Chapter 18
Eighteen
The tide was on its way out from Brambleton beach, leaving behind a slick sheen of seawater that made the shells glisten in the pale March light.
The wind came in fresh off the Atlantic, bringing with it the tang of kelp and salt, and carrying the harsh squawk of gulls as they wheeled and bickered overhead.
Christina pulled her hat over her ears, her scarf snapping in the wind.
Beside her, Hamish strode along, boots sinking softly into the sand, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar, professorial pose – as if addressing a hall full of undergraduates rather than walking with his wife.
‘You know,’ he began, clearing his throat in that way he did when limbering up for something long and inevitably Tudor, ‘the coast was vulnerable to piracy in the sixteenth century. Especially in March, when coastal patrols were lax. There’s a letter – very obscure – that mentions a vicar’s wife from Devon being carried off by Algerian corsairs. ’
Christina smiled vaguely, one glove balled in her fist as she gripped her phone in her other hand, trying to hide the glow with her coat. Ernest’s name was on the screen. She chewed her lip.
‘Romantic, isn’t it?’ Hamish added, squinting out at the pewter sea, where waves broke lazily on the low tide line.
She made a vague sound of agreement before gesturing to her phone and stepping slightly away. She pressed the phone to her ear, tilting her head against the wind. ‘Ernest?’
‘Morning, sweetness,’ Ernest’s voice came with his usual insufferable cheer. ‘Got a tiny wrinkle to iron out. That auction house you dropped the ‘Storr at? Seems they’ve had a bit of a flutter.’
Her throat tightened. ‘What kind of flutter?’ she asked, turning slightly away from Hamish, who had stopped to examine a piece of seaweed with scholarly interest.
‘One of their more astute buyers flagged something odd about the hallmark on the tureen, it triggered some digging. Clive’s apparently called in a second opinion. Bloody annoying, really. I thought that one was watertight.’
Christina closed her eyes. The wind tugged at her hair, whipping strands against her mouth. ‘So, what do we do?’ If they unmasked this piece as fake, the other two she took over yesterday would surely follow.
‘Well, darling, ideally you carve out a bit of time to pop over and collect the stash. Before Clive gets any smarter.’
Christina grimaced. ‘I’m frantic with bills, Ernest. Quarterly stuff, it’s all stacked up. Can’t Frank go?’
‘You know Frank can’t drive that far, not without stopping every ten minutes like a Glasgow bus. And anyway, darling one, Alice Linton has the plausible face.’
‘I don’t have time,’ she hissed.
There was a beat of silence, then Ernest’s voice, lower, sounding amused. ‘I’m surprised Hamish leaves you to pay the bills, leaves you in charge of money, given your . . . history.’
Christina flushed. A gust of wind flung salt into her eyes, making them sting. ‘Don’t.’
‘I’m just saying, poppet. You don’t want anyone looking too closely, do you, not at ‘the Great Matter’?’
She turned back towards the sea, blinking furiously. Hamish was watching her now, his brow faintly furrowed, lips parted like he was about to ask a question. She gave him a tight smile and turned away again.
‘And Christina?’ Ernest added. ‘Don’t forget to come early to help me tonight with the family dinner.’
‘What dinner?’ she asked, turning and raising her eyes quizzically at Hamish.
‘I’ve asked everyone over for this evening.’
‘That’s short notice.’
‘And Flora wants you to help with the flowers first. She’s got her ladies coming for tea this afternoon. She’s expecting you after lunch.’
‘Is she now. Why can’t Amy cut the flowers? Ernest, what’s on the agenda tonight?’
‘Just . . . finally getting round to what we didn’t discuss last time, thanks to Hugo’s impromptu impression of a drunk octopus.’
Christina narrowed her eyes. She still hadn’t worked out Ernest’s strategy – Hugo would be equally pickled tonight. ‘What’s this about?’
‘You’ll find out when you come,’ he said, then hung up.
Christina lowered the phone, letting her breath out in a cloud.
‘Sorry – estate stuff,’ she said vaguely.
He offered a thin smile. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine. Just accounts. Did you know we’re expected for dinner at the Manor tonight?’
‘Ah . . .’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. So, not short notice for everyone.
They resumed walking.
Hamish pointed to a notch in the cliff face ahead.
‘There’s a spot up there I’ve been meaning to show you.
Elizabethan lookout, supposedly. Great views.
Smugglers used it. I thought maybe – when we’ve collected Elspeth—’ he looked across at her and smiled, ‘ah, but sounds like you’ve been summoned for flower arranging duties. Want me to collect Elspeth?’
She filed away the smile, which had been loving, but something in her twisted. She was being pushed away from maternal duties, so she could drive across Devon and retrieve a box of forged silver. She dug her boots into the sand, which gave way underfoot with a soft crunch. ‘That would be helpful.’
‘We still need to talk to Elspeth,’ said Hamish. ‘About what she’s been saying at school.’
Christina stopped, brushing windblown hair from her face. ‘I know. I just . . . I don’t think we should turn it into a confrontation. She’s probably just trying to make sense of things.’
‘She told her classmates we’re getting divorced,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘That’s not nothing.’
‘I’m not saying we ignore it.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘But if we come down hard on her, it’ll only scare her.
I think we need to be gentle. Let her feel it’s safe to talk.
Reassure her that what she thinks is happening .
. . isn’t.’ She wanted to add that there was another person who desperately needed reassurance about divorce: Christina herself.
Hamish gave a short laugh. Not unkind but edged with disbelief. ‘Gentle. She’s not five. She needs to tell us what’s wrong, why she’s started misbehaving. We need to explain how this could affect her scholarship, not pretend it doesn’t matter!’
Christina looked away, out to sea, at the vast, restless grey dotted with fishing boats.
It reminded her of her growing list of problems, unfurling like a fleet of Tudor ships, each one heavy with cannon and consequence, all sailing steadily toward her.
‘I’m not pretending,’ she said. ‘She’s scared. ’ Just like me.
He kicked at a pile of seaweed. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I talk to her. Alone. I’ll pick her up from school after rehearsal and take her for a walk or something.’
Christina’s stomach tightened. ‘Okay,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘If you think that’s best.’ She didn’t ask what he would say. She didn’t want to hear the answer.
They walked on, the tide pulling gently at the shore, and neither of them speaking.
Hamish glanced sideways. ‘You’re distracted. It’s not just Elspeth, something else is bothering you.’
‘Just . . . bills mounting up,’ she said, too quickly.
They stopped. The wind ruffled his hair. She looked across at him, his eyes bright behind the tortoiseshell glasses, and the truth nearly rose.
Christina wanted to tell him. About the tureen first – that would be easiest. How she’d spent three sleepless nights perfecting the maker’s mark, adjusting the pressure of each strike.
Then about the others waiting with Clive.
The snuffbox with its fraudulent London hallmark.
The Georgian tea service that had never once graced a Georgian table.
But the forgeries weren’t the heart of it. They were just symptoms. The real disease was what Ernest knew. What he kept mentioning casually, as if he were commenting on the weather, as if it didn’t hold her life in its grip.
Her throat felt dry.
If only she dared. Not yet.
Because Hamish, her clever, dreamy historian, had his blind spots. He still believed in the integrity of old things. Maybe even in the integrity of her.
The Great Matter. While Hamish read about Cromwell’s machinations or Anne Boleyn’s downfall, she sat in her shed, trapped in her own Tudor drama. The similarity would have delighted her husband, if only she could tell him.
So instead, she said, ‘Did you ever finish that paper? The one on Tudor fashion oddities?’
His face lit up. ‘Actually, yes. I sent it in last week. There’s a fascinating account of a Devon gentleman in 1538 who had his portrait painted wearing seven different doublets because he couldn’t decide which made him look most distinguished. The painter charged him for each sitting!’
As he spoke, Christina let his voice wash over her like the tide, warm and steady, while her mind raced in another direction altogether.
Restoring her marriage would have to be postponed. She must get to the auction house before the past came leaking through the cracks.