So much for the family.
Now that he’d met Pyne and Morris and learned of their long friendship with Matthew Hinckley, Godfrey viewed their association with the Hinckley household as unremarkable—merely what might be expected, even to Morris’s clumsy attempt to warn him away from Ellie. With respect to her and Godfrey, Morris might well see himself as acting in Matthew Hinckley’s stead.
That left Masterton as the only above-stairs person Godfrey had yet to pigeonhole. He reviewed what little he’d learned from others plus what he’d observed during Masterton’s visit. The man presented as a respectable country gentleman and, apparently, was some Hinckley connection.
“Connection” could mean anything. Other than Masterton living “locally”—presumably meaning somewhere within an hour or so’s ride—Godfrey knew precious little about him.
Most importantly, he had no idea why Masterton had his eye on Ellie.
On arriving with Godfrey’s afternoon tea, Wally promptly reported, “The snow’s feet deep, and the freeze is on. Even where they’ve shoveled paths, the way’s all icy and slippery. No going anywhere until some of it—a good deal of it—thaws.”
“I see.” Godfrey poured his tea, then reached for a slice of fruitcake. “How are things below stairs?”
“Very comfortable, truth be told.” Wally dropped onto the straight-backed chair. “The Kemps are firm but fair, and Cook’s a right wonder. The staff seem nicely settled—no sniping or anything like that.”
“I gather that after his accident, Mr. Hinckley can no longer walk.”
“Aye, that’s right. He can only manage a few steps on his own, but ’parently, after his fall, it was feared he’d never walk again at all, so everyone’s pleased he’s still with them, as it were. His man’s devoted, from all I’ve seen.”
Godfrey nodded and sipped. “What about Masterton? I take it he’s still here.”
“Aye—he’s stuck like the rest of us. All I’ve heard about him is he’s some sort of connection of Mr. Hinckley’s and came to live in the area about five years ago. He started turning up here, at the Hall, regular-like, about then, and at the start, the staff worried he was trying to ingratiate himself with Mr. Hinckley and Miss Hinckley for some nefarious purpose, but nothing ever happened, and they—the staff—say that, over the years, he’s been helpful to the family.” Wally shot Godfrey a searching glance. “You doing your usual trick of trying to work out how everyone fits together?”
Godfrey shrugged and set down his empty cup. “It helps to pass the time.”
Wally nodded at the now-empty plate on the tray. “That fruitcake’s another thing as helps pass the time—you’ve polished off both slices, and they were thick ones, too.”
Godfrey smiled. “Tell Cook they were delicious.”
“Aye, I will.” Wally stood and hefted the tray. “What I won’t tell her is that you’re buttering her up because you like to eat and have hollow legs.”
Godfrey grinned and relaxed against the pillows. “Reticence on that point might be wise.”
Wally snorted and headed for the door. Before he reached it, it opened to reveal Ellie. Wally stepped back, and she entered, carrying not her sewing basket but a soft bag with beaded handles.
She smiled at Wally, glanced at the tray, then looked at Godfrey. “I see you’ve devoured your tea.”
“Indeed. I’ve just dispatched my compliments to your cook.”
Wally stepped outside and pulled the door shut as Ellie walked to her usual chair.
Godfrey focused on the bag. “What—no more mending?”
“No.” She sat, set the bag on her lap, and drew out an embroidery hoop. “I can’t remember the last time my sewing basket was empty.” She studied the half-finished design stretched on the hoop. “In fact, that was so long ago I can barely remember what I’m doing with this.”
Godfrey watched her work it out. Once she had her needle threaded and was pushing it through the linen, he started chatting about his sisters-in-laws’ and sister’s embroidery achievements, describing several memorable pieces. “Stacie has never taken to the occupation, for which she rightly blames our mother, who was not embroidery-inclined, but Mary—Ryder’s marchioness—is surprisingly adept. Once fully executed, her designs are quite something to behold—they almost qualify as works of art.”
Head bent, Ellie asked, “Why is that surprising? I would have thought a lady of the station to become a marchioness would be highly skilled in all the acceptable ladylike accomplishments.”
“Ah, but Mary is—was—a Cynster, and as a family, they don’t necessarily adhere to the usual strictures regarding a lady’s education. More to the point, Mary in particular is a very busy sort—in the sense of organizing not just her own life but also the lives of all around her. I’m sure she would have demonstrated that propensity from an early age. It’s my belief her elders thrust an embroidery hoop into her hands from the moment she was old enough to ply a needle, just to keep her busy with something other than organizing them.”
Ellie laughed. “I’m sure you do your sister-in-law an injustice.”
“Not at all.” Just wait until you meet her. He didn’t say the words, but the certainty that such a meeting would occur stood rocklike in his mind. “But what about you? Do you embroider because it’s an acceptable ladylike occupation or because you enjoy it?”
Ellie smiled as she drew up her needle. “Because I enjoy it.” She paused, then went on, “There’s always a little bit of fascination in seeing a design take shape. In seeing the picture unfold.” She glanced at Godfrey. “I suppose it’s a bit like painting, really.”
He nodded. “Just with a different medium.”
She “hmmed” and continued stitching. Even though she now knew he was a lord—a scion of a noble house, no less—the ease of interaction between them, of conversation and freely exchanged views that they’d established over the past days, hadn’t appreciably changed.
While she felt there should be some degree of constraint between them—between a lady of the gentry and a haut ton lord—there simply wasn’t. Now that they’d grown accustomed to thinking of him and dealing with him as Mr. Godfrey Cavanaugh, and given he refused to stand on ceremony, that made it difficult for them to erect barriers of class between him and them.
She hadn’t met many lords, not of his caliber, but she’d never heard of even a baron insisting on being treated as just another gentleman.
Even as the thought flitted through her mind, she realized such behavior said quite a lot about him—about the man behind the title.
The man he insisted on being.
He continued to chat about this and that—mostly about ladylike occupations—in a way that often brought a smile to her face and easy responses to her tongue. He’d clearly set himself to be entertaining, and in that endeavor, he excelled.
She hadn’t yet told her father that they were housing a scion of a marquessate, but she would. However, given said scion’s stated wish, she would also convey his desire not to have any fanfare made of his exalted birth.