With only three days to go, preparations for the auction had spilled out of the house and onto the gravel sweep and the gardens beyond. The spring sun shone across the borders, where tulips nodded in the breeze, bright against the clipped yew hedges. The great cream marquee billowed on the south lawn; inside men in green overalls were aligning rows of gilt-edged chairs with the ceremonial precision of a garden party at a country estate.
On the gravel, the air vibrated with a different kind of order, what Christina privately thought of ascurated chaos. Auctioneers hurried past with a purposeful stride, while handlers in branded polo shirts ferried crates across the drive. Someone shouted about insurance. Someone else shouted louder. Clipboards fluttered.
Christina stood slightly apart, half in the garden’s quiet, half in the commotion. People brushed past her shoulder without noticing her.
Hamish burst out of the house, his tweed jacket flapping like a panicked bird. He skidded on the gravel, waving both arms. ‘They’re gone! The miniatures— gone! I left them in the library! They werethere!’
A handler stared at him. ‘Er— who’s that?’
‘Husband,’ Christina said. ‘Historian. If he corners you, pretend to faint.’
Hamish barrelled toward her, glasses askew, colour high in his cheeks. ‘Christina – please – help me find them.’
Before she could answer, a familiar figure materialised at her elbow.
Ernest.
He looked disarmingly at ease among the fuss: linen sleeves rolled-up, scuffed brogues chosen – Christina realised – with exacting care. The picture of benign competence. Trustworthy, harmless. Only she knew better.
He gave her a slow, knowing smile. ‘I need a word,’ he murmured, steering her gently away from the bustle and towards the shelter of a magnolia tree, whose pale blossoms trembled overhead in the breeze.
She didn’t resist, calling out over her shoulder to Hamish. ‘I’m sure you’ll find them.’
Then she turned to Ernest, her voice sharp. ‘Did you include them in the sale?’
He gave a light, dismissive laugh. ‘You can’t expect me to remember every single lot in the catalogue. There are hundreds of items.’
‘I’m not coming home until I find them,’ Hamish shouted. ‘I’m not having them sold off.’
She couldn’t afford to spend all day hunting for missing pictures. ‘I’ve got an important commission to finish,’ she said, wanting to add:possibly the most important commission of my life.
Hamish strode towards her. His voice softened. ‘You go when you’re ready darling. I’ll follow.’ He shot Ernest a dark look. ‘When I’ve found those Tudor miniatures.’
Then he disappeared. She turned back to Ernest.
‘Please,’ she said before he could speak. ‘After the sale – no more commissions, no more fake salt cellars or manufactured hallmarks. Let me out.’
He tilted his head, mock wounded. ‘Oh, come now, Christina. What a waste of those hands. You’re the best I’ve ever seen.’
She pressed on. ‘Please. I’ll stay silent about what we’ve done. But please keep my secret. I can’t keep doing this. I won’t.’
His expression shifted. Not kindness, not remorse, but detached; he’d taken what he wanted.
Then he winked at her.
‘Fine. After the auction, you’re out.’
She exhaled. Her heartbeat slowed slightly. ‘Thank you.’ Then she had a sudden thought, ‘and Frank.’
‘Frank does what he’s told ... though what will you do with all your free time?’ he added, teasing again. ‘Start a jam-making co-op in Brambleton? Local plums and authenticity?’
Christina gave a small smile, but this time it bloomed into something real. She felt the weight lift. She was off the hook. No more late nights with a loupe and the stench of sulphur, no more pretending, no more fear that the wrong person would ask the right question. Ernest had promised.
Relief spread through her like heat. She would be free.
But freedom came with a bitter aftertaste.
Because she wasn’t stupid. She knew Ernest didn’t give things away. If he was finally letting her free, it was because he would make a fortune at the auction. The proceeds swelling his personal bank account – would he leave anything for the Pembertons? And the cup ... God, the cup. If he really was planning to sellthat, the real game hadn’t even started.
