Chapter 32
Thirty-two
Early the next morning, the couple were sitting opposite each other on a train to Exeter.
Hamish gave her a soft smile, and Christina felt a wave of relief wash over her.
When they had returned to the cottage the previous evening, after the shock of seeing Flora so absent, he had been silent and withdrawn, lost in thoughts he clearly wasn’t ready to share.
Another missed chance to talk, another moment swallowed by the words hanging unspoken between them.
She knew they couldn’t bridge that gap until the atmosphere felt right, and she promised herself that as soon as the cup was protected, she would tell him the whole truth.
The train gave a shuddering clank and pulled away from Barnstaple, crawling past gardens full of sagging trampolines and rhododendrons in vibrant shades of pinks and purples. Christina rested her cheek against the window and let the soft jostle of the carriage calm her nerves.
It was a short train, just a few carriages, no refreshments, barely more than a bus on rails. Someone was making announcements – inaudible above the clatter of the wheels and the hum of the engine. All three sounds oddly soothing.
Outside, Devon rolled past in fresh green waves. Cow parsley foamed along the trackside, and the River Taw kept them company, silver-bright in the April morning sun.
Christina closed her eyes. For once, she wasn’t waiting for the sky to fall in.
Ernest had promised that after the auction there’d be no more fake silver.
And this time she believed him – after all, even without the cup he would make enough money from the auction to feather his already comfortable nest. Her marriage was thawing.
And if Percy could prove the deed of variation a forgery, then the loving cup would be saved, and the family could decide what to do with it.
She turned to Hamish, who was peering out as the train curved past a dilapidated farmyard: a rusting old car propped up on stacks of bricks, a rickety shed which looked one gust of wind from blowing away.
‘Oh, look,’ he said suddenly, tapping the glass. ‘See that roofline? Clay-tiled, slightly bowed. Late Tudor. Bet that was a yeoman farmer’s cottage.’
She laughed. ‘That’s a shed.’
‘No, no – it’s a Tudor out-building. Look at the steep pitch of the roof, and those small, irregularly spaced windows.’
‘You’re impossible.’
‘Historically accurate,’ he said primly.
She nudged his knee with hers. ‘Let’s just focus on the living, breathing, scheming cads of the twenty-first century, shall we?’
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the folded deed. ‘Right. Percy’s our best hope. If he can get a handwriting expert to cast doubt on Ma’s signature, we can prevent the cup being added as a late lot in the auction.’
‘And the cup stays protected until the family decides what to do with it,’ she said, watching sheep scatter on a hillside. ‘You might still want to sell it, you know. It’s worth a small fortune.’
‘How much?’
She took a breath, not wanting to worry him. ‘Maybe a million?’
His eyes bulged. ‘Wow!’
They passed a garden strung with faded bunting and an old man waving from behind a wire fence.
‘I like this,’ she said. ‘Us. Working together. Feels like . . . old times. But better.’
Hamish gave her a smile, the kind that used to make her weak at the knees. ‘Let’s hope Percy’s as clever as you are.’ he said.
She turned back to the window, the sun warm on her cheek. ‘Let’s hope he’s fast.’
‘I wish I didn’t have to leave for St Andrews tonight. I hate leaving you alone with all this going on.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Why don’t we call the school and say we’d like to collect Elspeth tonight? It would mean a school run for you in the morning, but . . .’
‘I’d like that.’ she said.
‘Tudor feast?’
She laughed. ‘Why not!’
The cottage kitchen was lit entirely by candles. Wind tapped softly at the windows, and the Aga purred like a sleepy cat. Supper was in full swing, with tea towels draped over shoulders like ecclesiastical vestments and pewter plates groaning with food.
‘You look like you’re about to bless the roast rather than eat it,’ Christina said, eyeing Hamish’s neatly draped tea towel.
‘It’s historically accurate,’ he replied, nibbling on a thigh bone.
‘Tudor napkins were huge – practically bath sheets. Draped over the left shoulder so the right hand stayed clean for eating. You know if we wanted to be really accurate, we’d have to spear our food with a sharp knife. No forks, no spoons. Very sensible.’
‘I look like I’m about to dry the dishes with my own neck,’ Elspeth said.
‘You are about to dry the dishes,’ Christina said cheerfully.
Elspeth rolled her eyes, but her expression was soft. ‘I don’t know anyone else whose dad makes them eat like Anne Boleyn on a school night.’
‘Anne Boleyn would’ve had a goose,’ said Hamish, reaching for the water jug – then pausing, hand hovering, before pouring Christina’s glass first. Automatic, once.
Forgotten, lately. Unexpectedly warming tonight.
Christina caught his eye as she accepted her refilled glass, and for a beat they held each other’s gaze.
Something passed between them – tentative, fragile. A thread not yet knotted.
‘And six musicians.’ He added.
‘And possibly an executioner waiting outside,’ said Christina.
She felt something loosen in her chest – the easy pleasure of teasing him again, of landing a joke and watching it stick. She couldn’t pinpoint the last time she’d done that.
‘Sadly, we’re fresh out goose, musicians and executioners,’ Christina said, her voice softer than she’d expected.
Hamish smiled, the polite, automatic sort he’d give a colleague. He turned back to his plate.
Elspeth watched her father, her fork suspended midair. Christina saw her daughter’s smile fade slightly and set her own fork down with unusual care, feeling the weight of that fading smile pressing on her conscience.
After pudding – apple crumble and custard – Elspeth yawned, shoved her chair back with a scrape, and gathered her books.
She headed off to do her homework upstairs but paused at the doorway, glancing back down.
Her eyes moved between her mother and her father, as if measuring the careful space still separating their chairs.
Then she was gone, her footsteps heavy on the stairs.
Christina looked at Hamish. He was studying the candle flame, expression unreadable.
‘That was nice,’ she said carefully. ‘Tonight.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed without looking at her. ‘It was.’
They tidied the kitchen together, Hamish rambling on about his upcoming lecture, mostly to himself. ‘I hate leaving, but I can’t let St Andrews down at the last minute. I’ll be back tomorrow night, maybe we can have dinner together, just the two of us?’
‘I’ll cook something that will keep; in case your flight’s delayed,’ she suggested. And in case we finally get around to talking properly before we eat.
The wind tapped at the window again. And between them, the silence settled back into place like silt, until Hamish pulled on his coat and began gathering his notes.
He tucked a paper into his satchel and suddenly stopped.
‘I nearly forgot. Percy rang while you were cooking. Someone’s given him the name of a handwriting expert in Taunton, he’s going to call her in the morning. ’
Christina felt a buzz of excitement. ‘That’s dead brilliant.’
‘It is,’ he said.
She watched him slide a last page into his satchel, the candlelight catching on his spectacles. ‘Your lecture. Are you ready?’
He smiled. ‘I’ve just added something rather good, about Elizabeth I during Mary’s reign.
How she survived by strategic avoidance and accommodation.
She answered questions about her religion vaguely, dodged commitment, and appeared to embrace Catholicism.
It saved her life – but, more importantly, it taught her the limits of avoidance.
That lesson made her a more decisive, powerful queen later. ’
For a moment, Christina stood still, a tea towel looped round her neck. ‘Sounds like she finally grew up.’
‘Painfully,’ he said. ‘But effectively.’
She pulled the towel off her neck, winding it in her hands. She so nearly told him everything then and there, imagined spilling her secrets out into their warm kitchen. But no, it was the worst possible timing. And she had her direction now. She only needed to follow it.
Hamish kissed her, quick and warm. ‘I’m only away one night.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said, and meant it. Tomorrow night they would talk about them. And after the auction, she’d tell him the whole truth.
Then he was gone, coat flapping in the wind, leaving her alone, the towel still in her hands and, the future beginning to feel less daunting.
Christina checked on Elspeth, then padded out to the shed.
With steady hands she engraved fine patterns into silver, curling infinitesimal threads of metal from the surface like gossamer.
The pattern was precise – fluid, historic, perfect.
She knew the style intimately; as always before a forgery, she’d studied the original master’s style for weeks, tracing his rhythms until her muscle memory knew them better than her own name.
The finished piece, though not yet gilded or polished, was already breathtaking.
So fine she could claim it as by ‘a pupil’ of the master, not merely a follower adopting the same technique, and certainly not just ‘in the circle of’, which implied her piece was in a similar style.
A true fake – beautiful, persuasive, irresistible.
She took off her head light, massaging the back of her neck. Then, with a last glance at her creation, stood, flicked off the lights and left.