“So the histories go,” Maggie said. “But the only painting still here is the Albertinelli.”
Harry nodded. “We think the others must have been sold at various times through the centuries.”
“Just like we’re selling this one.” Maggie’s gaze remained trained, rather disconcertingly, on Godfrey’s face. “We decided that although the painting was a favorite of Mama’s, it doesn’t appeal to any of us, which is why it’s hidden away in her old parlor where no one ever goes, and in the circumstances, she wouldn’t mind if we sold it.”
Harry nodded. “The harvests have been poor for the past few years, so our coffers are approaching low ebb. The money will help to keep everything running smoothly, and we believe Mama would say that was far more important than the painting, especially now she’s no longer here to see it.”
Their words, and even more their matter-of-fact tones and the openness of their expressions, told Godfrey that selling the painting had been a family decision rather than one made by Mr. Hinckley alone.
The Hinckleys were a truly close-knit family, bound not only by affection but also by common cause; they formed a family unit in a far more cohesive and effective way than Godfrey was accustomed to or could even remember encountering. Perhaps it was an outcome of Matthew Hinckley’s accident, that he’d been forced to rely on his children in so many ways, he’d accepted their right to be involved in all major family decisions.
“I’m quite looking forward to seeing and examining the painting.” An understatement; Godfrey was eaten by impatience, and the younger Hinckleys’ information had only further whetted his eagerness.
Harry grinned. “I can understand the gallery sending someone like you—”
“Although you’re nothing like we expected,” Maggie put in.
“—but given the painting’s been here since old Uncle Henry brought it home, then there’s really no question it’s the same one, is there? The one he bought from the artist’s family.”
Godfrey was intrigued. “Did he? Buy it from the artist’s family?”
Harry nodded. “It’s in one of his letters, and there’s a declaration about the painting, too.”
“Glory be,” Godfrey breathed. “You have provenance.”
Maggie frowned. “What’s that?”
He explained, and both agreed there were letters that mentioned the painting, together with a certificate of sorts.
“I’ll need to examine those as well.”
“Ellie thought you would,” Maggie said. “She’s gathered them all together. She knows where they are.”
“So, you see,” Harry went on, “we’re not the least anxious over what your finding will be, but we’re still eager to hear it so we’ll know that step is completed and the sale can go ahead.”
Godfrey nodded. Their conviction regarding the authenticity of the painting—and if they had the provenance they claimed, it was a reasonable one—accounted for the lack of angst on the subject he’d encountered in everyone there. They were all keen to have him deliver his verdict, and many were curious about how he would reach it, but all were certain what that verdict would be.
To all at the Hall, him examining the painting and sending in his report were simply routine steps that needed to be taken in order for the sale to proceed.
“Even Mr. Pyne and Mr. Morris are interested,” Maggie informed him, “and even Masterton seems keen to hear that your verdict’s been delivered.”
“But enough about the painting.” Harry exchanged a swift glance with Maggie, then looked hopefully at Godfrey. “We wondered if you would tell us about your life in London. About what sort of entertainments you enjoy when there.”
Somewhat to Godfrey’s surprise, Maggie didn’t look as enthused as her brother. She clarified, “He wants to know how you fill your days.”
Harry frowned at her. “Yes, I do. I would find that interesting.”
Godfrey had to smile at Harry’s tone, which elicited a sniff from Maggie. “Well,” he said, “there are the galleries, of course, and the coffeehouses—I often meet with friends there.” He continued, describing the places he haunted and the more regular events he attended. Harry hung on his every word, while Maggie listened with what seemed to be her customary focus.
Some minutes later, the door opened, and Ellie came in. Given her lack of surprise on finding her siblings ensconced with him, he deduced she’d sent them to keep him amused. He was giving the pair a rundown of the favored theaters in the capital; Harry and Maggie glanced Ellie’s way, but immediately returned their avid gazes to him.
When she paused, watching and transparently debating whether he needed to be rescued, he flashed her a reassuring smile.
Her lips curved. She glanced fondly at her brother and sister, then, leaving Maggie in possession of her favorite wing chair, went to claim its mate, angled by the hearth.
He was acutely—distractingly—aware that, although Ellie settled to her stitching, she was also listening as he rambled on. The inconsequentiality of his social life in the capital was suddenly not something he wished to own to. He rapidly brought his dissertation on that subject to a close.
Harry seemed satisfied, but Maggie stirred and said, “While that all sounds very busy, I’m not sure I would find it”—she gestured vaguely—“sufficiently fulfilling.” She met his gaze. “And before you say that for me, there would be parties and balls and idle walks in the park to show off my London gowns and gaze at everyone else’s, I’m not really drawn to such entertainments—I find them rather superficial.”
She wasn’t wrong in that. Godfrey inclined his head in acknowledgment and wondered where she was leading him.
Sure enough, she fixed him with a direct look. “What about your family? How many brothers and sisters do you have? Do you spend much time with them?”
That was a safe, even laudable topic, and one to which the Hinckley siblings would relate. He stated simply that both his parents were dead, then launched into a recitation of his half brother’s, brothers’, and sister’s names, carefully omitting their titles, and explaining their ages with respect to him.
“Are they married, then?” Maggie asked.
He nodded and expanded his account to include their various spouses and his nephews and nieces. With a nod to Harry’s interests, Godfrey added the occupations his siblings—and their spouses—had made their own.
Holding true to her direction, Maggie brought the discussion back to the people—the family. “Where did you spend Christmas? Do you all get together?”
He nodded. “We gather at Raventhorne”—he bit off the word “Abbey”—“my half brother’s house.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “It must be a big house.” She tipped her head. “Or don’t you all stay there?”
Beyond Maggie and her big eyes, Ellie slowly raised her head and stared at him.
Warily, he admitted, “It is. And yes, we all stay for several days.”
Ellie set aside her stitching, rose, and walked nearer. “Raventhorne?” She halted with her hand on the back of Maggie’s chair, her gaze fixed on him. “Is there a village or town by that name?”