Chapter 33
Thirty-three
In the morning, Christina drove Elspeth to school. Her daughter was all chatter and fizz, clutching a dog-eared script, reciting lines from As You Like It between mouthfuls of toast she hadn’t finished at home.
‘Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak!’
Christina laughed, glancing across at her. ‘Remind me never to argue with you.’
Elspeth grinned, eyes sparkling. ‘Too late.’
After school today, Penelope would collect Elspeth for a rehearsal at Langford Manor with Ben – the Ben – the boy Elspeth still blushed over. Even thinking of her daughter’s shy giggles made Christina smile, warmth blooming inside her like sunlight on frost.
‘Ben’s mum is going to help us with our lines – Ben says she’s awfully good, and that’s cos she was in the Oxford drama society,’ chirped Elspeth.
‘Maybe that’s where Ben inherited his theatrical streak?’ suggested Christina.
Elspeth giggled, the sound sending a pulse of happiness through Christina.
And later tonight, Hamish would come home from Scotland, and the two of them would have dinner.
Working together to protect the cup had brought them a little closer – the easy laughter, the shared glances, the sense of being on the same side at last. Elspeth would sleep at Langford Manor tonight and spend Saturday – auction day – rehearsing with Ben.
Tonight, Christina would light candles, open a good bottle of wine, and make the evening something just for her and Hamish.
Create the right atmosphere to finally discuss what had gone wrong in their marriage.
Driving away from the school, watching Elspeth shrink in the rear-view mirror, Percy called. ‘I’ve appointed a handwriting expert.’ He announced.
She nearly cheered. ‘My hero,’ she cried, ‘tell me more?’
‘Retired chief inspector, she lives in Taunton. She’s coming to the office this afternoon to collect the document, together with a sample of Lady Flora’s handwriting that I can vouch for.’
‘Well, that’s pure dead brilliant,’ she said.
Today, life finally felt like it was righting itself.
The cup wouldn’t be entered as a late lot.
After scooping a fortune from the auction, she suspected Ernest would slither off, with Frank, never to be seen again.
She would confess her ‘Great Matter’ to Hamish, tell him what her father did all those years ago.
And – with luck – after two years of a sham marriage, he would come back to her.
She drove home, collected the loving cup, then drove to the Manor.
Everything, for once, felt exactly where it should be.
The ballroom shimmered with early-morning light, the floor to ceiling windows spilling gold across the polished parquet and picking out the colours in the Aubusson rug.
Tables groaned under polished silver, porcelain shepherdesses and ormolu clocks lined up like sacrificial lambs waiting to be transported to the marquee.
Christina held the cup in her arms, wrapped in a linen cloth.
Ernest, Frank, Amy and Hugo stood together beside a mahogany side table, Amy flicking through the printed auction catalogue, looking bored. ‘Ah, there she is,’ Ernest said, arms spread wide like a game show host. ‘Bearer of the grail. Come on, darling girl, hand it over.’
He sounded genial, but something in his eyes warned her to be careful.
‘I’ve brought it to show you, now I’ve finished restoring it,’ she said, setting the cup down with deliberate care. ‘Percy’s looking into the legal status–’
Hugo cut her off with a dismissive wave. ‘Legal status? We need to get this sold, return this family to its rightful place.’ He turned to Amy, lowering his voice slightly. ‘It’s by a famous maker, what’s his name? Shop . . . Store . . . something like that. Worth a fortune.’
Amy’s thin face twisted into a rare smile at the idea they might all make some money.
Ernest spoke, his voice now predatory. ‘Hugo, you’ve been misled. Whoever gave you the idea that Paul Storr was the maker? No.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s Victorian. Pretty enough, but nothing special.’
Christina’s fingers drummed against the table – a small gesture that somehow commanded attention. When she met Ernest’s eyes, her gaze was firm. ‘I know silver, Ernest. You know I do.’ She paused, letting the words settle. ‘This is not Victorian, it’s Georgian.’
The certainty in her tone suggested she knew something the others didn’t – something that made Ernest’s opinion irrelevant.
Hugo blinked. ‘I don’t care who was on the blooming throne, is this worth anything? Or not?’
Ernest smiled thinly. ‘Hugo, darling, do hush. The market will decide what this pretty silver piece is worth.’
Undeterred, Hugo pressed on. ‘Christina knows her silver – is this valuable?’
‘It is.’ Christina said.
‘Then we sell,’ said Hugo, beaming at his wife.
Amy raised her hand, ‘Wait. How valuable? Is this the right way to sell it?’
For once Christina was grateful for her sister-in-law’s words. ‘No. We should get the cup properly authenticated first.’
Ernest locked eyes with Hugo. ‘We should put it in the auction. This house lends its provenance to the piece. That’s the best way to smooth over any doubt about its maker.’
‘Right, yes quite right,’ muttered Hugo.
‘We should wait for Percy to tell us if we can sell it at all,’ Christina continued.
‘Nonsense, we’ve all seen the deed of variation.’ Said Ernest. ‘Let’s not make this more complicated than it is – Hugo what do you want to do?’
‘Sell,’ said Hugo.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Amy her eyes on Christina, ‘you’re the silver expert – what do you think Christina?’
‘Of course, as in-laws, technically speaking, you two don’t count,’ Ernest said silkily.
‘Oh, charming,’ Amy snapped, folding her arms.
‘Doesn’t Hamish get a say?’ demanded Christina.
‘Of course, but since I agree with Hugo, and I’m Flora’s next of kin, even if Hamish didn’t want to sell, it would be two against one. The cup goes in the auction,’ said Ernest.
Christina’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm. ‘Fine. But I’m writing the description – it needs to sound convincing.’
Spotting Tim – the absurdly handsome auctioneer – standing beneath a portrait of Hamish’s Uncle Giles, she strode off to talk to him, but a hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Not so fast,’ said Ernest. ‘Let’s have a wee look first . . . make sure you’ve done a fair job, eh?’
She rolled her eyes but handed the cup over. He lifted the lid, turned the piece, examined the hallmarks with exaggerated care. As if she’d even consider desecrating them – altering those delicate de Lamerie marks would be like painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa. This cup was a masterpiece.
Ernest carried the treasure to a window, held it to the light, running a finger along the scrollwork.
She couldn’t help smiling; he was checking to see if it was a fake, if she’d swapped it for a replica.
What a compliment. Of course the cup was genuine.
The finest silver she’d ever laid her hands on.
When he returned, silent but satisfied, she snatched it back. ‘Happy?’ she asked, then marched across the room before he could answer. ‘Tim,’ she said. ‘Got a last-minute addition for you.’
He straightened. His eyes landed on the cup and seemed to bulge. ‘Oh! Wow. That’s almost as beautiful as its handler.’ He gave her a wink, and she blushed, but stayed professional.
‘Paul Storr,’ she said, handing the silver over. ‘Early nineteenth century. Aristocratic commission. Estimate: seven hundred and fifty thousand. I’ll jot down the description for you now.’ she said.
Tim frowned. ‘That’s a big number. Shouldn’t our silver expert take a look? He’s gone home, but I could get him down again.’
‘No need,’ she said. ‘I am an expert myself.’
‘It’s quite late to add such a significant lot . . . and don’t tell my father I said this, but are we really the best house for something of that stature? Wouldn’t you do better with one of the London crew?’
Bless him, she thought, so honest. ‘The family’s taken a decision. They want a quick sale.’
He hesitated. ‘Okay. I’ll add it. Tell you what, I’ll email your description to our buyers list, try and drum up some publicity. It’s the best I can think of at this late stage.’
‘Thank you.’
She borrowed his pen, twirling it between her fingers as she tossed around ideas.
The description would be an insurance policy in case – heaven forbid – Percy didn’t come up trumps.
Her words must alert buyers to the quality of the piece; she couldn’t rely on the estimate – people might assume it was a typing error.
Christina dithered over the wording, wanting to ‘attribute’ the cup to Paul Storr.
She recognized that would be a mistake; ‘attributed to’ in ‘auction speak’ meant the auction house was confident but not certain of the maker.
Given the maker’s mark stamp of PL, that wasn’t credible.
Worse, dealers would then question – correctly – the attribution of all the fake Paul Storr in the auction.
She settled for ‘possibly by Paul Storr’ – this translated as a tentative suggestion by the auctioneer, which experts would spot as a poor guess, and one they could capitalise on.
The Storr name would pique interest and pull people to the auction to view the cup, which they could do up to and including the morning of the sale.
And that’s all she needed. Anyone who knew anything about silver would spot from a casual glance the maker was not Storr – his style was the opposite of the real silversmith, but they would also spot the calibre and decide for themselves who created it.
Then the market would find the true value of the cup, and Ernest wouldn’t be able to buy it for a song.
Christina passed the details to Tim.
Reading the blurb, he said, ‘I guess that makes sense, there’s quite a lot of Paul Storr’s work in the sale already.’