Chapter 9
Nine
Ernest looked up from his workbench, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure. ‘Christina darling! Perfect timing. Look Frank, here’s the marvellous silver lady.’
Frank stood near the window, arms folded, his stocky frame blocking the weak morning light. She could feel his presence like a weight in the room.
Despite working with him for two years, Christina still thought Frank looked like he belonged in a police interview room more than a workshop. His suit was a dark, nondescript blue that spoke of money without taste. He crossed the room and shook her hand with the usual firm, assessing grip.
‘Good morning, Christina’ he said, as he always did, like they hadn’t been meeting under these bright workroom lights for two years. ‘Ernie told me you were coming at last.’
She bit back a snort, imagining the drama if Lady Flora ever heard someone call her husband Ernie, and unwrapped her last commission.
As she passed it across to Ernest, she felt suddenly light.
For a whole giddy second, she thought about being free.
No more forging, no more lying. Ernest would get her Chase Lodge and that would be the end of it.
A new chapter for her, Hamish and Elspeth, out of Ernest’s sticky spider’s web.
Ernest lifted the pretty bowl, turning it toward the window where the pale sunlight caught the silver’s surface. ‘Exquisite work. Absolutely exquisite. The aging on these marks is perfect – you can almost taste the centuries.’
Despite everything, Christina felt a pulse of pride. Ernest always made it sound like art, not crime. And after years of Lady Flora’s cutting remarks, this kind of praise felt like a lifeline. ‘There’s a strange beauty to a forged piece,’ he said, still admiring it.
Frank made a noncommittal sound: approval, maybe, or just impatience.
‘Pretty words won’t pay the bills. I thought this was supposed to be ready yesterday,’ spat Frank.
Christina straightened. ‘These things can’t be rushed—’
‘They can if you want to get them into an upcoming auction,’ Frank said, flat and businesslike. ‘Timing’s everything. Wait too long, and opportunities disappear.’
She ignored the slight. Frank always pushed. He didn’t believe in artistic timelines or sentimentality – only in delivery dates and market value. She’d learned long ago not to take it personally. It wasn’t personal – it was never personal with Frank.
Ernest shot Frank a warning look. ‘She’s an artist, Frank. You can’t rush artistry.’
‘I can when there’s money involved.’ Frank flipped open a leather case, revealing a set of steel punches – small, gleaming, precise. ‘Take a look at these then lass. Originals. From a museum. I bought them for you, you know.’
Christina leaned closer. Tools intrigued her. ‘That’s kind, but I’m taking a . . . break from all this. Didn’t Ernest tell you? They’re beautiful, though. How did you get hold of them?’
He tapped his nose. ‘Retired Detective Inspectors have their uses.’
‘Pah!’ said Ernest, ‘You were in the fraud squad, not collaring petty thieves.’
Christina’s heart hammered. He’d never told her that Frank worked in fraud.
‘In my job I spent thirty years watching the rich buy their way out of everything while mugs like me grafted for a pension that wouldnae keep a dog!’ spat Frank. ‘That’s why I’m doing a wee bit of retirement planning.’
She’d heard this kind of banter before, but today it had acquired a new edge. She realised that Frank was giving her a piercing look.
‘Frank worked on some fascinating cases,’ Ernest said. His voice sounded soft and dangerous.
‘I need some air,’ Christina said, her voice thin as she headed for the door.
The February morning, clean and cold, slapped her in the face.
Maybe she had misinterpreted his meaning?
Maybe it really was just banter, like she’d heard before?
She sucked in a breath and let her heartbeat slow.
Behind her, she could hear the indistinct murmur of men talking business. Method, technique, deadlines.
When she stepped back inside, both men stood were crouched over her work. Ernest, in his usual half-curious, half-admiring way. Frank, as always, calculating.
‘I want to make the most of this auction,’ snapped Frank. ‘How many pieces can you manage in a week? Good quality. Not shoddy.’
Christina hesitated. Her eyes bored into Ernest. ‘You said one more piece, and I’ve done that. This bowl was my last commission.’ She hadn’t confronted anyone – not properly – since her horrible row with Hamish, and she realised her voice was shaking.
Ernest was watching her closely now, his face unreadable. Concern, maybe. Or calculation. They were a decent double act, Ernest the good cop, smoothing over Frank’s pushiness when he thought it might backfire.
‘You’re right, sweet pea, but I hadn’t appreciated how much the family coffers would need this auction.
It’s just one more week of your time and then Frank here will be completely out of your hair.
Now let’s get cracking, eh?’ She glanced at Frank, who was still looking at her oddly, and nodded without meaning to, her mind still catching up.
What was one more week in the grand scheme of things?
Ernest moved to the workbench where a small crucible waited. ‘Let’s get started.’
‘Aye aye proper brilliant laddie’ quipped Frank. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on, while you two work your magic.’
Christina’s eyes drifted to the workbench. Six silver items lay waiting. All pristine, unmarked. Virgin metal.
‘How’s your sciatica, Frank?’ asked Ernest.
‘Much the same,’ he grumbled, ‘Flora’s?’
Something about their interchange troubled Christina; the words sounded innocent, but the delivery sounded staged. Then Ernest spoke lightly. ‘Not great, but she’s coping, that’s not what worries me. Flora’s been . . . forgetful lately. I’m taking her to the doctor.’
Christina picked up a candlestick and weighed it in her palm. There was a strange look in Ernest’s eyes, not quite what she expected. Not worry, exactly. It puzzled her, though she couldn’t have said why.
Frank screwed up his eyes. ‘Forgetful?’
‘Probably me being sensitive, doctor will tell me I’m an old fusspot, but she looks at me vacantly sometimes as if she’s looking through me not at me.’
Ernest leaned closer to Christina. ‘Ready to try for a Paul Storr?’ he murmured.
‘Storr!’ The name escaped as a splutter. That illustrious Georgian silversmith. ‘That’s a completely different league of craftsmanship. Why would you—’
‘Paul Storr is what the market wants,’ Frank cut in. His grey eyes were cold, matter of fact. ‘Storr pieces fetch tens of thousands.’
Christina felt dizzy. ‘But his style’s so distinctive. It’s not something you just knock out in a few days. People will notice if it’s not perfect.’
‘Then make it perfect,’ Frank said.
The casual brutality of it stunned her. As if she were just a machine to be programmed, not a person with concerns or limits.
She wanted to throw the tools down, to demand answers – to ask what the hell they’d gotten themselves into that required forging one of England’s most celebrated silversmiths.
But that old voice surfaced, the one that had haunted her through every dinner party, and Flora’s sidelong glances: who are you to question them?
She reminded herself it was just another week as she positioned the first punch with steady fingers.
It wasn’t fear that strangled her objections. It was something worse – that bone-deep belief that she was out of her depth, that they understood things she didn’t. That she should be grateful they trusted her with this at all.
The hammer came down with a precise, clean strike.
‘Perfect,’ Ernest said, leaning over her shoulder. ‘Flawless.’
His praise should have warmed her. Instead, it felt like recognition of the trap closing. She was good at this. Too good to walk away, too bound by duty to refuse.
As she reached for the next punch, she caught Frank watching her. Something in his expression – satisfaction, perhaps – made her realize he’d known exactly how today’s session would play out.
Later that afternoon, Christina was sitting with her legs tucked to one side – crossing them inevitably attracted an arched eyebrow from her mother-in-law – while a pale February light filtered through the Morning room’s tall sash windows.
Outside, the garden lay barren, frost clinging to bare branches.
Inside, camellias clustered in vases – bold pinks and deep reds against pale damask furniture.
Lady Flora stood by the window, fingers tracing the rim of the tarnished loving cup. ‘That thing ought to be polished properly. Lost its shine with time, like some of us.’
Christina watched from the hearth, a teacup warming her hands. She noted Flora’s disapproving glance at the silver.
‘How’s your restoration business?’ Flora’s voice was smooth but edged. ‘I can’t help thinking you ought to focus on your daughter rather than fiddling with old trinkets.’
The school report flashed through Christina’s mind – poor marks, pointed comments. She forced a smile. ‘It keeps me occupied when she’s at school. And puts a bit of money in the bank for a rainy day. Or even,’ she took a deep breath, ‘a bigger house.’
Flora’s lips tightened. ‘Christina, if you had the right family connections, you’d be at the heart of things by now, not in a little grace-and-favour cottage, where no one is likely to take you very seriously.’
Christina’s inner voice bristled. What century does she think this is?
But doubt crept in. Flora wasn’t entirely wrong, was she?
The cottage was rather small; they didn’t own it, and perhaps if she’d come from a home where vowels were crisp and h’s not dropped .
. . No. She’d worked hard to change her accent, her manners, everything Flora found wanting.
She would not apologize for where she’d started.
She stared into her tea. The silence stretched.
‘Have you thought any more about Chase Lodge?’ asked Christina.
‘Ernest’s pet project,’ snipped Flora. ‘Did you put him up to this? I don’t mind selling if it’s staying in the family. But can you really afford it? She’s quite a substantial place, not like the cottage, and I doubt she’s habitable, else Ernest would be renting it out.’
An elderly yellow labrador padded into the room and collapsed beside the fireplace.
Christina noticed the dog’s long, thoughtful gaze at the drink’s cabinet, no doubt influenced by Hugo’s frequent visits there.
She heard the clip-clop of high heeled shoes in the corridor, and sure enough, Amy, Hugo’s wife, poked her head around the door.
Tall and slender, she had the poise of ancient bloodlines – shoulders set back, chin slightly raised, and an expression suggesting permanent disapproval.
Amy’s face – so pinched Christina doubted there was room for a smile on it – tilted in acknowledgment of others in her presence.
‘Anyone seen Hugo?’ she asked, not bothering to say hello first.
‘Not since yesterday, darling,’ said Lady Flora, smiling broadly for the first time since Christina had arrived. ‘Cup of tea? Christina was just leaving.’
‘That would have been heaven,’ said Amy, lightly, ‘but we’re off to Plymouth. Meeting chums for dinner then the opera and we’re terribly late. Oh, Christina––’ she looked at her like she was her PA ‘Ernest was looking for you and says could you pop in and see him when you get a sec.’
Then she kissed Flora on the cheek and bustled out, nearly bumping into Ernest entering, bearing a silver tray with a small bottle of tablets. ‘You’re getting a bit forgetful, darling,’ he said, setting the tray beside Flora’s chair. ‘You haven’t taken your sciatica tablets.’
‘A minor lapse,’ Flora said, but her voice had lost its sharp edge.
While Flora was washing down her pills with Earl Grey, he switched his attention to Christina, put a hand in his pocket and removed a key. It was the largest key Christina had ever seen, longer than her hand, black, and made of cast iron.
‘This, my little darling, is the key to your dreams.’ He lowered his voice so Flora couldn’t hear. ‘And to show my appreciation of your upcoming Paul Storrs.’
‘Chase Lodge.’ She murmured the words like a prayer.
‘The very same,’ he said, passing over the key with that indulgent smile that reminded her why she’d always preferred him to his wife. Ernest had never looked at her like she was an unfortunate mistake that politeness demanded he endure.
Her fingers trembled as they closed around the metal.
It was warm from Ernest’s palm, solid in a way that her hopes had never been and felt heavy, weighted with possibility.
She could already picture herself there – serving tea from proper china, entertaining in rooms that oozed heritage.
No more apologetic explanations about not having the space to entertain.
She would call Penelope, arrange to meet her there this afternoon.
Force down her true desire for a house on a hill with sea views, surrounded by gorgeous gardens, and embrace dark chilly halls with room to entertain.
After all, she could still enjoy her flower gardening, just here at the Manor instead of around her own home.
She smiled, imagining the feeling of claiming her place at last in the world she’d married into but never quite entered.
Chase Lodge would be her saviour, proof that she could be the woman the Pembertons needed her to be.
The key pressed into her palm like a promise. Finally, finally, she would have a home worthy of the Pemberton name – and they would accept her.