It was her finest work. And she was proud of it.
She had told herself – again – that this would be the last time. Just this. One commission, one final ghostwritten masterpiece. After tonight, she’d stop for good. This one wasn’t about the money. It was about setting things right, giving the family something that might outlast the scandal of her past. She paused, her tool trembling faintly in her grip, then set it down, closed her eyes, and exhaled.
Even now, the afterglow of reconciliation lingered in her blood like wine – Hamish’s arms around her, his whisperedI love you, the way his hands had moved over her skin. They’d found each other again. For those precious hours, it had felt like healing.
And now, here she was. Lying again.
He trusted her. After all the silence, the frost that had crept in between them, he’d looked at her tonight with love in his eyes. The thought of seeing that light go out – of watching him fold inward when the truth finally landed – made her chest tighten with a deep, aching dread.
She couldn’t bear it. What would shock him most? Her father’s story – the theft, the silence? Or would it be the terrible arithmetic of it: that his own family’s stolen money had paid forher university fees and expenses, forcing his mother to sell land to pay for his.
Or perhaps the most devastating thing for him to learn would be that someone had reduced her to creating beautiful lies in silver to pay off debts that weren’t even hers. That the proceeds of her careful deceptions had been quietly flowing into his family’s accounts. The irony would appeal to his historian’s mind, she thought bitterly. Reparations. The Pemberton fortune had given her the education that enabled her to perfect her craft financing a lifestyle the family had taken for granted.
The silver gilt glowed beneath her lamp like it carried its own light. She reached out and ran a fingertip across the surface – still warm from her touch, glinting with deceptive age. She’d added the patina by hand; every mark placed with intent. The hallmarks were subtle, almost lazy in their authenticity. Only a handful of experts in the world would know to look deeper.
The work might even fool them.
Just like she’d been fooling herself, thinking she could carry her secrets forever without them crushing both her and her marriage.
She let out a slow breath, then rubbed her eyes. They felt gritty, sore. She hadn’t slept properly in days, probably not since Hamish had moved into the Manor. Not since the last time Hamish and she made love, when she’d dared to believe she might get her family back.
She turned back to her work. It was flawless. Immaculate. Heartbreakingly convincing. Her back ached, her hands stiff and silver dusted. Yet it was done.
Tina rose, striding to the corner and opening the cupboard. She took out her jewellery tools, and the folder of her own original designs, carrying both to the bench, where she set them down. Then she unlatched the door and stepped outside, letting the cool dawn air wash over her. The Devon hills rolled away intomist, dew catching the pale gold light as the sky shifted from indigo to soft rose.
For a moment, standing in the quiet, Tina felt something close to peace. This world – the birdsong, the silver-touched hills, the scent of honest earth. The sight of her single tree peony unfurling a pink bud. But even as she watched the sun break through, she knew the reckoning was coming. Today. First, she would have to confess; the words she’d rehearsed would have to spill from her lips, no matter how they might shatter everything between them.
And then, the auction. Another reckoning.
Behind her, on the table, the silver caught the first rays of sunlight and gleamed – perfect, yet entirely false.
Tina closed the door, the sound of the bolt sliding home louder than it should have been, and said to herself:that’s the last silver I will ever fake.
Thirty-eight
The kitchen was alive with the promise of a perfect April morning, sunlight streaming through the windows. Outside, the dawn chorus was in full voice – blackbirds trilling their liquid songs, wrens chattering with infectious enthusiasm, and somewhere in the distance, a wood pigeon cooing its sleepy refrain. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the open window, mingling with the remnants of last night’s casserole, still in the warming oven, and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to cling to Tina’s hands after long hours in the workshop.
Slumped at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, her mouth felt dry – too much caffeine, too little sleep – and behind her eyes was the gritty ache of exhaustion that no amount of blinking could clear.
She should cook Elspeth a proper breakfast. That thought floated through her mind, a reflex from years of motherhood. But she stayed where she was. Her limbs felt heavy, not just from fatigue, but from something deeper – something she could no longer keep buried.
It was time.
She could hear Hamish stirring upstairs – the creak of floorboards, the muted thump of slippered feet, then the groan of the seventh step. She blew out a long sigh.
No more silence.
When Hamish stepped into the room, his hair still tousled with sleep and the belt of his old dressing gown hanging loose, her throat felt dry. He looked ... content. Softened. As if the world had righted itself in the night.
His peace would not survive the next five minutes.
‘Morning, darling,’ he said, shifting the Aga kettle to the hot plate. ‘More tea?’
At first Tina couldn’t speak. Her throat felt raw, as if each word was a piece of broken glass. She looked at him, at the man who had shared her life for more than two decades; she did not want to lose him. But she couldn’t live like this. Not anymore. The lie had grown too large, its weight distorting everything around it. The crime hadn’t been hers, but the silence had been. And it was better he heard it from her lips than those waiting up at the Manor.
‘I need to tell you something, about my father.’
She saw it instantly – the pause in his hand, the slight stiffening of his shoulders. Not surprise. Dread.
