Christina winced at the mention of Ernest. If Flora couldn’t help them, he would win.
She followed Hamish out into the grey light. Her mind was already racing. There might still be a way to stop him. It was time to involve the law.
Thirty-two
Early the next morning, the couple were sitting opposite each other on a train to Exeter. Hamish gave her a soft smile, and Christina felt a wave of relief wash over her. When they had returned to the cottage the previous evening, after the shock of seeing Flora so absent, he had been silent and withdrawn, lost in thoughts he clearly wasn’t ready to share. Another missed chance to talk, another moment swallowed by the words hanging unspoken between them. She knew they couldn’t bridge that gap until the atmosphere felt right, and she promised herself that as soon as the cup was protected, she would tell him the whole truth.
The train gave a shuddering clank and pulled away from Barnstaple, crawling past gardens full of sagging trampolines and rhododendrons in vibrant shades of pinks and purples. Christina rested her cheek against the window and let the soft jostle of the carriage calm her nerves.
It was a short train, just a few carriages, no refreshments, barely more than a bus on rails. Someone was making announcements – inaudible above the clatter of the wheels and the hum of the engine. All three sounds oddly soothing.
Outside, Devon rolled past in fresh green waves. Cow parsley foamed along the trackside, and the River Taw kept them company, silver-bright in the April morning sun.
Christina closed her eyes. For once, she wasn’t waiting for thesky to fall in. Ernest had promised that after the auction there’d be no more fake silver. And this time she believed him – after all, even without the cup he would make enough money from the auction to feather his already comfortable nest. Her marriage was thawing. And if Percy could prove the deed of variation a forgery, then the loving cup would be saved, and the family could decide what to do with it.
She turned to Hamish, who was peering out as the train curved past a dilapidated farmyard: a rusting old car propped up on stacks of bricks, a rickety shed which looked one gust of wind from blowing away.
‘Oh, look,’ he said suddenly, tapping the glass. ‘See that roofline? Clay-tiled, slightly bowed. Late Tudor. Bet that was a yeoman farmer’s cottage.’
She laughed. ‘That’s a shed.’
‘No, no – it’s a Tudor out-building. Look at the steep pitch of the roof, and those small, irregularly spaced windows.’
‘You’re impossible.’
‘Historically accurate,’ he said primly.
She nudged his knee with hers. ‘Let’s just focus on the living, breathing, scheming cads of the twenty-first century, shall we?’
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the folded deed. ‘Right. Percy’s our best hope. If he can get a handwriting expert to cast doubt on Ma’s signature, we can prevent the cup being added as a late lot in the auction.’
‘And the cup stays protected until the family decides what to do with it,’ she said, watching sheep scatter on a hillside. ‘You might still want to sell it, you know. It’s worth a small fortune.’
‘How much?’
She took a breath, not wanting to worry him. ‘Maybe a million?’
His eyes bulged. ‘Wow!’
They passed a garden strung with faded bunting and an old man waving from behind a wire fence.
‘I like this,’ she said. ‘Us. Working together. Feels like ... old times. But better.’
Hamish gave her a smile, the kind that used to make her weak at the knees. ‘Let’s hope Percy’s as clever as you are.’ he said.
She turned back to the window, the sun warm on her cheek. ‘Let’s hope he’s fast.’
‘I wish I didn’t have to leave for St Andrews tonight. I hate leaving you alone with all this going on.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Why don’t we call the school and say we’d like to collect Elspeth tonight? It would mean a school run for you in the morning, but ...’
‘I’d like that.’ she said.
‘Tudor feast?’
She laughed. ‘Why not!’
