She looked up and scanned his face, as if searching for signs by which to assess his strength. “I suppose we can take it in stages.” She looked toward the door. “Let’s see if you can make it to the gallery first, before we try the stairs.”
He obediently set out, with her supporting one arm and Wally gripping the other. He had to pause a yard from the door to marshal his strength and also his balance, but by the time he stepped into the corridor, his confidence was rising. “I don’t think it’s really a matter of strength.” He’d been eating well for the past few days. “I think it’s simply remembering how to walk.”
That seemed to be the case, as he conquered the long corridor with slow, regular paces. When they entered the gallery, Ellie suggested he sit for a few minutes on one of the padded benches, but he shook his head. “For the moment, I need to keep moving. Stopping will just set me back.”
With an uncertain look, she acquiesced, and they continued to the head of the main stairs. There, they paused, and he looked down the first flight to the landing, above which rose a large, rectangular, lead-paned stained glass window displaying what he assumed was the Hinckley coat of arms. The work was impressive; slanting winter light struck the design and sent beams of red, blue, purple, and gold dancing over the dark wood of the landing.
The stairs were quite steep.
He drew in a bracing breath. “So far, so good.” He glanced at the balustrade on his right, then drew his right arm from Wally’s grip and waved Wally forward. “Go in front—if I falter, you’ll be able to catch me.” And break my fall. “I’ll hold onto the balustrade.”
Wally nodded and stepped onto the stairs.
“Right, then.” Godfrey grasped the balustrade, glanced at Ellie, and smiled, then drew in another breath and took his first step down.
To his considerable relief, his legs behaved themselves, and their descent, although slow, passed without incident.
Ellie let out a surreptitious sigh of relief when Godfrey stepped onto the tiles of the front hall. He halted and looked around, clearly unsure which way to go.
She waved toward the corridor leading to the library. “My father—and most likely Mr. Morris and Mr. Pyne—will be in the library.”
Godfrey nodded. He drew his arm free of her hold, then looped it with hers. When she looked up, he grinned at her. “That’s better.”
She found herself returning his infectious smile. She wasn’t surprised that he wished to appear to be walking normally—without support—before the other men.
He set off again, and Wally trailed in their wake, ready to dart forward and assist if need be. But Godfrey seemed to have regained the required use of his legs, although she was pleased he kept his pace slow and steady; she got the impression he was consciously taking each step.
They reached the library door, and she opened it and sent it swinging wide.
She looked at Godfrey in time to see him fill his lungs. A subtle change swept over his face, a polite, urbane mask settling into place. That she saw the transformation so clearly brought home the fact that he hadn’t been wearing any mask before—with her.
He didn’t wear one with Wally, either.
Did that mean she was included among those people he didn’t screen his reactions from?
She had no chance to dwell on the thought. Godfrey smiled at her, elegantly ushered her through the door, then stepped to her side once more. Arm in arm, they walked down the long room to where her father and his friends sat before the roaring fire.
“Papa, Mr. Cavanaugh is keen to meet you.” She and Godfrey halted a few feet from her father’s chair. She smiled at her father, then looked at Godfrey. “My father, Mr. Matthew Hinckley.”
Godfrey executed an abbreviated bow. “Mr. Hinckley, it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I regret that the aftermath of the storm has kept me from meeting you until now.”
Mr. Hinckley inclined his head and extended his hand, which Godfrey stepped forward and grasped. “I’m delighted to see you on your feet again, sir, and I regret that my condition”—as Godfrey released his hand, Mr. Hinckley gestured to his legs—“made it impossible for me to visit you earlier.” Mr. Hinckley paused, studying Godfrey’s face. “I take it you’ve recovered sufficiently to join us.”
“Indeed. If it’s no imposition?”
“Not at all, not at all.” Mr. Hinckley waved to Morris and Pyne. “I believe you’ve already met these gentlemen.”
“I have.” Godfrey nodded to both men.
“Here!” Pyne leapt up from the chair closest to the fire, the one opposite Mr. Hinckley’s. “Sit here. I’ll fetch another.”
Godfrey inclined his head in thanks, then smiled at Ellie and drew his arm from hers. “Thank you for your escort, Miss Hinckley.”
Ellie felt like curtsying, but restrained the urge. She watched Godfrey cross unaided to the chair Pyne had vacated. Once seated, he leaned across and shook Morris’s and Pyne’s hands.
Ellie glanced at her father, a question in her eyes.
Her father smiled at her. “You may leave him with us, my dear. I’m sure we’ll have plenty to chat about to pass the time.”
She nodded; with a last glance at Godfrey, who was responding to some question from Pyne, she turned and left the room.
From beneath his lashes, Godfrey watched her go, then, having assured Pyne that he was, indeed, fully recovered, turned to Mr. Hinckley. “I expect to commence my assessment of the Albertinelli tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” Hinckley thought, then asked, “How long will your examination take?”
“Until I’ve sighted the painting, I can’t say. The process varies considerably, depending on the painting and on its current state. Some can be verified in a few hours, while others might take several days.”
“But,” Morris said, “only days, not weeks?”
Godfrey nodded. “Few paintings would require more than three or, at the most, four days of study.”
Mr. Hinckley leaned forward. “How, exactly, do you go about it—your process?”
Godfrey explained his approach to examining paintings, expanding on what he’d told Ellie earlier. Pyne remained genuinely interested and asked several pertinent questions to which Godfrey readily replied.
Morris remained largely silent, but Godfrey could see he was listening intently; he seemed a man of few words.
In contrast, Pyne was garrulous, and Matthew Hinckley easily held his own as the conversation moved on from Godfrey’s upcoming task for the National Gallery to the steps involved in any purchase they made—a procedure with which Godfrey had considerable experience. From there, the talk shifted to the weather and the snowstorm and its impact not only on the Hinckleys’ proposed sale but also on Pyne’s printing business in Ripon and, even more, the crops on both the Hinckley estate and Morris’s Malton Farm.
Although Godfrey had no acres to manage, courtesy of his boyhood spent on the Raventhorne estate, he had a passing understanding of crops and the effects of unseasonable weather. The impact of the heavy snow and the freezing conditions was the one topic on which Morris grew almost eloquent. Godfrey deduced that while Matthew Hinckley wasn’t overextended to the point of being dependent on his current crops, Morris was a great deal more nervous over what the ultimate effect on his income might be.