Her father had mentioned Godfrey’s comments about the family dinners he’d endured as a boy. His statement that wealth didn’t buy happiness had clearly been based on experience.
After a moment, he pulled back from whatever vista had held him and, once again, met her gaze. “I didn’t hate my mother so much as truly despise the type of person she was. She was the antithesis of the mother any boy—any child—wants. As I grew older, my antipathy toward all deceits, all attempts to deceive, grew stronger. And stronger. You could say I’ve developed an obsession over exposing deceptions wherever I find them. Wherever my now-well-honed instinct alerts me to them. And nowhere is that more so than with works of art.”
He paused, and his gaze returned to the painting. “I’ve become recognized as an expert authenticator of artworks not so much through being an expert in identifying the genuineness of works but because of my facility for detecting fakes, forgeries, and frauds.”
Ellie’s heart wavered. What was he telling her? When he said nothing more, just stared at the painting, taking her courage in both hands, she asked, “And the Albertinelli?”
His gaze returned to her face, his hawkish eyes clear and hard. “I can’t yet say.” He paused, then added, “I need to be sure.”
She could hardly argue that, especially not now she’d gained some insight into what drove him in his authenticator role. She met his gaze and nodded. “Very well. I’ll let the family know you need more time.”
Godfrey held her gaze and inclined his head. “Thank you. I’ll tell you and your family as soon as I’m able.”
He forced himself to look back at the painting. At the edge of his vision, he saw Ellie study him for a moment, then she turned and retreated up the long room.
On hearing the soft snick of the door shutting behind her, he leaned forward, set his elbows on his thighs, steepled his fingers before his lips, and stared at the painting.
He hadn’t meant to say all that he had. The words had come tumbling out—a stream of thought given voice. But he had heard himself. Restating what had shaped him and fueled the evolution of his present life and, ultimately, brought him there—to the Hinckley Hall conservatory, staring at a painting that shouldn’t have existed—had thrown the challenge confronting him into stark relief.
Could he—just once—accede to this deception and allow Hendall’s Albertinelli to stand as the original, backed by the unshakeable provenance?
For Ellie and the Hinckley family, could he do that?
Could he become what he abhorred more than anything else in life?
Staring fixedly at the painting, he muttered against his fingertips, “Or is there another way?”
On venturing downstairs to breakfast the next day, Godfrey was grateful and hugely relieved to have Matthew Hinckley inform him that in their household, Sunday was deemed a day of rest for all, and thus no one would press him for his decision regarding the Albertinelli.
Mr. Hinckley’s statement was delivered with a pointed look at Harry and Maggie, whose innocent expressions made Godfrey’s lips twitch. He did like this family—all of them.
“I appreciate that, sir,” he replied. “Having a day to reflect will be welcome.”
Now that Morris and Pyne had departed for their own hearths, the company was reduced to just the Hinckleys, which suited Godfrey very well. He listened to the ambling conversations between the siblings and their father regarding a book Harry had just finished reading, a new type of embroidered ribbon Maggie was sporting on her winter Sunday gown, and Ellie’s report regarding a cob with a sore hoof.
Undemanding and anchoring conversations with which to start the day.
After they’d cleared their plates, Mr. Hinckley caught Godfrey’s eye. “We’ll be departing shortly for Sunday service at St. Andrew’s in Kirkby Malzeard. You’re very welcome to join us.”
Godfrey smiled. “Thank you. I would like that.”
He rarely attended church in London, but tended to make the effort when in the country, either at Raventhorne or at Rand’s, Kit’s, or Stacie’s houses, wherever he happened to be.
Ellie smiled, clearly pleased by his acceptance. “We’ll be leaving from the front hall at nine-thirty.”
From her father’s and siblings’ expressions, they were equally delighted, as if his acceptance signaled he saw himself as one of them—or at least one with them.
While that hadn’t been his intention, he wasn’t unhappy with that outcome. In truth, with every passing day, he viewed the Hinckleys a little more certainly as his tribe—his to protect.
At the appointed time, they gathered in the front hall, and Harry and Godfrey elected to ride rather than attempt to squash into the somewhat ancient family coach. The coach arrived before the front steps, followed by the stableman, Johnson, leading a strong bay as well as Harry’s gray hunter.
When Godfrey descended to take the bay’s reins, Johnson tipped him a salute. “This one should suit you, sir. His name’s George.” Johnson gave a little sigh. “He was born here, and Miss Maggie had the naming of him.”
Godfrey grinned. “I gather she was interested in royalty at the time.”
Johnson bobbed his head. “Just so.” He handed over the reins and ran a hand down George’s nicely arched neck. “But he’s a sound hack, and although the saddle’s worn, it’s comfy.”
“Thank you.” Godfrey gathered the reins, looked George in the eye, then stepped to his side and mounted. George shifted, but settled. Godfrey tipped his head to the waiting Johnson. “He’ll do.”
Harry was already mounted and waiting. As Godfrey nudged George to join Harry at the rear of the carriage, Kemp shut the carriage door on Maggie and waved at the coachman. The carriage rumbled off, and falling in beside Harry in the vehicle’s wake, Godfrey filled his lungs and felt his mood lift.
With his declaration, Mr. Hinckley had gifted him this day to rest his mind from grappling with the challenge facing him. As he and Harry trotted down the drive, Godfrey resolved to set aside all concerns, take the day as it came, and enjoy it.
The air was cold, but fresh and clear, with the tang of snow sharpened by the scent of pines and firs. While the grooms had shoveled the drive, snow lingered in crisp drifts to either side, and in the park that surrounded the Hall, the thick blanket of white extended as far as Godfrey could see.
He was bundled up in his greatcoat, with his scarf wrapped snugly about his neck and his hands protected by fur-lined gloves. Wally had ruthlessly brushed his hat, and it was duly perched on Godfrey’s head; he was grateful there was no wind to send it bowling into the nearest drift. Indeed, the country about them lay almost preternaturally still, all activity muffled by the snow; beyond the occasional birdcall, the sound of them traveling was the only disturbance, rapidly fading as they passed.
They turned out of the drive into the lane, where the snow had been worn away by passing traffic enough to expose the center of the roadway. The coachman urged his pair on, and Godfrey and Harry trotted along behind.
They crossed a river. “The Laver,” Harry informed Godfrey. “It forms the western boundary of our park.”
After a moment of orienting himself, Godfrey asked, “Are all the Hall’s lands on the same side of the river as the house?”