be a compromise, but it would be worth it.
She forced a smile and reached for her prosecco, but it had lost its sparkle.
Thirteen
The car hurtled up the driveway that led to the Manor, flanked by frost tinged fields and glistening mud. Soon, the daffodils Christina had planted five years ago would start to sprout, but for now the verges were bare. February’s light was thin, almost brittle, and the sky above the windscreen looked like stretched linen, pale and taut at the edges. Christina gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw set.
‘We’re going to be late,’ she muttered.
From the passenger seat, Hamish blinked up from his well-thumbed copy ofThe Lost Houses of the South-Westand adjusted his glasses. ‘We won’t be. The bells at St Peter’s haven’t chimed seven yet.’
He spoke absentmindedly, without looking at her. She glanced sideways, but he was already back in the world of Tudor hearths and vanished priory walls. His thumb traced a line across a floor plan as though it mattered more than anything unfolding inside the car.
