Chapter 4
Four
The next morning, Christina drove briskly down the winding Devon lanes, past bare hedgerows and ancient stone walls weeping with winter rain.
Then, like a curtain parting, the land opened up.
She sailed through a pair of enormous black gates, the driveway then curving past a frozen meadow where deer picked delicately through the frost-laced grass.
In front of her, Brambleton Manor rose out of the valley like something from an oil painting – golden-stoned, sprawling, and proud.
The house was ancient – its origins traced back to the Domesday Book – and was a “sister house” to Brambleton Hall, which owned the land above the village, where it made fine cider and let out smart eco-friendly houses to up-market tourists.
Two branches of the same ancient family, one now far more precarious than the stone walls implied.
It was a shame Ernest’s money-spinning schemes weren’t as legitimate as the Hall’s.
She eased the car up the drive, the crisp February air rattling its windows.
On either side, the flower borders lay dormant, a tangle of skeletal stems and brown leaves, but she could see the promise beneath the frost. Crocus bulbs were just beginning to swell, their tips daring to peek above the soil, and Christina made mental notes as she drove: time to clear the dead foliage, prune the wisteria before it leaped unchecked along the trellis and add another layer of mulch to the borders to hold warmth in the soil.
Even in winter’s grip, she could almost feel the garden stirring under her gaze, waiting for her instructions.
Her nerves in knots, she parked outside the estate office.
Until yesterday, she had convinced herself everything was harmless – all the buyers of her silver could afford to have a portion of their considerable wealth redistributed to a deserving cause.
But in Malcolm’s shop – as trusting Ivy weighed up whether to spend precious church funds on a forged silver salver – she’d seen through those lies.
She got out of her car, strode to the estate office, paused outside the door and took a deep breath. It was strange how often her mind drifted to the past at moments like these, to ghosts she’d never fully shaken.
Ernest had first appeared at the estate nearly thirty years ago to value the family antiques for insurance purposes.
Lady Flora, five years widowed, had been captivated by his authority, charm and the way he admired the things she loved.
But to Hamish and his elder brother Hugo, he was an interloper and always would be.
That meant Ernest could be prickly when challenged, and that’s just what she was about to do.
She remembered all too vividly the first time Ernest persuaded her to ‘do her bit’ for the family funds and forge a piece of silver.
It had been six days since Hamish had slammed out of the cottage with his lecture bag, the air ringing with his Latin curses, and Christina was still replaying his parting words: Clearly, I got it wrong.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened to my mother after all.
That morning, Ernest had found her crying as she dug composted chicken manure into the Manor’s long wide rose bed, and when he asked what was wrong, she admitted some of what Hamish said.
Ernest had pulled her into the estate office, poured two glasses of whisky and gave her that roguish grin of his.
‘Dry those lovely green eyes and have a wee dram. You and Hamish aren’t finished. Not if we handle this the right way. I can help you show Hamish what a fool he’d be to let you go. But it means working with me. I need someone with steady hands. Someone clever. Someone the family can trust.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Antique silver. Georgian pieces, mostly. There’s a market for it, see, collectors willing to pay top dollar for the real deal.’
‘You want me to restore silver?’
‘Kind of.’ He slid a glass toward her. ‘Create it. Age it. Make it look like it’s been sittin’ in some laird’s cabinet since 1780.’
She stared at him. ‘That’s illegal, Ernest.’
‘Aye, well. So’s half of what keeps families like the Pembertons afloat, if we’re honest about it.’ He leaned back, watching her. ‘You’ve got the skills, Christina. I’ve seen your work. Your restoration. You’ve got an artist’s eye and a craftsman’s touch.’
‘I’ve got Elspeth to think about.’
‘Exactly. Which is why ye need the money.’ He let that sit there. ‘You could earn over a grand a month. I’m thinking a few pieces, nothin’ mad. Enough to get you out of your wee cottage and into something proper. A fresh start for you and the family.’
She thought of her compact cottage, damp in winter, the kitchen where Hamish couldn’t even find the bread bin.
The silent kitchen, now, with Hamish somewhere in Oxford or Cambridge, holding court about monasteries, probably relieved to be away from his suspicious, stubborn wife.
She thought of the Manor, crumbling behind the fine reception rooms. Perhaps if she helped Ernest keep the estate afloat, Hamish would thank her.
‘And this would . . . help the Pembertons?’ her voice sounded small. ‘Restore the estate?’
‘Help everyone. The money goes straight into the estate’s coffers – plus a little commission for you and me, o’ course.’ He topped up her glass. ‘No need to tell Flora or Hamish. They don’t like to sully themselves with the dirty business of making money.’
Christina lifted the glass and took a gulp, feeling the warmth of it fail to reach the tight knot in her stomach.
She didn’t like the secrecy, but there was an old sense of owing that whispered she had to do this.
She had to pay her debts. And if it brought her and Hamish back together, that would be perfect.
She missed him terribly. The thought lingered, a shadow she tucked carefully behind her smile.
‘When would I start?’
Ernest’s smile spread wide. ‘That’s my clever girl.’
Christina shook the memory away. Two years ago, Ernest had caught her at a vulnerable moment, but after what happened with Ivy yesterday, it was time for her to quit. She knocked. Hearing the familiar creak of Ernest’s chair, she opened the door, uninvited.
‘Ernest, we need to talk.’
He looked up too fast. His hands moved with the fluidity of someone used to concealing things quickly. She knew the choreography well – had seen it a hundred times and never questioned it. Or rather, over the last two years, she had chosen not to.
‘Ah, Christina! Come in, come in,’ said Ernest, the cheer in his voice stretched thin like worn velvet.
She took a steadying breath. ‘I took that salver in yesterday like you asked me to.’
Ernest’s expression was smooth. ‘And?’
She stepped closer. ‘Our retired vicar . . . Ivy, came into the shop. She almost bought it.’
‘Almost?’ he said, feigning lightness.
‘I stopped her.’
Ernest’s brows twitched. ‘Why would you do that dear girl?’
‘Because I have a conscience.’ Maybe not as solid as I used to, but she couldn’t steal from the Church.
He leaned back in his chair, a breath escaping through his nose, as if he was letting go of something heavier than air. ‘You’ve always known what we are doing.’
She shook her head. ‘I thought I did. I thought we were . . . you promised me we were selling to wealthy people who could afford the loss if they ever uncovered the truth. But this isn’t Robin Hood. It’s theft from innocent people.’
‘Innocent?’
‘Ivy would have trusted Malcolm without question.’
Ernest waved a hand. ‘One mistake in two years–’
‘One that I saw,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘What about the ones I didn’t?’
Silence settled between them, heavy and still.
‘We’re just redistributing things. The lion’s share of our pieces go to wealthy collectors. Que será, será.’
Christina closed her eyes for a moment. It was all so familiar, another one of his eloquent stories about people with too much money, punctuated by his pet phrase: what will be, will be – but in Spanish, like the famous pop song. At least he didn’t quote Latin at her like Hamish.
She opened her eyes. ‘I want out.’
He tilted his head, almost amused. ‘No, you don’t.’ He smiled but there was a cruel edge to his voice. ‘Because where does that leave you? You’re still not one of them, Christina. Neither of us are. But with the money you’re earning with me you might be able to get a bit closer.’
She hesitated, and that was all he needed.
‘You know what they think of you. The same as they think of me. Polite smiles. Silent judgment. I keep this whole place going, and they still look at me like I ought to have come in the tradesman’s entrance.
You’ve spent eleven years trying to be a good wife for Hamish, and it’s still not enough.
Not without the right name, the right vowels or the right house. ’
She wanted to deny it. She couldn’t.
‘Keep helping me,’ he said, soft now, persuasive. ‘And I’ll put in a word with Flora about Chase Lodge.’
Chase Lodge thought Christina wistfully. More space for Elspeth; room for Hamish’s books; a long history for Hamish to get lost in. Would a proper house finally bring acceptance from her sneering in laws? And would that bring Hamish back to her?
Her gaze met Ernest’s, and he handed her a small silver spoon. ‘Have a look at that for me sweet pea.’ Instinctively, her fingers reached for the loupe that hung round her neck, and she studied the lion passant, the spacing, the maker’s mark. ‘That hallmark is off.’ she said.
‘Is it?’ he replied, his tone mild.
‘Yes. I can tell; it’s like someone offering me a wink instead of a handshake.’
‘But you can fix it for me?’
She put the spoon down gently and looked at her hands – the hands that had smoothed and soldered and polished so many “enhanced” pieces.
She pictured her, Hamish and Elspeth sitting happily around a large table at Chase Lodge, but the image was replaced swiftly by one of Ivy’s furrowed brow, as she weighed up the cost of the salver.
Christina looked up at Ernest. ‘I told you. I don’t want this anymore. ’
‘You don’t want the guilt,’ he said. ‘But live with it a little longer and you’ll earn enough to get a seat at their table.’
She didn’t answer.
‘You’re close, lass. They’ve let you through the door – just. If I put in a good word and you buy Chase Lodge, could be they even start thinking you’re one of them.
All you have to do is finish the pieces we’ve got, and one more commission – let’s make it something special, eh? What about a piece of Paul Storr?’
She gaped at him. Storr. The name alone carried weight; Storr, a master silversmith, his neoclassical pieces gracing the tables of royalty, every line and flourish executed with a precision that had made him England’s most celebrated silversmith in the early 1800s.
‘Go out on a high,’ he coaxed, ‘You’re good enough. One more piece, eh?’
She felt something cave inside. It wasn’t exactly agreement – more the sheer, gravitational pull of habit. It would only take a week – then she’d be free of him. Of Frank. Of the duplicity.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to sound firm. ‘Just the pieces I have, and one more commission. Then, no more.’
His smile returned. ‘Good lass.’ Ernest’s smile widened, and she recognized the trap she’d stepped into the moment she opened the door. Still, Chase Lodge would be worth it. A chance to rescue her marriage and finally get her in-laws to accept her.
She clutched her loupe as if it were a rosary. ‘What do you want me to do first?’
‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is the right question.’