Chapter 28
Twenty-eight
Christina pushed open the door of the Smuggler’s Inn, letting in a wash of light and a gust of chilly sea air. The place was nearly empty, unsurprising for five o’clock on a Monday – just a handful of villagers, and Rose behind the bar, polishing a row of glasses with a tea towel.
‘Alright, love,’ Rose called out in her unmistakable south London rasp.
‘Fine thanks,’ Christina said, smoothing her wind-tousled hair and walking through to the back room, her thoughts in a tumult.
Ernest had asked to meet; she guessed he would want to discuss the loving cup – how to maximise its value.
She’d done her research, had figures, options.
He’d be pleased with her. And then – then she could get him to promise to forget all about ‘the Great Matter’.
That variation deed niggled at her mind. Could it be a forgery? Should she confront him. No. Even if it was forged, his motive was honest: sell the cup, restore the family finances, bring Lady Flora back to her own home, where she belonged. Best not to rock the boat.
Ernest sat framed by a latticed window behind him.
The light caught the sharp edges of his face, made sharper still by the steel beneath his charm.
His clothes suggested deliberate care – not too polished, not too casual – but the way he swirled his glass of malt whisky said this was no social meeting.
‘Christina,’ he said, without standing. ‘Good of you to spare the time. You look windblown and wonderful.’
Rose set down a glass of white wine. ‘Your usual.’
Christina thanked her and picked it up, watching Ernest over the rim of her glass. She waited until they were alone again.
‘I’ve been doing some research . . .’
‘I want the cup back in the Manor.’
She blinked. ‘What’s the hurry?’
Ernest leaned back, watching her think. ‘You and I both know how valuable it is. The craftsmanship’s unmistakable . . . alive, vibrant, everything Flora never grasped. She spent decades faffing about with her blooms, completely blind to its value. But I knew it was a de Lamerie. I’ve always known.’
That should have been her cue to hold her tongue, but, reminding herself his goal was to restore the Pemberton fortune, she said, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
And while I’m sure you’ll be devastated to sell it, once authenticated, that cup will solve everything.
You just need the right auction, with a top house, maybe in New York. ’
‘Absolutely not. The right auctioneer is Hartwell the only reason he gave it to her was to get it out of sight of the auctioneers while the catalogue was printed, so he could introduce it as a late auction lot after they “discovered” Flora’s deed of variation.
The deed that Flora herself couldn’t contradict because, conveniently, she too had been disappeared, as out of sight as the cup itself.
A late auction lot meant no publicity. No online buyers, no telephone bids from international collectors and museums. Ernest would buy it himself for a knockdown price.
And then – only afterwards – he’d have it authenticated properly.
By a top London auction house. And when it finally went under the hammer again – authenticated, admired, spotlighted by one of the top auction houses – he’d make millions.
Not for the Pembertons, but for himself, Ernest Macarthy, no doubt vanishing into whatever offshore nest of accounts he’d been quietly feathering for years.
She looked at him, her eyes bulging. He was planning every move three steps ahead. She wasn’t an accomplice anymore. She was a pawn.
Ernest looked at her. The glint in his eye said checkmate.
Something primal stirred within her. Whatever happened, she could not let that cup out of her hands.
She took a gulp of wine, her resolve firming.
If anyone deserved the proceeds from the loving cup, it was the family – not some calculating stepfather with a talent for forgery.
The cup may not be hers to keep, but it certainly wasn’t his to steal.
She met his gaze. ‘You’re quite right, you know. The cup was once a de Lamerie. But when you gave it to me, you told me to give it a new hallmark. Hester Bateman. That was your instruction.’
A look of horror crossed his face. ‘No, you haven’t . . .’
She smiled and took a sip of wine.
He pursed his lips. ‘No. You wouldn’t do that. Bring it back.’
‘I said I’d restore it.’
‘You said,’ Ernest leaned forward his voice softening, ‘you’d handle it. That meant something.’
She looked away, buying herself a moment. ‘Whether it’s Bateman or de Lamarie, I don’t believe it can be sold. It’s a protected asset.’
He smirked. ‘No, Christina. It was. My dear wife fixed that for me.’
‘The variation deed.’ Christina kept her voice even. ‘It’s genuine?’
Ernest held her gaze, but his eyes wavered. ‘Och aye.’
Got you, she thought. Pressure always brought out the Glaswegian in him.
‘How convenient.’
Silence lay between them like a glass wall: clear, cold, and impossible to ignore.
Christina listened to the pull and slap of waves against the stone of the harbour wall.
She couldn’t return the cup to Ernest. She decided to play for time.
‘I’m not holding it ransom,’ she said. ‘I’ll return it. Once I’ve finished the work.’
Ernest lifted an eyebrow. ‘Still polishing, are we?’
‘There’s a tiny dent that needs fixing.’ It was a lie. But he couldn’t be sure. ‘And the Hester Bateman hallmark needs one more application of tarnish.’
‘Careful lass,’ he said, a glint of iron in his voice. ‘Don’t forget I’m the one who knows that your little sideline – the hallmarks, the replicas – is fraud. But you’re well versed in that aren’t you. The apple never falls far from the tree.’
Christina’s stomach lurched, but she picked up her glass, calm and steady. ‘You gave me the cup because you didn’t want it discovered by Hartwell’s silver expert. You wanted it out of the house until you’d walked Hugo and Hamish through the charade of discovering the variation deed.’
He didn’t deny it. His smile returned – cool and razor-thin. ‘Bring the cup back and I’ll forget about “the Great Matter”.’
For once, there was the glint of truth in his eyes.
Christina gave a tight nod, and Ernest’s smile broadened.
She knew he wouldn’t hassle her, not now she had agreed to return it.
Anyway, he would want the cup admitted to the auction at the last possible moment to minimise the chances of Hartwells or any viewers spotting its true value.
She stood, smoothing her skirt, her voice still low. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Ernest.’
‘Aye, I always have been.’ he tossed back his whisky, then added, ‘Word of advice: don’t try and play against me.’
She felt the familiar flutter of anxiety, but underneath it, something harder had taken root. Ernest thought he’d won, that she was just another pawn on his chess board, helpless, cornered, ripe to be sacrificed.
He was wrong.
She’d spent years feeling like an outsider – apologizing, shrinking, grateful for scraps. Ernest might have the law on his side, but she had something better: a newly restored courage. Because the cup wasn’t just another antique; it was irreplaceable. And it was up to her to protect it.
Yes, this was a dangerous game. But she had the cup.
And if she was right about the deed – if she could prove it was a fake – she would win.
She turned and walked out, her heels sharp. Outside, the sea wind struck her – fresh and cold, full of salt and promise. She tightened her grip on her coat.
She had five days until the auction. It would have to be enough.
That evening, Christina huddled in her shed, the dim spring light barely touching the grimy windows.
On the cluttered bench sat a George III vinaigrette box, the hallmark polished flat, waiting to be reborn. She adjusted her headlamp, steadied her hand, and aligned the steel letter punch to the silver’s surface. One wrong blow would ruin it.
Christina inhaled. The acrid tang of scorched metal filled her nose. The sea whispered outside.
She took a deep breath and struck. Click. She froze. Then exhaled. Clean. A lion passant – sharp and proud. One more to go.
The door creaked.
‘Don’t come in too fast!’ Christina snapped. ‘This is delicate work–’
‘It’s only me,’ came Hamish’s voice, soft and apologetic. ‘Didn’t want to make you jump.’
She set the tools down with a clink and turned, blinking against the stream of natural light from the open door.
He looked tired but somehow purposeful, like a man who had found his footing again.
Hamish held a cup of tea in one hand and a sheaf of notes in the other.
He offered her the tea. The cup was warm in her fingers, the scent floral; her favourite – Darjeeling, the kind she brewed for her thermos, then slipped into her cavernous handbag. The gesture touched her.
‘I thought you might want a tea break.’
She took a sip then glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something in them, hesitation maybe, or a shadow she hadn’t seen before.
‘Is . . . is anything wrong?’ she asked gently.