Her smile faded. A cold little sliver of dread settled beneath her ribs. She turned to him, voice quieter now, uncertain.
‘Do you think anyone suspects, I mean their silver expert must surely?’ she asked, her voice dropping.
Ernest laughed – loudly, head thrown back. A few heads turned. He lowered his voice, all warmth now. ‘Oh, Christina,’ he said. ‘You think it’s just thesilver?’
Her heart sank. ‘Don’t you worry you’ll be caught?’ she asked.
His, voice dropped. ‘Why do you think I hiredthisfirm? They’re posh, not expert. They’re here for the optics. Glossy catalogues, champagne preview nights, not forensic scrutiny.’
‘But what about the family – what if they spot something? If they catch you—’
‘They won’t.’ His voice cooled. ‘You know why they’ll never catch me? Because people like you and me ... we’re invisible to them. They don’t reallyseeus. We learn to work around them instead of through them.’ He stepped back, just a little. ‘But there’s a cost to that invisibility, isn’t there, love.’
The words hit like a stone dropped in a deep well. A dull echoingthunksomewhere inside her. That was it, wasn’t it? Not just Ernest. The whole family. She thought of Lady Flora, barely glancing at her during tea, barbs delivered without hesitation. Hugo, who’d once called her “that girl with the duster.” Amy, making her feel like an interloper despite marrying Hamish.
She had let them all teach her the same lesson: you are second tier. Not to be taken seriously. Not one ofus.
But Ernest had reinforced that belief. He’d seen her doubt and shaped it, gently, over years. Taught her to keep believing she was safest in the shadows. That invisibility was protection.
But it wasn’t. It was isolation. It waspowerlessnessdisguised as safety.
She felt her spine straighten without thinking, her shoulders pulling back. No more vanishing into the background. No more letting others decide what she was worth.
Ernest was still talking – something about late lot lists. ‘And the loving cup,’ he added casually. ‘I’ll need that back.’
Before she could speak, a voice cut through the noise.
‘Cup? Where is Ma’s cup?’
Hugo. Standing framed in the entrance porch, one brow raised, a brandy glass in hand, the ever-loyal Marmalade at his heel, tailsweeping with slow enthusiasm.
Ernest’s expression didn’t alter, but Christina noticed his posture switch to watchful, calculating.
She jumped in before he could answer. ‘It’s with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been cleaning it.’
Hugo frowned. ‘Whatever for?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s tarnished. I wanted it to restore it.’
He shrugged, already losing interest. ‘Ma loves that cup.’
Marmalade gave a soft, phlegmy woof, then wandered a few steps toward her before circling back to lean against Hugo’s leg.
‘Time for a small top-up,’ Hugo muttered, raising his glass and tottering off, dog in tow.
‘Bring it back tomorrow,’ Ernest demanded.
She pursed her lips, then nodded lightly. The sky stretched huge and clear above the old house. Ernest gave her a brief, unreadable glance, and she walked away.
When Hamish opened the cottage door two hours later, she was waiting for him. She slapped the variation deed on the kitchen table.
‘Come and take a look at this,’ she said, hands on hips.
Hamish froze for a moment, then shut the door and sat, pulling the document toward him. ‘Is this ... the trust variation deed?’
She dropped into the chair opposite him. ‘It is. The very one your charming stepfather Ernest swore blind was legitimate. Funny thing, though,’ she leaned closer, so close she could hear him breathing and smell his aftershave. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret, ‘I think he’s lying.’
He glanced at her, his eyes wide. ‘How did you get hold of this?’ He asked, one ink-stained finger smoothing down the page. ‘He locked the strongbox. I saw him.’
