She wondered what her father would think about that.
While she plied her needle and her design evolved, she reviewed all she’d learned about Godfrey Cavanaugh since he’d arrived at Hinckley Hall. Considering the circumstances of his arrival, considering the family’s hopes for the Albertinelli painting, his illness aside, she felt rather grateful that it had been him the Keeper of the Paintings of the National Gallery had sent.
She glanced up to find him regarding her speculatively.
On seeing he had her attention, he said, “Obviously, I’m significantly improved, so perhaps tomorrow, I might escape this bed?”
She arched her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. We’ll have to see whether your cough is less chesty tomorrow.”
“Assuming my cough has the good sense to subside, I might finally get a chance to interact with the others staying here. I’ve met Pyne and Morris, and Harry mentioned their long friendship with your father, but although I’ve met and spoken briefly with Masterton, I’m unclear as to his connection with the household.”
She looked down lest he see in her eyes the irritation Masterton customarily provoked. “Masterton is a distant cousin—once or twice removed, something like that—on my father’s side. He lives in Ripon, and as there are few other Hinckley relatives still living, Papa welcomes him here.” She shrugged lightly and didn’t look up. “Masterton has proved helpful over the years, especially in making Papa feel…connected with the outside world.”
I tolerate Masterton because of that.
“Ah—I see.” Godfrey eyed Ellie’s bent head and elected not to push for more, at least not at that time.
“So tell me.” She looked up from her embroidery. “What does your sister do with these musicians you say she collects?”
He smiled and swung into a description of the musical academy his sister, Stacie, and her husband, Frederick, had endowed.
But he wasn’t going to forget Ellie’s equivocal attitude to Masterton—that had come through quite clearly—nor the fact that she hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes while discussing the man.
What, exactly, all that meant, Godfrey wasn’t sure he could even guess, but the question the exchange left circling in his brain was: What was Masterton to her?
The answer came from an unexpected source.
First, however, early the following morning, his hopes of escaping the bed were dashed by the outcome of a bedside conference attended not just by Ellie, Mrs. Kemp, and Wally but also by Cook—apparently the most experienced in the treatment of chest complaints. A plump, gray-haired veteran, Cook had walked into the room in time to hear him cough as Wally had helped him to sit. She’d instantly looked askance at him, and when Ellie had asked for her thoughts on his proposal to get up and dressed and go downstairs, had shaken her head and opined, “Still too heavy on his chest. If he gets up and goes downstairs, it’ll flare up again, like as not.”
And that had been that.
He’d taken one look at Ellie’s and Mrs. Kemp’s faces—he hadn’t even bothered to check Wally’s—and slumped back on his pillows, defeated.
So he was languishing under the covers when, just past eleven o’clock, a tap fell on the door. At his somewhat terse “Come in,” the door opened, and Maggie bounced into the room, whirled, and quickly shut the door.
Then she turned to him, grinned, and came forward to curl up in the wing chair as she’d done the previous day. “I thought you must be utterly bored, so I’ve come to entertain you.”
He set aside the book—a second history of the house covering the years since 1700 that Ellie had found for him—that he’d slowly been leafing through, hunting for any mention of old paintings. Meeting Maggie’s bright, encouraging eyes, he asked, “How are you proposing to accomplish that?”
She arched her brows and tapped her chin, then offered, “You answered a lot of our questions yesterday. Is there anything about the Hall you would like to know—anything I can tell you?”
He remembered his thought that Maggie was insightful. He suspected that also made her observant.
He wondered how to word his question so he didn’t give her more ammunition regarding him than she already held. “Your sister.” He felt sure Maggie had noted his interest there. “Has she any current suitors? Anyone she favors?”
Maggie’s wide grin suggested he’d guessed aright; she wasn’t the least surprised by the direction of his interest. “As to the second question, there’s no one she encourages. But the answer to the first is that there are two.”
“Two?” Who didn’t he know about?
Maggie nodded in a sage way that sat oddly on her pixielike countenance. “Masterton and Mr. Morris.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Actually, you probably don’t.” Without further prompting, she elaborated, “Masterton first offered for Ellie about six months ago. She’s never entertained the slightest feelings for him and declined his offer, but he seems determined to keep his offer on the table, as it were, presumably hoping she’ll change her mind.” Maggie shook her head. “She won’t, but he doesn’t seem to see that.”
Maggie drew in a breath. “As for Mr. Morris—well, he’s an older man with an older man’s way of thinking. The notion of love doesn’t enter into his thoughts about marriage, and I’m not even sure he bears any real attachment to Ellie beyond her being Papa’s daughter.” Maggie tipped her head. “As far as I can see, it’s more a case of Mr. Morris wanting a lady to manage his household—that or simply to be able to say he has a wife, and a young wife at that. He’s not really interested in Ellie herself, if you take my meaning—she could be some other lady entirely, and from Mr. Morris’s point of view, that would still be satisfactory. Of course, Ellie being Papa’s daughter is probably what focused Mr. Morris’s interest on her in the first place. I don’t think he socializes much, so Ellie’s likely one of the few younger ladies he encounters.”
Maggie paused to reflect, then went on, “I know Mr. Morris has spoken to Papa about his offer to ‘take Ellie off his hands.’” She made a scoffing sound. “I’m not sure if Mr. Morris has spoken to Ellie herself, but Papa discussed the prospect with her, and as one would expect, she was adamant in declining.”
Maggie’s gaze had grown distant, and her brow furrowed slightly. After a moment, she offered, “It’s not as if, over the years, Ellie hasn’t had several beaux who offered for her hand—younger gentlemen who were perfectly eligible—but she never truly encouraged any of them and always politely declined their offers.” Maggie paused, then went on, “I’ve often wondered if that was because of us—because she didn’t want to leave us. And truth be told, I really don’t think we would have managed without her.”
As Godfrey had thought, Maggie saw more than one might expect.
Suddenly, Maggie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly time for luncheon—they’ll be bringing up your tray soon.” She scrambled to her feet and flashed him a mischievous look. “I’d better go.” With a last smile and a wave, she whirled and made for the door.