Penelope turned to Christina with a bright, coaxing smile. ‘See? One must never be intimidated by age. These houses want to be lived in. They respond to the right hands.’
Christina glanced down at her jeans and trainers. Next to Penelope’s curated gleam, she felt like a dog-eared paperback in a library of tooled leather volumes – out of place, yes, but no longer apologetic for it. Once, she would’ve shrunk from the contrast. Today, she simply felt ... tired. Tired of roles. Tired of performances.
Humphrey launched into a gentle ramble as they approached the door. ‘Load-bearing oak is surprisingly forgiving when it’s been aired properly. And if we can reinstate the original fireplace, you could have a remarkable entrance hall.’
Penelope clasped her hands. ‘Imagine it at Christmas, Christina. Hamish pouring wine beneath the old beams, guests arriving through the porch – oh, it would be divine. And Humphrey thinks he can create ten en-suite bedrooms. Perfect for entertaining.’
Christina didn’t reply. Why would she want ten bedrooms? That’s the number the Manor had, and she had once got in terrible trouble with Flora for saying it was the perfect number to set up a high-end bed and breakfast. Of course, Lady Flora wouldn’t dream of making money that way. Humphrey fitted the key into the swollen lock, turning it with a soft, satisfying clunk.
They stepped inside.
Cold enveloped them at once. The air smelled of wet timber and abandonment. Christina touched a cracked plaster panel – cold, gritty, unyielding; would this really be Hamish’s choice?
Meanwhile Penelope swept on ahead, arms outstretched like a hostess. ‘Imagine Hamish in here! Surrounded by dusty manuscripts and period nonsense.’ She laughed airily, as if Tudor history were a quaint hobby, like crocheting or fencing.
Christina didn’t laugh. Hamish was returning from his off-sitethis morning, and the couple had arranged to meet at the Manor. He wanted to discuss the Tudor miniature portraits with Tim Hartwell, the picture expert.
Humphrey led the women through the house. They passed from the hall into the great chamber, the timber frame stretching overhead like the ribcage of something long dead but refusing to fall. Humphrey’s voice echoed gently as he assessed the condition of mullions, joints, braces. Penelope interjected with ideas for drapes and wallpaper and enlarging spaces for entertaining.
Christina barely heard either of them.
She stood in the centre of the room, arms wrapped round herself, hugging her jumper close and tried to imagine Elspeth running through the hall, or Hamish reading by the fire; the shape of their life settling into these ancient rooms.
But nothing came. It felt hollow. Not blank – a blank could be filled. Justwrong.Her instinct was to imagine how the house might work for everyone else – especially Hamish. Then she realised what she was doing. Marriage meant compromise, not submission. This wasn’t a place where she wanted to be, and that mattered now.
‘This isn’t what I want,’ she whispered.
Penelope tilted her head. Her expression tightened for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over with a polished smile. ‘Oh, Christina. Don’t say that, just because it feels overwhelming. Big houses are just lots of small decisions.’
‘No. No, it’s not that.’
Christina stepped back, her trainers squeaking faintly against the floorboards.
‘It’s just ... this. The whole lot.’ She paused, wanting to express herself; it came to her in a flash, and she spoke with a faint Glasgow twang, ‘It’s no’ mine.’
Penelope recoiled as if Christina had just spat at her. Herface hardened, just slightly, behind the glossy charm before she caught herself, and her mouth curled into the smallest, sweetest condescending smile. ‘Darling don’t be dramatic. You just need vision. Chase Lodge is for you.’
‘No. This is the wrong house.’ Christina let that sit for a few moments before adding, ‘And I don’t need to keep pretending that your advice isn’t always just ... nudging me toward your own life.’
Penelope’s smile thinned.
‘That’s quite unkind.’
‘Is it?’ Christina countered. ‘Or is it just accurate?’
Penelope didn’t reply. Humphrey had wandered on ahead, chatting breezily about planning permissions and listed buildings’ consent. A thump echoed through the corridor – a door somewhere slamming in the wind.
Penelope drew herself up, nostrils flaring just slightly. ‘Well, forgive me for encouraging you towant more from life. It’s not a crime to have standards.’
‘No,’ said Christina. ‘But it is a problem if those standards aren’t mine.’
She turned, walking away. Her oversized shoulder bag thumped heavily against her hip with each step, the weight of the thermos inside making it swing wide. Her footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.
Outside, the sun was bright, shimmering through the clouds as if cheering Christina on. The sea breeze had picked up. She sucked in the fresh, salty air.
She wouldn’t be moving to Chase Lodge. She saw now that it had never really been about the house at all. Because the problem wasn’t where she lived – it was who she had been trying to be. She’d spent so long attempting to become worthy of the Pemberton name, she’d forgotten that Hamish had chosen her before she started trying. She knew she had to tell himthe truth about everything. The forgeries, the reason she was so withdrawn, what her father did all those years ago. And she would. She just had to rescue the cup from Ernest’s greedy paws first.
Thirty-one
