Chapter 25
Twenty-five
On the morning of her deadline, Christina drove to the Manor.
She had chosen her clothes carefully – a dove-grey dress Hamish had always said brought out her green eyes, heels, makeup and a spritz of perfume – hoping, despite everything, that she might catch sight of him.
After three weeks, his absence had carved a hollow ache in her heart that no amount of work could fill.
The formal gardens were ablaze with tulips emerging in bright sherbet colours, and out of habit she gathered an armful of stems on her way to the house.
She had half-hoped Hamish would be walking among them, as he often did when the spring flowers emerged.
She imagined him looking up and seeing her, holding the blooms in her hands, remembering what they had been to each other. But he wasn’t there.
She popped the tulips in the car boot, collected the box of finished silver from the passenger seat and strode into the octagonal hall with its eight perfectly proportioned walls.
Furniture had been arranged in careful groupings – Georgian side tables, Victorian writing desks, a set of dining chairs that had never seen the inside of the dining room since she’d known this house.
Lot numbers on cream cards were propped against each piece.
The space hummed with controlled chaos – young men in shirtsleeves carried clipboards and called out lot numbers with the urgent efficiency of battlefield medics.
A banner hung somewhat incongruously from the first-floor gallery, ‘Hartwell & Sons’, the provincial lettering at odds with the aristocratic setting.
The tall windows let in the spring morning light, which caught the dust motes stirring in the air.
She scanned the room, searching for Hamish, wondering why the auctioneers were already upending the house with a week before the auction.
Crisp white moulding framed the walls, and the black and white marble floor spread out in geometric patterns which seemed to shift and dance as auction house staff bustled across its surface.
The chequered floor tiles had always reminded her of a chessboard in a fairytale: grand, improbable, and hinting of fun.
She scanned the room. No sign of Hamish.
A male voice called out. ‘Is that for me?’
She turned to find a young man with sandy hair and an eager smile, his auction house badge identifying him as Timothy Hartwell – presumably the son in Hartwell & Sons. He was kneeling beside an open crate, tissue paper scattered around him like snow.
‘I’m Tim,’ he said, rising as he saw her. He brushed his hands against his thighs, leaving faint dust marks on his charcoal trousers. ‘Mr Macarthy mentioned I should expect a box of silver.’
‘You’re from the North?’ she asked, though she’d already noted the Yorkshire accent that peppered his vowels.
‘Harrogate. Now is it my imagination or do I detect a faint northerly twang in your own voice?’ Tim’s grin was infectious.
‘Glasgow, am I right?’ he inched closer, disguising it under the pretence of consulting his clipboard.
He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne – sandalwood and citrus, something expensive and probably Italian.
It mixed with the scent of old wood and beeswax that always hung in this hall.
His eyes lingered appreciatively on her face.
‘So, what’s a nice northern lass like you doing in a posh southern joint like this? ’
She laughed, a genuine sound that surprised her. ‘You’re very smooth, Mr Hartwell.’
‘Tim, please.’ His smile widened, unapologetic.
‘Do you live in this extraordinary house? The proportions of this hall—’ He gestured upward to the coffered ceiling with its octagonal pattern echoing the room’s shape, culminating in a glazed cupola through which morning light streamed.
‘You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore. ’
‘Oh, you’re looking at the ceiling now?’ Christina raised an eyebrow, feeling something flutter in her chest that she’d almost forgotten existed.
‘I’m trying to be professional.’ Tim’s eyes returned to her face. ‘Though I find myself suddenly interested in things that aren’t listed on my clipboard for inspection.’
She didn’t want the conversation to end. ‘What’s your role in all this?’ she asked, noticing how her vowels were flattening, matching her own accent with his.
His smile turned slightly crooked, charming.
‘I’m the picture expert. Come to the preview and see me in action.
You might enjoy seeing the rooms transformed – all these pieces under the spotlight, people actually excited about them again.
Things that have been gathering dust suddenly becoming treasures. ’
‘I hadn’t planned to attend.’ But even as she said it, she was reconsidering.
‘You should.’ Tim’s gaze held hers. ‘I’d make sure you were looked after. I give excellent commentary and there’ll be plenty of champagne.’
Christina couldn’t help the smile that played at her lips. It had been a long time since she last felt this spark of being noticed, being wanted. It was just a flirtatious conversation, but the octagonal hall suddenly seemed smaller, warmer, charged with possibility.
‘Auction houses provide champagne now, do they?’
‘Only for our favourite clients,’ Tim said, still grinning. ‘No, that’s a lie. Our client, Mr Macarthy, is providing the fizz. What’s your relation to him if you don’t mind me asking?’
The mention of Ernest’s name made Christina step back instinctively, the spell breaking. Tim glanced at his clipboard as if he’d been consulting it all along, though his eyes were still bright with barely suppressed amusement.
‘He’s my stepfather-in-law,’ she said sheepishly.
‘Aha,’ he said, his voice returning to something more businesslike but with an undercurrent of conspiracy, ‘that must make you Christina. You’re the one delivering a box of the best silver.’
Christina smoothed her hands down her skirt, trying to reclaim her composure.
‘Your pa-in-law has been brilliant to work with over the last nine months,’ continued Tim. ‘I’m sure the sale will raise a lot of money.’
Nine Months? Christina felt a chill despite the warmth of Tim’s admiration. Ernest had been planning this while she’d been stumbling around in ignorance, forging pieces without understanding the bigger picture. The realisation was both impressive and terrifying.
As if summoned by the mention of money, Hugo appeared at the foot of the steps. His usually florid complexion was merely pink, suggesting he was still operating mostly on last night’s fumes rather than today’s.
‘Excellent choice of auctioneer,’ he announced to the room at large. ‘They know their business without all the Mayfair nonsense.’
‘Is Hamish around?’ Christina asked.
‘Took off after breakfast to the university like he does every morning, a hound in search of the academic scent.’ said Hugo, walking away, Marmalade padding after him.
Christina sighed. Another opportunity missed.
Lady Flora drifted past, her vacant gaze taking in the organised chaos with dreamlike detachment. ‘How lovely,’ she murmured. ‘Are we having dancing after dinner?’
Christina exchanged a glance with Tim, who clearly hadn’t encountered Lady Flora’s particular brand of disconnection from reality before. ‘It’s an auction, your ladyship,’ he said kindly. ‘We’re selling some of your beautiful things.’
‘Oh yes, the sale.’ Flora’s smile was as empty as a summer sky. ‘Ernest explained. Like a wonderful party where everyone goes home with presents.’
Christina felt a stab of pity at Flora reframing this dismantling of her heritage as something festive and generous.
‘Christina.’ Ernest’s voice boomed across the hall, drawing heads like a magnet. He approached with the satisfied air of a general surveying a successful campaign, carrying a laden cardboard box that made Christina’s heart sink. ‘Perfect timing. I’ve got one last batch for your expert attention.’
Tim was watching the exchange with poorly concealed curiosity, clearly sensing undercurrents he couldn’t quite identify. ‘Is there anything else you need sir?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got most of the silver photographed, but if there are additional pieces . . .’
Ernest set down the box.
‘Just routine maintenance,’ Ernest replied smoothly.
‘You know how these old pieces can get manky. Christina’s got magic hands when it comes to restoration, so she has.
’ The phrase made her skin crawl. Magic hands.
As if what she was doing was some kind of benevolent alchemy rather than fraud.
She picked up the box, clutching it close, feeling the weight of Ernest’s expectations, of three weeks spent bent over her workbench, transforming honest replicas into lying antiques.
She still hadn’t figured out his plan, but she was on alert every time they spoke.
‘Excuse me, but I must get on.’ said Tim. He shot Christina a mischievous grin and moved aside.
‘What’s in the box darling?’ asked Flora, her hands clawing at the top.
Ernest brushed Flora’s hands aside. ‘Actually, we had a wee hiccup yesterday, didn’t we?’ His tone was indulgent, the way one might speak to a favourite but troublesome pet. ‘Someone reorganized a display case. Took poor Tim and his team hours to sort out which pieces belonged where.’
Flora’s hands fluttered to her throat. ‘I was only trying to help. I know exactly where everything belongs—’
‘Of course you do, darling. But that’s why we have professionals.
’ Ernest’s smile didn’t waver, but Christina heard the steel beneath the silk.
‘Which reminds me – I’ve been thinking. That recuperative stay we discussed.
I’ve found the perfect spot. Lovely rooms, excellent staff. You’ll be comfortable there.’
Christina frowned. A hotel? That sounded strange – Flora wasn’t well enough to travel alone. And then it hit her.
A nursing home.
He was talking about a nursing home with the same breezy tone he might use to book a weekend at the seaside. Surely Hamish wouldn’t let him get away with that – unless this was being arranged without the sons’ knowledge?
Her eyes shifted to Flora, to the proud silhouette of a woman – patrician nose, carefully set hair, pearls that had likely been a wedding gift decades ago. This was a woman who had once hosted dinners and balls, chaired committees, run the house like a discreet empire.
She thought of Hamish and how his face would crumple if Flora was despatched for a ‘recuperative stay’. He’d see it instantly for what it was. Permanent exile.
Beside her, Flora remained composed, her shoulders back, her hands folded. But something stirred behind her eyes – a glimmer of understanding, quickly shuttered.
‘How thoughtful,’ Flora murmured.
‘When would this . . . vacation begin?’ Christina asked.
‘Probably tomorrow,’ said Ernest. ‘Certainly before the auction, at any rate.’
Christina’s jaw clenched. Ernest needed his wife to be out of the way before he sold off all her favourite pieces.
She couldn’t let it happen. Just as she turned to leave, Tim magically appeared at her side.
His smile softened into something warmer, more personal.
‘Maybe we could grab a coffee later? I could be free whenever suited you. And I meant what I said – about the preview.’ He paused, then added, ‘It would be lovely to see you there. Away from all this.’ His gesture took in the hall, but somehow implied more – the house, the family, the weight of everything she carried.
Then, as if emboldened by her silence, he reached out and touched her arm lightly, just above the elbow.
The contact was brief, barely a second, but unmistakable in its intent.
His eyes searched hers with sudden concern.
‘I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.
Your husband – will he be at the preview too? ’
The words struck like a rapier. Christina stepped back sharply, Tim’s hand falling away.
Heat flooded her face – not the pleasant warmth of before, but something scorching, shameful.
What was she doing playing the coquette while her entire world teetered?
She must do better. Fight harder. If she lost Hamish now – to his family’s pull or her own cowardice – there would be nothing left worth saving.
And through the rising tide of unfairness, a sliver of understanding broke through Christina’s thoughts.
She must fight for what was right – for her, her family, and for Flora.
Tomorrow, she would collect Elspeth from school herself and insist Hamish meet them.
They would walk along the Tarka Trail, just the three of them.
She would warn him about Ernest’s plan for Flora.
Then they’d go home – to the cottage – as a family.
‘I—’ Her voice came out strangled. ‘I really must go.’
What kind of person was she?
Tim was handsome, charming, easy to be herself with. But it wasn’t what she wanted. Not while Ernest tightened his grip on all their lives and her husband retreated further into silence.
A gust of sea air met her at the door – sharp, salty, and necessary.
Time to go home. Time to remember who she was supposed to be.