Chapter Forty-one
Forty-one
The marquee, recently crackling with tension, now sagged in the hush of the auction’s aftermath.
Gone were the gasps and raised paddles. In their place was the dry clang of folding tables, the shuffling of departing feet, and the indistinct murmur of staff dismantling the illusion.
The theatre was over. The stage was bare.
Outside, dusk settled on the grass, birdsong echoing faintly. Inside the marquee, the air still held traces of fizzing adrenaline.
Tina leaned back against Hamish, drawing comfort from the smell of him – old books, clean cotton, and the aftershave he always forgot the name of. His arm curled around her waist.
‘Well,’ he murmured, kissing her hair, ‘shall we go and collect those miniatures?’
She looked up questioningly. After the tension of the loving cup tussle, Tina had spent an hour wandering round her beloved flower gardens admiring the spring display, returning after all the pictures had been sold. ‘You got them?’ she asked.
He managed, to look sheepish and proud all at once. ‘Yup. Let’s put them back where they belong. I’ve made a serious dent in the house fund, but Pa would’ve haunted me if they’d gone to that hedge-fund vampire from Surrey.’
She laughed, though her nerves hadn’t entirely settled. ‘Yes, let’s do that. And Hamish, about the loving cup, thank you.’
He spun her round to face him. ‘For what exactly?’
‘For not stepping in. For letting me . . . fight my own battle.’
Hamish raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t.’ Confused, she frowned. ‘You must have seen me bidding for the cup,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Paddle 385, pushing him up.’
Tina blinked. ‘That was you?’
‘I trust you,’ Hamish said simply. ‘If you say that cup’s worth a million, I believe you. You didn’t really think I’d let Ernest walk off with it for a handful of change, did you?’
Her heart kicked. If only she’d told him – told anyone – what it was really worth.
‘How would you have paid for it if you’d won?’
He gave a crooked smile. ‘By panicking quietly, then throwing myself at Hartwell’s mercy. Bit of Tudor flair. I’d have gone full Wolsey – on my knees, clutching the paperwork.’
A shaky laugh escaped her. ‘Wolsey didn’t get what he wanted, you know.’
‘Not always, no,’ Hamish said, reaching for her hand. ‘But he tried. And he was loyal. And that counts for a lot.’
‘Come on let’s get those portraits.’ she said. ‘Then we’ll go and fetch Elspeth.’
They reached the collection area – a folding trestle table set up near the exit, now cluttered with paperwork, battered cardboard boxes and rolls of bubble wrap.
Auction staff moved briskly, decanting Pemberton treasures into the eager hands of their new owners.
Both Tim and Toby Hartwell were assisting.
Spotting Ernest holding papers in one hand, Tina instinctively stepped closer to Hamish.
The auction clerk set a box down carefully on the table. ‘Lot 179a,’ she said briskly.
Ernest pulled back the flaps, smiling triumphantly. He lifted the loving cup, holding it up. Toby stepped forward. ‘Finest lot I’ve ever auctioned, I hope you’re pleased with her sir.’ Taking Hamish’s hand, Tina pulled him closer to the table. ‘I just want one last look,’ she said.
Despite the fading light, the cup gleamed; its surface chased with rococo shells and swirling foliage. Paul de Lamerie’s touch: bold, exuberant, unmistakable.
Over her shoulder, Hamish whispered, ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Then Ernest’s voice lashed out. ‘What the hell is this?’
Silence. A wine glass somewhere in the back shattered, unnoticed.
‘This is a bloody forgery!’
The word landed hard, slicing through the air.
Tina didn’t move. She watched horror sweep across Ernest’s face, while hers remained calm.
‘Ye sold me a fake!’ he barked at Toby, waving the cup like a weapon. ‘This isnae whit ah bid on!’
‘Mr Macarthy, you stood up and declared, in front of everyone, that it was a reproduction. You got what you bid for,’ replied Toby.
Ernest opened his mouth. Closed it. His face reddened. ‘Naw, ah didnae!’ Then he wheeled round, eyes blazing. ‘She’s switched it! Search that woman! She’s got the real yin!’
He lunged forward. Hamish stepped in front of Tina, both arms out. ‘You’re not coming near her.’
Tina didn’t flinch. She stepped around Hamish and reached out calmly and took the cup from Ernest’s hands.
She felt the weight of it; she gazed at the three scrolling handles rising seamlessly from the bellied body.
‘You have to admit,’ she said, ‘the craftsmanship’s impressive.
Really skilful. That’s my very last “restoration”,’ she said with a sardonic smile.
‘I commissioned it myself, but I made it just for you, Ernest.’
His lip curled. He glared at Toby. ‘I told you this is a reproduction.’
The fury in his eyes was volcanic – burning and bitter – but he had nothing to complain about. He’d built the stage for his own downfall. Ernest stalked off, muttering curses under his breath, the forgery cradled like a bomb with no pin.
Tina let out a long breath. Her knees felt suddenly soft.
‘You switched it,’ Hamish said, wonder in his voice.
‘I switched it,’ she repeated. ‘I didn’t know how I was going to manage that. I hoped to find a moment after the auction, but when I saw the handlers stumble . . .’
‘You magnificent, devious woman.’ He said, beaming at her.
She turned to him, tears blurring her vision, laughter rising beneath them like sunlight through water. ‘Why are you so happy when you don’t care about money,’ she asked.
‘No, money doesn’t matter to me,’ he agreed, brushing hair from her cheek. ‘But I care about you. And about Ma. And both of you care about that cup.’
Christina smiled. ‘I used to avoid conflict like the plague. I thought staying quiet meant staying safe. But this . . . this was worth fighting for.’
Hamish chuckled. ‘Defrauding Ernest? It’s quite a fun little hobby.’
They stood together as staff closed boxes behind them; the marquee emptying to shadows and silence. A breeze lifted the canvas flap; somewhere beyond the hedges, an owl hooted.
‘Where is the real cup?’ he asked.
She patted her bag. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Later,’ he murmured, pulling her close. ‘First, let’s fetch Elspeth from Langford, then go home.’
‘Tudor feast?’
‘Tudor feast!’
‘And tomorrow?’
Hamish’s smile was pure mischief – the same expression that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we’ll give that masterpiece the recognition it deserves.’
‘We?’
‘We,’ he confirmed. ‘Always we.’