From the back seat, Elspeth piped up. ‘Can’t we justpretendto be late? And come in laughing like we’re having a great time?’ Her voice was bright – too bright.
Christina caught her daughter’s eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Nice try, darling. Don’t you think, Daddy?’
Hamish leaned closer to the book. The silence that followed had a texture – thick and padded like the steering wheel underChristina’s fingers. She flicked another look in the mirror – at Elspeth now sunk back against her seat, lips pressed together. Christina could feel her daughter slipping away – retreating into herself; another attempt at cheer had fallen flat. That was what stung. Not the potential lateness, not the impending chore of playing scullery maid to Flora’s fantasy household, but the way Elspeth worked so hard to stitch together something that wasn’t hers to repair.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Christina announced.
Hamish sat forward slightly, his voice tinged with awe. ‘You know Elspeth, that west wing is almost certainly early Tudor. Thick walls like those? Built when people still worried about armed raids.’
Elspeth seemed to perk up, despite having heard her father’s musings on the origins of each section of the family home countless times. Christina felt her daughter’s forehead graze against her shoulder as the youngster peered round at Hamish. ‘Dad, is there a priest hole somewhere?’
‘No little one, the family was loyal to King Henry, they converted to Protestantism. Mind, you’re right to ask, the West Country was a hot bed of Catholics ... have I ever told you about the West Country rising of 1549?’
Elspeth groaned, ‘so many times!’
‘It’s important, part of your heritage. Like this house and all its glorious contents. Would you like me to ask Ma to show you the Pemberton Tiara tonight?’
Elspeth’s eyes sparkled. ‘Tell me I’m old enough to try it on!’
Hamish laughed, but as Christina parked hurriedly – Ernest would be waiting, ready to bark orders about decanters and cushions – she spotted her daughter’s widening eyes as Hamish suggested he asked his mother to let Elspeth try on not just the tiara, but the Highland Pact Torque too.
Christina applied the handbrake and turned to Hamish, ‘Couldyou find somewhere for Elspeth to perch while I help Ernest? I don’t want her caught up in family politics. Somewhere dry, and above freezing, if possible.’
‘Of course.’ he said brightly then muttered, ‘I just hope it’s nothing more serious than a bit of family politics.’
Christina turned to look at him and gave a wry smile. ‘To Ernest, family politics is about the most serious thing there is.’
The kitchen was the oldest room in the house. Christina could feel it in the flagstone floor underfoot – some tiles the size of two large pizza boxes – worn smooth in a path between the scullery and the old hearth. And she could hear it in the creak of the old pine cupboards that lined three walls like a forest of honey-coloured ghosts.
An ancient bell board hung on one wall, hinting at better times. Old brass lettering beneath silent bells: Morning Room, Library, Ballroom. No servants answered anymore, but the house clung to the memory like tarnish to silver.
Ernest stood at a central scrubbed pine table, deftly slicing a log of goat’s cheese into rounds.
‘Get those stacked on the oatcakes. Then just a wee touch of the quince jelly. Cannae be throwing it about ... stuff’s dear as anything.’
Christina obeyed. The jelly had a rich, syrupy smell – like late summer caught in a jar. She spooned it out in delicate drops, resisting the urge to lick the spoon. In the kitchen’s stillness, she could hear the soft slow hum of the Aga behind her, breathing warmth into the cold stone house; the room was vast, yes, but inviting rather than overwhelming. Christina often imagined how easily it could become a joyful space. All it needed was a few cushions on the chairs, a rug on the floor, and a child’s laughter to settle into its corners as naturally as the light.
‘So,’ she said, keeping her voice even, ‘this family meeting.What’s it about? Or is Flora just planning another “casual supper” with seven courses, ten extra guests, and a seating plan that rivals Versailles?’
Ernest gave a low chuckle and leaned against the table, slicing into a wedge of blue cheese with exaggerated delicacy.
‘Ach, no, not supper this time. It’s about the estate. About money, really.’ His accent soothed her, reminding her she wasn’t the only one the family had assessed and found wanting. He flashed her a sideways glance. ‘We might need to raise some cash – unforeseen expenses.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that why you’re stepping up the silverwork for this upcoming auction?’ Her voice held just enough edge to imply she already knew the answer.
He smiled, slicing again. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘Hugo’s never once asked what happened to the trust fund the family used to rely on. I gather from Flora that a crooked banker mismanaged the funds and lost it all back in the 1990s. But she still acts like it never happened.’
Christina gave a dry laugh, but her hand twitched at her side. She never liked hearing the tale of how the Pembertons lost their fortune.
He gave a theatrical shrug – ‘Flora still thinks the butler’s coming back from his half day off, and Hugo simply turns a blind eye.’
‘They act like talking about money is common.’ she said, forcing the words past the sudden pinch of unease.
‘Oh, darling,’ Ernest said, reaching for the spoon and wagging it at her, ‘moneyiscommon. That’s why it causes so much trouble.’
Ernest dropped the spoon back into the jar and folded his arms, adopting the confiding tone he used when he wanted to be helpful,which always meant persuasive.‘And you’re the only other one who’s useful where money is concerned.Valuable, even.’
She frowned. ‘Is this the bit where you remind me I should feel lucky to be tolerated?’
