Ernest picked up a decanter, then replaced it. When he looked up, his smile was sharper than usual. ‘Charming idea, sweetie. But not a runner. Too expensive.’
‘But if we factor in the cost of a private home—’
‘Drop it.’ His voice carried a warning that made her skin prickle. ‘Else I might have to start talking about personal things. Like ‘the Great Matter’.’
Christina’s hand flew to her throat, and the familiar dread settled over her like a shroud. She heard feet shuffling towards her and glanced up.
‘The Great Matter?’ Hamish, looking handsome in his dinner suit, had clearly caught the tail end of their conversation. His face lit up with scholarly enthusiasm. ‘Ernest, are youresearching Henry VIII’s divorce? Fascinating period – the whole business with Catherine of Aragon and the papal dispensation. I’ve got some rather good sources on—’
‘That’s not what I’m referring to,’ Ernest said quietly, his eyes fixed pointedly on Christina.
No Ernest, please don’t elaborate.
Hamish blinked, clearly baffled by the sudden tension. ‘Oh. Well. Different Great Matter, then?’ He looked between them hopefully, like a dog waiting for someone to throw a ball.
Ernest picked up a tray of crockery and left.
‘I want to stay here, at the Manor,’ Hamish said to Christina, apparently deciding to abandon the historical tangent.
Christina wondered if the upsetting evening had temporarily fogged her husband’s memory. ‘We are staying. Elspeth’s in your old room, remember?’
‘No, I don’t just mean tonight.’ He ran his hand through his hair, that familiar gesture when he was wrestling with something difficult. ‘I mean properly. For a few weeks. I want to be with her, see if I can help her navigate her dementia.’
She set down a wine glass, her hands suddenly unsteady. Moving to the Manor. All her tools, the gilding tank; it would be a massive upheaval Christina didn’t have time for, not now Ernest had revealed his plan. She tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘That’s ... that’s quite a big change. I’m not sure how I’d manage moving everything. The workshop setup—’
‘No, no.’ He held up his hand. ‘I just meant me.’
Christina felt something cold settle in her chest. ‘Oh.’
‘Ernest has made up his mind about Ma, and I can’t leave this to Hugo.’ His voice cracked slightly. ‘I keep thinking if I’m here, maybe I can slow it down somehow, or at least make her feel less frightened.’
She nodded, picking up a random glass and taking a gulp of wine to steady her nerves. Was this how separation started? Hemoved in with his mother for a few weeks, then a few weeks more, and suddenly the cottage became too far away, and he never quite moved back in? Two nights ago, they’d held each other in the darkness, their bodies still slick from making love, her dreaming of rebuilding what they’d nearly lost. For the first time in months, she’d felt hope unfurling inside her – that maybe they could find their way back to each other.
Now he wanted to retreat into the familiar walls of his childhood. Another delay. Another reason to avoid the tough conversations that waited between them.
He gazed at her, a penetrating look, and she tried to instil love into his eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’
Christina nodded, because what else could she do? It was the right thing, the loving thing for a son to suggest. But inside, something twisted painfully.
‘Of course,’ she heard herself say, though her voice sounded hollow even in her own ears. But what about me? The question burned unspoken on her tongue. What about us?
‘Flora needs you.’ she said.
Hamish rewarded her with a single soft ‘huh’. Moved but trying to hide it; maybe he did know how much he was asking of his wife.
‘Give me a hand with Hugo will you darling,’ said Hamish. ‘Amy must be taking Marmalade for his last walk.’
As she helped Hamish carry the unconscious Hugo to his dressing room, Christina felt the weight of more than just her brother-in-law’s limp form. Here was Hamish, stepping up without question to care for his mother, moving back into the family seat like the dutiful son he’d always been. Here was Hugo, despite his flaws, still belonging in ways Christina never would – still living in the ancestral home while she remained forever the outsider looking in.
The questions circling her mind were simple and terrifying:when would she and Hamish finally talk about their marriage? What exactly did Ernest expect from her with this auction? And what would happen if she refused?
Twenty-one
Inside Christina’s shed the scents of metal polish and lavender wax wrestled for dominance. Spring sunlight blazed through the tiny window, casting bars of light across the scarred table where tools, brushes, cloths, and trays of silver pieces vied for attention. Hunched low, silver dust in her hair like premature age, she briskly polished the last gleam on the so-called ‘Campbell entrée dish,’ which Ernest had insisted she complete this week. Her stomach fluttered. The piece gleamed unnaturally in the light – perfectly burnished, the lion-paw feet exactly right. Too right. The hallmark, though minutely replicated, still made her queasy. It had been a near-miss with Clive at the auction house, after that silver dealer questioned the mark on the piece supposedly by Paul Storr. Although Clive had been perfectly pleasant when she had collected the tureen, the whole experience had rattled her.
Outside, wind rustled through the garden, but inside the only sound was the soft, rhythmic stroke of her cloth and the creak of her stool. Then the floorboards behind her gave a groan. She turned.
‘Oh,’ she cried, her voice too high. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’
