Her hand shook.
And then her phone buzzed.
A message from Ernest:
I need to speak to you alone tomorrow, after the family meeting, need a spot of help.
Twenty-two
The fire Ernest had lit in the library hissed and popped as Christina stepped into Hamish’s favourite room. Once the entrance hall of the original house, it had been turned into a library in the eighteenth century, when one of his ancestors transformed the old Tudor stronghold into a Georgian gem. Hamish always said it still bore the soul of the old house.
The library was a haven for the enquiring mind, with bookcases marching in perfect formation along the ancient, panelled walls, shelves heavy with volumes that smelled of vanilla and slow decay. Ernest stood by the fireplace with the self-satisfied air of a man about to deliver momentous news. Christina’s gaze drifted to the extraordinary circular sofas flanking the hearth – glorious relics from the early eighteenth century. The faded yellow upholstery bore the patina of centuries of use. Christina smiled to herself wryly. At least Ernest couldn’t have fakedthose– the provenance was unshakeable, the craftsmanship beyond his considerable skills.
‘Good morning, darling,’ Hamish murmured as she settled beside him, close enough to catch the reassuring scent of his aftershave, far enough away that their sleeves didn’t touch. It had only been one day of him living here at the Manor while she rattled around their empty cottage, and already it felt like a chasm had opened between them. She dropped her huge handbag at her feet, hearing the clank as the thermos bumpedthe floorboards, and studied his profile – the way his jaw tightened when he concentrated, the silver threading through his dark hair. Was this the beginning of the end? Was this how eleven years of marriage simply ... dissolved? Not with angry words or dramatic confrontations, but with the quiet drift of separate bedrooms and different morning routines?
The thought made her heart stutter. Would he stay here indefinitely, settling back into the rhythms of his childhood home with Hugo while she became the wife who lived elsewhere, the one who visited for Sunday lunch and holidays? Would Elspeth become a child who bounced from one home to the other like a pendulum? She could see it so clearly it made her feel nauseous – years stretching ahead where she’d become a guest in his life rather than its centre.
She folded her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking and told herself he hadn’t left her; it was just that his mother needed him. Respite for Flora – and time for Christina to sort her life out. She must use that wisely.
Perched on the edge of the opposite sofa, Amy sat with her coffee cup balanced precariously on her knees, examining her manicure with the intensity of an art critic. Hugo slouched beside her, unusually alert – sobriety at breakfast being one of his few remaining concessions to respectability. Marmalade lay beside his master, one paw on Hugo’s leg as if staking claim.
Lady Flora drifted near the windows like a ghost in pale cashmere, her vacant gaze fixed on the formal gardens beyond. The snowdrops were magnificent this year, although they were no good for flower arranging – they would droop once cut.
No one spoke, as though the room itself demanded silence. It was strange, really – being in a private house, yet all sitting as if observing the unspoken rules of some grand public reading room. The quiet stretched on, broken only by the rustle of Hamish turning pages and the muffled thump of a log settling inthe grate.
Finally, Ernest cleared his throat. ‘I’ve called you all together,’ he announced, ‘because I’ve decided that instead of sending items to auction, we should hold a country house sale here instead.’
Christina felt her pulse accelerate as the pieces clicked into place. A country house sale would be the perfect opportunity to move the silver they’d tried to sell to Clive, for providing instant provenance to pieces that had never seen the inside of this house until the twenty-first century. Couldthisauction, not Clive’s, be behind the recent increased workload? Ernest’s genius lay not just in his considerable skills as a forger, but in his understanding of the English psyche’s weakness for romantic narrative.
‘How absolutely ghastly,’ Amy’s voice cut through the contemplative silence like a pair of shearing scissors through silk. ‘We’re not some nouveau riche family flogging off the furniture. Even Christina, who didn’t grow up surrounded by heritage, can appreciate that.’
Hugo straightened. ‘No, I like the idea, if we’re being practical about this,’ he drawled. ‘Swap some of this furniture with stuff in the attic. Flog it all as aristocratic treasures. Raise a decent slug of cash.’
Hamish looked up from the manuscript spread across his lap. ‘These aren’t commodities, Hugo. They’re—’ He paused, his fingers finding a pair of miniature portraits nestled among his papers. The ovals caught the firelight; their surfaces foxed with age and their gilt frames glinting despite years of wear. Each miniature, no more than two inches in length, seemed to glow as the gold leaf caught and held the light. Delicate pearls hung from the bottom and sides of each frame like captured dewdrops, trembling slightly each time Hamish stroked one of the portraits.
Christina watched her husband cradle the pieces, his face transformed by the reverent expression she knew so well – the look he reserved for authentic Tudor craftsmanship. ‘You can’t just sell the attic treasures. I found these up there last night. I think they might have been painted by a competent follower of Holbein. Mid-sixteenth century,’ he said, his thumb tracing the delicate features of a long-dead couple. ‘I’m going to hang them in here. You can’t possibly sell these.’
Ernest’s eyes fixed on the miniatures with the calculating intensity of a jeweller appraising diamonds. ‘What would they be worth?’
‘A Holbein follower ... perhaps ten thousand, maybe double given the provenance,’ Hamish replied absently. ‘Though that’s hardly the point. They’re our ancestors, part of this house’s history, part of—’
‘Twenty thousand.’ Ernest repeated. His carefully neutral expression did not fool Christina; he was calculating not just the value of Hamish’s treasures but the credibility they would lend to less authentic pieces.
From the depths of her handbag, Christina’s phone trilled. She rose gratefully, recognising escape when it presented itself, and trotted to a window, her eyes still fixed on Ernest’s thoughtful expression as he studied the miniatures. ‘Christina, darling!’ Lady Penelope’s voice bubbled through the receiver with characteristic enthusiasm. ‘Are you free for tea this morning? I’ve asked Humphrey to join us.’
Christina almost laughed in surprise. Humphrey, the most elusive man in the county, summoned at last. Maybe today she’d get prices instead of swatches. ‘That sounds lovely,’ Christina replied, ‘What time?’
‘Eleven-ish? Wonderful. You’ll adore Humphrey; such interesting stories about provenance and authentication.’
Christina ended the call and returned to her seat; provenanceand authentication – her life had become an elaborate exercise in both.
Ernest spoke, his voice sounding unnaturally excited, as if chivvying a group of reluctant children outside to play. ‘Think of it as a celebration,’ he was saying, ‘a way of sharing these beautiful things with people who’ll truly appreciate them. Instead of some dreary auction house, we stage a proper country house sale; previews with champagne and canapés.’
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Christina tasted ash on her tongue. No one was resisting Ernest’s plan – Flora didn’t seem to understand it, Hugo was on side, Amy had tried but fallen at the first fence, and Hamish had escaped into the comfort of the sixteenth century. ‘Right, that’s settled then, I’ll get on and select an auction house,’ said Ernest. ‘Leave it all to me.’
Those magic words – that’s why the family complied, because Ernest undertook the grubby side of life, allowing them to drift through theirs, unsullied by the practicalities of making money, or the humdrum of domestic details.
She stooped to gather her handbag, suddenly paralysed by the simple act of saying goodbye to her own husband. Kiss his cheek? Ask him to walk her to the car? Suggest they meet for coffee? Every gesture felt either too intimate for whatever they’d become, or too distant for a couple. Ernest’s voice pierced her spiralling thoughts.
