Chapter 20
Twenty
The dining room was a tour de force of old grandeur.
Four Stagioni columns dominated the room, each representing a season, carved with swirling drapery and crowned with gilded capitals.
Dark walnut panelling covered the walls, and elegant Georgian cornicing ran beneath the ceiling’s edge, its detail so precise it looked as if piped in royal icing.
A vast marble fireplace stood in the centre of one side of the room, grey-veined and baroque, flanked by mismatched urns.
Above the twenty-foot-long mahogany dining table, a Venetian chandelier glittered like frozen fireworks.
Beneath it, the table shimmered with the silver pheasants, salt cellars, and candlesticks that Christina had fetched from the chilly silver room.
She never resented laying the table; this was her favourite room, so different from their cosy cottage and yet despite it all, she felt at home in here.
Christina sat in the middle of the table, uncomfortable in a black silk dress and pearls, both on loan from Lady Flora.
On her left was Hugo, and on her right, Percy, the family lawyer – a lean man in his fifties with precise steel-grey hair, sharp eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard that gave him an air of authority.
He sat perfectly upright, hands folded lightly on the table, observing the others with a calm, almost calculating patience, as if every word and gesture might need filing away.
She had no idea why Percy had been invited, but supposed that Ernest would tell them.
Opposite her, Hamish was discussing Tudor taxation policies with nobody in particular, while Ernest circulated with a decanter of white wine.
He paused by Hugo’s chair. The glass was empty, despite Ernest having topped it up minutes earlier.
Ernest filled it to the brim, then took his seat.
Flora picked up a little silver hand bell and shook it.
‘You rang, darling?’ Ernest said, springing back to his feet.
‘My white wine is tepid,’ said Flora with a sniff.
Christina picked up her own glass and took a sip. The wine was perfectly chilled, but Ernest left, returning with a frosted bottle and a clean glass. He stood beside his wife and poured with a flourish. ‘This should be more to your liking darling.’
‘Thank you,’ Lady Flora muttered, already gazing vaguely at the chandelier. ‘Someone dim the diamonds . . . they’re awfully loud.’
From across the table, Amy was stretching to pour water into Hugo’s glass. Christina took the jug out of Amy’s hands: ‘let me.’
Her sister-in-law shot Christina a sharp look and muttered, ‘Try not to spill anything this time, will you.’
‘To that fine beast who never spoke a word out of turn!’ Hugo declared, swaying slightly as he raised his glass toward a mounted stag’s head. Despite the expensive cut of his jacket and the perfectly knotted bow tie, he looked dishevelled, as if he was coming undone at the edges.
Percy raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘No,’ Christina said grinning. ‘Sometimes it’s worse.’
Hugo suddenly lurched towards Christina, his face uncomfortably close, whisky fumes washing over her.
‘Christina! You’re . . . you’re the one who knows about .
. . mad, the whole lot of them!’ He let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a seal’s bark.
‘Did I ever tell you about the time . . . where was I?’ He blinked owlishly at her, his pupils dilated.
Christina leaned back as Hugo’s face drifted ever closer, close enough that she could count the broken blood vessels in his nose. He seemed to have lost all sense of personal space, treating her like a confessor in a very cramped booth.
‘Hugo,’ she said gently, ‘perhaps some more water?’
‘Water!’ Hugo barked another laugh. ‘Terrible stuff. Fish fornicate in it, you know.’ He trailed off, staring at her with intense concentration as if she were a challenging crossword clue.
‘You’ve got kind eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?
Hamish should . . . bet he doesn’t . . . ha, ha . . . Ma?’
Lady Flora rose, suddenly unsteady. ‘I think I’ll go and feed the children.’ She blinked at Christina. ‘Or was it something else? You’re awfully good at remembering things.’
Christina stood. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’ This time, she thought, Flora’s performance had been faultlessly timed; even the lawyer had witnessed her peculiar behaviour. That must be why Ernest had invited Percy.
‘Capital idea!’ Hugo called after them with another barking laugh. ‘Mind the suits of armour on the stairs. They’re frightfully . . . judgmental.’
After getting Flora into bed, Christina returned to the dining room.
Marmalade was under the table, lying in blissful ecstasy as Hugo slipped him bits of pheasant. The dog’s tail thumped lazily against a table leg, eyes half-lidded in gratitude.
Ernest waited for Christina to sit, then cleared his throat and tapped his own glass with a knife. ‘Right. Topic: Flora. As you can all see, her mind is going. I’m afraid the doctor agrees with me,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘It’s dementia. We’re managing, but there’ll come a point . . .’
Across from her, Hamish went still. Not a word – but she could practically hear his thoughts turning over.
Guilt. For needing to be told by Ernest. For leaving his mother to decline in rooms he’d once run through as a boy.
Christina studied his profile: the clenched jaw, the twitch at his temple, his fingers wrapped too tightly around his wine glass – like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Ernest continued smoothly, as if they were discussing something mundane, like guttering or car insurance. ‘We need to raise some cash.’
‘What kind of care are you considering?’ Percy asked, ever the practical solicitor.
‘A private home,’ Ernest said. ‘The best.’
‘No.’ said Hamish. ‘This is her home; I won’t have Ma sent away. If she needs care, it will take place here.’
‘Either way, we must raise money,’ said Ernest.
Christina glanced at Hamish, ‘We could buy Chase Lodge . . .’
Ernest shook his head. ‘Helpful, but too slow, could take you months – surveys, mortgages . . .’
‘What about selling some land?’ Amy suggested, dabbing her lips with a napkin. ‘That field by the river is not really being used.’
‘I considered that, but it’s part of the original estate boundary,’ Ernest replied smoothly. ‘And it’s also part of the listed park, might not get a decent price given the restrictions. Can’t alter that without years of paperwork and planning permission. Bureaucratic nightmare.’
Hugo suddenly swivelled, nearly toppling from his chair. ‘Paperwork! Dreadful stuff. Totally agree old chap.’ He drained his glass.
‘Exactly, Hugo. I did wonder, could we liquidate a few antiques?’ Ernest suggested this as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Her heart thumping, Christina glanced around the room, her expert eye automatically cataloguing the objects on display. How many of these glittering pieces were genuine? And how many were the careful replacements she’d helped produce over the last two years?
Amy shifted uncomfortably. ‘Isn’t that rather drastic? Some pieces have been in the family for generations.’
Hugo proffered his empty wineglass towards Ernest who topped it up generously. ‘Sounds like Ernest’s given this a lot of thought, so I say we let the old boy tell us his plan.’
‘Well,’ Percy cleared his throat, shooting Hugo a warning look, ‘some assets are protected. They can’t be sold, or mortgaged, without permission from the primary beneficiary.’
‘Ma, obviously,’ said Hamish.
‘I’ll need to investigate the exact terms.’ Percy added carefully.
‘Which pieces?’ demanded Ernest.
‘A few valuable paintings, some of the older silver pieces, and then of course there’s the Pemberton Tiara and the Highland Pact Torque.’
‘I thought the torque was a family myth,’ Ernest said carefully.
‘I did too,’ Percy replied. ‘Until I found a reference in the estate papers a few years ago – “a neck-ring of iron and silver, bearing the green stone and the mark of unity”.’
Christina’s breath caught. Hamish had mentioned the torque countless times – she’d never thought to ask about it. ‘Iron and silver braided together. That’s a serious skill. I’d love to see it,’ she said.
Hugo let out a low whistle. ‘The clasp emerald. Worn at the oath-taking in the Highlands before the last Jacobite gathering. I wonder where it is?’
‘Let’s keep on track, Hugo,’ Ernest continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
‘We need to raise money. Fast. Auctioning off some antiques would be our best option. Quick, efficient. I think we should make the decision today, while Percy is here to advise on the legalities. Then we can free up some money. You can see that she’s fading fast.’
Hamish’s knuckles went white around his glass. ‘You’re talking about selling off family history.’
‘I’m talking about looking after your mother,’ Ernest replied. ‘Sometimes we have to make difficult choices.’
The debate continued. Hamish proposed taking it in turns to look after Flora – an idea which earned him a dismayed look from Amy. Then he suggested a bank loan. As Ernest continued to deflect their ideas with increasingly creative excuses – Christina studied his face.
She’d seen that expression before, when he had coaxed her into doing more than she wanted.
Patient, reasonable, persuasive. He’d already won the argument; the others just didn’t know it yet.
This was why he’d staged the first evening – to soften them up, force them to notice Flora’s lapses before tonight.
As the meal ended and the diners dispersed, Christina helped Ernest clear. Hugo had finally succumbed to the wine and was snoring softly in his chair, his head tilted back at an angle that would guarantee a spectacular crick in his neck.
‘You know,’ she said lightly, ‘I really do think a live-in carer might be more humane than a home. Keep Flora in familiar surroundings—’
Ernest picked up a decanter, then replaced it. When he looked up, his smile was sharper than usual. ‘Charming idea, sweetie. But not a runner. Too expensive.’
‘But if we factor in the cost of a private home—’
‘Drop it.’ His voice carried a warning that made her skin prickle. ‘Else I might have to start talking about personal things. Like ‘the Great Matter’.’
Christina’s hand flew to her throat, and the familiar dread settled over her like a shroud. She heard feet shuffling towards her and glanced up.
‘The Great Matter?’ Hamish, looking handsome in his dinner suit, had clearly caught the tail end of their conversation.
His face lit up with scholarly enthusiasm.
‘Ernest, are you researching Henry VIII’s divorce?
Fascinating period – the whole business with Catherine of Aragon and the papal dispensation. I’ve got some rather good sources on—’
‘That’s not what I’m referring to,’ Ernest said quietly, his eyes fixed pointedly on Christina.
No Ernest, please don’t elaborate.
Hamish blinked, clearly baffled by the sudden tension. ‘Oh. Well. Different Great Matter, then?’ He looked between them hopefully, like a dog waiting for someone to throw a ball.
Ernest picked up a tray of crockery and left.
‘I want to stay here, at the Manor,’ Hamish said to Christina, apparently deciding to abandon the historical tangent.
Christina wondered if the upsetting evening had temporarily fogged her husband’s memory. ‘We are staying. Elspeth’s in your old room, remember?’
‘No, I don’t just mean tonight.’ He ran his hand through his hair, that familiar gesture when he was wrestling with something difficult. ‘I mean properly. For a few weeks. I want to be with her, see if I can help her navigate her dementia.’
She set down a wine glass, her hands suddenly unsteady.
Moving to the Manor. All her tools, the gilding tank; it would be a massive upheaval Christina didn’t have time for, not now Ernest had revealed his plan.
She tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘That’s .
. . that’s quite a big change. I’m not sure how I’d manage moving everything. The workshop setup—’
‘No, no.’ He held up his hand. ‘I just meant me.’
Christina felt something cold settle in her chest. ‘Oh.’
‘Ernest has made up his mind about Ma, and I can’t leave this to Hugo.’ His voice cracked slightly. ‘I keep thinking if I’m here, maybe I can slow it down somehow, or at least make her feel less frightened.’
She nodded, picking up a random glass and taking a gulp of wine to steady her nerves.
Was this how separation started? He moved in with his mother for a few weeks, then a few weeks more, and suddenly the cottage became too far away, and he never quite moved back in?
Two nights ago, they’d held each other in the darkness, their bodies still slick from making love, her dreaming of rebuilding what they’d nearly lost. For the first time in months, she’d felt hope unfurling inside her – that maybe they could find their way back to each other.
Now he wanted to retreat into the familiar walls of his childhood. Another delay. Another reason to avoid the tough conversations that waited between them.
He gazed at her, a penetrating look, and she tried to instil love into his eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’
Christina nodded, because what else could she do? It was the right thing, the loving thing for a son to suggest. But inside, something twisted painfully.
‘Of course,’ she heard herself say, though her voice sounded hollow even in her own ears. But what about me? The question burned unspoken on her tongue. What about us?
‘Flora needs you.’ she said.
Hamish rewarded her with a single soft ‘huh’. Moved but trying to hide it; maybe he did know how much he was asking of his wife.
‘Give me a hand with Hugo will you darling,’ said Hamish. ‘Amy must be taking Marmalade for his last walk.’
As she helped Hamish carry the unconscious Hugo to his dressing room, Christina felt the weight of more than just her brother-in-law’s limp form.
Here was Hamish, stepping up without question to care for his mother, moving back into the family seat like the dutiful son he’d always been.
Here was Hugo, despite his flaws, still belonging in ways Christina never would – still living in the ancestral home while she remained forever the outsider looking in.
The questions circling her mind were simple and terrifying: when would she and Hamish finally talk about their marriage? What exactly did Ernest expect from her with this auction? And what would happen if she refused?