“Thank you.” His tone made the words heartfelt. His eyes met hers. “For all the hours of today. I’ve enjoyed your company, and that’s kept me from moping—I do appreciate it.”
She smiled. “I enjoyed the hours, too.” She stepped away. “I must get ready for dinner. If I can get away, I’ll look in later.” She would make sure she did.
They exchanged nods, and she left him with Wally.
She did return later and sat beside him, and with no more mending to be done, they chatted about, of all things, the theaters in London and the Opera and musical performances he had seen and she could only dream of.
Through his eyes, that other life—the one she might have had if things had been different and her father’s accident hadn’t occurred—came alive.
When she finally left him to settle to sleep, she walked from his room with a far deeper appreciation of what Fate had denied her.
Monday morning dawned, and while Godfrey felt rather better, he knew he was some way from full recovery and so held to his promise to the lovely Ellie and dutifully remained abed. He was delighted to be presented with a bowl of remarkably delicious porridge drizzled with honey as well as two slices of toast and jam with which to break his fast.
Sadly, after briefly looking in on him after her own breakfast—and applauding his tack—Ellie had to leave to deal with household matters.
He made himself read more about Hinckley Hall and its history and was pleased to discover his ability to concentrate had improved. But after half an hour, his mind started to wander—flirting with the question of why Mr. Hinckley, who, curiously, he’d yet to meet, wanted to sell the Albertinelli. From all he’d thus far gleaned, the estate was—or at least should be—reasonably prosperous. Had it somehow fallen on hard times? Did the family need the money from the sale to continue to live in the style to which they were accustomed, or was there some other, non-financial reason that had prompted Mr. Hinckley to contact the National Gallery?
Godfrey’s mind circled through the options, but he had no way of learning which applied. Eventually, he forced his eyes back to the book and set himself to plow on.
When a knock fell on the door, he looked up eagerly; although he’d immediately registered that the knock wasn’t the same as Ellie’s light tap, he was ready to welcome any distraction. “Come in,” he called and waited to see who appeared.
Pyne entered, followed, this time, by another man of similar age. Gentleman farmer was Godfrey’s immediate assessment, which was proved correct as Pyne clapped his hands and declared, “Good morning to you, Cavanaugh. What-ho!” Pyne gestured at the other man. “Allow me to present Mr. Edward Morris. An old friend of mine and of Matthew’s. Morris has land up around Kirkby Malzeard.” Pyne waved toward the west.
Morris came forward and offered his hand. “Both Walter and I were visiting here when the storm struck. We come every Wednesday to take luncheon with Matthew—with Hinckley, that is.”
“I see.” Godfrey shook Morris’s hand, then waved his visitors to the chairs. “You come at an opportune moment, gentlemen. I find myself sorely in need of distraction.”
Pyne again claimed the wing chair, leaving Morris to avail himself of the straight-backed chair Wally had left on the other side of the bed. Pyne glanced at the book Godfrey had laid down. “I see you’ve been reading a history, so that’s hardly surprising, heh? Never could understand what I was supposed to learn by reading about people long gone. But then, I suppose you’re used to dealing with all these long-dead painters.”
Godfrey couldn’t hide his smile. “Indeed.” He recalled Pyne’s Saturday inquisition, which had centered on Godfrey’s peculiar occupation and his credentials to assess the Albertinelli.
He assumed that, having largely gained his answers, the man would take a different inquisitorial tack and was mildly surprised when Pyne cleared his throat and said, “Hope you don’t mind me asking more about this whole art business, but I’ve never paid much attention to arty things—never really thought there was much value attached to paintings and the like—and now I find there is, that there’s a world of business I never imagined out there, and well, I’m curious.”
Perhaps because he was feeling better, Godfrey accepted that Pyne spoke sincerely, and smiled encouragingly. “No, of course not—I’m happy to tell you what I can.” He settled against his pillows and gestured. “Ask away.”
“Good-oh.” Pyne’s eyes lit. He sat straight, his hands braced on his knees. “Tell me about the old paintings like Matthew’s—like the Albertinelli. Are there many of them about? Many other painters like that chap?”
“Not all that many paintings, because there aren’t all that many master painters of that era—the High Renaissance, as it’s known—whose works have survived to this day.”
Slipping into a lecture on High Renaissance art was the definition of easy, and to his credit, Pyne appeared to lap up every word. Clearly, his interest in art truly had been piqued by the situation with his friend’s Albertinelli.
While Godfrey rambled, touching on those aspects he suspected Pyne would like to hear about and responding to Pyne’s questions, Morris sat more or less mum. He was listening, but remained on the periphery of the discussion. Godfrey had to wonder why he’d come.
Eventually, Pyne ran out of questions, and both he and Godfrey glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly ten-thirty; they’d been talking for over an hour.
“Right, then!” Pyne slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Thank you for the information, Cavanaugh, but we’d better leave you to rest, or Ellie will be after us for tiring you out, what?”
This last was said with a jovial air, but Morris, who had also come to his feet, assumed a serious, almost severe expression. “Miss Hinckley is a caring lady. She runs this large household in exemplary fashion and has many calls on her time. She is always very busy.”
The look Morris bent on Godfrey was, he suspected, meant to depress any pretensions of importance he harbored and make him feel guilty over taking up Ellie’s time.
“That’s true enough,” Pyne allowed, “but she did say to tell you, Cavanaugh, that she expects to be up to keep you company shortly.”
Morris’s expression could only be described as sour—as if he’d sucked a particularly tart lemon. He shifted his gaze to Pyne, but there was nothing he could say as, with a jaunty wave, Pyne made for the door.
His gaze on Morris’s face, Godfrey called, “I’ll look forward to enjoying Miss Hinckley’s company.”
Morris shot him a dark, definitely disapproving—almost warning—look but, after hesitating for an instant, had no option but to follow Pyne out of the room.
When the door closed—firmly—behind the pair, Godfrey stared at the panels, then humphed. “Obviously, Morris harbors some interest in Ellie.” He replayed the man’s words and frowned. Morris had spoken of Ellie as if she were a housekeeper rather than the effective lady of the house—or as if her housekeeping skills were the only aspect of her that held value, at least to Morris. “Regardless,” Godfrey muttered, “I didn’t mistake his proprietary air.” Morris had wanted to warn him away.