Left on her own with the sleeping Cavanaugh, Ellie folded her arms and allowed her gaze to rest on his face. With his dark hair and pale skin, dark slanting brows, patrician nose, sharp cheekbones, the long, rather austere lines of his cheeks, his squarish chin, and thin but finely drawn lips, his face called to mind that of the classic fallen angel, but was saved from such cold perfection by the shallow lines bracketing his mouth. She was willing to wager that when he smiled, he would sport distracting dimples.
She scanned his unresponsive features, then watched the rise and fall of the covers over his chest. He was alive. “And at least he’s not truly comatose,” she muttered.
Seeing him lying there, so still and quiet, and with an insistent intuitive sense that he was normally a vital, active man, Ellie felt—and acknowledged—the guilt that now rode her shoulders.
He’d been on the road to be caught by the storm and reduced to this only because he’d been sent to assess their painting. Him being caught in the storm wasn’t their fault, yet it wouldn’t have happened if they—she—hadn’t written to the gallery and offered to sell the Albertinelli.
Regardless of the family’s need of the funds from the sale, their need wasn’t worth any man’s life. It definitely wasn’t worth Cavanaugh’s life.
She knew such thoughts weren’t entirely logical, yet the incipient guilt, the weight that hovered over her, was real nonetheless.
Cavanaugh had to recover. That was all there was to it.
How long she stood and studied him, she couldn’t have said, but a knock on the door preceded it opening cautiously, then Pyne looked in, saw her, and smiled. He opened the door fully and walked in, followed by Morris and Masterton.
“Came to see how the gentleman was doing,” Pyne offered.
Morris added, “We thought he might like some company.”
Ellie lowered her arms and waved at the bed. “As you can see, he’s yet to regain consciousness.”
Pyne frowned at the still figure beneath the covers. “He’s still out to it? That’s odd, isn’t it?”
Masterton, who had hung back by the door, blandly observed, “He and his groom caught the worst of it. I ran into the storm not far from here, but they must have battled on for quite some time.” He glanced at Ellie. “I heard the groom is awake.”
She nodded. “Mrs. Kemp is seeing to him, but I gather he’s got his wits about him enough to ask after his master.”
“He”—Masterton indicated the sleeping figure with a tip of his head—“was all but carrying the groom when I came upon them. He wouldn’t have had much in reserve.”
That, Ellie thought, explained his collapse. “Mrs. Kemp believes he’ll come around in time.”
Morris had approached the bed and had been studying its occupant. “He’s not that old, is he? I would have expected the National Gallery to send someone more…well, scholarly. More experienced.”
“Hmm.” Pyne joined Morris in considering the sleeping man. “One has to wonder how much authority the opinion of a man as youthful as he will carry.” He glanced at Masterton. “You saw most of him. How old would you say he is?”
Masterton slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “He’s in his early thirties, I would say.”
Morris humphed. “Older than I thought, then.”
“But still hardly august or impressive in experience.” Pyne glanced at Ellie. “Hardly comforting, given how important his opinion on this painting will be to the Hinckleys.”
Until then, Ellie had bitten her tongue and resisted the urge to leap to Cavanaugh’s defense. “He was the National Gallery’s choice. They wouldn’t have sent him if they didn’t have faith in his assessment. No matter how relatively youthful he might be, the gallery clearly respects his opinion.”
Masterton added, “And ultimately, it’s the gallery’s acceptance of what he says that counts.” He nodded at Ellie. “You’re right. They chose him, so he must be up to the task.”
She dipped her head Masterton’s way. He and she didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was in his thirties, too, younger than Morris and Pyne, who were contemporaries of her father.
Pyne grunted. “Yes, well.” He looked at Ellie. “If you like, I would be happy to sit with him in case he awakes.”
Ellie had any number of household tasks begging for her attention, yet… “Thank you, but there’s no need at this time.” Sensing Pyne’s inclination to argue, she added, “Mrs. Kemp believes he might start a fever, so we need to keep a close eye on him for now.”
The hint of an unknown, unpredictable, and possibly contagious illness was enough to dissuade Pyne from pressing his case. He and Morris exchanged looks, then with mumbled assurances that they would keep her father company instead, the pair retreated through the door, and after one last look at Cavanaugh’s unmoving figure, Masterton followed.
The door clicked shut, and Ellie breathed more freely.
She’d seen the hard, assessing quality in Masterton’s gaze. Six months ago, Masterton, a distant cousin on her father’s side, had made an offer for her hand, which she’d declined. Firmly and resolutely. Despite that, she got the impression that Masterton was simply biding his time and was intent on renewing his offer. Regardless, offering for her and being refused did not afford Masterton any rights over her—over how she behaved or whose sickbed she tended.
Yet there’d definitely been an element of that sort of thinking in Masterton’s last long look.
She knew that Morris and Pyne, with their long-standing friendship with her father, had nothing but her family’s best interests at heart, yet they could be meddling and were rather stuffy, and their points of view often ran contrary to hers. As for Masterton…in her view, he kept his own goals, his own reasons for supporting her father in this or that, uppermost in his mind, yet as to exactly what those goals were, she’d never got so much as a hint.
She was glad the three had gone; to her mind, their connections to her family did not afford them any right to stick their noses into the family’s business with Cavanaugh.
After another look at the sleeping man, she walked to the fireplace and settled in one of the pair of wing chairs before the hearth. From there, she could keep an eye on Cavanaugh while making inroads into the mending.
She was rehemming one of Harry’s shirts when the door opened and Maggie peeked in. Her bright brown eyes scanned the room and found Ellie. Maggie grinned and slipped inside. After closing the door, she pattered across on light feet to claim the other wing chair. Leaning closer to Ellie, Maggie whispered, “How is he?”
Ellie smiled. “Sleeping. Earlier, he stirred and rambled a bit, so I don’t think he’s unconscious anymore—just asleep.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Without waiting for any reply, Maggie forged on, “He’s not at all like how we envisioned him, is he? Not old and scholarly with a white beard and a cane, or a fusty old university don puffed up in his own conceit.” She glanced at the bed and, after a moment, conceded, “He might be a painter, but he’s certainly not an old painter.”
Muting a grin, Ellie admitted, “No, he’s not anywhere near as old as we expected.” After a second, she added, “Masterton thinks Mr. Cavanaugh is in his early thirties.”