Chapter 31
Thirty-one
With only three days to go, preparations for the auction had spilled out of the house and onto the gravel sweep and the gardens beyond.
The spring sun shone across the borders, where tulips nodded in the breeze, bright against the clipped yew hedges.
The great cream marquee billowed on the south lawn; inside men in green overalls were aligning rows of gilt-edged chairs with the ceremonial precision of a garden party at a country estate.
On the gravel, the air vibrated with a different kind of order, what Christina privately thought of as curated chaos.
Auctioneers hurried past with a purposeful stride, while handlers in branded polo shirts ferried crates across the drive.
Someone shouted about insurance. Someone else shouted louder. Clipboards fluttered.
Christina stood slightly apart, half in the garden’s quiet, half in the commotion. People brushed past her shoulder without noticing her.
Hamish burst out of the house, his tweed jacket flapping like a panicked bird. He skidded on the gravel, waving both arms. ‘They’re gone! The miniatures— gone! I left them in the library! They were there!’
A handler stared at him. ‘Er— who’s that?’
‘Husband,’ Christina said. ‘Historian. If he corners you, pretend to faint.’
Hamish barrelled toward her, glasses askew, colour high in his cheeks. ‘Christina – please – help me find them.’
Before she could answer, a familiar figure materialised at her elbow.
Ernest.
He looked disarmingly at ease among the fuss: linen sleeves rolled-up, scuffed brogues chosen – Christina realised – with exacting care. The picture of benign competence. Trustworthy, harmless. Only she knew better.
He gave her a slow, knowing smile. ‘I need a word,’ he murmured, steering her gently away from the bustle and towards the shelter of a magnolia tree, whose pale blossoms trembled overhead in the breeze.
She didn’t resist, calling out over her shoulder to Hamish. ‘I’m sure you’ll find them.’
Then she turned to Ernest, her voice sharp. ‘Did you include them in the sale?’
He gave a light, dismissive laugh. ‘You can’t expect me to remember every single lot in the catalogue. There are hundreds of items.’
‘I’m not coming home until I find them,’ Hamish shouted. ‘I’m not having them sold off.’
She couldn’t afford to spend all day hunting for missing pictures. ‘I’ve got an important commission to finish,’ she said, wanting to add: possibly the most important commission of my life.
Hamish strode towards her. His voice softened. ‘You go when you’re ready darling. I’ll follow.’ He shot Ernest a dark look. ‘When I’ve found those Tudor miniatures.’
Then he disappeared. She turned back to Ernest.
‘Please,’ she said before he could speak. ‘After the sale – no more commissions, no more fake salt cellars or manufactured hallmarks. Let me out.’
He tilted his head, mock wounded. ‘Oh, come now, Christina. What a waste of those hands. You’re the best I’ve ever seen.’
She pressed on. ‘Please. I’ll stay silent about what we’ve done. But please keep my secret. I can’t keep doing this. I won’t.’
His expression shifted. Not kindness, not remorse, but detached; he’d taken what he wanted.
Then he winked at her.
‘Fine. After the auction, you’re out.’
She exhaled. Her heartbeat slowed slightly. ‘Thank you.’ Then she had a sudden thought, ‘and Frank.’
‘Frank does what he’s told . . . though what will you do with all your free time?’ he added, teasing again. ‘Start a jam-making co-op in Brambleton? Local plums and authenticity?’
Christina gave a small smile, but this time it bloomed into something real. She felt the weight lift. She was off the hook. No more late nights with a loupe and the stench of sulphur, no more pretending, no more fear that the wrong person would ask the right question. Ernest had promised.
Relief spread through her like heat. She would be free.
But freedom came with a bitter aftertaste.
Because she wasn’t stupid. She knew Ernest didn’t give things away.
If he was finally letting her free, it was because he would make a fortune at the auction.
The proceeds swelling his personal bank account – would he leave anything for the Pembertons?
And the cup . . . God, the cup. If he really was planning to sell that, the real game hadn’t even started.
Her smile faded. A cold little sliver of dread settled beneath her ribs. She turned to him, voice quieter now, uncertain.
‘Do you think anyone suspects, I mean their silver expert must surely?’ she asked, her voice dropping.
Ernest laughed – loudly, head thrown back. A few heads turned. He lowered his voice, all warmth now. ‘Oh, Christina,’ he said. ‘You think it’s just the silver?’
Her heart sank. ‘Don’t you worry you’ll be caught?’ she asked.
His, voice dropped. ‘Why do you think I hired this firm? They’re posh, not expert. They’re here for the optics. Glossy catalogues, champagne preview nights, not forensic scrutiny.’
‘But what about the family – what if they spot something? If they catch you—’
‘They won’t.’ His voice cooled. ‘You know why they’ll never catch me?
Because people like you and me . . . we’re invisible to them.
They don’t really see us. We learn to work around them instead of through them.
’ He stepped back, just a little. ‘But there’s a cost to that invisibility, isn’t there, love. ’
The words hit like a stone dropped in a deep well.
A dull echoing thunk somewhere inside her.
That was it, wasn’t it? Not just Ernest. The whole family.
She thought of Lady Flora, barely glancing at her during tea, barbs delivered without hesitation.
Hugo, who’d once called her “that girl with the duster.” Amy, making her feel like an interloper despite marrying Hamish.
She had let them all teach her the same lesson: you are second tier. Not to be taken seriously. Not one of us.
But Ernest had reinforced that belief. He’d seen her doubt and shaped it, gently, over years. Taught her to keep believing she was safest in the shadows. That invisibility was protection.
But it wasn’t. It was isolation. It was powerlessness disguised as safety.
She felt her spine straighten without thinking, her shoulders pulling back. No more vanishing into the background. No more letting others decide what she was worth.
Ernest was still talking – something about late lot lists. ‘And the loving cup,’ he added casually. ‘I’ll need that back.’
Before she could speak, a voice cut through the noise.
‘Cup? Where is Ma’s cup?’
Hugo. Standing framed in the entrance porch, one brow raised, a brandy glass in hand, the ever-loyal Marmalade at his heel, tail sweeping with slow enthusiasm.
Ernest’s expression didn’t alter, but Christina noticed his posture switch to watchful, calculating.
She jumped in before he could answer. ‘It’s with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been cleaning it.’
Hugo frowned. ‘Whatever for?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s tarnished. I wanted it to restore it.’
He shrugged, already losing interest. ‘Ma loves that cup.’
Marmalade gave a soft, phlegmy woof, then wandered a few steps toward her before circling back to lean against Hugo’s leg.
‘Time for a small top-up,’ Hugo muttered, raising his glass and tottering off, dog in tow.
‘Bring it back tomorrow,’ Ernest demanded.
She pursed her lips, then nodded lightly. The sky stretched huge and clear above the old house. Ernest gave her a brief, unreadable glance, and she walked away.
When Hamish opened the cottage door two hours later, she was waiting for him. She slapped the variation deed on the kitchen table.
‘Come and take a look at this,’ she said, hands on hips.
Hamish froze for a moment, then shut the door and sat, pulling the document toward him. ‘Is this . . . the trust variation deed?’
She dropped into the chair opposite him. ‘It is. The very one your charming stepfather Ernest swore blind was legitimate. Funny thing, though,’ she leaned closer, so close she could hear him breathing and smell his aftershave. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret, ‘I think he’s lying.’
He glanced at her, his eyes wide. ‘How did you get hold of this?’ He asked, one ink-stained finger smoothing down the page. ‘He locked the strongbox. I saw him.’
‘Don’t ask.’
Hamish stared at her. ‘You broke in?’
‘I borrowed the spare key,’ she said.
‘And you stole the key to the strongbox.’
‘I put it back where I found it.’
‘What if you were caught?’
‘Don’t be dramatic. The only real danger was Marmalade; Hugo was stumbling about, but I think he’d have assumed I was a ghost . . . he was at the hiccupping stage of the evening.’
Hamish gave a short, helpless laugh. ‘You’re . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
She grinned. Then flattened the paper between them. ‘Look at this signature. Your mother’s, supposedly. Does that F look right to you? It’s not loopy enough. She always loops her Fs like a treble clef.’
He squinted. ‘That’s true.’
‘And the P.’ She tilted the page, frowning. ‘It barely curls. Flora’s letters always look like they are about to bite you. This one sulks.’
He took the page from her carefully, as though it might burn him. ‘You think it’s forged.’
‘And I know why.’ Long ago she’d worked out that Ernest was greedy – but it seemed his greed knew no bounds. ‘I think Ernest wants to remove the protection on the loving cup, flog it, and vanish with the proceeds.’
‘You really think he’d do that?’
‘I do. But complacency stalks the powerful, and when it does, the overlooked underdog can bring them down.’ Christina smiled. ‘Just like Henry VII defeated Richard III.’
There was a pause. Then Hamish looked at her properly. As if something had finally cut through the veil of pewter tankards and Tudor ink ratios.
‘You’ve got your old spark back.’
She raised an eyebrow, teasing. ‘Only mildly terrifying this time.’