‘Ladies! What a picture you make,’ he said, though his eyes avoided Flora’s arrangements entirely. ‘Like something from a Victorian painting – ‘The Flower Arrangers of Brambleton Manor.’’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ernest,’ Flora said, but Christina caught the pleased flush that coloured her cheeks. After years of marriage, Ernest still knew exactly which buttons to press.
‘Now, I want to discuss Chase Lodge,’ he said, settling into the window seat and winking at Christina. ‘The one down in the valley. It’s been empty for years, derelict now. Listed building, of course ... the council’s making noises about surveys. Might be wise to ... .’
‘We are not discussing estate business during flower arranging,’ Flora interrupted.She spoke with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. ‘Particularly not with guests expected.’
Christina’s pulse quickened. A home. Theirs. With space, with history. Something that might finally show Flora she understood what heritage meant. That she deserved the Pemberton name. ‘Of course, darling,’ Ernest said smoothly, but Christina caught the glance he shot her way, as if saying ‘I’m honouring my side of our little bargain’.
Flora reached for her water glass, took a careful sip, then frowned. ‘My mouth feels terribly dry. These wretched tablets ...’ she trailed off, looking suddenly fragile.
Ernest shifted uncomfortably, and Christina noticed the way his eyes darted away from his wife’s face, the tension that suddenly filled his shoulders. Something passed between the couple – a look that excluded Christina entirely.
‘Now then,’ Flora said, recovering her composure with visible effort, ‘I have my list for you, Ernest.’ She produced a folded paper from her cardigan pocket with the flourish of a general presenting a battle plan. ‘The gutters on the east wing need attention, the drive requires fresh gravel,’ as Flora droned on, Ernest adoptedthe resigned air of a man who’d been receiving similar lists for years.
‘Of course, my dear,’ he said. ‘Though I should mention that the Chase Lodge situation really does require–’
‘Tea party first,’ Flora said firmly as she arranged the last of the camellias in the gleaming silver loving cup. ‘Estate business later. We have standards to maintain, even if the world around us has forgotten what they are. Now was that all?’
Ernest pushed himself off the window seat. ‘Must get cracking. Come and see me in the office soon, Christina, I’d value your advice on that last bit of silverware we discussed.’ He gave her a knowing look.
Christina picked up the largest flower display, a towering vase of rhododendrons and whiteChristmas Roses, although Flora always referred to them asHelleborusAs she backed out of the room, trailing in her mother-in-law’s wake like a maidservant, she realised that Ernest had left behind his list, and suspected that wasn’t an accident. Ernest always played the dutiful husband and accepted being dismissed like a footman, while quietly doing exactly as he pleased.
Ernest was in his sanctuary, bent over a Georgian cream jug He looked up as she entered, his smile warm and utterly disarming.
‘Christina! How lovely to see you again.’ His voice carried no trace of tension, as if their earlier conversation in this very room had been nothing more than a friendly chat.
‘I’m here on an errand,’ she said, slapping Flora’s list on the table. ‘You forgot this.’
He shook his head. ‘Flora and her lists! I’m so glad you’ve popped in, I was hoping you might manage to do this additional piece for me sometime soon – no pressure, of course. Just a small favour between family.’
This was Ernest at his best – charming, affable, making everything seem reasonable. She moved closer, drawn to the cream jug, her fingers automatically assessing its weight and patina. One more week working for Ernest, then she’d be free.
‘Real antique silver,’ Ernest explained, ‘unmarked, unfortunately, which makes it far less valuable. But it has the right feel, doesn’t it? The weight, the tarnish patterns, the natural wear from use. You can’t fake that authenticity – it has to be earned through centuries.’
She recognized the truth in his words. Her hands knew the difference between new silver trying to look old and silver that had genuinely lived through history. England had been a pioneer in certifying silver purity since 1300 and introduced the hallmarking system, including the registration of maker’s marks in 1423. The cream jug felt honest in her palms, warm and substantial.
‘The irony,’ he continued, selecting a tool from a felt-lined case, ‘is that it takes real talent to fake a hallmark. Most forgers are better craftsmen than the people they’re copying. They understand not just the technique, but the soul of the original work.’
Despite herself, Christina felt a flutter of professional pride.
The room fell into a comfortable silence as Christina prepared for the delicate work ahead: heating the silver until it softened enough to accept the strike, then stamping a new maker’s mark over the old. Something about the quiet companionship – two people working intently, no need for words – pulled her back to her student days at St Andrews, bent over library tables with Hamish, their heads close together peering at photographs ofTudor silver.
She’d been so different then – brash, confident, unafraid of challenging anyone. The memory came flooding back: her and Hamish’s first proper conversation, after she’d corrected his reading of that monastery inventory. They’d ended up in the pub, nursing pints of bitter and arguing over how the dissolution of the monasteries had flooded the English market with church silver, reshaping domestic collections.
‘Your parents must be proud,’ Hamish said during a lull in their debate, ‘having a daughter who knows so much about silver.’
Christina’s drink froze halfway to her lips.
‘They’re ... they’re not really interested in antiques,’ she mumbled.
‘Not interested? But you’re so passionate about it. Surely, they must—’
‘My father was never the type for that kind of thing.’ The words came out sharper than intended, building walls where moments before there had been comfortable conversation.
Hamish pressed, the way he always did when something intrigued him. ‘What’s your father like?’
She took a sip of warm bitter, then mumbled, ‘He’s not with us anymore ... I don’t want to talk about him.’
