She recalled her own childhood at eleven. Just her mum, worn thin from trying. Scraping by. Empty cupboards. Second-hand clothes that marked Tina out before she even spoke. No one tohelp with homework. No one to explain where her father had gone, or why.Was she doing any better at raising her own child?The thought clung to her like damp, and she took a slug of wine to try to wash her thoughts clean.
For a moment, neither moved. Then he reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses. His hand brushed hers, and she didn’t pull away.
Finally, he said, softly, ‘is that what you think? That we don’t like each other?’
Christina’s eyes burned. ‘I just want things to go back to the way they were.’
There was a pause, but the wine softened the edges and Hamish began to talk. He stuck to a single topic: Elspeth. Soon they were reminiscing about her babyhood, laughing about the Tudor pageants she insisted her father stage for her, shaking their heads over Ratty’s oversized bright orange tail.
Later, the fire long dimmed and the wine finished, Christina stood brushing her teeth while Hamish sat cross-legged on the bathroom rug in his frayed dressing gown, reading aloud one of his favourite Shakespeare sonnets. Her eyes met his in the mirror, and for a moment, the distance between their bedrooms didn’t feel quite so far. Something softened behind his eyes.
She didn’t speak. She just nodded.
They climbed into the same bed for the first time in two years. No urgency, no words. Just two people, quietly desperate not to be strangers anymore. They moved together slowly, uncertain at first, two people stepping back into a language they used to speak fluently. His hand brushed her cheek, and something in her chest cracked open. Not with pain – but with longing. For him. For them. For the version of their life that used to feel easy.
At first, their lovemaking was slow, almost shy. No frantic need, no desperation, just the wonder of reconnection. Murmured apologies, soft laughter, occasional gasps as memorymet sensation. Hamish’s hands moved tentatively at first, lingering at her waist, pausing at her shoulder, fingertips stroking along her spine. Under his touch Christina felt herself relax, piece by piece – until the space between them melted and the distance of months closed completely.
It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. It was theirs.
Afterwards, they lay in the dark, forehead to forehead. His hand stayed on her back, fingers moving in slow circles. She felt the warmth of his skin, the curve of his hand on her back, and let herself believe that this was the turning point. That they could fix things. That it wasn’t too late to come back to each other.
In the morning, Christina woke to sunlight slipping through the curtains in slim, golden fingers. She stretched, blinking into the quiet, and reached instinctively across the bed.
Cool sheets. No Hamish.
The space where he’d been only hours ago was empty, the duvet folded back. Her eyes flicked to her bedside table. A mug of tea sat there, steam long vanished. She recalled he was leaving early to travel to Scotland for a guest lecture and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.
Christina stared at the mug. A gesture of kindness before he left. And then – without warning – she started crying. Not loudly, not theatrically. Just a slow, exhausted weeping that came from somewhere deep inside. As though it had been waiting too long to be let out.
She wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand and pulled the duvet tighter around her shoulders. Then she rose, wrapped herself in his dressing gown, inhaling the scent of him, and went to stand by the window.
Outside, a sycamore tree stood bare limbed at the edge of the garden, the sky above it washed in pale, perfect blue.
And suddenly, she saw it all clearly. The shape of what she hadto do.
She must buy Chase Lodge.
That house – filled with history – was her future. Something solid she could plant her flag in, instead of living in Flora’s tiny cottage like some grateful dependent.
The arrangement had never seemed to bother Hamish – but then it washismother who’d given them the home, and he wasn’t on the receiving end of her barbs about “temporary arrangements” and “grace and favour homes”. He didn’t have to smile politely when Flora reminded her, with saccharine sweetness, that the cottage came with conditions. She could take it away as easily as she had given it.
Chase Lodge may not have the view she craved, or the sunlight she needed for her flowers, but it wouldn’t be a handout. It would be theirs. Proof she belonged – to Hamish, and to his family, who still looked at her as though she might quietly slip away when the novelty wore off. And it would be big enough that they’d never have to move. It would give Elspeth the roots Christina never had.
She dipped her face to his dressing gown, breathing in the scent of the man she loved. Last night had reminded her there was still time. The distance between her and Hamish wasn’t impossible to bridge. That tenderness, that reaching for one another – it meant something. It was a thread. Fragile, but there.
And now it was up to her to weave their life back together. Buying Chase Lodge – restoring it, claiming it – felt like the answer. Of course, she had to manage it without Ernest or Frank revealing her secret – if, indeed, they knew it. Otherwise, that fragile thread linking her and Hamish would be snapped forever.
She pressed a hand to the cold glass of the window and closed her eyes. Whatever it took, she would make Chase Lodge happen. And she would confront Ernest properly later today.
This would be their turning point.
Seventeen
The wind blowing in from the sea was sharp enough to slice onions. Christina shivered as she approached the estate office, clutching a box to her chest. The forgeries for the auction were nestled inside, wrapped like relics in sheets of theNorth Devon Journal.She couldn’t wait to hand them over, deliver her speech, and then wrestle herself free. Over the last few days, she had managed to convince herself that Ernest had been bluffing in the silver room, guessing that the reason she’d adopted ‘Christina’ over ‘Tina’ was linked to something unpleasant in her past. Maybe he had just overheard Hamish shortening her name in the days before his mother convinced him to refer to his wife as Christina whenever in public.
The door opened before she reached it; Ernest appeared, and leaned casually against the frame, a steaming mug in one hand. He wore a heavy waxed jacket, collar turned up, smile firmly in place. ‘Ah Christina. Punctual as always,’ he said.
He stood aside to let her pass, revealing Frank, perched on the edge of a chair, puffing on a vape. She edged past him, into the sweet chemical haze of artificial cherry which clung to the air.
