Ernest answered on the second ring, his voice carrying that familiar note of distracted efficiency. ‘Christina, perfect timing. I was just going over the cataloguing schedule.’
‘Schedule?’ The word caught her off guard, ‘don’t you need to select the auction house first?’
‘Did that months ago darling,’ he stopped, seeming to catch himself, then carried on smoothly, ‘when I first noticed something was amiss with Flora. Call it a contingency plan. We’re full steam ahead now. The catalogue needs to go to print in three weeks, which means we need all the pieces properly attributed and photographed by then.’ His tone was brisk, businesslike, as if he were discussing the weather rather than upending the Pemberton world.
‘Ernest, listen, I’ve got something terribly exciting to tell you ...’He didn’t seem to want to hear her news, interjecting, ‘How are you getting on? Particularly that loving cup – have you had a chance to examine it properly yet?’
Her heart fluttering, she burst out, ‘that’s what I must talk toyou about—’
‘The cup is fascinating, isn’t it?’ he interrupted silkily. ‘What maker do you think we could pass it off as?’
She tried again. ‘That’s what I want to discuss. You mentioned Hester Bateman—’
‘No. We can do better. I think we’ve got enough Storr pieces in the collection,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I suppose if we’re being ambitious, we could always suggest Paul de Lamerie – that name always adds a few zeros to the estimate.’
The blood drained from Christina’s face, leaving her feeling lightheaded. Did he already know de Lamerie was the silversmith? Her voice, when it came, barely passed for calm. ‘That’s ... quite ambitious,’ she said.
‘I need everything done in three weeks. I know it’s tight, and we can always add one or two items as late lots, but I need all the Paul Storr finished in time to be photographed.’ She heard papers rustling in the background, ‘So, you’ll have everything ready in time?’
‘Yes,’ she heard herself say, the word tasting like betrayal.
‘Good girl.’ He said, then hung up.
Christina lingered with the phone in her hand. Why had Ernest given her the cup? He’d as good as told her that de Lameire had made it – heknewhow valuable it was.
Her gaze snapped to the cup. In a flash of clarity, she understood; he’d given it to her so the auction house expert wouldn’t spot it among the family silver – wouldn’t look too closely and notice all those fake Paul Storr pieces. And he knew she’d keep it safe – she kept her shed locked at night; and his hold over her guaranteed her silence.
But what was the rest of his plan? What came next? Ernest must have a plan. He always had a plan. She’d spent two years helping him. This time, though, she was prepared to thwart him. She must work out how.
Twenty-four
Before the dawn chorus had risen, Christina – armed with her usual thermos of tea – unlatched the door to her shed. The hinges gave a tired groan, and the chill of late March slipped in around her. At the edge of her workbench sat the loving cup, its silver lip glinting faintly through the tissue paper shroud that wrapped it like a relic.
She couldn’t look at it without thinking of the past – the loving cup, finer than anything she’d ever seen, shining like the early days of her marriage, when love had felt solid, brilliant, and entirely hers. Grief had a way of dressing itself in beauty – the gloss of a photograph, the echo of a song, the glint of silver in low light.
She pulled on her headtorch and riffled through Ernest’s box of silver for the upcoming auction, choosing a sweetmeat dish.
As she hammered and polished and forged, the cup became her torment, asymbol of the skill and resilience she would have to muster to thwart Ernest’s plans, working blind against an enemy with a headstart. Outside, dawn crept in – first a thinning of darkness, then a wash of pewter light seeping through the window. The air brightened to the soft grey of morning mist over the fields, and by the time the first full notes of a robin’s song rang out, the world beyond her door had turned to silver. Christina put down her hammer, poured herself a cup of tea and peeled away the tissue paper, studying the lovingcup’s perfect proportions, the exquisite craftsmanship, before carefully pushing it aside, no closer to a solution.
She pulled the small gilding unit down from a shelf and set it carefully on the workbench. Christina clipped the wires to the sweetmeat dish and flipped the switch. A faint hum filled the air as the current began to flow. She leaned closer, transfixed, watching gold ions cling to the silver surface, layer by layer, the dish slowly taking on a warm, golden sheen. It was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, a silent transformation that could take ten, fifteen minutes, yet in that small workshop it felt like magic.
She sat cradling the warmth from her tea, inhaling the calming scent. Somewhere deep in her sub-conscious a realization was starting to crystallize, one she wasn’t ready to examine too closely. Chase Lodge had become her obsession precisely because it was easier to focus on changing her address than changing her life. A new house might not magically transform her marriage or erase the compromises that had led her to a life of crafting lies in silver. It wouldn’t silence the growing voice in her head that whispered uncomfortable truths about the woman she’d become.
The loving cup was a mirror reflecting all the choices that had brought her to this moment. And beneath it all lurked the deeper fear, the knowledge that Ernest held over her. He knew her secret. That knowledge tethered her to him, and made escape seem impossible even as every instinct screamed at her to run.
Christina understood she couldn’t simply choose between right and wrong, between honesty and survival. She needed to find a third way, a path that would free her not just from Ernest’s grip, but from the web of compromises that had slowly strangled the person she used to be.
Her shoulders slumped, staring round at her reference books and tools she’d spent years mastering. Then an idea started forming – a seed that wormed its way deep into her mind;maybe there was a way out of this mess. Everything she needed was right here in this room. Everything except the courage to use it. She put down her cup and reached for a reference book.
The next few weeks passed in a relentless whirlwind, Christina bent over her workbench, transforming innocent base silver into convincing replicas of Georgian masterpieces. The familiar rhythm of hammer on silver should have been soothing, but each strike felt like a countdown, marking time until Ernest’s deadline.
The loneliness became a living thing, creeping up on her at unexpected moments. Hamish was still with his mother, and she barely saw him. He’d dropped by the cottage once while she was out shopping, leaving a dry note propped against the kettle:
Came to collect some books. Hope you’re well. H.
The careful politeness of it made her cry into her tea.
The first weekend without him in the cottage was the worst. On Friday she collected Elspeth from school, her heart lifting at the sight of her daughter’s bright face in the passenger seat, chattering about hockey matches and rehearsals for the next playAs You Like It. When they reached the Manor, watching Elspeth bound up the steps, calling ‘Daddy!’ with such joy, Christina had felt an ache of exclusion. She’d packed a bag – in the boot of the car – imagining herself staying for dinner, and then the night. The three of them together again, pretending things were normal.
