Chapter 38
Thirty-eight
The kitchen was alive with the promise of a perfect April morning, sunlight streaming through the windows.
Outside, the dawn chorus was in full voice – blackbirds trilling their liquid songs, wrens chattering with infectious enthusiasm, and somewhere in the distance, a wood pigeon cooing its sleepy refrain.
The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the open window, mingling with the remnants of last night’s casserole, still in the warming oven, and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to cling to Tina’s hands after long hours in the workshop.
Slumped at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, her mouth felt dry – too much caffeine, too little sleep – and behind her eyes was the gritty ache of exhaustion that no amount of blinking could clear.
She should cook Elspeth a proper breakfast. That thought floated through her mind, a reflex from years of motherhood. But she stayed where she was. Her limbs felt heavy, not just from fatigue, but from something deeper – something she could no longer keep buried.
It was time.
She could hear Hamish stirring upstairs – the creak of floorboards, the muted thump of slippered feet, then the groan of the seventh step. She blew out a long sigh.
No more silence.
When Hamish stepped into the room, his hair still tousled with sleep and the belt of his old dressing gown hanging loose, her throat felt dry. He looked . . . content. Softened. As if the world had righted itself in the night.
His peace would not survive the next five minutes.
‘Morning, darling,’ he said, shifting the Aga kettle to the hot plate. ‘More tea?’
At first Tina couldn’t speak. Her throat felt raw, as if each word was a piece of broken glass.
She looked at him, at the man who had shared her life for more than two decades; she did not want to lose him.
But she couldn’t live like this. Not anymore.
The lie had grown too large, its weight distorting everything around it.
The crime hadn’t been hers, but the silence had been.
And it was better he heard it from her lips than those waiting up at the Manor.
‘I need to tell you something, about my father.’
She saw it instantly – the pause in his hand, the slight stiffening of his shoulders. Not surprise. Dread.
She gripped her mug tighter. ‘It was him,’ she said, the words spilling out.
‘Robert Miller. The Wesley and slowly, for his sake, for his family’s, she had replaced herself with a version designed to pass muster.
Christina looked down at her hands. The polish was still visible beneath her nails. Hands that had shaped so many things – mended, forged, faked; and now they trembled not with fear, but with recognition.
She had not deceived him at the beginning.
She had done it gradually. No wonder he’d grown distant.
She’d thought space would fix things. That a proper house might make her feel like she belonged.
But the problem had never been the house.
It had been the shape she’d twisted herself into, trying to match other people’s expectations and become the woman she thought Hamish wanted to be married to.
Now, with the act dropped, she saw it clearly: she wasn’t less worthy.
Not compared to them. Not at all. And Hamish had never wanted a different wife. Just the one he’d married.
‘Dee never had a bean to her name; she couldn’t have saved enough to fund your time at St Andrews. I guessed that stolen money had paid for you at university and that was why you stayed silent. I thought you were getting close to telling me. I had to stop myself from asking last night . . .’
‘You knew. And you stayed with me anyway.’
‘I loved you anyway. You can’t choose your relatives, Tina. God knows, I wouldn’t choose half of mine.’
The simplicity of it undid her. For years she’d imagined this moment, had feared it would end in rage or silence.
But for two years Hamish had carried his truth alongside hers.
Tears welled, hot and unexpected. Not from guilt – she was done with that – but from the shock of being known.
Really known. And still wanted. Would he still want her when he heard the rest?
She could barely get the words out, but she knew she had to.
‘Wait. There’s more.’
He looked up, startled, and she told him about the forgeries. Not all the details – those could wait – but enough. Ernest. Frank. The pressure. What she’d done. Why.
Hamish’s face tightened. Not in judgment, but with a cold, focused anger.
The kind that knew exactly where to direct itself.
‘He used your father’s crimes to manipulate you.
That’s what he does. He manipulates all of us.
That’s why Ma is in that ghastly nursing home, that’s why Hugo is never sober after lunch. It all ends today.’
The kettle started whistling and Hamish turned away busying himself making tea. Then he asked. ‘What really happened to your father? He didn’t move to New York like you and Dee always said, did he? He went to jail didn’t he?’
She closed her eyes, the words heavy on her tongue. ‘Yes. He got twenty-three years. And he . . . he died of cancer before he was released. I never saw him again. I only found out what really happened after he died.’
A sound broke the tension – bare feet slapping against the carpet, a sudden burst of cheerful noise.
‘Morning, you two!’ Elspeth’s voice filled the room like birdsong, bright and oblivious. She bounded in, hair wild, pyjamas askew, grinning. ‘I’m absolutely starving. What’s for breakfast? I need feeding if I’m going to be fit for rehearsal with Ben.’
‘Ah, do you think your wounded boyfriend can still manage a romantic stroll in the Forest of Arden?’ asked Tina.
Elspeth groaned, blushing. ‘Mum! We’re rehearsing a play, that’s all.’
‘Of course,’ Tina said, suppressing a smile. ‘You’re Rosalind, he’s Orlando . . . just leads, nothing to see here.’
Elspeth slumped into a chair, trying to look unbothered, but her lopsided grin and reddening face gave her away.
Tina glanced over at her, this fierce and radiant girl, full of feeling, full of promise. She deserved more than secrets and the half-life Tina had been trying to hold together.
Hamish was already moving toward the bread bin to make Elspeth her breakfast. Tina smiled; he knew where it was now.
If he’d known two years ago, they would never have argued; he would never have investigated her past and discovered her secret.
Would his reaction to her confession have been the same? She hoped so.
‘Eggy bread, love?’ He offered.
Remembering his last attempt at that dish, Tina rose. ‘Let me do it. Cinnamon or chutney?’ she asked Elspeth with a smile.
‘Obviously cinnamon,’ Elspeth said, rolling her eyes at Hamish.
Tina took out bread, fetched eggs and milk from the fridge, all the while thinking about this strange, flawed, precious family of hers.
She had nearly lost them to silence. She wouldn’t again.
They would take their time over breakfast, and then they would drive Elspeth to Langford Manor.
Both her parents. Together. United in love.
After that, she and Hamish would go to the auction.
And whatever happened there – whatever truth was finally dragged into the light – she knew she wouldn’t face it alone.