Christina wanted to tell him. About the tureen first – that would be easiest. How she’d spent three sleepless nights perfecting the maker’s mark, adjusting the pressure of each strike. Then about the others waiting with Clive. The snuffbox with its fraudulent London hallmark. The Georgian tea service that had never once graced a Georgian table.
But the forgeries weren’t the heart of it. They were just symptoms. The real disease was what Ernest knew. What he kept mentioning casually, as if he were commenting on the weather, as if it didn’t hold her life in its grip.
Her throat felt dry.
If only she dared. Not yet.
Because Hamish, her clever, dreamy historian, had his blind spots. He still believed in the integrity of old things. Maybe even in the integrity of her.
The Great Matter. While Hamish read about Cromwell’s machinations or Anne Boleyn’s downfall, she sat in her shed, trapped in her own Tudor drama. The similarity would have delighted her husband, if only she could tell him.
So instead, she said, ‘Did you ever finish that paper? The one on Tudor fashion oddities?’
His face lit up. ‘Actually, yes. I sent it in last week.There’s a fascinating account of a Devon gentleman in 1538 who had his portrait painted wearing seven different doublets because hecouldn’t decide which made him look most distinguished. The painter charged him for each sitting!’
As he spoke, Christina let his voice wash over her like the tide, warm and steady, while her mind raced in another direction altogether.
Restoring her marriage would have to be postponed. She must get to the auction house before the past came leaking through the cracks.
Nineteen
The old flower room smelled of sap, and the ghost of lavender polish. Cut stems from the greenhouses – tulips and freesias which Christina had raised from bulbs and ‘forced on’ in a carefully managed schedule, adjusting water and temperature so they came into flower simultaneously – crowded the room, stacked in ancient enamel pails.
Lady Flora stood at the centre, gloved hands deftly arranging a spray of dusky red rhododendron into the silver loving cup. The cup was enormous – eighteen inches tall and smothered in ornate chasing, dulled by age – but somehow Flora wielded it like a florist’s vase.
‘It’s for the tea,’ Flora said, not looking up. ‘They’ll expect flowers. You see, Christina – to women who know, a room looks undressed without flowers. Like hosting a tea party in one’s undergarments.’
‘They’ll love it. It looks beautiful.’
And she meant it.She knew Flora was a skilled flower arranger, but she wondered if her mother-in-law ever stopped to appreciate the skill of coaxing flowers to grow in the first place, let alone to ensure a constant year-round supply.
Lady Flora sniffed. ‘Of course it looks beautiful.’
From under the table came a loud, disgruntled yowl, followed by the slow thud, thud, thud of a tail. Marmalade had wriggled between the pails and was now attempting to reverse, a tulipstem dangling absurdly from his jowls like a guilty moustache. Christina laughed. ‘Oh, look at him.’
Lady Flora turned, one brow lifting as she surveyed the dog. ‘We may need to have a word about his artistic direction.’
Christina laughed again, and this time Lady Flora joined her.
‘How are you getting on with Chase Lodge?’ Flora asked, bending to rescue the mangled tulip.
Christina froze mid-trim, a branch of bay leaves poised in her hand.
‘You aren’t having second thoughts about selling, are you?’
‘I have to think about it,’ Flora repeated, her voice thinner now, brittle as autumn leaves. ‘You may or may not be aware that after Hamish’s father died, I lost a lot of money. We managed, but later I had to raise a hundred thousand pounds. Paid off Hugo’s debts, provided money for Hamish to go to university.’ Her hands paused, gloved fingers trembling slightly. Her eyes glazed over, tears welling but refusing to fall, as if even grief required permission in this house. ‘It was the first time land had been sold on this estate in 700 years. It’s rather difficult to contemplate doing that again.’
Christina’s throat constricted. Her palms were slick with sweat, and she pressed them against her thighs, leaving damp patches on her jeans.
Outside, a bird shrieked once – sharp, desperate – before falling silent. The sound, like a key turning in a lock she thought safely shut, cut through Christina, echoing her own trapped panic. Even the wildlife knew when to keep quiet about matters which were irreversible.
‘Life used to be perfect,’ Flora said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘After we lost the money, Hamish adapted. Hugo never did.’
Christina nodded mutely, her mind racing. Maybe that’s why Hamish had become so obsessed with the Tudors. It was easierto live in the past, buried in sixteenth-century manuscripts, than face the wreckage of the present. No need to watch your brother gradually pickle himself in whisky as his only means of adaptation. Hugo’s version of coping, she supposed, was considerably less academic than his brother’s, but probably just as effective at avoiding reality.
Christina bent to snip a tulip stalk, hoping she looked casual. ‘You know Hamish and I would treat Chase Lodge with the greatest respect,’ she said, her throat tight.
Flora blinked rapidly. Then asked, ‘Is it Wednesday? And did you feed the children yet?’ She fumbled to open an antique silver pillbox.The filigree traced intricate patterns around the edges – tiny flowers and scrollwork that had taken Christina several attempts to replicate convincingly. The initials on the lid were her masterpiece: F.P. in flowing copperplate, aged just enough to suggest two hundred years of careful handling. Ernest had sold the original a year ago while his wife was in Scotland visiting relatives.Flora peered inside. ‘Silly me. I keep forgetting to take these. If it weren’t for Ernest, I wouldn’t be able to move for pain.’
