As if summoned by the mention of money, Hugo appeared at the foot of the steps. His usually florid complexion was merely pink, suggesting he was still operating mostly on last night’s fumes rather than today’s.
‘Excellent choice of auctioneer,’ he announced to the room at large. ‘They know their business without all the Mayfair nonsense.’
‘Is Hamish around?’ Christina asked.
‘Took off after breakfast to the university like he does every morning, a hound in search of the academic scent.’ said Hugo,walking away, Marmalade padding after him.
Christina sighed. Another opportunity missed.
Lady Flora drifted past, her vacant gaze taking in the organised chaos with dreamlike detachment. ‘How lovely,’ she murmured. ‘Are we having dancing after dinner?’
Christina exchanged a glance with Tim, who clearly hadn’t encountered Lady Flora’s particular brand of disconnection from reality before. ‘It’s an auction, your ladyship,’ he said kindly. ‘We’re selling some of your beautiful things.’
‘Oh yes, the sale.’ Flora’s smile was as empty as a summer sky. ‘Ernest explained. Like a wonderful party where everyone goes home with presents.’
Christina felt a stab of pity at Flora reframing this dismantling of her heritage as something festive and generous.
‘Christina.’ Ernest’s voice boomed across the hall, drawing heads like a magnet. He approached with the satisfied air of a general surveying a successful campaign, carrying a laden cardboard box that made Christina’s heart sink. ‘Perfect timing. I’ve got one last batch for your expert attention.’
Tim was watching the exchange with poorly concealed curiosity, clearly sensing undercurrents he couldn’t quite identify. ‘Is there anything else you need sir?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got most of the silver photographed, but if there are additional pieces ...’
Ernest set down the box.
‘Just routine maintenance,’ Ernest replied smoothly. ‘You know how these old pieces can get manky. Christina’s got magic hands when it comes to restoration, so she has.’ The phrase made her skin crawl. Magic hands. As if what she was doing was some kind of benevolent alchemy rather than fraud. She picked up the box, clutching it close, feeling the weight of Ernest’s expectations, of three weeks spent bent over her workbench, transforming honest replicas into lying antiques. She still hadn’tfigured out his plan, but she was on alert every time they spoke.
‘Excuse me, but I must get on.’ said Tim. He shot Christina a mischievous grin and moved aside.
‘What’s in the box darling?’ asked Flora, her hands clawing at the top.
Ernest brushed Flora’s hands aside. ‘Actually, we had a wee hiccup yesterday, didn’t we?’ His tone was indulgent, the way one might speak to a favourite but troublesome pet. ‘Someonereorganized a display case. Took poor Tim and his team hours to sort out which pieces belonged where.’
Flora’s hands fluttered to her throat. ‘I was only trying to help. I know exactly where everything belongs—’
‘Of course you do, darling. But that’s why we have professionals.’ Ernest’s smile didn’t waver, but Christina heard the steel beneath the silk. ‘Which reminds me – I’ve been thinking. That recuperative stay we discussed. I’ve found the perfect spot. Lovely rooms, excellent staff. You’ll be comfortable there.’
Christina frowned. A hotel? That sounded strange – Flora wasn’t well enough to travel alone. And then it hit her.
A nursing home.
He was talking about a nursing home with the same breezy tone he might use to book a weekend at the seaside. Surely Hamish wouldn’t let him get away with that – unless this was being arranged without the sons’ knowledge?
Her eyes shifted to Flora, to the proud silhouette of a woman – patrician nose, carefully set hair, pearls that had likely been a wedding gift decades ago. This was a woman who had once hosted dinners and balls, chaired committees, run the house like a discreet empire.
She thought of Hamish and how his face would crumple if Flora was despatched for a ‘recuperative stay’. He’d see it instantly for what it was. Permanent exile.
Beside her, Flora remained composed, her shoulders back, her hands folded. But something stirred behind her eyes – a glimmer of understanding, quickly shuttered.
‘How thoughtful,’ Flora murmured.
‘When would this ... vacation begin?’ Christina asked.
‘Probably tomorrow,’ said Ernest. ‘Certainly before the auction, at any rate.’
Christina’s jaw clenched. Ernest needed his wife to be out of the way before he sold off all her favourite pieces. She couldn’t let it happen. Just as she turned to leave, Tim magically appeared at her side. His smile softened into something warmer, more personal. ‘Maybe we could grab a coffee later? I could be free whenever suited you. And I meant what I said – about the preview.’ He paused, then added, ‘It would be lovely to see you there. Away from all this.’ His gesture took in the hall, but somehow implied more – the house, the family, the weight of everything she carried.
Then, as if emboldened by her silence, he reached out and touched her arm lightly, just above the elbow. The contact was brief, barely a second, but unmistakable in its intent. His eyes searched hers with sudden concern. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier. Your husband – will he be at the preview too?’
The words struck like a rapier. Christina stepped back sharply, Tim’s hand falling away. Heat flooded her face – not the pleasant warmth of before, but something scorching, shameful. What was she doing playing the coquette while her entire world teetered? She must do better. Fight harder. If she lost Hamish now – to his family’s pull or her own cowardice – there would be nothing left worth saving.
