Her father softly humphed and shook his head at her. “You’re worse than me—always the last word.”
She grinned.
“Papa? Ellie?”
They looked across to see Maggie hovering in the doorway.
“I thought I might take one or two of the newspapers up to Mr. Cavanaugh.” She widened her eyes. “He must want a break from the old letters by now and might like to know what’s happening in London.”
Her father nodded. “An excellent idea, my dear. Ask Mike to come and push me to the library, and we’ll choose a few papers for you to take upstairs.”
Ellie rose. “And I had better consult with Mrs. Kemp and see what stocks we need to replenish once Johnson can drive the cart into Ripon.”
Maggie summoned Mike, and together, they all quit the breakfast parlor.
Ellie paused in the front hall, watching as, with Maggie all but skipping alongside, Mike pushed her father’s chair down the corridor to the library.
This was normally the time she went upstairs to check on Godfrey. The previous evening, she, Mrs. Kemp, and Cook had agreed that he should be allowed to get dressed and sit by the fire in his room today; she ought to check whether his cough had been aggravated by the change in position.
But Maggie would take the newspapers up, and that should keep him amused for at least an hour, which would allow her to finish her necessary planning with Mrs. Kemp.
Besides, while discussing Masterton’s and Morris’s proposals—and even more, while listening to her father’s advice—her mind had insisted on bombarding her with images of Godfrey Cavanaugh.
Plainly, it would behoove her to shore up her inner defenses before she once again confronted him in the flesh.
Reasoning thus, she headed for the servants’ hall.
Dressed in his striped pajamas and swathed in his dressing gown, yet groomed as befitted a gentleman—at last—and thus feeling considerably more like his fashionable self, Godfrey was sitting in one of the wing chairs, both of which were now angled before the hearth in which a cheery fire blazed, when a light tap fell on the door.
“Not Ellie” was his immediate and faintly disappointed thought. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Maggie appeared. She looked around, spotted him, and smiled delightedly. “They’ve let you up!”
“Yes!” Lowering the magnifying glass he’d been wielding, he returned her smile. Then he saw the newspapers in her hands. “What have you brought me?”
She crossed the room and showed him. “The Times and the Manchester Gazette. There are other London newspapers downstairs, but Mr. Morris and Mr. Pyne got to them first. Papa said he’d send them up later.”
“Oh, The Times will do excellently to start with.” He gathered the letters he’d been examining and carefully set them on a side table away from the fire. He laid the glass atop the pile, and Maggie handed him The Times.
She set the Gazette down by his chair, then crossed to the other chair and sat, curling her legs beneath her as was her wont. “Those are the letters Ellie found for you and the gallery, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “They’re quite remarkable—the gallery will be very pleased.”
“What are you doing with them?”
He looked at her and realized she wasn’t just asking to be polite; she truly wanted to know. “Believe it or not, the first thing I need to do is verify that the documents are genuine. Sometimes, in situations such as this, people have been known to write letters to make it appear that their paintings are, for instance, much older than they actually are.”
She frowned. “How do you do that—prove a letter is genuine?”
“You look at the paper—parchment, usually, so it has a certain weight, texture, and color. Does it have any embossing or mark indicating the maker or the period in which it was made? Are the edges cut or raw? Then you check the ink—is it the sort of ink that comes from the time in which the letter was supposedly written? Has it faded as one might expect? Then you look at the writing itself—the style, the flourishes—and ultimately, you look at the words used. The use of some words is strongly associated with certain historical periods.” He smiled. “And if everything looks right, then you can be fairly certain that all is well and the document is genuine.”
“I see.” Maggie looked at the documents stacked at his elbow. “Are our documents genuine?”
“Thus far, I’ve seen nothing that makes me think otherwise.” He followed her gaze. “In fact, I’m prepared to swear that all the documents I’ve properly scrutinized are, indeed, genuine.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? For the sale of our painting?”
“Yes, very good.” He didn’t want her asking any more probing questions; as it was, it was hard enough keeping his welling excitement suitably restrained. He shook out the paper. “I wonder whether it’s snowed in London.”
Maggie took the hint and rose. “I’ll leave you in peace. Ellie will be up shortly—she had to have a meeting with Mrs. Kemp.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you for bringing up the papers.”
Maggie smiled and turned away. Then she turned back. “Oh—I meant to tell you. As riders have reached us, Masterton has left—he rode away to Ripon just as I came up the stairs.”
That was good news. Godfrey raised his gaze to Maggie’s face, and she promptly went on, “Mr. Morris and Mr. Pyne are still with us—they won’t be able to leave until the roads clear enough to let carriages through. Ellie mentioned the letters about the painting, and Mr. Pyne immediately suggested he and Masterton should come up to see you, supposedly to save you from boredom, but it was plain he was really interested in the letters.”
“Was he?”
Maggie nodded. “Ellie quashed the notion—she said they shouldn’t distract you from your work for the gallery.”
He studied Maggie’s impish face; she’d just told him that Ellie—knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the interruption—had effectively leapt to his defense. He smiled. “Thank you for telling me.”
Maggie grinned and headed for the door.
Godfrey watched her go. When the door shut behind her, still smiling, he shook his head and returned his attention to The Times. Although his gaze settled on the page, he didn’t immediately read.
His relief on hearing of Masterton’s departure was not a surprise. There was nothing he could hold against the man—other than him having made an offer for Ellie’s hand and, compounding that, to this point refusing to accept her rejection of his suit. No matter how personable and even likeable Masterton might be, those acts, especially the latter, were sufficient to guarantee Godfrey’s animus.
Pursuing a lady after she’d refused one was not the act of a gentleman.
As matters stood, Godfrey expected to feel negatively toward any man who set his sights on Ellie. Morris, therefore, was another who had earned Godfrey’s disapproval, but as long as the fellow didn’t actively importune Ellie, Godfrey was willing to overlook his sins.
The fact was that while he didn’t view Morris as any sort of rival—and was therefore willing to ignore him—Masterton was another kettle of fish. Until Masterton accepted Ellie’s dismissal, Godfrey would remain on guard.