When she delivered it, Ernest had brought out a single sheet of paper, with a flourish and a self-satisfied smile.
‘Don’t touch it without gloves,’ he warned, presenting the page like a relic. ‘This is eighteenth-century paper. Linen rag content. Very rare. I bought a bundle from a collector in Utrecht.’
She watched him dip a quill pen in handmade ink and compose a letter from a Bristol merchant to a wealthy client:
“The enclosed vessel is of the finest silver,
commissioned upon your father’s request and bearing the appropriate mark.”
The phrasing was effortless. The tone was perfect. The signature at the bottom? Entirely invented. Just some plausible surname, written in his usual spidery hand, passed off as an eighteenth-century merchant.
‘No one’s going to try and verify a merchant’s signature from 1764,’ he’d said with a shrug, slipping the paper onto a blotter to age the ink. Of course, he was right.
But he never forged noble hands. He shunned those whose signatures could be checked. That’s why this was a mistake. Lady Flora wasn’t obscure. She was present. Alive! Her signaturewasknown. And this version most definitely wasn’t hers.
Christina folded the document, more gently than it deserved, and tucked it back into her bag. All she had to do was ask Lady Flora to confirm this was not her signature, and she would save the cup from Ernest and Frank. If that meant confessing to Flora and Hamish about the forgeries she’d made for Ernest well, so be it. Christina was tired of secrets, and the hold they had on her.
She turned off the overhead light and started down the drive toward the village with her headlights off and her breath steady. The moon lit the road like bone beneath the clouds.
She used to think staying quiet kept her safe. Now she knew better. Christina wasn’t the assistant anymore. She was the resistance.
Thirty
At first glance, the home Ernest had chosen for his wife looked elegant and fitted its name: Wisteria Lodge. But inside, it smelled of disinfectant, stewed vegetables and over-brewed tea.
When Christina noted the date in the visitors’ book, she remembered there were just four days until the auction. Four days until Ernest’s intricate performance unfolded. Did she have time to stop it?
A young nurse appeared beside her. She had kind eyes and slumped shoulders.
‘Mrs Pemberton? I’m Sarah, Lady Flora’s key worker.’
Her voice had that soft-but-firm assurance Christina recognised from people who had long since learned how to soothe both the dying and those left trying to navigate around them.
‘She’s in the conservatory having morning tea.’
Christina fell into step beside Sarah as they moved through a corridor painted a tasteful, if bland, shade which reminded her of clotted cream. She passed open doorways where residents dozed in recliners or blinked blankly at daytime television. Family members spoke in low voices, offering biscuits or weather updates as though they might tether their loved ones to the here and now.
Christina sighed. This antiseptic cocoon conveniently hid Flora, preventing her from objecting to events at the Manor,even if the matriarch understood what was happening.
‘How is she settling in?’ Christina asked, though she already sensed the answer.
‘It’s ... an adjustment,’ Sarah said diplomatically. ‘She’s still a bit disoriented. The amitriptyline helps with her sciatica, but it’s not without side effects. She suffers from confusion and a dry mouth. Sometimes blurred vision or memory fog. In someone with existing cognitive decline, which her husband warned us about when he arranged her stay, those effects can be more pronounced. We’re monitoring things closely.’
The conservatory came into view: bright with filtered sunlight, plants in orderly terracotta pots, and a handful of residents settled in armchairs, tea trays trembling on their knees. Christina spotted the back of Flora’s head – hair pinned neatly, her posture upright, as if determined to keep control over that small dignity.
Christina hesitated in the doorway. What exactly was she going to say? If Flora was lucid enough to understand her, then this wouldn’t be just about the cup anymore. It would be about betrayal. And Christina would be the one to tell Lady Flora she was married to a crook.
She took a breath then made her way over to her mother-in-law, sat at a small table by a bay window.
‘Christina,’ said Lady Flora, her voice still as cool and sharp as cut glass. Her pale blue eyes narrowed slightly. ‘How unexpected.’
The tone, familiarly dismissive, made Christina’s heart lift. The barb soundedright. Not just remembered, but curated for the moment.
‘I thought you might enjoy a visit, while Hamish is away.’ Christina replied, taking the seat across from Flora. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t recoil, either. ‘He’s sorry he can’t be here but sends his love.’
‘Too considerate, that one. Always was.’ Flora sniffed. ‘Marrying someone from a different world ... it leaves a man prone to apologizing for everything, doesn’t it?’
There it was. Another jab. Cleanly delivered.
