Chapter Forty-two
Forty-two
Seven months later
Lady Flora sat in her favourite wingback chair by the hearth, the flames reflecting in her eyes, giving them what could almost be a twinkle. ‘Christina, could you . . .’
Tina tossed another log on the fire, spun round to face her mother-in-law, and grinned.
She was wearing one of Hamish’s old shirts with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows.
Her hair was cropped short in a pixie cut, slightly tousled as if she’d just run her fingers through it, giving her an elfin look that matched the mischief in her green eyes.
‘I only answer to Tina.’
‘Quite right,’ Flora muttered through a mouthful of sherry. ‘It may not be a name that pleases the ear, but what can I say. You are a Tina. You’ve got grit.’
Elspeth appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed pink from cold, and her arms full of holly branches heavy with berries.
‘Isn’t it awesome living here? I picked these from near the walled garden,’ she announced, shaking droplets of melted frost from the greenery.
‘Thought they’d look lovely on the mantelpiece.
The robins were having quite a feast out there – I counted six of them, all puffed up like little Christmas puddings. ’
Tina took a few of the branches from her daughter then glanced at her mother-in-law. ‘I can’t tell you how much I love tending the walled garden. Every day there’s something new waiting to be discovered. It’s very inspiring for my jewellery, too.’
‘You’re managing it beautifully,’ said Flora.
Tina smiled, breathing in the sharp, clean scent of the holly. ‘You don’t judge me any more for having a “trade” then, Flora?’
‘Oh, I still do,’ Flora sniffed, but her eyes crinkled with affection. ‘However, now I judge you with admiration. Who else in this family has ever earned an honest living from making something?’
They shared a glance, warm and conspiratorial, while Elspeth began arranging the holly along the mantelpiece.
Seven months ago, everything had cracked open like ice on a winter pond.
Ernest and Frank had vanished – fled, more like, chased by a trail of angry creditors and awkward questions about provenance.
The rumour mill had them bolting to the Caribbean, though Tina suspected they’d simply slithered under different rocks, biding their time before planning their next con.
And then came the truth about Lady Flora.
It hadn’t been dementia at all. The idea had been Frank’s.
Ernest had increased the dose on her sciatica pills and started slipping extra pills into her tea – enough to make her groggy, forgetful, her words slurring like honey poured too thick.
Enough to convince everyone, including Flora, that her mind was crumbling.
Frank took the same medicine for his own sciatica and was the source of the additional pills.
Ernest kept his tricks up after Flora moved to the nursing home; Flora’s mental awareness depended on how recently her husband had visited.
But after the auction, once Flora was away from Ernest’s reach, her lucidity returned – intermittently at first, then fully, sharp as winter stars.
When confronted with what Ernest had done, Flora remained unruffled.
She admitted she’d known about the silver all along and had chosen to ignore it.
‘The way I saw it, a good estate manager doesn’t come cheap.
For over twenty years he ran this estate well – without pay.
’ She wasn’t even surprised he’d scarpered.
Some people, she explained, were always half-packed.
She had always expected him to run away eventually.
Now she was planning her own escape to Scotland.
‘The Borders,’ she’d announced with relish.
‘Cold air, real whisky, and no more of Hugo’s dreary dithering.
’ But before she left, she’d made one last act of redemptive mischief.
She had gifted Chase Lodge, and sufficient funds to restore it, to Hugo and Amy, on condition that Hugo started attending Alcoholic Anonymous meetings.
It turned out that Flora had a secret slush fund, hidden away from Ernest – the proceeds from quietly selling the Highland Pact Torque and the Pemberton Tiara years ago.
‘I was worried he’d find those, fake them and sell the originals.
I had no use for them, and I was entitled to sell them. ’
The couple were using Humphrey – and Lady Penelope – to guide the restoration. Tina had watched in delight as the shared Chase Lodge project bonded her in-laws together and gave Hugo something to do to stave off the cravings.
Most surprising of all, though, Flora had given the rest of the estate to Hamish and Tina.
Flora wanted her eldest son to learn to stand on his own feet, and her younger son and his wife to live in the Manor, not under its spell.
‘Turn it into a business,’ she’d declared, slapping a folder of documents onto the table with a satisfying thwack.
‘Make it earn its keep. Let them call you trade. Who cares?’
So, they had. The Manor hummed with new purpose now; its rooms filled with the voices of guests who marvelled at the Tudor hammerbeams and Jacobean staircase.
Some came for the jewellery-making courses, others for lectures on local history, the foodies came for the Tudor feasts – staged with period costumes – and a good many simply for an elegant bed-and-breakfast experience.
All were welcomed by hosts who delighted in sharing their historic home with fellow lovers of the past.
The door swung open again and Hamish entered, his hair tousled from the wind and his cheeks ruddy from the cold.
He carried with him the scent of winter air, and something indefinably warm that was purely him.
Trotting at his feet was a six-month-old yellow labrador named Cromwell – it suited him, being a loyal dog who enjoyed good company.
Elspeth skipped over and scooped the pup into her arms.
Hamish’s eyes found Tina immediately, as they always did these days, and the smile that spread across his face was soft as candlelight.
‘Ma,’ he said, crossing to Flora’s chair and dropping a gentle kiss on her silvery head. ‘You look well today.’
Flora patted her son’s hand, her fingers thin but strong. ‘Stop fussing, you daft boy. I’m not made of spun sugar.’
But she was pleased, Tina could tell. Hamish had that effect on people – a natural historian’s patience, a way of listening that made you feel heard. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Hugo always said you were tougher than the rest of us put together.’
‘And Hugo needed to believe that.’ Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, once then she squeezed it. ‘I’m glad it’s you living here. You and Tina are right for this house.’
As he settled into the chair beside his mother, Hamish let out a single soft ‘huh.’
‘I’ve just finished the morning tour,’ he said.
‘Fascinating group – one of them knew about the Civil War skirmish in Lower Meadow.’ His voice held that note of wonder that appeared whenever he spoke of history, of the threads that bound past to present.
Then he grinned at Tina. ‘More guests coming this afternoon – the ones from Bath, I told you about. They’ve booked the Rose Suite. ’
It still surprised her, seeing Hamish embrace the twenty-first century. It didn’t come naturally yet; part of her hoped it never would. But he was always here for the important bits.
‘Already turned on the heating,’ she replied.
Elspeth looked up from fussing Cromwell, her eyes bright. ‘You need to tell the guests about the Christmas ghost.’
‘There’s no ghost, Elspeth,’ Hamish said patiently, but his eyes twinkled.
‘Course there is. Every proper manor has one. And at Christmas, especially.’ Elspeth’s voice dropped to a staged whisper. ‘I’ve seen her myself – a lady in grey, walking the corridors, checking that all the fires are lit, and the guests are warm.’
Tina felt a shiver run down her spine, not entirely from the cold draft that sneaked under the door. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘Am I?’ Elspeth’s grin was cheeky. ‘Wait until tonight. You’ll see.’
Hamish rose. He strode toward Tina and brushed a kiss over her forehead, his lips warm against her skin. The familiar gesture sent a flutter through her chest, the same as it had on their first kiss in this very room. ‘Are you working tonight?’ he asked.
‘A few commissions to finish. Rose has ordered another peony brooch – that’s the fifth this month; she says they’re virtually flying out of the village shop.’ She gestured toward a table where pieces of her silver work gleamed like captured starlight.
‘Did you put your hallmark on it?’ Flora asked, taking another sip of sherry.
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ Said Flora, ‘No point doing all the work if you let someone else take the credit.’
‘And I’ve taken a stall at the Brambleton Christmas market. I’d like your help please,’ said Christina wagging a finger at her husband.
Hamish groaned. ‘Do I have to come to the market?’
‘You can’t miss it!’ Tina laughed, swatting at him playfully. ‘The mulled wine, the carol singers, the way the snow looks on the church spire – it’s pure magic.’
He caught her hand, pressing it to his lips. ‘You’re the magic,’ he said simply.
The real loving cup, polished and proud, now sat behind glass at the Victoria and Albert Museum, labelled as a newly authenticated piece by Paul de Lamerie. A small plaque below it read: Donated anonymously by a Devon collector.
‘Do you miss restoring antique silver?’ Flora asked, watching Tina’s face carefully.
Tina considered this, listening to the soft crackle of the fire and her daughter humming a Christmas carol in the puppy’s ear. Through the window, she could see the first fat snowflakes beginning to fall, each one perfect and unique, settling on the sill like tiny blessings.
‘That was about fixing things,’ she said finally. ‘Making jewellery . . . is about making something new. Something that will last.’
‘Hmph. Sentimental rot.’ But Flora’s eyes were warm as the sherry in her glass, and her smile was kind.
Outside, the snow fell in earnest, transforming the world into something from a fairy tale. The Manor’s windows glowed golden in the gathering dusk, and somewhere in the distance church bells rang, their bronze voices carrying across the frozen countryside.
Tina looked around the room – at Flora’s contented face, at Hamish’s hands turning the pages of a leather-bound book, Cromwell’s snout resting on his feet, at Elspeth slumped beside the dog stroking his fur.
This was the magic she’d been searching for without knowing it.
Not the polished perfection she’d once thought she needed, but this: the scent of bread in the oven, voices carrying down the hallway, the sense of belonging that wrapped around her like an old coat she’d forgotten she owned.
Her new home remained what it had always been: large, drafty, ornate, impractical.
Tina had stopped apologizing for not quite suiting this grand setting.
There was no need. Snow softened the world beyond its windows as she sank gratefully into a large armchair.
The Manor would never change. Neither would she. Somehow, that made it home.