A slightly stooped Hamish, his tweed jacket buttoned all wrong and hair sticking up on one side, blinked at her from the doorway. ‘Elspeth’s safely back at school ... I thought I’d drop in on my way back to the Manor, pick up a few bits and pieces.’ Hesniffed. ‘Smells like an apothecary in here,’ he said, beaming. ‘Or a Tudor sickroom.’
She laughed a little too loudly, then draped a thick polishing cloth over the forgery. It looked casual. She hoped.
Hamish stepped closer, glancing over at the clutter. ‘Restoring something?’
‘Mmm,’ she said, swallowing. ‘Helping out Ernest.’ At least that part was true.
He raised a brow, and before she could stop him, his hand reached toward the cloth. She held her breath. He flipped back the cloth and peered at the silver entrée dish.
‘Looks pristine,’ he said, running a fingertip along the edge. ‘Almost ... suspiciously so.’
Christina’s blood cooled.
‘Well, it needed a clean,’ she said, forcing a casual tone. ‘I didn’t say it was in poor condition. Just tarnished. Bit of elbow grease. That’s all.’
Hamish peering at the dish. He bent to pick up a pair of silver tongs, muttering, ‘Incredible work. You’ve always had a knack.’
Christina blew out a breath. He replaced the tongs and stepped to the window, staring out.
Changing tack, she said, ‘I was thinking about the house.’
Hamish glanced across. ‘Hmm?’
‘Chase Lodge,’ she continued, forcing brightness. ‘I think it’s what we need. More space. And it would raise some cash to fund your mother’s care. I’ve spoken to Rupert and he thinks he can get the finance for us.’
Hamish went quiet. Then he took off his glasses and started polishing them with his shirt tail. ‘What about your garden? You know nothing grows down there in the valley.’
Christina felt the pang she always did at the thought of abandoning her carefully planted cottage garden; but marriages required compromise. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get into houseplants.And I’ll always have the Manor gardens.’
‘But I like our cottage. What would we do with more space? It would just be ... more to dust.’
Christina’s smile faltered. Didn’t he see they needed a fresh start. ‘It’s not about dust.’
He replaced his glasses and looked at her kindly, as if she were an interesting manuscript. ‘I know. Look, let’s think about it some more. It’s a big decision and there’s so much happening right now.’ he swallowed. ‘Ma. This crazy idea about sending the family antiques to an auction.’
In the tiny space, he was so close she could hear his breathing, feel the warmth of him, but he remained utterly unreachable. All she wanted was for him to touch her. A hand on her shoulder. A kiss. Anything. Connection, like last week, when they’d both been raw and had reached for one another. She kept replaying that passionate night, wondering now if she’d let herself believe it meant more than it did. More to her than it did to Hamish. Each day he spent at the Manor without her, the distance between them would grow. Soon she feared she’d lose him to that world entirely.
But for a moment Hamish had smiled at her again – that old smile from when they’d first met, when he’d thought her quirky passion for antique silver was charming. He’d called her work incredible, and for those few seconds she’d felt like his wife again instead of a stranger he was politely tolerating. Even if this conversation felt like they were speaking different languages – his full of duty and family obligation, hers thick with secrets she couldn’t share.
‘I’ve got another lecture coming up,’ he said casually. ‘Up at St Andrews. They want me to talk about Elizabethan punishments. Lovely lot. Morbid topic, but they’ll lap it up.’
‘Oh,’ she said, unsure of what else to say. ‘I always liked it there. Maybe I’ll come too.’
‘You’d be bored stiff.’ He smiled. ‘All codpieces and treason.’
‘I like codpieces,’ she said dryly. ‘They remind me of you.’
He laughed, that old, peaceful sound, and for a second, she thought he might come to her. But he leaned on the windowsill.
‘Ernest’s called another family pow-wow,’ he added, straightening. ‘Tomorrow morning. No alcohol this time, which I suppose means it’s either very serious or he’s had Hugo breathalysed.’
Christina snorted. Ernest didn’t make that sort of mistake. She believed the family dinner was timed to ensure Hugo wouldn’t be sober enough to push back on Ernest’s plans. Now the idea of the auction had settled in the family’s minds, the next meeting would be to cement his scheme.
‘Sounds ominous,’ she said.
There was a beat of silence, then Hamish tapped the window. ‘Well. I’ll leave you to your “cleaning”. Must get back to Ma.’
As he left, Christina stared down at the gleaming forgery, recalling Hamish’s amiable tone, his mild questions – had he guessed what she was doing?
