“Seems like Morris and Pyne are frequent visitors here—they come every Wednesday, which was how they came to be trapped with the rest of us. As for our rescuer, he’s a Mr. Masterton—he’s got some connection to the family and lives in Ripon. When the storm hit, he was on his way home from somewhere else and sought shelter here. Seems no one predicted the storm sweeping in as it did.”
Godfrey slotted that information, sparse though it was, into his mental picture of Ellie Hinckley’s life; he felt he was assembling the picture like a jigsaw, piece by piece. “What else can you tell me about the household?”
Wally dutifully reported all he’d seen and heard, but other than his views of the staff, who, reading between Wally’s lines, seemed to be devoted to the family, Wally had gleaned little that extended Godfrey’s knowledge beyond what he’d already learned from the elder daughter of the house.
As for her, with a few well-directed queries, Godfrey confirmed what he’d started to suspect, namely, that on her mother’s death, Ellie Hinckley had stepped into the critical central role with respect to both her family and the household.
“She’s the one who runs it all,” Wally stated. “It’s Miss Ellie this and Miss Ellie that—seems Mr. Hinckley leaves it all up to her.”
Godfrey nodded, setting that piece of the puzzle of Ellie Hinckley in stone. For the rest…he had, he realized, a lot to learn and to confirm.
Somewhat to his surprise, he finished the bread—surprisingly tasty and gloriously fresh—as well as the lump of cheese. He let Wally remove the tray and reached for the book. “I won’t need you until later.”
“Right you are.” Wally hefted the tray and headed for the door. “Have to say that if we were going to find ourselves stuck somewhere for days, this isn’t a bad place to be holed up in.”
Godfrey smiled. Despite falling ill, he wholeheartedly agreed.
He opened the book and was immediately drawn into an account of the Hall’s history, written by an ancestor in the previous century.
Later, when his lids grew heavy and he let the book fall closed, his thoughts continued to revolve about the Hall and those who lived there.
He hadn’t had any expectations of this excursion beyond setting eyes on the Albertinelli painting and, through verifying its authenticity, installing himself in Eastlake’s and the National Gallery’s good graces. Yet as sleep drew nearer and hazed his mind, he found himself wondering if at Hinckley Hall, against all the odds—because who would have predicted such a happening in an ancient country house in North Yorkshire?—he might have found something that would mean more to him than all the High Renaissance paintings in the world.
Chapter 4
The following morning, after duly consuming the broth Cook sent up for him—thinner and containing different herbs—and allowing Wally to shave him, Godfrey endeavored to keep himself immersed in the story of Hinckley Hall, but no matter how hard he tried to suppress his cough, the affliction continued to worsen, becoming a near-constant distraction.
His fever hadn’t abated, either; if anything, it continued to slowly build. Although he was doing his best to ignore that, there was no point pretending his recovery would occur overnight.
He’d set the book aside and was staring across the room at nothing in particular when a rap fell on the door. Rousing from his stupor, he blinked and called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and an older gentleman looked in. He had a round, jowly face, and his sandy-brown hair was thinning. His coat and trousers proclaimed him to be of sound county stock, while his expression was alert and curious. “Are you up for a quick visit? We thought you might be bored.”
Godfrey smiled. “I am.” He noticed another man in the shadows of the corridor and waved the pair in. “Come in. There are several chairs.”
The first man smiled. Hand outstretched, he advanced on the bed. “I’m Pyne. Old friend of Hinckley’s. I was visiting Matthew and got trapped by the storm as well.”
Godfrey gripped the proffered hand. “Cavanaugh. As I daresay you know, I’m here to examine Mr. Hinckley’s painting. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Pyne released Godfrey’s hand and waved at the other man. “This is Masterton—you met him earlier, while trudging up the drive.”
Masterton was younger than Pyne, perhaps only a few years older than Godfrey himself, and was dressed in riding clothes—tan corduroy breeches, a rather nice brown-and-black-check hacking jacket, and well-polished boots. His features were regular, even, and passingly handsome, and his reddish-brown hair was neatly styled in fashionable waves. Several inches taller than the more rotund Pyne, Masterton cut a fine figure and carried himself well.
Godfrey smiled at Masterton and held out his hand. “Godfrey Cavanaugh. I owe you considerable thanks, Mr. Masterton. If it hadn’t been for your assistance, I’m not sure my man and I would have reached the house.”
Smiling pleasantly, Masterton grasped Godfrey’s hand. “You were on the right track. You just needed a little support over the last leg—I was happy to help.”
“Regardless, I’m in your debt. Please”—Godfrey waved at the chairs—“make yourselves comfortable.” He broke off to muffle a cough.
Pyne claimed the wing chair Ellie had left by the bed. Masterton looked around, then fetched the straight-backed chair Wally favored and set it alongside Pyne.
As Masterton sat, Pyne leaned forward. “Did I understand correctly that you drove all the way from London?”
Godfrey admitted he had. “I prefer my own horses, so I took care to pace them, and the journey took three days in all.”
Masterton tipped his head at Godfrey. “I was out to the stable to check on my horse and noticed your pair. Their lines are superb and so perfectly matched—the stable lads are in raptures. We rarely see such prime horseflesh around here.”
Godfrey grinned. “One of my vices, I fear. I enjoy driving—and riding—and my family have a connection to the Cynsters, and through them, we have access to the best of the best.” Godfrey coughed again, thankful when it proved a single cough rather than the beginning of a paroxysm; presumably, the broth was working its magic.
“Masterton’s report sent me and Morris—another family friend trapped here—trudging out to the stable, too,” Pyne confided. “While your horses are very fine, we were taken with your curricle. Sleek, sir—very sleek. It’s a new design, isn’t it?”
Godfrey nodded. “From Gillingham’s in Long Acre. He was apprenticed to Hatchett, but has gone out on his own, specializing in quality and the latest designs. He’s making quite a name for himself.”
For the next ten minutes, the conversation meandered through the usual gentlemanly interests of riding, hunting, and shooting. After a discussion of the latest hunting rifles, Pyne seemed to recollect himself. “But enough of such mundane matters. You’re here to examine the old painting. Have you seen it yet?”
“No, not yet.” Resigned, Godfrey explained, “Miss Hinckley is adamant that I recover first before viewing it, on the grounds that it’s in her family’s best interests that my judgment isn’t affected by illness when I form my first impressions.”