Penelope picked up the green fabric and glided ahead, unfazed by the debris underfoot, through spaces that were rooms only in theory, ceilings open to the rafters, unfurling fabric samples as if they were banners of victory. ‘Imagine this in the morning room!’ Penelope cried, pressing a square of saffron silk against a patch of crumbling plaster. ‘It will absolutely glow once the light is restored.’
Christina nodded, mentally slotting “rewiring” and “plastering” into a growing, expensive list. She cleared her throat. ‘Do you have a rough idea what rewiring a whole place like this might cost?’ she asked lightly. ‘Or even ... ballpark figures for the structural work?’
Penelope waved a graceful hand. ‘Darling, interiors are what give a house its soul. One must have a vision.’ She flipped open a velvet book with a practised snap.
Still, the doubt itched. ‘Do you think,’ Christina began gently, ‘we should perhaps ... speak with a firm of builders or an architect first?’
‘Humphrey’s your man. We’ve worked together countless times. Marvellous chap. I’ll introduce you when he’s home. He’ll sort all the dreary bits for you.’
They walked on into what might someday be the library, Christina stepping around piles of rubble while Penelope heldup a roll of wallpaper – pink foxgloves on a midnight background – against a peeling wall.
‘This will be sensational,’ Penelope declared.
Christina swallowed, calculating again. Labour, materials, joinery, glazing – every corner shouted cost.
She’s an interior designer, Christina reminded herself. She knows what she’s doing. Maybe you really do start choosing wallpapers before the builders have agreed where the walls will go?
‘Do you know what Humphrey usually charges for something this size?’ she asked. ‘Just so I can start planning properly.’
‘We’ll go through it all,’ Penelope said breezily. ‘You’ll see; it will all come together beautifully.’
‘Yes,’ she said, firmer this time. ‘As long as we get the figures sorted.’
A question had been building in her mind all morning. Maybe if she could just get Hamish away from his Tudor musings and his mother’s influence, they could reconnect. Maybe she didn’t need this vast project to restore their marriage.
‘Penelope,’ she whispered as they paused in yet another gloomy room, ‘don’t you think this is all much too big for us? Elspeth is at school all week, and Hamish and I would never see each other in this place!’
Penelope laughed, airy and amused, as if the idea didn’t deserve a serious thought ‘Oh darling, husbands and wives aren’tmeantto spend all their time together. Men retreat when they’re under pressure. Academic types especially – they burrow into their work like little moles. Fighting it only makes them dig deeper. What they need is stability. Security. A foundation that comes from ... well, from the right sort of house.’
Christina felt the message land like a door closing softly, but firmly, in her face.
‘You’re quite right,’ Christina murmured, resolving to call herfinancial adviser on her way back to the cottage. ‘The right foundation changes everything, doesn’t it?’
Penelope smiled, ‘Precisely, darling. Precisely.’ She adjusted her silk scarf with the precision of someone used to being listened to. ‘Better to work around the problem than confront it, don’t you think? Confrontation is so ... exhausting.’
Christina let the words pass unchallenged, though something inside her bristled. But what did she know? Lady Penelope had been married to William for thirty years, had navigated these aristocratic waters since birth. She understood how these things worked better than Christina ever could. And still, under the smile she offered her friend, the daunting scale of restoring Chase Lodge pooled quietly, deep as the shadows in the crumbling rooms.
Christina’s fork scraped against her plate, toying with the overcooked lasagne she’d made from habit, not hunger. The oven had dried it out at the edges, where the tomato sauce had blackened into a kind of edible varnish. Rather like her marriage.
The TV burbled in the background, a crime drama neither she nor Hamish was watching. A blonde detective paced through a murder scene in a high-vis jacket, arguing with her scowling partner about blood splatter patterns. The colours on the screen threw flashes across the table where the couple sat opposite one another.
Hamish chewed with the slow, mechanical focus of someone who had stopped tasting his food several bites ago. His eyes flicked toward the TV. Then, without ceremony, he leaned forward and clicked the remote. Silence.
Christina’s body went rigid.
‘You know who you remind me of?’ he said at last.
She dug her fork into her food and didn’t look up. ‘No.’
‘Anne Boleyn in her last months,’ he continued, his voice warming to that familiar historian’s lilt. ‘She saw the signs – Henry’s wandering eye, Cromwell’s machinations, the courtiers’ shifting loyalties – but she chose accommodation over confrontation. She kept smiling, kept playing the gracious queen, kept hoping things would fix themselves.’
Her heart stuttered to a stop. Christina blinked at her plate. Was he trying to confess he was going to leave her like Herny VIII left Anne? But who for? She couldn’t bear to ask. Couldn’t breathe. She deflected. ‘Nonsense. Anne’s problem was she failed to deliver a male heir.’
Hamish leaned back slightly, gazing at her through his glasses. ‘No. That’s too simplistic. She was only thirty-five. Henry’s mother was thirty-seven when she had her last child. Anne still had time. It was her failure to address the actual problems head-on which ultimately led to her destruction.’
Christina stabbed at a piece of burned pasta. ‘Anne was doomed. Henry wasn’t in love with her anymore.’Like you’re no longer in love with me.
Hamish gave a wry smile. ‘Henry was pragmatic. Love wasn’t his motive – he loved his first queen, Catherine, but that didn’t save her.’
