Chapter 31 #2
But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached across the table and touched her wrist, gently. His fingers were warm and wonderfully ink stained.
‘This,’ he said. ‘This is the Tina I fell in love with. Clever. Relentless. A little terrifying, yes – but only in the best ways.’
She smiled. There was something in his voice she hadn’t heard in a while.
Love, offered not as reassurance, but recognition.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Because it clicked, then – not in a grand, cinematic thunderclap, but an internal click like an antique clock finally starting after being wound.
When she stopped trying to fade, stopped playing it safe – when she was her full, defiant, determined self – people saw her.
Not with judgment. With love. Not despite who she was. Because of it.
Ernest might have taught her that invisibility was the price of survival – but Hamish, even buried under footnotes and Tudor quirks, had never stopped seeing her. He just needed reminding of who she really was.
And maybe . . . so did she.
Her smile broadened. ‘Did you find your miniature portraits?’
He grunted, ‘Ernest did. They’re back in the library where they belong.
Tim says they could be from Holbein’s workshop and that would make them worth several hundred grand, especially as they’ve been in the family since they were painted.
Impeccable provenance he said. I’ve asked Ernest to warn the insurance company. ’
‘How exciting.’ She wished he hadn’t told Ernest.
He hesitated then, then with his gaze holding hers said. ‘Tina . . . talk to me. Please, I know you have something you need to tell me.’
She laughed softly. ‘I am talking to you. Look at us – practically civilised.’
But the flicker in his eyes said he’d meant something else entirely, and she didn’t want to confess yet, not while she still needed him fighting with her to save the cup. ‘We need to prove this deed is forged.’
Hamish exhaled, brushing his knuckles down her wrist before letting go. ‘There’s only one way to prove this is a fake. We ask the person who’d know.’
She wanted to tell him she’d already tried, but hoping the sight of her beloved son would stir Flora back into compos mentis. she rose and grabbed her coat.
Hamish followed her to the door. His arm brushed hers – accidentally, or maybe not; she beamed at him.
And together, they stepped out into the rain.
At Wisteria Lodge, Christina could hear a radio playing Vera Lynn, and the faint clink of teacups coming from somewhere down a corridor.
As they signed the visitors’ book, Hamish frowned. ‘I still don’t understand why you care so much,’ he said. ‘You were never sentimental about family silver.’
She couldn’t tell him the truth yet. If he knew that the cup was incredibly valuable, that the deed in his hand was the linchpin of a much bigger crime, he’d certainly go to the police. And if Ernest got arrested, Christina would soon follow him.
So instead, she offered a crooked smile. ‘It’s your mum’s favourite flower vase.’
They found Lady Flora in the day room, where afternoon light spilled through the bay window, and a television was spilling out the excited chatter of a game show. Outside, gulls wheeled lazily over a sea that looked painted-on from this distance.
A tea trolley stood in one corner.
‘There,’ Hamish said, pointing.
Lady Flora sat in the same armchair by the window she’d been in on Christina’s visit, straight-backed and composed, her powder-blue cardigan immaculate, her hair held in place like a sculpture.
Christina hung back, nudging her husband forward. Then she noticed Flora’s teacup hovering midway to her mouth, forgotten. She prayed that the sight of Hamish would bring her back to reality, if only for a few minutes.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘But be gentle.’
Hamish approached. ‘Ma?’
No reaction.
‘It’s me. Hamish.’
Lady Flora’s eyes shifted to him, faintly curious, but distant. Then her lips curved into a small, polite smile. ‘Are you the chiropodist?’
Hamish’s breath caught. ‘No, Ma, it’s—’
‘Lovely of you,’ Lady Flora said, and turned her gaze back to the gulls. ‘I do love Tuesdays.’
‘It’s Wednesday,’ Hamish murmured.
The moment fractured in his face – hurt blooming with devastation. Christina crept forward and touched his elbow.
‘Come on,’ she mumbled. ‘She’s not – she’s not with us, not today.’
He swallowed, backing away, still clutching the deed, as if hoping it would be useful if he just held it tight enough.
They walked back to reception in silence. The radio had moved on to something brassy and cheerful, and the sound seemed to chase them down the corridor.
At the front door, a nurse intercepted them. She was plump, freckled, with bright eyes under tired lids. Her name badge read Clare.
Clare tilted her head, puzzled. ‘Are you leaving already?’
Hamish straightened. ‘Yes. I . . . yes.’ Hamish’s expression wavered. His voice cracked just slightly. ‘She didn’t recognise me. That hasn’t happened before’
Clare’s face softened. ‘Oh, love. It doesn’t mean she’s forgotten you. Just that today’s wires are a little tangled. You usually come in the mornings, don’t you?’ continued Clare, kindly.
He nodded, polite, but his shoulders had slumped. He’d just smiled at his beloved mother and seen a stranger stare back. ‘Yes. On my way to work.’
‘If you’d come this morning, you’d have found her quite herself. She was so chatty earlier. Bright as a button when her husband was here.’
Christina winced at the mention of Ernest. If Flora couldn’t help them, he would win.
She followed Hamish out into the grey light. Her mind was already racing. There might still be a way to stop him. It was time to involve the law.