Her nerves in knots, she parked outside the estate office.
Until yesterday, she had convinced herself everything was harmless – all the buyers of her silver could afford to have a portion of their considerable wealth redistributed to a deserving cause. But in Malcolm’s shop – as trusting Ivy weighed up whether to spend precious church funds on a forged silver salver – she’d seen through those lies.
She got out of her car, strode to the estate office, paused outside the door and took a deep breath. It was strange how often her mind drifted to the past at moments like these, to ghosts she’d never fully shaken.
Ernest had first appeared at the estate nearly thirty years ago to value the family antiques for insurance purposes. Lady Flora, five years widowed, had been captivated by his authority, charm and the way he admired the things she loved. But to Hamish and his elder brother Hugo, he was an interloper and always would be. That meant Ernest could be prickly when challenged, and that’s just what she was about to do.
She remembered all too vividly the first time Ernest persuaded her to ‘do her bit’ for the family funds and forge a piece of silver. It had been six days since Hamish had slammed out of the cottage with his lecture bag, the air ringing with his Latin curses, and Christina was still replaying his parting words:Clearly, I got it wrong. Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened to my mother after all.
That morning, Ernest had found her crying as she dug composted chicken manure into the Manor’s long wide rose bed, and when he asked what was wrong, she admitted some of what Hamish said. Ernest had pulled her into the estate office, poured two glasses of whisky and gave her that roguish grin of his.
‘Dry those lovely green eyes and have a wee dram. You and Hamish aren’t finished. Not if we handle this the right way. Ican help you show Hamish what a fool he’d be to let you go. But it means working with me. I need someone with steady hands. Someone clever. Someone the family can trust.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Antique silver. Georgian pieces, mostly. There’s a market for it, see, collectors willing to pay top dollar for the real deal.’
‘You want me to restore silver?’
‘Kind of.’ He slid a glass toward her. ‘Create it. Age it. Make it look like it’s been sittin’ in some laird’s cabinet since 1780.’
She stared at him. ‘That’s illegal, Ernest.’
‘Aye, well. So’s half of what keeps families like the Pembertons afloat, if we’re honest about it.’ He leaned back, watching her. ‘You’ve got the skills, Christina. I’ve seen your work. Your restoration. You’ve got an artist’s eye and a craftsman’s touch.’
‘I’ve got Elspeth to think about.’
‘Exactly. Which is why ye need the money.’ He let that sit there. ‘You could earn over a grand a month. I’m thinking a few pieces, nothin’ mad. Enough to get you out of your wee cottage and into something proper. A fresh start for you and the family.’
She thought of her compact cottage, damp in winter, the kitchen where Hamish couldn’t even find the bread bin. The silent kitchen, now, with Hamish somewhere in Oxford or Cambridge, holding court about monasteries, probably relieved to be away from his suspicious, stubborn wife. She thought of the Manor,crumbling behind the fine reception rooms. Perhaps if she helped Ernest keep the estate afloat, Hamish would thank her.
‘And this would ... help the Pembertons?’ her voice sounded small. ‘Restore the estate?’
‘Help everyone. The money goes straight into the estate’s coffers – plus a little commission for you and me, o’ course.’ He topped up her glass. ‘No need to tell Flora or Hamish. They don’t like to sully themselves with the dirty business of makingmoney.’
Christina lifted the glass and took a gulp, feeling the warmth of it fail to reach the tight knot in her stomach. She didn’t like the secrecy, but there was an old sense of owing that whispered she had to do this. She had to pay her debts. And if it brought her and Hamish back together, that would be perfect. She missed him terribly. The thought lingered, a shadow she tucked carefully behind her smile.
‘When would I start?’
Ernest’s smile spread wide. ‘That’s my clever girl.’
Christina shook the memory away. Two years ago, Ernest had caught her at a vulnerable moment, but after what happened with Ivy yesterday, it was time for her to quit. Sheknocked. Hearing the familiar creak of Ernest’s chair, she opened the door, uninvited.
‘Ernest, we need to talk.’
He looked up too fast. His hands moved with the fluidity of someone used to concealing things quickly. She knew the choreography well – had seen it a hundred times and never questioned it. Or rather, over the last two years, she had chosen not to.
‘Ah, Christina! Come in, come in,’ said Ernest, the cheer in his voice stretched thin like worn velvet.
She took a steadying breath. ‘I took that salver in yesterday like you asked me to.’
Ernest’s expression was smooth. ‘And?’
She stepped closer. ‘Our retired vicar ... Ivy, came into the shop. She almost bought it.’
‘Almost?’ he said, feigning lightness.
‘I stopped her.’
