For the Cavanaughs, emotion had always equated to vulnerability. Not so for the Hinckleys.
Harry looked at Godfrey. “I’ll trudge out to the stable and check on the horses. I’ll let you know if there’s anything to report.”
Godfrey smiled and saluted Harry, who waved and left, closing the door behind him.
Ellie sank into the chair her brother had vacated. “I hope he didn’t badger you about horses and London life.”
“Not at all, although we did discuss horses—his and mine.” Godfrey wondered if there was some way to subtly inquire whether Mr. Hinckley’s decision to sell the Albertinelli was due to financial necessity. It wasn’t strictly something he needed to know in order to evaluate the painting, but now he’d come to know them, it was awkward feeling that the family’s future might depend on his report.
That Mr. Hinckley’s infirmity and his consequent inability to physically oversee his acres had extended over a significant portion of Harry’s minority hadn’t escaped Godfrey. An estate with an owner unable to keep an eye on things on the ground was a recipe for disaster or, at the very least, avoidable neglect.
But he could think of no acceptable way to phrase his question, and the reason Mr. Hinckley had decided on the sale might, in fact, be something else altogether.
Ellie had settled to hemming her napkins. His gaze on her, Godfrey realized her task might well be an indication of straitened circumstances. As he watched her, his impatience to get better, see the painting, and deliver the good news—not just to Eastlake but even more to the Hinckleys—swelled and grew.
Ellie glanced up at him and smiled. “So”—she nodded to the book lying by his hand—“you must have learned all about Hinckley Hall by now.”
He smiled and disclaimed and seized the opportunity to steer their conversation into the safer waters of local society and the neighborhood’s grandes dames.
Chapter 6
Godfrey hated—hated—being coddled, especially when said coddling was prompted by guilt. When, on Tuesday morning, the door to his room closed behind Ellie as she left to deal with the household, he slumped against his pillows and groaned. Feelingly.
His fever had, finally, vanished, but his cough persisted, albeit with less force and significantly lower frequency than even the day before. Regardless, when he’d advanced his arguments that he should be allowed out of bed after breakfast, he’d run into a wall of concerted opposition—from Ellie, Wally, and Mrs. Kemp. The three had presented a united front and had steadfastly refused to countenance him even sitting by the fire in his dressing gown.
During the ensuing discussion, he’d come to the appalling realization that, regarding his illness, Ellie felt guilty—personally guilty—on the grounds that she had been the one to write the letter to the gallery that had resulted in him being on the road to be caught in the storm; she insisted on holding herself, her father, and her family at least partly to blame for his state.
Bad enough, but Wally was also plainly eaten by guilt because it had been him Godfrey had dragged up the drive, thoroughly exhausting himself in the process, thus leading to him succumbing to his youthful malaise.
As for Mrs. Kemp, she patently saw herself as representing the collective responsibility of the household.
There was no rational reason any of them should feel guilty, much less continue to feel so, but nothing Godfrey had said had made the slightest dent in their trenchant resolution. He was to remain abed until he was well—well enough for them to no longer fear a relapse—and there was no moving them from that.
And until he was fully recovered, he was not going to be allowed to see the Albertinelli, either.
In the end, he’d bowed to their edict; he hadn’t been able to bring himself to cavalierly override their concerns. He might believe there was no reason for either guilt or concern, but all three of them were convinced otherwise.
And when Wally reported that, although no more snow was falling, the drifts lay deep on the ground, and as the temperature had dropped to freezing and below, no one was able to get in or out, any immediacy over viewing the painting evaporated. There was no way to send a report to London, not until the thaw set in. Consequently, as both Ellie and Wally had been quick to point out, a few more days’ convalescence would make no difference at all.
Except to him.
Could a person go insane from boredom?
A tentative tap fell on the door. Not, Godfrey concluded, someone who had visited before. Interest piqued, he called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and a girl—a young lady, really—looked in. Her naturally curly, brown-blonde hair was pulled back and anchored by a band about her head. She was on the petite side in stature, her complexion more milk-and-roses than her sister’s more refined tinted porcelain; given the similarity of her features to Ellie’s, Godfrey had no doubt this was Maggie.
Her eyes, her expression, brightened. “Oh, good! You’re awake.”
Godfrey smiled. “I am, indeed. And I’m dreadfully bored. Do come in.”
She smiled and came forward with a light step. Harry followed her through the door and shut it, then, with Maggie, advanced on the bed.
“If you’re not up for chatter”—Harry cut a glance at his sister—“just say, and we’ll leave you in peace.”
“I would welcome some chatter.” Godfrey smiled at them both. “So what should we chatter about?”
Her expression expectant, Maggie tugged the wing chair closer to the bed and curled up in it.
With a grin, Harry lifted the straight-backed chair from by the wall, turned it, set it down beside the wing chair, and straddled it. He folded his forearms across the chair’s back and looked at Godfrey. “Incidentally, your horses are in excellent case.”
“We are not going to talk about horses.” Maggie sent her brother a warning look, then returned her gaze to Godfrey. “I love my mare, Daisy, and adore riding about the lanes and fields, but I’ve observed that when gentlemen start talking about horses, they go on and on and on.”
Godfrey laughed. “Very true. So, not horses.” He regarded their bright, eager faces. “You know that I’m here to examine the painting your father has offered to sell to the National Gallery?”
Both nodded, and Maggie said, “The Albertinelli one that hangs on Mama’s parlor wall.”
Does it? “If that’s the only Albertinelli in the house, then that’s the one.” He looked from Maggie’s brown eyes, oddly soulful in her pixielike face, to Harry’s hazel ones. “Do either of you know anything about where the painting came from? Who brought it to the Hall?”
“Great-great-many-times-great-uncle Henry,” Maggie said.
“He did a Grand Tour long before it became fashionable, sometime in the sixteen hundreds,” Harry supplied.
“He liked art.” Her gaze on Godfrey, Maggie tipped her head. “Possibly a bit like you.”
Ignoring his sister’s attempted digression, Harry went on, “Apparently, old Uncle Henry wanted to make a splash, so he bought paintings by famous artists of the time and brought them home.”
“Artists?” Godfrey’s instincts pricked. “So there were other paintings?”