Christina sank into an armchair, trying to suppress the thrill of envy she always experienced in these beautiful, elegant houses.Oh, to have a garden like that, she thought, looking out at a freshly mown lawn, edged with flower beds already showing the first green spears of life. Even in March, stripped back and waiting, it had an architectural elegance her cottage garden could never achieve.
‘Darling, I’m so envious of your little project,’ said Penelope, pouring tea from a George III silver service with the fluid grace of two decades’ practice. ‘Those proportions! Chase Lodge is simply aching for someone like you to bring her back to her former glory.’
Christina accepted her cup, remembering that a decade ago, the cottage had been a ‘little project’. ‘Most people wouldn’t callChase Lodge a little project, they’d call it uninhabitable.’
‘That’s precisely when one knows a property has character.’ Penelope settled back, crossing her ankles with elegant precision. A discreet stack of design folders lay on the sofa beside her, nothing as vulgar as a ‘mood board’, but the implication was the same: fabrics, schemes, ideas Christina hadn’t asked for. She groaned inwardly.
‘The last thing you want is a house that someone with inferior taste has refurbished, full of hidden spotlights and ghastly double glazing.’ Lady Penelope picked up a folder.
To prevent a lecture about interiors, Christina picked up a silver bonbon dish. ‘Silver’s funny,’ said Christina, running her finger along a dulled edge. ‘The more you use it, the less it tarnishes. Neglect it and it sulks.’
Was that what Hamish was doing, sulking because his wife was neglecting him, spending too many hours tucked away in the estate office with Ernest and Frank, or in her shed?
‘How profound,’ Penelope murmured, and Christina caught the faint condescension beneath the words. She’d grown used to the tone, one that suggested her insights were quaint rather than valuable. ‘Now, let’s talk about Chase Lodge ...’
‘You don’t think it’s too big?’
‘Nonsense. Besides, my dear, you’ll need something substantial if you’re to salvage this marriage. A man like Hamish requires a proper stage.’
Christina managed a faint smile ‘Hamish says he likes our cottage.’
Penelope’s eyebrows lifted in amused disbelief. ‘Oh, I daresay he likes it. Simplicity can be soothing for men of ... restless temperament. But he feels more comfortable, somewhere like here.’
‘Restless isn’t the word I would have chosen.’
Penelope let the pause stretch, then said silkily. ‘No, but it’s theone that fits.’
‘Is William restless?’
‘Not at all! We’ve been married twenty-eight years, and we’ve never had a cross word.’ Penelope’s smile was radiant. ‘Of course, we maintain separate bedrooms now, and separate social calendars mostly, but that’s the secret to marital harmony. Parallel lives, darling. No messy emotions to complicate things.’
Christina stared at her friend – her marriage sounded like a business partnership between polite strangers – and felt something cold settle inside her. Was this the advice she’d been seeking? Was this the model of success Penelope had been steering her toward?
Penelope’s fingers fluttered toward a plate of macaroons. ‘Now, Humphrey. He’s absolutely the best heritage architect.’
As if summoned by her words, Humphrey Harrison appeared in the doorway, escorted and announced by a man wearing butler’s regalia. Humphrey strode in, all long limbs and authority, his beautifully cut suit fraying at the cuffs. The shabby elegance suited him; confidence radiated from a man who’d spent decades coaxing life back into buildings older than some nations.
‘Mrs Pemberton.’ His handshake was warm, his smile distracted, as though half his mind were still examining a roof truss elsewhere. ‘Penelope’s told me about Chase Lodge. A magnificent challenge. Of course, a house like that comes with ... obligations.’
Penelope leaned in with the pleased air of a matchmaker watching her scheme unfold. ‘Humphrey is the very best with historic estates. He understands the responsibility you are taking on.’
Christina attempted a polite smile.‘It’s more “derelict hall” than “historic estate”, I’m afraid.’
‘Precisely why it must be handled properly,’ Humphrey said,assuming her caution gave him an opportunity to assert himself. ‘I’ve driven over and taken a quick shufty.’ His eyes narrowed, ‘reckon the woodwork’s shot to pieces, we’ll need to remake all those by hand, probably run to six figures ...’
Penelope gave an encouraging nod, as though six figures were the sort of minor inconvenience one addressed between lunch and the school run. ‘You simply can’t cut corners with heritage work, darling. Humphrey’s absolutely right.’
Six figures. She forced her gaze to stay on Humphrey, though it wanted to dart anywhere else. Her thoughts wandered to the passenger seat of her car and the loving cup. If genuine, Hamish’s share would be worth enough to pay for the renovations Humphrey was breezily outlining, ten times over.
Humphrey continued, warming to his theme. ‘And then the roof. It’s not merely a matter of patching. You’ll want handmade clay tiles, possibly new purlins ... It’s an investment, Mrs Pemberton. But one that will reward the soul.’
Penelope emitted a soft, approving sigh. ‘Isn’t he marvellous?’
Christina glanced between them, feeling faintly as though they had begun planning a life she no longer recognised. When had she become the sort of woman who carried boxes of antiques waiting to be forged while listening to an architect – whose clients probably normally arrived for meetings by helicopter – talk about handmade tiles and six-figure restorations.
She set her cup down carefully. ‘It sounds ... intriguing,’ she said.
Humphrey beamed. ‘All great houses are. What I need is a key so I can pop in and take a proper look.’ Penelope smiled too, triumphant.
