“Thank you for coming,” Godfrey called, then the door shut, and Maggie was gone.
Staring across the room, Godfrey reflected on the interlude. If he hadn’t asked about Ellie’s suitors, would Maggie have found some way to tell him, anyway?
He rather thought she would have.
As for what she’d told him…
Morris was no threat, certainly not a rival. Masterton, however, as far as Godfrey could tell, was a perfectly eligible suitor. He was of a reasonable age, personable, and presented well, was a distant cousin and so presumably knew and was accepted by any wider family, and he lived locally. Very likely, if Ellie married him, Masterton would be amenable to residing at Hinckley Hall so she could continue to hold the fort there, at least until Harry married.
It seemed that Matthew Hinckley had approved the offers of both men, while leaving the decision of whether to accept them entirely up to Ellie.
“Hmm.” Godfrey shifted restlessly. He definitely didn’t like being stuck in bed while Masterton was free to wander the house, able to trail after Ellie, spending time with her and advancing his suit.
Worse, with them all trapped in the house together, what if Ellie found herself being importuned by Morris and turned to Masterton to protect her? How would that play out?
Godfrey didn’t like to think.
He needed to be out of bed and in a position to interact with Ellie—to woo her and formulate his own offer to place at her feet. He wasn’t foolish enough to simply blurt out “marry me.” He needed to compile a list of attributes and advantages he could offer her. He needed to act to sway her to his side.
He thought through all Maggie had said and recalled that, despite Masterton’s offer still being open and before her, Ellie had steadfastly declined to accept it.
The recollection gave him a touch more confidence—enough to turn his mind to cataloguing the benefits Ellie would accrue were she to marry him. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “I need to concentrate on those aspects that matter most to her.”
When it came down to it, he needed to define what Miss Eleanor Hinckley wanted in a husband.
From what Maggie had so deliberately let fall, it seemed likely Ellie had some firm stipulations on that score.
Chapter 7
Godfrey bided his time until after luncheon the next day. As it happened, that was virtually a week since he and Wally had staggered over the Hinckley Hall threshold and he’d collapsed on the hall tiles.
After Maggie had left him the previous day, Wally had arrived with his luncheon on a tray and had stayed to talk about this and that. Ellie had come in later, and he and she had once again chatted about inconsequential subjects. She’d left before dinner and hadn’t returned through the evening.
He’d spent the hours alone debating how best to woo her, ultimately concluding that the surest way forward required three consecutive steps. First, he needed to get better so she and her supporters would allow him out of bed, thus laying to rest any lingering guilt, however irrational.
Then he needed to view the Albertinelli painting and write and dispatch his report to the gallery.
Only once that was done would he be free to pursue Ellie.
Honor—and common sense—dictated that he hold back until he’d declared his verdict on her family’s painting. Any earlier approach would run the risk of being misconstrued, and that was the last thing he wanted.
Having a clear plan—a plotted path to follow—had given him the patience to remain in bed through the morning. While his fever had vanished and he was feeling stronger and steadier, his irritating cough still lingered.
When Ellie arrived at two-thirty, embroidery bag in hand, he was primed and ready to make his case.
Before she’d even reached her chair, he stated, “Even you and Mrs. Kemp would have to agree that I’m a great deal better. My fever’s entirely gone, and my cough is much improved. Surely getting dressed and coming downstairs to meet your father and perhaps have dinner with the rest of the company would not put too heavy a strain on my constitution.”
He held her gaze levelly, not quite challengingly, and drew in another breath—and started coughing.
Not as deeply, not as helplessly, but…
“Gah!” he exclaimed once the paroxysm passed. “I hate this cough!”
Ellie smiled in rueful sympathy. “I know.” She set her embroidery bag on the rug beside the wing chair and went to lay her palm on his forehead. “You’re right in that your fever’s gone and hasn’t returned, but that cough is still a concern.” Removing her hand, she met his eyes. “You heard what Cook said yesterday. Rush your convalescence, and you’ll likely pay for it with a relapse.”
He sighed and shifted restlessly, long fingers picking at the covers. “I know, but…this seems to be going on and on with no end in sight.”
She truly did sympathize, but… Eyeing the disaffection in his face, she tried a different tack. “You know it’s important to me—to all of us here—that you get well. Properly and completely well, and that’s not simply so you can examine the painting.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. She’d never perfected the knack of hiding what she felt, and as his gaze traveled over her features before returning to her eyes, she felt just a little exposed.
But then he sighed and relaxed on the pillows. “You’re right.” He held up a hand in surrender. “I acknowledge that. You don’t need to fear I’ll try to get up again when your back is turned.”
When Ellie gifted him with a smile, Godfrey decided the capitulation had been worth it. He was annoyed with himself—with his chest and its capacity to scupper his chances of rising from the bed—but he hadn’t forgotten his underlying resolve to remain in his fair head nurse’s good graces.
“Good.” She stepped back and turned to the chair.
As she settled with her embroidery, he reached for the book he’d been reading. He was nearly to the end, and he’d yet to find any mention of paintings—or any furnishings, come to that. The author had been more interested in architecture and landscaping.
He opened the book and continued scanning the pages. Soon, he reached the end with absolutely nothing to show for his industry. He stifled a sigh and shut the tome—and a nugget of information resurfaced, one imparted by Harry and Maggie but which had subsequently sunk beneath the clouds of boredom.
Abruptly, he switched his gaze to their sister. “Ellie.” When she looked up, he went on, “Harry and Maggie spoke of letters that mentioned the painting and also some sort of declaration that proved your ancestor had bought the Albertinelli directly from the artist’s family.”
She nodded. “There’s a sheaf of letters and papers that mention the painting. The gallery wrote that any such documents would be helpful, so I’ve kept them for you to see.”
He could hardly contain his excitement. “They could be important—very important.” Briefly, he brandished the book. “And given I’ve been reading for the past several days without going into a decline, could I please see those documents now?”
She blinked, then lowered her embroidery to her lap. After a moment of staring at him, a frown formed in her eyes. “Studying them won’t…well, exhaust you, will it?”