But spotting the careful way Hamish looked at her, the polite distance in his greeting, she’d known she couldn’t stay. Their marriage, which had seemed on the verge of repair, had taken a sudden lurch backwards. Things might have been different if they’d spoken about their problems before Ernest dropped the bombshell about Flora’s dementia, but now Hamish waswrapped up in caring for his mother, and that left little room for anything else. She couldn’t stay.Not when Elspeth would inevitably ask why Mummy was distant, why Daddy seemed so formal, why the air between her parents felt so fragile it might shatter with one wrong word. So, she’d made her excuses about work deadlines and drove home alone, watching in the rearview mirror through a film of tears, as her daughter waved from the Manor’s grand doorway, her adored husband standing silently beside.
Driving home, still sobbing, Christina fixed her mind on her plan – rough, uncertain, but hers. She would need total solitude for the next few weeks if she was going to make it work. She’d tell Ernest to leave her alone so she could complete the mountain of tasks he’d set her. She’d ask Hamish to pick up Elspeth next weekend and keep her at the Manor. Meanwhile, Christina’s world would shrink to the small circle of lamplight that illuminated her trickery. Like a raw piece of silver on the bench, it would take shape under her hands; the metal always did, in the end. She owed it to Elspeth, to Hamish, and to herself to see this through.
Twenty-five
On the morning of her deadline, Christina drove to the Manor. She had chosen her clothes carefully – a dove-grey dress Hamish had always said brought out her green eyes, heels, makeup and a spritz of perfume – hoping, despite everything, that she might catch sight of him. After three weeks, his absence had carved a hollow ache in her heart that no amount of work could fill.
The formal gardens were ablaze with tulips emerging in bright sherbet colours, and out of habit she gathered an armful of stems on her way to the house. She had half-hoped Hamish would be walking among them, as he often did when the spring flowers emerged. She imagined him looking up and seeing her, holding the blooms in her hands, remembering what they had been to each other. But he wasn’t there.
She popped the tulips in the car boot, collected the box of finished silver from the passenger seat and strode into the octagonal hall with its eight perfectly proportioned walls. Furniture had been arranged in careful groupings – Georgian side tables, Victorian writing desks, a set of dining chairs that had never seen the inside of the dining room since she’d known this house. Lot numbers on cream cards were propped against each piece. The space hummed with controlled chaos – young men in shirtsleeves carried clipboards and called out lot numbers with the urgent efficiency of battlefield medics. A banner hung somewhat incongruously from the first-floorgallery, ‘Hartwell & Sons’, the provincial lettering at odds with the aristocratic setting. The tall windows let in the spring morning light, which caught the dust motes stirring in the air. She scanned the room, searching for Hamish, wondering why the auctioneers were already upending the house with a week before the auction.
Crisp white moulding framed the walls, and the black and white marble floor spread out in geometric patterns which seemed to shift and dance as auction house staff bustled across its surface.The chequered floor tiles had always reminded her of a chessboard in a fairytale: grand, improbable, and hinting of fun.
She scanned the room. No sign of Hamish.
A male voice called out. ‘Is that for me?’
She turned to find a young man with sandy hair and an eager smile, his auction house badge identifying him as Timothy Hartwell – presumably the son in Hartwell & Sons. He was kneeling beside an open crate, tissue paper scattered around him like snow.
‘I’m Tim,’ he said, rising as he saw her. He brushed his hands against his thighs, leaving faint dust marks on his charcoal trousers. ‘Mr Macarthy mentioned I should expect a box of silver.’
‘You’re from the North?’ she asked, though she’d already noted the Yorkshire accent that peppered his vowels.
‘Harrogate. Now is it my imagination or do I detect a faint northerly twang in your own voice?’ Tim’s grin was infectious. ‘Glasgow, am I right?’ he inched closer, disguising it under the pretence of consulting his clipboard. He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne – sandalwood and citrus, something expensive and probably Italian. It mixed with the scent of old wood and beeswax that always hung in this hall. His eyes lingered appreciatively on her face. ‘So, what’s a nicenorthern lass like you doing in a posh southern joint like this?’
She laughed, a genuine sound that surprised her. ‘You’re very smooth, Mr Hartwell.’
‘Tim, please.’ His smile widened, unapologetic. ‘Do you live in this extraordinary house? The proportions of this hall—’ He gestured upward to the coffered ceiling with its octagonal pattern echoing the room’s shape, culminating in a glazed cupola through which morning light streamed. ‘You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore.’
‘Oh, you’re looking at the ceiling now?’ Christina raised an eyebrow, feeling something flutter in her chest that she’d almost forgotten existed.
‘I’m trying to be professional.’ Tim’s eyes returned to her face. ‘Though I find myself suddenly interested in things that aren’t listed on my clipboard for inspection.’
She didn’t want the conversation to end. ‘What’s your role in all this?’ she asked, noticing how her vowels were flattening, matching her own accent with his.
His smile turned slightly crooked, charming. ‘I’m the picture expert. Come to the preview and see me in action. You might enjoy seeing the rooms transformed – all these pieces under the spotlight, people actually excited about them again. Things that have been gathering dust suddenly becoming treasures.’
‘I hadn’t planned to attend.’ But even as she said it, she was reconsidering.
‘You should.’ Tim’s gaze held hers. ‘I’d make sure you were looked after. I give excellent commentary and there’ll be plenty of champagne.’
Christina couldn’t help the smile that played at her lips. It had been a long time since she last felt this spark of being noticed, being wanted. It was just a flirtatious conversation, but the octagonal hall suddenly seemed smaller, warmer, charged with possibility.
‘Auction houses provide champagne now, do they?’
‘Only for our favourite clients,’ Tim said, still grinning. ‘No, that’s a lie. Our client, Mr Macarthy, is providing the fizz. What’s your relation to him if you don’t mind me asking?’
The mention of Ernest’s name made Christina step back instinctively, the spell breaking. Tim glanced at his clipboard as if he’d been consulting it all along, though his eyes were still bright with barely suppressed amusement.
‘He’s my stepfather-in-law,’ she said sheepishly.
‘Aha,’ he said, his voice returning to something more businesslike but with an undercurrent of conspiracy, ‘that must make you Christina. You’re the one delivering a box of the best silver.’
Christina smoothed her hands down her skirt, trying to reclaim her composure.
‘Your pa-in-law has been brilliant to work with over the last nine months,’ continued Tim. ‘I’m sure the sale will raise a lot of money.’
Nine Months?Christina felt a chill despite the warmth of Tim’s admiration. Ernest had been planning this while she’d been stumbling around in ignorance, forging pieces without understanding the bigger picture. The realisation was both impressive and terrifying.
