He was wrong.
She’d spent years feeling like an outsider – apologizing, shrinking, grateful for scraps. Ernest might have the law on his side, but she had something better: a newly restored courage. Because the cup wasn’t just another antique; it was irreplaceable. And it was up to her to protect it.
Yes, thiswasa dangerous game. But she had the cup.
And if she was right about the deed – if she could prove it was a fake – she would win.
She turned and walked out, her heels sharp. Outside, the sea wind struck her – fresh and cold, full of salt and promise. She tightened her grip on her coat.
She had five days until the auction. It would have to be enough.
That evening, Christina huddled in her shed, the dim spring light barely touching the grimy windows.
On the cluttered bench sat a George III vinaigrette box, the hallmark polished flat, waiting to be reborn. She adjusted her headlamp, steadied her hand, and aligned the steel letter punch to the silver’s surface. One wrong blow would ruin it.
Christina inhaled. The acrid tang of scorched metal filled her nose. The sea whispered outside.
She took a deep breath and struck.Click.She froze. Then exhaled. Clean. A lion passant – sharp and proud. One more to go.
The door creaked.
‘Don’t come in too fast!’ Christina snapped. ‘This is delicatework–’
‘It’s only me,’ came Hamish’s voice, soft and apologetic. ‘Didn’t want to make you jump.’
She set the tools down with a clink and turned, blinking against the stream of natural light from the open door.
He looked tired but somehow purposeful, like a man who had found his footing again. Hamish held a cup of tea in one hand and a sheaf of notes in the other. He offered her the tea. The cup was warm in her fingers, the scent floral; her favourite – Darjeeling,the kind she brewed for her thermos, then slipped into her cavernous handbag. The gesture touched her.
‘I thought you might want a tea break.’
She took a sip then glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something in them, hesitation maybe, or a shadow she hadn’t seen before.
‘Is ... is anything wrong?’ she asked gently.
He shuffled his papers. The words came slowly, almost reluctantly, but finally they tumbled out. ‘Everything is such a mess. It’s ... Ma,’ he said. ‘She’s ... slipping away into dementia. I can’t trust Ernest to make the right decisions for her. And Hugo ... he’s started drinking before noon. I don’t know how much longer we can rely on him. And as if that’s not enough, there’s ... barely any money left to run the estate properlyand I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep things together when everything’s falling apart.’ His voice cracked on the last word, and Christina saw, plain as day, the worry that had been gnawing at him.
She felt a pang of sympathy and something else – fear. Could this be the explanation for their faltering marriage. Could the weight of all this – his mother, Hugo, the estate – have driven him to question their relationship, to regret not marrying someone like Penelope? Someone who knew how to blend seamlessly into the background of family portraits, and whoknew how to keep a sinking estate afloat. The thought had been nudging at her mind for weeks, a stubborn shadow she couldn’t entirely banish. Did Hamish want a completely different life? A different wife?
After all, if he divorced her, it would be easy to find a new one. Most of Devon would fall over themselves to marry him. And there were probably a dozen Lady Penelopes whom Lady Flora could set him up with. Or perhaps even Lady Penelope herself – her marriage to William was barely more than a facade.
Still, she kept her voice neutral. ‘I can see how all that could weigh heavily. Do you ... feel driven to ... reckless choices? Sometimes when life presses down, people make choices, veer in directions they regret later.’
Hamish blinked, meeting her gaze steadily. There was a long pause, filling the room with tension. Then he spoke, quietly but with firm conviction. ‘No. I ... I’ve never been that sort of man. I wouldn’t ... could not ... betray the people I care about. Not Ma, not Hugo, and certainly not ... anyone else.’
It dawned on her that Hamish had misinterpreted her words entirely. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you might have strayed,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I meant ... do you want to end this? Our marriage? Do you want a life more like your mother intended for you?’
He looked wounded, stunned even. Then he shook his head slowly, deliberately.
Christina felt a sudden, almost physical release of tension. Relief, yes, but also an ache of guilt; how wrong she’d been to let her imagination wander down such dark paths. He didn’t want a divorce; it wasn’t too late to get this marriage back on track.
‘I’m ... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even ...’ She let the words trail, leaving the space between them filled with understanding rather than accusation, and offered him an apologetic smile.
Hamish returned the smile, faint, weary, but genuine. ‘It’s allright,’ he said. ‘It’s ... easy to jump to conclusions.’ He came closer, then hovered beside her. ‘I’ve been thinking. About that trust variation deed. It doesn’t make sense.’
To her, it made perfect sense. ‘It does if it’s a fake’
His face lurched toward hers. ‘Fake! That’s a serious criminal offence. Who would do that, and why?’
