Christina glanced into the box. The tablets bore the marking “50 mg”.
‘Is the pain worse?’ she asked carefully. ‘I thought your dose was 20 mg?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Flora said, her voice distant. ‘I think Ernest mentioned the doctor changed it.’
She remembered the last family meeting – Flora in her tatty slippers making that odd remark about snow in the hearth, and suddenly her mind cleared, and she knew. Ernest didn’t misjudge strategy; that evening in the Ballroom had been staged for the family to notice Flora’s forgetfulness. She would bet anything that tonight, Flora would be the topic for discussion, and from the outset, Ernest would lead the family’s deliberationsto the conclusion he wanted. Would that be hiring a live-in carer? Or perhaps he wanted to sell more land – against Flora’s wishes – to pay for her care?
Christina glanced at her watch – if she drove like the clappers, she’d get to Clive just in time to collect the forged silver and be back to change for dinner.
She had a sinking feeling the evening was going to be far more complicated than the menu.
Twenty
The dining room was a tour de force of old grandeur. Four Stagioni columns dominated the room, each representing a season, carved with swirling drapery and crowned with gilded capitals. Dark walnut panelling covered the walls, and elegant Georgian cornicing ran beneath the ceiling’s edge, its detail so precise it looked as if piped in royal icing. A vast marble fireplace stood in the centre of one side of the room, grey-veined and baroque, flanked by mismatched urns.
Above the twenty-foot-long mahogany dining table, a Venetian chandelier glittered like frozen fireworks. Beneath it, the table shimmered with the silver pheasants, salt cellars, and candlesticks that Christina had fetched from the chilly silver room. She never resented laying the table; this was her favourite room, so different from their cosy cottage and yet despite it all, she felt at home in here.
Christina sat in the middle of the table, uncomfortable in a black silk dress and pearls, both on loan from Lady Flora. On her left was Hugo, and on her right, Percy, the family lawyer – a lean man in his fifties with precise steel-grey hair, sharp eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard that gave him an air of authority. He sat perfectly upright, hands folded lightly on the table, observing the others with a calm, almost calculating patience, as if every word and gesture might need filing away. She had no idea why Percy had been invited, but supposed that Ernest wouldtell them. Opposite her, Hamish was discussing Tudor taxation policies with nobody in particular, while Ernest circulated with a decanter of white wine. He paused by Hugo’s chair. The glass was empty, despite Ernest having topped it up minutes earlier. Ernest filled it to the brim, then took his seat. Flora picked up a little silver hand bell and shook it.
‘You rang, darling?’ Ernest said, springing back to his feet.
‘My white wine is tepid,’ said Flora with a sniff.
Christina picked up her own glass and took a sip. The wine was perfectly chilled, but Ernest left, returning with a frosted bottle and a clean glass. He stood beside his wife and poured with a flourish. ‘This should be more to your liking darling.’
‘Thank you,’ Lady Flora muttered, already gazing vaguely at the chandelier. ‘Someone dim the diamonds ... they’re awfully loud.’
From across the table, Amy was stretching to pour water into Hugo’s glass. Christina took the jug out of Amy’s hands: ‘let me.’
Her sister-in-law shot Christina a sharp look and muttered, ‘Try not to spill anything this time, will you.’
‘To that fine beast who never spoke a word out of turn!’Hugo declared, swaying slightly as he raised his glass toward a mounted stag’s head. Despite the expensive cut of his jacket and the perfectly knotted bow tie, he looked dishevelled, as if he was coming undone at the edges.
Percy raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘No,’ Christina said grinning. ‘Sometimes it’s worse.’
Hugo suddenly lurched towards Christina, his face uncomfortably close, whisky fumes washing over her. ‘Christina! You’re ... you’re the one who knows about ... mad, the whole lot of them!’ He let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a seal’s bark. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time ... where was I?’ He blinked owlishly at her, his pupils dilated.
Christina leaned back as Hugo’s face drifted ever closer, closeenough that she could count the broken blood vessels in his nose. He seemed to have lost all sense of personal space, treating her like a confessor in a very cramped booth.
‘Hugo,’ she said gently, ‘perhaps some more water?’
‘Water!’ Hugo barked another laugh. ‘Terrible stuff. Fish fornicate in it, you know.’ He trailed off, staring at her with intense concentration as if she were a challenging crossword clue. ‘You’ve got kind eyes. Has anyone ever told you that? Hamish should ... bet he doesn’t ... ha, ha ... Ma?’
Lady Flora rose, suddenly unsteady. ‘I think I’ll go and feed the children.’ She blinked at Christina. ‘Or was it something else? You’re awfully good at remembering things.’
Christina stood. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’This time,she thought,Flora’s performance had been faultlessly timed; even the lawyer had witnessed her peculiar behaviour. That must be why Ernest had invited Percy.
‘Capital idea!’ Hugo called after them with another barking laugh. ‘Mind the suits of armour on the stairs. They’re frightfully ... judgmental.’
After getting Flora into bed, Christina returned to the dining room.
Marmalade was under the table, lying in blissful ecstasy as Hugo slipped him bits of pheasant. The dog’s tail thumped lazily against a table leg, eyes half-lidded in gratitude.
Ernest waited for Christina to sit, then cleared his throat and tapped his own glass with a knife. ‘Right. Topic: Flora. As you can all see, her mind is going. I’m afraid the doctor agrees with me,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘It’s dementia. We’re managing, but there’ll come a point ...’
Across from her, Hamish went still. Not a word – but she could practically hear his thoughts turning over. Guilt. For needing to be told by Ernest. For leaving his mother to decline in rooms he’d once run through as a boy. Christina studied his profile: theclenched jaw, the twitch at his temple, his fingers wrapped too tightly around his wine glass – like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
