‘God, no,’ he said, scandalised. ‘I’d never insult you like that.’ He grinned, Glasgow rogue on full beam. ‘But,’ he added, his tone softening to almost kindness, ‘I know you don’t want Elspeth growing up feeling like the odd one out. Not like you did.’
Christina swallowed hard. That landed closer than he knew.
‘So, yes,’ Ernest said brightly, slicing another round of cheese. ‘That’s why we need those pieces Frank gave you – to float us through the next few months.’ He gave a slow tut. ‘But I think we need a few more. Another Paul Storr or two. Maybe a Hester Bateman. Nothing garish. Quality always sells.’
I won’t do it, she thought.Not this time. Not after all the promises about ‘just one more week’. She felt stronger today, more confident that she could say the words aloud. Perhaps it was the absence of Frank, with his unsettling stares, or simply that the question of Chase Lodge seemed so close. She didn’t need Ernest to put in a good word for her anymore. Now he’d seen the house, she felt sure Hamish would persuade his mother.
Christina glanced away, into the flower room and its empty vases; the light from the kitchen spilled in, catching Flora’s enormous silver loving cup with a dull gleam. It looked lonely, like a relic waiting for a ceremony that would never come.
She was about to ask why Flora hadn’t done the flowers, when her sister-in-law Amy appeared in the kitchen. Amy always moved with the self-assurance of someone who had grown up knowing the world would adjust to her, not the other way around. ‘There are hyacinths in the glasshouses,’ she said crisply, each syllable clipped like a box hedge. ‘Lady Flora would like some arrangements in the ballroom. Preferably blue.’
Christina didn’t look up. ‘Of course,’ she said, but inside she feltherself bristle.
Amy’s heels clip-clopped away.
Ernest poured a measure of wine into two glasses and handed her one. ‘Here’s to the peasants’ revolt, eh?’
She grinned and took a gulp of wine.
Ernest wiped the cheese knife with a cloth. ‘I meant to tell you. As well as the auction goods, we need another salver. That communion plate you took to Malcolm. He’s sold it and wants another.’ He made a little chef’s kiss gesture. ‘Happy client ... Malcolm’s in awe of your talent.’
Ivy’s trusting face filled Christina’s mind. ‘Who bought it?’
‘Oh, come now,’ Ernest said, swirling his wine. ‘You know how this works. We don’task.’
‘Cos it’sfraud,’ she said, a surge of anger rising up. ‘An’ it wasnae meant tae be.’ Ernest looked amused, as though she’d complained that the sky was unreasonably blue.
She pushed on. ‘I won’t do it. You promised me one more week.’
He blinked, then tilted his head like she’d mispronounced something. ‘Did I?’
With the passion of someone convinced they are doing the right thing, she pushed on; he couldn’t keep moving the goal posts. ‘You did, Ernest! Look, I’ll give you two more days. Then I’m out of this bleedin’ con.’
‘You sound just like you did when I first met you,’ he said, raising a brow. ‘I’d wondered if she was still in there.’
Something twisted in her gut. She flushed – not from shame, exactly, but from a creeping awareness that she’d dropped her careful mask, like she’d done with Hamish at Chase Lodge. She’d let the old Tina out: blunt, biting, undiplomatic. The person she’d worked hard to change. To soften. To mould to fit in.
She glanced away, embarrassed. ‘Being around you brings it out, that’s all.’
Ernest took a long sip of wine, then leaned back and released a slow, deliberate breath – the type meant to be noticed. ‘Christina, darling. Everyone has their part to play.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t start.’ She felt her nerves jangling. Ernest always knew which lever to pull, what did he have tucked up his sleeve? ‘But it’s true,’ he said, warming to the rhythm. ‘Flora does the hosting, Hamish mutters about Tudor times with a kind of tragic gravitas, Hugo does his “good chap” routine and keeps the cellar active, and I–’ he tapped his chest lightly ‘I steer the ship; I handle the provenance. Auction listings typed on vintage Smith-Coronas. Faded inventory slips. Family letters written with quill pens on foxed vellum, complete with fake watermarks and fictitious merchants. It’s an art form, you know.’
He lifted his glass. ‘Andyou, Christina, you forge silver. I couldn’t keep this family afloat without you. Your Hester Bateman is better than she was. You bring the dream to the table, and I dress it up for dinner.’
That made her smile. She glanced toward the hallway, lowering her voice. ‘Seriously, though. I’m out. I’ve had enough. I need a new start. I want—’
‘A vegetable garden and moral superiority?’
‘A mortgage and peace of mind.’
Ernest smiled over the rim of his glass and let the silence do the talking.
This time, she wouldn’t be cowed. ‘I mean it. Intwo days, I’m out. You can’t force me to do it, no matter how much this family needs the money.’
He wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned toward her. ‘I hear you lass. But I need you for another month. And, well ... Obviously, I can’tforceyou to do anything. But I did notice how you’ve always been keen to avoid Frank, and that got me thinking. You know, I had an interesting conversation with himrecently.’ He paused and looked up at her. ‘You’ve got a dirty secret. Haven’t you,Tina?’
It was the first time he’d ever called her Tina, and the word froze her to the core. It was like slipping into an ice bath, the chill spreading through her veins and settling into her bones. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. For more than thirty years she’d carried the weight of her secret, buried so deep she’d almost convinced herself it had never happened at all.
