‘Tudor feast?’
‘Tudor feast!’
‘And tomorrow?’
Hamish’s smile was pure mischief – the same expression that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we’ll give that masterpiece therecognition it deserves.’
‘We?’
‘We,’ he confirmed. ‘Always we.’
Forty-two
Seven months later
Lady Flora sat in her favourite wingback chair by the hearth, the flames reflecting in her eyes, giving them what could almost be a twinkle. ‘Christina, could you ...’
Tina tossed another log on the fire, spun round to face her mother-in-law, and grinned. She was wearing one of Hamish’s old shirts with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Her hair was cropped short in a pixie cut, slightly tousled as if she’d just run her fingers through it, giving her an elfin look that matched the mischief in her green eyes.
‘I only answer to Tina.’
‘Quite right,’ Flora muttered through a mouthful of sherry. ‘It may not be a name that pleases the ear, but what can I say. You are a Tina. You’ve got grit.’
Elspeth appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed pink from cold, and her arms full of holly branches heavy with berries. ‘Isn’t it awesome living here? I picked these from near the walled garden,’ she announced, shaking droplets of melted frost from the greenery. ‘Thought they’d look lovely on the mantelpiece. The robins were having quite a feast out there – I counted six of them, all puffed up like little Christmas puddings.’
Tina took a few of the branches from her daughter then glanced at her mother-in-law. ‘I can’t tell you how much I love tendingthe walled garden. Every day there’s something new waiting to be discovered. It’s very inspiring for my jewellery, too.’
‘You’re managing it beautifully,’ said Flora.
Tina smiled, breathing in the sharp, clean scent of the holly. ‘You don’t judge me any more for having a “trade” then, Flora?’
‘Oh, I still do,’ Flora sniffed, but her eyes crinkled with affection. ‘However, now I judge you with admiration. Who else in this family has ever earned an honest living from making something?’
They shared a glance, warm and conspiratorial, while Elspeth began arranging the holly along the mantelpiece.
Seven months ago, everything had cracked open like ice on a winter pond. Ernest and Frank had vanished – fled, more like, chased by a trail of angry creditors and awkward questions about provenance. The rumour mill had them bolting to the Caribbean, though Tina suspected they’d simply slithered under different rocks, biding their time before planning their next con.
And then came the truth about Lady Flora.
It hadn’t been dementia at all. The idea had been Frank’s. Ernest had increased the dose on her sciatica pills and started slipping extra pills into her tea – enough to make her groggy, forgetful, her words slurring like honey poured too thick. Enough to convince everyone, including Flora, that her mind was crumbling. Frank took the same medicine for his own sciatica and was the source of the additional pills. Ernest kept his tricks up after Flora moved to the nursing home; Flora’s mental awareness depended on how recently her husband had visited. But after the auction, once Flora was away from Ernest’s reach, her lucidity returned – intermittently at first, then fully, sharp as winter stars.
When confronted with what Ernest had done, Flora remained unruffled. She admitted she’d known about the silver all along and had chosen to ignore it. ‘The way I saw it, a goodestate manager doesn’t come cheap. For over twenty years he ran this estate well – without pay.’ She wasn’t even surprised he’d scarpered. Some people, she explained, were always half-packed. She had always expected him to run away eventually. Now she was planning her own escape to Scotland. ‘The Borders,’ she’d announced with relish. ‘Cold air, real whisky, and no more of Hugo’s dreary dithering.’ But before she left, she’d made one last act of redemptive mischief. She had gifted Chase Lodge, and sufficient funds to restore it, to Hugo and Amy, on condition that Hugo started attending Alcoholic Anonymous meetings. It turned out that Flora had a secret slush fund, hidden away from Ernest – the proceeds from quietly selling the Highland Pact Torque and the Pemberton Tiara years ago. ‘I was worried he’d find those, fake them and sell the originals. I had no use for them, and I was entitled to sell them.’
The couple were using Humphrey – and Lady Penelope – to guide the restoration. Tina had watched in delight as the shared Chase Lodge project bonded her in-laws together and gave Hugo something to do to stave off the cravings.
Most surprising of all, though, Flora had given the rest of the estate to Hamish and Tina.
Flora wanted her eldest son to learn to stand on his own feet, and her younger son and his wife to live in the Manor, not under its spell. ‘Turn it into a business,’ she’d declared, slapping a folder of documents onto the table with a satisfying thwack. ‘Make it earn its keep. Let them call you trade. Who cares?’
So, they had. The Manor hummed with new purpose now; its rooms filled with the voices of guests who marvelled at the Tudor hammerbeams and Jacobean staircase. Some came for the jewellery-making courses, others for lectures on local history, the foodies came for the Tudor feasts – staged with period costumes – and a good many simply for an elegant bed-and-breakfast experience. All were welcomed by hosts whodelighted in sharing their historic home with fellow lovers of the past.
The door swung open again and Hamish entered, his hair tousled from the wind and his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He carried with him the scent of winter air, and something indefinably warm that was purely him. Trotting at his feet was a six-month-old yellow labrador named Cromwell – it suited him, being a loyal dog who enjoyed good company. Elspeth skipped over and scooped the pup into her arms.
Hamish’s eyes found Tina immediately, as they always did these days, and the smile that spread across his face was soft as candlelight.
‘Ma,’ he said, crossing to Flora’s chair and dropping a gentle kiss on her silvery head. ‘You look well today.’
