Chapter 28 #2
He shuffled his papers. The words came slowly, almost reluctantly, but finally they tumbled out.
‘Everything is such a mess. It’s . . . Ma,’ he said.
‘She’s . . . slipping away into dementia.
I can’t trust Ernest to make the right decisions for her.
And Hugo . . . he’s started drinking before noon.
I don’t know how much longer we can rely on him.
And as if that’s not enough, there’s . .
. barely any money left to run the estate properly and I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep things together when everything’s falling apart.
’ His voice cracked on the last word, and Christina saw, plain as day, the worry that had been gnawing at him.
She felt a pang of sympathy and something else – fear.
Could this be the explanation for their faltering marriage.
Could the weight of all this – his mother, Hugo, the estate – have driven him to question their relationship, to regret not marrying someone like Penelope?
Someone who knew how to blend seamlessly into the background of family portraits, and who knew how to keep a sinking estate afloat.
The thought had been nudging at her mind for weeks, a stubborn shadow she couldn’t entirely banish.
Did Hamish want a completely different life? A different wife?
After all, if he divorced her, it would be easy to find a new one.
Most of Devon would fall over themselves to marry him.
And there were probably a dozen Lady Penelopes whom Lady Flora could set him up with.
Or perhaps even Lady Penelope herself – her marriage to William was barely more than a facade.
Still, she kept her voice neutral. ‘I can see how all that could weigh heavily. Do you . . . feel driven to . . . reckless choices? Sometimes when life presses down, people make choices, veer in directions they regret later.’
Hamish blinked, meeting her gaze steadily.
There was a long pause, filling the room with tension.
Then he spoke, quietly but with firm conviction.
‘No. I . . . I’ve never been that sort of man.
I wouldn’t . . . could not . . . betray the people I care about.
Not Ma, not Hugo, and certainly not . . . anyone else.’
It dawned on her that Hamish had misinterpreted her words entirely. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you might have strayed,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I meant . . . do you want to end this? Our marriage? Do you want a life more like your mother intended for you?’
He looked wounded, stunned even. Then he shook his head slowly, deliberately.
Christina felt a sudden, almost physical release of tension. Relief, yes, but also an ache of guilt; how wrong she’d been to let her imagination wander down such dark paths. He didn’t want a divorce; it wasn’t too late to get this marriage back on track.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even . . .’ She let the words trail, leaving the space between them filled with understanding rather than accusation, and offered him an apologetic smile.
Hamish returned the smile, faint, weary, but genuine. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . easy to jump to conclusions.’ He came closer, then hovered beside her. ‘I’ve been thinking. About that trust variation deed. It doesn’t make sense.’
To her, it made perfect sense. ‘It does if it’s a fake’
His face lurched toward hers. ‘Fake! That’s a serious criminal offence. Who would do that, and why?’
Darling Hamish, so honest, she thought. ‘Ernest. Without that document, the loving cup can’t be sold.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that. He’s always been a bit of an outsider, but why would he do that to us, why would he do it to Ma. He can’t be that evil.’
This was the moment she should tell her husband the truth. Tell him about the forgeries, tell him the hold Ernest had over her. She chose her words carefully, ‘He’s not the charming financial wizard he lets you all think he is.’
Hamish’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m convinced that variation deed is a fake.’
He straightened. ‘Then we must protect the cup.’
There it was – a shared goal. For very different reasons, but it didn’t matter. They were on the same side again. She couldn’t confess now, ruin this opportunity to rekindle his love. She met his eyes. ‘You really want to stop it being sold?’
He gave a brisk nod. ‘Ma would never want that cup sold. Even if she didn’t spell out why, it’s protected for a reason. You told me you thought it might be valuable – how valuable?’
She hesitated. If she told him the truth, he might tell Hugo and, egged on by his snippy wife Amy, that might result in a push to get the cup sold after all. That wouldn’t be right – the decision really rested with Lady Flora. ‘Let’s just say it’s worth a lot of money to the right buyer.’
‘Then we must find a way to prove it’s still protected, and keep it. Together.’
A beat. Then, more hesitantly, Hamish said, ‘Would you mind if I read you something? Just the opening of the St Andrews lecture. I’ve scrapped the Tudor torture bit – too grim – and swapped in something lighter. Just want to see if it holds up when I say it out loud.’
The request startled her. Once, this had been normal – him rehearsing academic talks in the kitchen, her pretending to critique while quietly admiring how clever he sounded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’
He cleared his throat, stood straight. Papers rustled, he cleared his throat.
‘The Fatal Cost of Avoidance in Tudor England,’ he intoned. ‘A lecture by Dr Hamish Pemberton.’
He paused, and looked at her, for just a moment too long.
She sipped her tea. ‘Subtle,’ she said drily.
He looked down at his notes. ‘Take Catherine of Aragon – noble, devout, politically astute – and yet, when it mattered most, she placed her faith in the wrong hands. Yes, she stood up to Henry, but by then her position was already crumbling. She could have called on her nephew, the Emperor – who wielded real power – but she trusted the Pope. She trusted in prayer, in principle, in the belief that truth and morality would somehow prevail. She waited. She prayed. And by the time she truly acted, it was too late.’ Hamish gave a faint smile and continued.
‘That’s the danger, isn’t it – trusting that people will do the right thing, instead of forcing their hand.
Dignity feels like strength, but it doesn’t win battles. You have to choose when to fight.’
The blow landed, soft but firm. She glanced up, caught his pointed look, then turned away, pretending to examine the vinaigrette box, but her fingers gripped it so tightly she worried she might bend it out of shape.
Christina couldn’t go on like this – faking hallmarks while waiting for the walls to collapse.
She should talk to Ernest. Not circle him like a hawk, not barter, not dodge. Sit him down, have it out. Beg him, if she had to, to keep her secret.
Hamish carried on, unaware – or pretending to be.
‘And then, of course, Thomas More – another lesson. He chose silence, hoping it might shield him. He thought he could dodge the problem – neither defy Henry nor betray his conscience. But silence doesn’t resolve conflict. It only delays the moment of reckoning.’
Another pause. Christina looked down at her hands as if examining them for cleanliness.
She felt his eyes on her and glanced up. He was watching her – calm, scholarly, intense.
She shrank inside. That old reflex: the need to make herself smaller, quieter. But a glimmer of hope surfaced – why the lecture? Did he think she was avoiding discussing their problems? Was he telling her their marriage was worth saving?
He lowered his notes. ‘Just something I’m polishing. I’ll go, leave you to your silver. Got to get ready for that off site.’
Christina forced a smile. ‘Have fun.’
He turned at the door. ‘We should talk more. About everything.’
‘I know.’
And she did. But not today. Not just before he went away. Not after last time.
Once he was gone, the silence pressed in. The workshop was warm, but her tea had gone cold. She pushed it aside and stared at the silver box in front of her. One more hallmark.
But her mind wasn’t on work anymore. She had a clock ticking in her ears – five days to the auction. Five days to stop Ernest slipping the cup into the auction and buying it for himself at a knockdown price. She needed proof he had forged that trust variation deed. How could she get that?